Page 14 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

TEN

Dear Lady Agony,

So many discuss clothing in this column.

I wonder what they think about surplice?

It is said the vestment was the reason for the riots at St. George-in-the-East in February.

Thousands of parishioners took offense to the priest’s wearing of the garment and hooted, hollered, and swore during the service.

Some said the rioters should have been banished.

Others said the rector should have been removed for disobeying the wishes of his flock.

If anyone could imagine a white robe causing so many problems, I believe it is you. What is your opinion?

Devotedly,

Sinners, Saints, and Surplice

Dear Sinners, Saints, and Surplice,

Clothing is not always clothing. It is often an outward sign of our prejudices or values.

Such was the case earlier in the year at St. George-in-the-East. The rector wore his vestments in obedience of his orders and was castigated for it by raucous churchgoers.

The precedent was disastrous and dangerous.

The next time an article of clothing is noticed, I hope readers ask themselves why before reacting.

It might not be your fashion sensibilities but something deeper causing your reaction.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

Upon leaving Petticoat Lane, Amelia pointed her driver toward St. George-in-the-East. It was only a mile away, and she hated to risk another outing on what could turn out to be a wasted trip.

Besides, it was safer to stop in daylight than nightfall, when rioters might be present.

The church, built in the 1700s, was a stalwart of Wapping, an unchanged building in a world full of industrial changes.

From the south, she could see the four pepper-pot-shaped turrets as well as the tall western tower.

Stone, strong, steadfast—these were the words that came to Amelia’s mind as she gazed upon the outward edifice.

Inwardly, though, the church was undergoing a transformation, and Mr. Cross had been part of it.

He took up the work where the previous priest had left off, unable to continue due to an illness many thought was caused by constant strain.

Some parishioners felt ostracized; others felt seen.

Regardless of their feelings, however, Mr. Cross welcomed them unequivocally.

He gave help to the poor, offered advice to the downtrodden, and said prayers for everyone.

As Amelia entered the church, she knew he did not regret his time here.

No matter what Isaac Jakeman said or how it made sense, she knew it could not be so.

Standing in the nave, she felt his passion.

He cared about this place. He loved this place.

It was as strong as the scent of candle smoke that lingered in the air.

She didn’t have to see it to understand.

The church was quiet now, the morning crowds dispersed.

An old woman bent over a back pew, her lips moving silently in prayer.

A man, perhaps without a home, closed his eyes in another pew, using it as a makeshift bed.

A priest pretended not to see him as he snuffed out the last candles at the altar, walking past him with his eyes cast downward.

“Excuse me?” Amelia said.

The priest smiled. “May I help you?”

Amelia realized he was older than she’d assumed. Yet his face had none of the hard lines of age, and his eyes showed eagerness to assist her. “I hope so. I am Lady Amesbury. I’m here because of Mr. Cross. I attend church at All Saints in Mayfair.”

The priest lowered the gold candle snuffer. “Such a tragedy. I could hardly believe the news.” He shook his head. “I’m Mr. James, the rector here.”

“It’s good to meet you.”

He extended his arm as if to shake her hand and then remembered he still held the candle snuffer. “Walk with me? I need to return this.”

Amelia followed his short, energetic steps.

“How long did you know Mr. Cross?” he asked.

“Two years,” she answered.

“I knew him only four months.” He tucked away the snuffer in an antechamber of the church.

“But I enjoyed his company and respected his stalwart commitment. He recruited me for the Society for the Greater Good. I admit I was honored. He did not mind that we served different communities. In fact, he sought out my advice for its difference.” He shut the closet door.

“Remarkable, if you ask me.” He motioned toward an office. “Not everyone values diverse opinions.”

“I understand the church is undergoing some changes.” Amelia took a seat at a small wooden desk.

“That is a polite way of putting it. People in Wapping don’t want religion; they want miracles.” He chuckled, taking a seat as well. “Now, how may I help you?”

“It’s about a parish family, the Rothschilds? I wonder if you know anything about them.”

He leaned forward. “You know Miss Rothschild died in a terrible accident?”

