Page 27 of Murder in Matrimony
“Yes, good work.”
He preened in his seat. “Do you like my costume?”
“Very much.”
“I imagine you are surprised I could pull it off.” He had a look of smug satisfaction. “It is convincing?”
“Quite. You look like a pirate.”
He leaned in, and she could swear she smelled salt water. “A pirate, Amelia?”
Amelia looked into his sea-green eyes, sighing at the sound of her name in his mouth. She’d dreamed of sailing away with a pirate since she was a little girl, and gazing into his rugged visage was perhaps the closest she’d ever been to achieving it. She swallowed, nodding silently.
“Forgive me.” He raised his dark eyebrows into a crafty look. “I forgot how much you like pirates.”
He was teasing her, but with one more moment in the cab, she would have shown him just how much she liked them. As it was, the driver announced their arrival near the Plate & Bottle, and she refocused on the gray East End street outside and their task at hand.
Despite the late hour, the street was crowded with people. A man flung open the door to the pub, narrowly missing a woman who sat near the entrance, waiting for her husband to get his fill. Seeing it was not him but another man, she dropped her eyes again, focusing on a fissure in the pavement. Simon walked past her and opened the door.
Amelia ignored her as well, but it was harder, she guessed, because she knew how much most women depended on men for their livelihood. Flower sellers, matchbook makers, serving classes, and even governesses could and did make money. But livelihoods were more than money. They were houses, businesses, and property that wives could not hold. If it seemed foolish to Amelia that a wife should wait outside a bar for a husband, she was wrong. It might be the only way a man returned home in the evening to pay the rent that supplied the roof over her head.
The single-room pub was dim, and Amelia was thankful for the bleak cover. A mirror above the bar reflected an oil lamp on a worn piano, and she and Simon sat down at a corner table, basking in its obscurity. Although dim, the pub was friendly, with casual conversation and laughter mingling. Patrons celebrated the end of the day with pints of ale gently sloshing out of their glasses as they roamed from bar to table.
Simon fetched them two pints, and Amelia took a small sip. Simon took a larger one and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. She gleaned the hint and took a deeper drink, not displeased with the taste of it. Her wig was making her warm, and she was grateful for the cold ale.
The man at the next table chuckled and said, “Tough day, luv?”
“Indeed, it was,” she answered in a thick Somerset accent.
“What day in’t a hard one,” Simon added convincingly. “But I ain’t complaining. It could be worse. Look at Cross. Just killed this week.”
“I reckon he went to hell just like the rest of us will.” The man added in a low voice, “If the world has any justice at all, that is, and I ain’t saying it does.” He tipped his chin toward the bar. “Rothschild was a happy man once. Cross should have stayed out of his business.”
“The old vicar got what he deserved.” Simon took a long drink of his ale.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I ain’t saying either way. I’m only saying a man, priest or no, should mind his own business.”
Amelia thought the notion was ironic coming from someone who was speaking freely about someone’s business with strangers. “I say he did get what he deserved. Little Rose might be alive today if it weren’t for him.”
“Some might say you’re right.” The man emptied his glass of ale. “And others might say she was dead anyway.”
Simon leaned a large elbow onto the table, his head dipping. “What do you mean?”
“Milly Hines?”
“Who?” Simon asked.
The man’s craggy face grew bored. “Mrs. Rothschild’s friend who worked here.”
“Right, Mrs. Hines.” Amelia nodded evenly. She hoped she sounded like she knew whom she was talking about even though she hadn’t heard the name before. “How many years ago was that now?”
“Oh Lord. Three years, I suppose? Knifed down after her shift by drunkards. Lost the use of her leg after that, then lost her husband, too. She relies on the charity of others now.” The man shook his head. “No wonder Mrs. Rothschild turned devout. If I weren’t who I was, I might too.” He stood to get another pint of ale.
Simon and Amelia shared a look of surprise.Mrs. Rothschild had a friend who was hurt at the pub. After a long night of serving, the woman suffered an attack that changed the trajectory of her life. It was no wonder that Mr. Cross encouragedpeople to find other places of employment. Factories were dangerous but perhaps not as dangerous as the streets of East End London. It was hard to comprehend which one was worse, or if the two were even comparable.
The detail had Amelia doubting everything, including her ability to discern life outside of Mayfair. For all she knew, she was investigating the wrong pub, the wrong church, and the wrong people. She took a swig of ale.
“Careful. You’ll get tipsy.”
