Page 74 of Murder in Matrimony
Amelia went about soothing the girl. “I’m certain she would have liked to—heaven knows she doesn’t want to bother aboutthe wedding. But she has several last-minute alterations to tend to, not to mention her meeting with Mr. Penroy. She missed an entire day with the dress debacle, and now she must make up for it.”
“I’m sure you are right.” Winifred scrunched up her button nose. “Only, I’d hoped she’d be free by now.”
“She most likely will be occupied the remainder of the day.” Amelia smiled. “Are you certain you don’t need me?”
She returned the smile, shaking her head. “No. Miss Walters is waiting for me in the music room. Good day, Mrs. Hamsted.”
“Good day, Lady Winifred.” Kitty sighed and smiled as the girl left. “You are very lucky, Amelia.”
“I remind myself of that fact every day.” Amelia, too, still smiled at the door. When Edgar became ill soon after their marriage, she knew they would never have children. He would never risk passing on the degenerative disease. Yet, here was Winifred, who felt as close as her own daughter. Life had a way of working out beautifully.
She turned back to Kitty. “Now what to do about this recipe?”
Kitty stood. “We must confront Mr. Baker. It is the only option.”
Amelia stood also to stop her friend from making a dangerous decision. Oliver had just become used to the idea of Amelia being Lady Agony. She couldn’t risk Kitty—or any of her friends—doing something rash. “Today is Sunday. Mr. Baker won’t be at the factory.”
Kitty smoothed her pretty pink garibaldi blouse. Her skirt revealed a matching pink petticoat that went with it beautifully, and on her hat was a feather the exact same color. “We shall go to his house then.”
“We cannot be certain he is the one who burnt the recipe,” cautioned Amelia. She also wanted to confront Mr. Baker, but if he was the murderer, she didn’t want to put Kitty in harm’s way. And it was true that they didn’t know if he was the culprit. He was Mr. Cross’s friend. Mr. Cross had referred parishioners to his factory. Would he really murder a friend and priest for money?
The answer had to be yes. Many horrible deeds had beendone for the sake of money. It was the reason money was considered the root of all evil. It had the power to persuade people, all people. Young, old. Rich, poor. East London, West London. If only she could be certain. If only she could have proof of what he’d done, she’d be more confident of her direction.
Kitty flung up her hands. “What else?”
“I need to think on it.” Amelia put a hand on her friend’s arm. “You and Oliver discuss the matter, and we will come to a decision.”
“Yes, Oliver.” Kitty blinked. “He is so bright. He will have many ideas on how to proceed.”
“Indeed.” She walked her to the door. “He will appreciate your coming to him with the problem.”And me for keeping you safe, she silently added in her head.
While her friend was taking the short walk home to consider the matter, Amelia understood what she must do. More than once, she’d tried to confirm the person in Mr. Cross’s office the day of his murder. No one had been able to tell her who it was. The time was blocked out, after hours, but no name was written in his appointment book. But if she went back to the factory, through the window they’d left open, she might be able to locate Mr. Baker’s calendar. As a man of business, he certainly had one. If his time was blocked, she could be more certain of her next action.
The trouble, however, was that she would have to enter the factory in daylight on a Sunday. She couldn’t wait until tonight. Tomorrow was the wedding. It must be done now. She saw no way around it.
In her room, she put on her drab mourning hat with veil, as she did the night she went to the Plate & Bottle with Simon. Trousers couldn’t be worn in this instance, but she had a billowy gray walking dress that disguised her shape. After donning it, she slipped down the servants’ staircase, motioning to her footman Bailey.
She whispered the street name, and his eyebrows rose questioningly. Then he went to the groom and gave the order to ready the carriage, acting no differently than if she were callingon the Queen of England. She mouthed the wordsthank youas he assisted her into the carriage.
He dipped his chin. “Of course, my lady.”
Perhaps because it was daylight and the carriage conspicuous, the minutes passed like hours. At every turn and every stop, she anticipated her detection. But eventually, the driver arrived at the neighborhood, parking several streets away from the factory. There was no time for dissemblance or clever excuses. She was here, and all that was left was to climb into the open window.
While Mill Street itself was not abandoned, Baker Biscuits’ storefront and factory were. The lack of commerce helped her clandestine operation, but it did not mean she could avoid detection entirely. Her carriage was noted by a man in a stall, perhaps a traveling stationer, who sold writing paper, envelopes, and small prints. The man immediately inquired after her needs, but she dismissed him with a shake of her head, keeping her eyes focused on the ground.
Bailey took several steps forward, and if Amelia’s ignoring the seller didn’t work, Bailey’s size and countenance did. He was her youngest—and fiercest—footman. He was strong, capable, and discreet.
She turned the corner and was suddenly alone. Mill Street was dark, overtaken by the tall buildings and low fog. No vendor nor seller nor child attended the area. Taking a steadying breath, she remembered why she was here: Miss Rothschild and Mr. Cross. Their fates were tied together, and she would untangle the mystery, for it was the only way to bring their spirits peace—and justice.
The ground floor window was open, just as they’d left it hours before, and Amelia crawled through with some difficulty. The pane was heavy, and she had to raise it with one hand while hoisting herself up with the other, landing on the floor with a graceless thud.
Though it was daylight, the room was dark, and she chided herself for not bringing a candle. However, once she was out of the oven room, into the lofted area, she could see again. The space was improved by several long windows, and the lighthung between the floor and wooden rafters, a dusty sunbeam landing on the ladder.
She navigated the ladder carefully. Simon was not behind her; he would not catch her if she fell. Until then, she hadn’t realized how much she relied upon him being there.
It made her extra cautious, and each step was slow and methodical. She forced herself not to rush, not to anticipate the appointment book. As she approached the new rung, thinking of Miss Rothschild as she did, she noticed the screws that held it in place. She couldn’tnotnotice them. Shiny silver screws. She inhaled a quick breath. Except for the sheen, they matched the ones in Mr. Baker’s desk drawer.
Rose Rothschild hadn’t fallen.
