Page 13 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

NINE

Dear Lady Agony,

Women in crinolines can take no comfort in social outings: no dinner table, ballroom, or box can accommodate ourselves and our families.

Walking next to another is almost impossible.

And the garden? It must be forgone altogether lest we chop off the heads of our favorite flowers.

This does not even touch on the personal damage the crinoline has wreaked.

Those casualties are brought up in the paper as commonly as musicals or comedies. What is the solution?

Devotedly,

The Crinoline Conundrum

Dear The Crinoline Conundrum,

I see only one solution, and that is women must stop wearing the cursed undergarment.

The hoops of the past century were scorned and ridiculed.

So must be done of the crinoline—often and publicly.

Just yesterday, I read of a nine-year-old girl whose crinoline caught fire when she stood too near the fireplace.

She died before the fires could be extinguished.

Was there universal outrage? Was it decried on the front-page news?

No. It was quietly mentioned on page six.

It is one thing if you, ladies, want to risk health for fashion, but in the name of Jove, do not put your child in this firetrap.

I implore you. Stop this insanity at once.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

The dinner party had been a success—or at least the kiss had been.

Truly, Amelia couldn’t remember anything else, and if she found out the lamb had been overdone and the pudding burned, she would be completely staggered.

What she recalled was Simon’s devotion. They were inseparable the rest of the evening, trading bits of conversation and stealing glances whenever they could.

It was the respite she needed from weddings and murders, and she awoke the next day feeling refreshed, revitalized, and ready to tackle her problems anew.

It was market day at Petticoat Lane, a street in the East End where it was often said a woman could have her petticoat stolen at one end and sold back to her at the other. Despite the jest, Amelia infinitely preferred petticoats to crinolines. They required half the space—and risk.

Market day was always chaotic, and she had less of a chance of being detected in the crowd than any other day. So as soon as her daily rituals were completed and the family were involved in their own tasks, she stole away to pay a visit to Isaac Jakeman.

Isaac Jakeman owned a jewelry store near Petticoat Lane that operated as a front for his more lucrative endeavor: selling fenced jewels.

He’d never mentioned the business himself, of course.

She only discovered it when she and Madge went looking for the missing Amesbury diamond several weeks ago.

The night had turned dangerous, and Mr. Jakeman had perhaps saved their lives.

Since then, they had become acquaintances of sorts.

Amelia appreciated having a connection to the East End, and he appreciated having a recommendation to her favorite modiste. Or his wife did, in any case.

Today, the East End street was notoriously chock-full.

Known for its variety of leather goods, not to mention clothing and jewelry, the area was crowded with thrifty shoppers.

Seedy fencers would replace them tonight, but for now, her driver carefully maneuvered around the clumps of people, looking for a place to stop.

As her carriage slowed, Amelia pulled the brim of her hat lower on her forehead.

She’d paired it with a black walking dress she’d worn while in mourning and an oversized paletot that disguised its intricate beading.

All her clothes were well made. They were the reason Isaac Jakeman didn’t want her frequenting his store.

She didn’t fit in, and he didn’t want his clientele getting nervous.

But over the last month, they’d grown closer as associates if not friends.

She glanced out the window as her carriage stopped near Wentworth Street.

I like to think of us as friends. After all, they helped each other out, as friends did, when it was possible, or in Jakeman’s case, profitable.

Amelia hoped he would be able to shed light on Mr. Cross’s murder or the Rothschild girl.

Jakeman might have information on one or both. He would certainly be aware of St. George-in-the-East, the riots in February, and Mr. Cross’s volunteer efforts since. He would know how the people of Wapping perceived the new priest.

“Be careful, my lady.” Bailey helped her descend the carriage steps.

He was a large footman with broad shoulders, and he steadied her with one strong hand.

More impressive than his size was his loyalty and respect.

He never asked questions and did as he was told, which was true of most domestics.

But Amelia was not most employers. She took clandestine walks, ill-advised carriage rides, and hair-raising detours.

Nonetheless, he treated the situation as if it was another aboveboard day in Mayfair.

“Thank you, Bailey. I will.” She craned her neck, glancing past the corner, to see if Isaac Jakeman’s store was open. It was.

“And if you need anything—”

“You’ll be three steps behind me.” She gave him an appreciative smile.

He smiled back.

It was one of the compromises she’d made before she’d climbed into the carriage.

If she wasn’t taking Lettie, her lady’s maid, or anyone else, he should really follow a few steps behind her—for appearance’s sake.

After all, it was the only way he could carry her packages if she bought something at the market.

They both knew she wasn’t going on a shopping excursion; however, Bailey was her ally and confidant.

If he wanted to be a stone’s throw from her, so be it. She trusted him enough to let him.

Isaac Jakeman was speaking with a customer inside his store.

She would have known his hooked nose anywhere, but especially here, where he was bent over a piece of black velvet cloth displaying several loose gemstones.

As if feeling her presence, he looked up, his long eyebrows extending past his small brown eyes.

