Page 75 of Murder in Matrimony
Rose Rothschild had been murdered.
THIRTY-ONE
Dear Lady Agony,
Have you read about Mary Jane Harrison, who went to work at a biscuit factory, by the request of her mother, only to be assaulted by her employer once they were alone? After struggling against him, stumbling into the knob of a door, she returned home with a terrible pain in her side. Six weeks later, she is dead and the employer fined only three pounds. It was said an abscess on her liver caused her death, either by the violence or natural causes. The deputy coroner gave the employer the benefit of the doubt, deciding on natural causes. At seventeen years of age, though, how could it be?
Devotedly,
Doubting Delilah
Dear Doubting Delilah,
You have every right to doubt the shameful outcome. I have also read the sad story of Mary Jane Harrison and the turmoil she suffered for six weeks before dying. The pain in her liver ended her employment and eventually her life, but nothing can stop the deplorable actions of some men, except what we are doing here, which is to discuss them, question them, and refute them. Audibly, deliberately, and without shame. Until justice is served, it is our only matter of recourse.
Yours in Secret,
Lady Agony
Amelia finished climbing to the second floor. Of course Rose Rothschild was murdered. She was a young woman with something valuable, and it was unsurprising—perhapseven predictable—that someone took it from her. Mr. Baker gave her money. He was not completely without charity. To be able to say he paid for the goods was gentlemanly. Just, even. Amelia imagined this is what Mr. Baker told Mr. Cross when Mr. Cross confronted him. He was an honorable man, a good man. He would neverstealfrom a woman.
Yet when Miss Rothschild demanded more money, as she must have, he refused. A factory girl could have an accident without incident. No one would question the death of a poor girl from the East End falling clumsily to her death. Mr. Baker had removed the screws from the ladder, and then what? Did he call to her? Did he hide one of the ingredients? Whatever brought her up the ladder was important enough to make the towering trek.
Unbeknownst to him, however, Cross had taken down the recipe for collateral, perhaps when Miss Rothschild gave him the books. When she died in an accident of convenience shortly thereafter, Cross must have confronted him. Amelia remembered the biscuit tin on Cross’s desk. It was proof Mr. Baker had been there. Everyone who knew the recipe must be killed. A breath hitched in her throat. Including Mrs. Rothschild.The Plate & Bottle fires!
The tragedies—all of them were connected. And they were all realized because of the narrow slip of newsprint Cross had left for her. A feeling of peace coursed through her. She had discovered the answers to the mysteries that had plagued her head and heart. Mr. Baker had killed Miss Rothschild and Mr. Cross. Retrieving the screws and the appointment book would provide evidence of the facts for the police.
Amelia was surprised to find Mr. Baker’s office door open and glanced over her shoulder. Perhaps someone did work in the factory on Sundays.Surely not Mr. Baker. Quickly, she skimmed the papers on the desk, then the center drawer, grabbing the screws and tucking them into her pocket. If he kept an appointment book, it wasn’t here. She opened the deep desk drawer.
The black leather mixing book was gone.
Her heart dipped into her stomach. Had she not put it back?Quickly, she retraced the previous night’s steps in her head. She was certain that after copying the recipe, she replaced it in the drawer. Which could only mean one thing. Someone else had taken it.
“Looking for something, Lady Amesbury?” Mr. Baker stood at the open door.
Terror, panic, then preparation overtook her. She’d navigated high waters before and could do so again. She only needed to breathe and remember herself.
“Mr. Baker. Thank heavens you’re here.” Amelia lifted the veil of her hat. “I was worried about tomorrow’s order—woman’s nerves, you know—so I came to the shop, but it was closed, and then I came here.” Even to Amelia’s ears, the excuse sounded feeble, but it was something, which in her opinion, was always better than nothing.
“I was notified of a break-in last evening. I have been here all morning.”
“You were?” Amelia swallowed. “Dear me. I hope nothing was stolen.” Inadvertently, she glanced at the empty drawer.
Mr. Baker took a step forward, and his heavy footfall echoed in the room. “Tell me why you are really here.”
“Why, as I said, my nerves over tomorrow’s wedding breakfast might be understandable under the circumstances—”
He cut her off. “Do not try to pass off your Mayfair manners on me. I know you are here for the biscuit recipe. You glanced at the drawer it was in just now.”
“I certainly did not.”
“And you were a favorite of Mr. Cross’s,” he added.
“How did you know …” The question faded from her lips. That’s where she recognized him. He didn’t remind her of her grandfather; he was the man in the back of All Saints on Margaret Street with his sleeves rolled up. He was speaking with Mr. Cross when she entered the church the morning of his murder. Mr. Cross must have delayed the meeting until that evening, when he could speak to him in private. She no longer needed the appointment book. She knew it was Mr. Baker.
“You see?” His smile was cunning. He was as clever as any East End fence. “You are not the only one who can travel acrosstown. When you came with your stylish friend, I had hoped it was only an extravagance of an overdone wedding breakfast. But when my man told me there was a break-in last night, I suspected a connection. I’ve been awaiting your arrival.”
There was no use dissembling. He knew, and they were alone. She might not get out of the situation alive, but she would get out of it with the truth. “Mr. Cross was your friend.”
