Page 76 of Murder in Matrimony
He shrugged. “He sent me workers with the souls of angels. How could we not be friends?”
He did not admit to the murder, and she needed him to. “He thought you were helping people find decent work, but you were only helping yourself.”
“Who else would I help?” He walked to the desk, and as he grew closer, the practiced manners fell away. He had no need for them now. He was not a gentleman; he was a crook. “Who is there to helpme? You?” His chuckle was harsh. “No. Not you. I’ve come up from nothing, like everyone else in my factory. But I grow tired of work. I deserve a rest.”
“Which is what the recipe would allow,” supplied Amelia. “Why you stopped at nothing to obtain it.”
“Miss Rothschild came tome, sold it tome.” He shook his head, and a shock of dull gray hair fell over his forehead, making him appear older than she realized. “I hired her to package biscuits. She insisted I try her mother’s recipe, and I did. It was good, and I bought it. I did nothing wrong.”
“Except kill her.”
He seemed genuinely insulted by the accusation. His small eyes, marred by wrinkles, widened at the acknowledgment. “Her death was an accident. She fell down the ladder.”
“She indeed fell—because of you.” Amelia was surprised, too, by the strength of her own voice. Miss Rothschild’s murder would be acknowledged. It would not be forgotten like so many others in the area.
He leaned over the desk between them, and she instantly leaned back. He sat down in the chair across from her with a laugh. “That’s what’s wrong with women like you. You have too much time on your hands. What possible reason would I have for murdering Miss Rothschild?”
“I don’t need a reason. I have these.” Amelia pulled the screws from her pocket, shoving them forward.
The laughter stopped abruptly. He knew he’d been discovered. “Miss Rothschild was a street urchin and cheat. I gave her money, and she wanted more. When I refused, she tried to take back the recipe she gave me—just like I knew she would. I planned for it, removing the screws from the ladder. She took her life into her own hands when she decided to climb up that ladder and steal it from my office. If you knew the East End better, you would understand the truth of it.”
She knew it was about money but was glad to have it confirmed. “It is not cheating to demand what you’re owed. The recipe was worth much more than you gave her. You knew it. She knew it. Mr. Cross knew it.”
“Cross knew nothing!” Mr. Baker’s voice boomed. “Holding church services in the area did not make him one of us. Nor did his little society. He grew up in affluence. We were lucky to grow up at all.” His voice turned gritty. “So save your moralizing for your friends in Mayfair. We do what we must to get by.”
“And Mr. Cross did what he had to do, which was to write down Mrs. Rothschild’s recipe.”
“I burned that,” he shot back automatically.
“Was that before or after you murdered him?”
“After.” He was visibly agitated and stood from his chair. Instantly, she tucked the screws into her pocket. “He refused to give it to me, so I struck him with the clock and took it myself. I changed the time and took the poor box, to put the police on the wrong trail. The peelers will believe anything, and I couldn’t risk our meeting being connected to his death.” He stepped from around the desk. “Cross was the one who told the girl to ask for more money. But she didn’t ask. She demanded. She said her mother would continue to make the biscuits at the Plate & Bottle if I didn’t give her ten thousand pounds—after she’d promised me her mother would retire the recipe. Ten thousand pounds! She was an urchin, I tell you. A blackmailer.”
He had to prevent Mrs. Rothschild from making the biscuits,and the only way to do that was put an end to her oven, if not her. With Rose Rothschild gone, it was the only thing left to do. “She might have blackmailed you, but you killed her, her priest, and burned down her family’s business. What does that make you?”
He grabbed her arm, hard. “A smart man.”
She dug her heels into the floor. “Not so smart. If something happens to me, the recipe will be known to all. I left it with a friend who will know what to do with it.”
“When they find you, which will take a while. You must know what the Thames is, my lady. It will take some time for you to wash up on shore.”
He was old but strong. In his youth, he’d probably wrestled many men on the brutal streets of East End London. She twisted like a wildcat to get out of his claw-like grip. He took an umbrella from the stand by the door and hit the back of her knees with it. She buckled long enough for him to get her through the office door, and in a moment, she was before the ladder, thinking of all the people in her life most dear.
Tabitha, Winifred—Simon. She wished she’d told him that she loved him. She wished she’d told him every day for the last three months. How foolish she’d been to hold back.
“Don’t take another step, Baker.” Simon was there at the bottom of the ladder with a shooting rifle. “I’m warning you.”
It was as if she’d wished so hard, she’d manifested him, and she blinked twice to make certain he was real. He was. In his black frock coat, which must have concealed the rifle, he looked the navy captain he’d once been. Kitty and Oliver, who had, like good students, figured out her plan to investigate alone, stood next to him.
“I’ll push her.” Mr. Baker’s voice was raspy. “I swear to God I will.”
“If you do, I’ll kill you dead.” Simon’s deep voice cut through the charged air with eerie calmness. His eyes were focused on Mr. Baker, like a hunter’s on a deer.
Had he his umbrella, Mr. Baker might have been able to make good on his threat. But as it was, Amelia knew she could overpower him. The problem was they might both fall over,and she couldn’t live with his blood on her hands. Mr. Cross wouldn’t want it, and neither did she.
So they stood at an impasse. Or so she thought. Until another man’s voice surprised her from behind.
“Lady, what have I told you about the East End?” Isaac Jakeman tsked. “I say, ‘stay home in Mayfair,’ but you do not listen.”