He folded the velvet square. The customer, a young man with darting eyes, cast a glance over his shoulder.

Seeing her, he buttoned his coat and walked out the door, passing her without a word.

“Lady, you scare away my customers,” Mr. Jakeman said after the door shut, but his voice held no malice.

“I don’t see why. I am shopping the market, like any other woman.”

He chuckled, a warm, full sound. “You are not any woman. Far from it.” He lit a cigar and puffed easily on it. “So why are you here?”

Amelia was glad to get down to business and took the chair he proffered. “Mr. Cross was murdered three days ago. It was said he worked with the disadvantaged at St. George-in-the-East.”

“The Society for the Greater Good.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “I’ve heard of it.”

“You have? Wonderful.”

“Not wonderful, Lady. People did not like that priest. He stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong, encouraging people he did not know to find their greater calling and some such nonsense.” He lifted his eyebrows. “He, like you, should have stayed in Mayfair—where he belonged.”

“I resent that. He did a lot of good in these parts, and to be honest, I’ve had a hand in a few positive results as well.” She cleared her throat, feeling slightly embarrassed at her self-praise. She wasn’t just being nosy; she cared about the people she inquired after.

“Positive results.” He let out a long stream of smoke, reclining into his chair. “You have a funny way of talking.”

She wished she could reveal who she really was: Lady Agony. Not some spoiled Mayfair lady of leisure. Then maybe he would realize with whom he was dealing. “Regardless, it sounds as if you might know who wanted him dead.”

He lifted his chin at her. “What was he to you?”

“He was my priest.” She swallowed. “And I liked him.” The truth was she’d really liked him, and that was new.

She was a woman of faith but not religion.

As a child, she’d sat through church waiting patiently for it to be over.

The holy men had seemed as far away from her as heaven itself.

But Mr. Cross was different. He cared more about people here on earth, including her.

If anyone had told her she’d reveal her secret pseudonym to only four people, one of them a priest, she would have never believed them.

But she and Cross were connected by their mutual concerns, and she’d felt as if she could tell him anything, including her deepest secret.

Had he lived, she would have told him about Simon and their blossoming relationship.

He would have given her good advice, and as an authoress of advice herself, she knew how precious another’s opinion could be.

“All right.” He uncrossed his leg and sat up straight. “So you liked Cross. I understand. But even if I knew who hated him, what good could it do you? You are a lady. You have no business knowing such things.”

“Maybe not, but I have this.” She opened her reticule. “He left me a newspaper clipping. I want to know why and what it means.”

He took the paper and read it. “The Rothschild girl. I remember that.”

“You do?” Her voice sounded overly eager, and she smoothed her skirt, effecting nonchalance.

“She had a good job with her papa at the Plate & Bottle. What better employer than family, right? But your priest preaches about the ill effects of late nights and the liquor one Sunday, and the girl gets work with Baker Biscuits. Next thing you know, she falls off a ladder and dies.” He stubbed out his cigar.

“A cautionary tale?” He shrugged. “I don’t know.

But I do know the priest should have kept to Mayfair, like I said.

If he had, the girl might be alive today. ”

The comment caught her off guard. Was Isaac Jakeman right?

Was the clipping meant as a cautionary tale about sticking one’s nose in where it didn’t belong, as she herself so often did?

Was that why Mr. Cross left it for her? Perhaps he himself felt guilt or remorse over his actions.

Maybe he wished he wouldn’t have gotten involved in a world so different from his own—and wished the same for her.

She twisted in her chair. It could not be. He was active in the East End until the day of his death. It had to mean something else.

“You do not agree?” he prodded.

“In truth, I don’t know. I hadn’t considered the idea before now.” She sighed. “It feels as if I’m missing something. Do you know that feeling?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t miss nothing.”

She gave him a wry smile. “Where is this Plate & Bottle?”

“Nowhere you know, Lady. A public house in the East End is no place for you.” He nodded toward the window. “Even with your man outside.”

Amelia followed his gaze. Bailey looked away, perhaps embarrassed that he was caught looking in on her. She smiled. “Point taken. Where does the Rothschild family reside then?”

“Above the same pub.”

Amelia murmured a sound of displeasure.

Isaac Jakeman held up a finger. “But her mother is devout. A frequent visitor of St. George-in-the-East.”

“Are you a member?”

He shook his head. “I only know what goes on there. It is my job to know.”

“Hmm, yes.” Amelia tucked the newspaper clipping into her reticule. “How did your wife’s gown turn out?” She had recommended her modiste when he and his wife attended a large party thrown by a textile manufacturer, and he’d been appreciative of her help.

His small eyes widened with his smile. “She thought it very beautiful. It had puffy sleeves and the, the …” He motioned to his stomach. “Big skirt. It was nice. Pretty color, also.”

Amelia stood. “Glad to hear it. If she needs anything else, please let me know.”

“You are kind to me, and I am kind to you.”

She held out her hand. “I enjoy how that works. Don’t you?”

He shook it. “Indeed, I do.”