“Yes, I do.” Amelia liked how easy the man was to talk to. He didn’t put on airs, and he wasn’t intimidating. His face was open and inquisitive, and he seemed genuinely interested in talking to her. It was no wonder Mr. Cross recruited him for the society.

“Then you know she fell off a ladder after taking a position to get out of the public house her father owns. Some say the accident was punishment, for putting herself above her family.”

“Did her family say that?” Amelia wondered if it was in fact retribution for not staying in her place.

She couldn’t imagine a family member hurting another in that way but was not na?ve.

Families came in all shapes and sizes, and she didn’t believe every family operated as the Scotts or Amesburys did.

It was a known truth that people often hurt the ones closest to them.

His sandy-colored eyebrows peaked with curiosity at the question.

“Her mother was glad she got work outside the neighborhood. She herself has been with the public house since the day her husband opened it many years ago. It’s not surprising she wanted a different life for her daughter.

She is a virtuous woman who maintains a weekly prayer group even among the late tumult. ”

“What about Miss Rothschild’s father?”

The rector shook his head. “He did not see it quite the same way. He had to hire a girl to wait tables, and she was not as efficient as Rose. A selfish complaint but perhaps a valid one.” He clasped his hands in front of himself on the desk.

“I have to ask, though, what does any of this have to do with Mr. Cross?”

Amelia didn’t know how to answer. In truth, she didn’t have the answer herself.

Mr. Cross had left her Rose Rothschild’s obituary, so her death must be important.

But what did it have to do with Mr. Cross or his own murder?

It could be a clue or an errant message or nothing at all.

Further complicating the matter was Amelia’s own secret identity.

She couldn’t let on that she did investigative work under an alter ego.

“I’m not sure what her death has to do with Mr. Cross.

I know Miss Rothschild was a recent worry of his.

I thought it might be relevant to bringing his murderer to justice. ”

“I take your point.” Mr. James tapped his fingertips together. “But I heard it was a thief after the poor box?”

“That’s what’s been reported,” answered Amelia evenly.

“You believe the reports are wrong?”

“I believe the Metropolitan Police report what they see in front of them. A vicar with a questionable following in the East End and a missing poor box.” She shrugged. “It’s the easiest answer. I’ve found, however, that the easiest answer isn’t always the correct answer.”

“Quite true.” His brow lifted in surprise. “But a lady doesn’t concern herself with such things … does she?”

“Society presumes what young ladies—and rectors—concern themselves with, but we know better.”

He smiled, revealing a brightness in his eyes. It was the light of passion and vigor, an enthusiasm for life that hadn’t been dimmed by difficult experiences or turmoil. Amelia suspected that even when he grew to be an old man, Mr. James would know the precious gift that was life.

She returned the smile. “Do you know where I could find Mrs. Rothschild?”

“As I mentioned, she meets weekly, on Monday, with her prayer group.” The smile faded from his face. “The Society for the Greater Good is meeting that night also. We are holding a special assembly. Mr. Cross would want his work to continue, and it must. They cannot win.”

“They?” Amelia noted the new determination in his voice, and she understood that while his passion made him eager, it also made him resilient. He believed nothing was beyond his capabilities if he only tried hard enough.

“The evil doers,” Mr. James said. “The people who do not want his work to succeed.”

“Are there many of them?” Too late, Amelia realized the ignorance of her words and wished she could take them back.

“Observe, and you will see. Factories, docks, pubs, warehouses, brothels. It would be better for business if residents did as they have always done. Work, drink, and prostitute themselves.” He leaned forward. “They are many who despised the work Cross did—and the work I do.”

The importance and gravity of the priests’ work became clearer.

She had read about the riots at St. George-in-the-East. Of course she had.

At the time, she had a vague understanding of the dis--agreement.

Now she realized a war had been waged against the East End, and the East End had retaliated in kind.

It was much deeper than clothes or cassocks.

It struck at poverty, depravity, and livelihoods.

“I appreciate the work you’re doing, and I hope someday, parishioners will as well.

Obviously, some, like Mrs. Rothschild, do already. ”

He acknowledged the statement with a dip of his chin.

“Do you happen to know what time her prayer group convenes?” she continued.