Page 25 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

EIGHTEEN

Dear Lady Agony,

Recently, a visitor of mine was accosted by a beggar at King’s Cross Station.

He had no more descended the platform than encountered the trouble.

How am I to rave about our palaces and architecture when this behavior runs rampant?

More must be done to secure our great city.

I know not how, but I believe parliament must play a larger role.

Devotedly,

Distressing Scenario

Dear Distressing Scenario,

The greatness in England does not lie in our palaces or architecture but in our hospitals, infirmaries, and orphanages.

It manifests itself in the people who support them.

For what good does stone do me? Give me the living heart of a generous person.

That is what makes me feel great. As to parliament helping, you would have a better chance of sprouting wings and flying.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

Mrs. Rothschild put the empty biscuit basket in the middle of the table, and the women in her prayer group added their contributions.

They had made socks, gloves, hats, and scarves for a local charity that assisted orphans.

Despite having little themselves, they gave of their time wholeheartedly, each item tenderly made.

Amelia and Kitty had nothing to add, so they committed to a monetary donation.

The women were grateful for their commitment, so grateful that an observer would think the money was going to the women themselves and not an organization.

Mrs. Lewis thanked God for their spontaneous appearance at tonight’s meeting, and Mrs. Rothschild quickly wrote down the name of the charity on two separate pieces of paper, one for Amelia and one for Kitty.

“Our dear Mr. Cross is surely smiling down on you.” Mrs. Rothschild slid the paper to Amelia. “The orphanage was one of his passion projects. He contributed to it just days before his death.”

Amelia saw an opportunity to investigate and took it. “Where did you see him. Here?”

She nodded, and a little wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows, making them appear sharper. “Our conversation was a particular one. He wanted to introduce me to someone, a person who he thought might be able to help me.”

An idea struck Amelia, and her heartbeat doubled. If true, her presence was truly serendipitous. “He did? Did he say whom?”

“No … yes, a woman.” A faint smile flittered across her lips. “It is not much, but it is all I have. He referenced the person as a she.”

Mr. Cross said he wanted Amelia to help someone in Wapping. It could have been Mrs. Rothschild. “Did he say why he wanted you to meet her?”

“He didn’t suggest a meeting; he suggested a letter. It was all rather secretive.” She frowned. “Very unlike Mr. Cross, but he was certain this person could get to the bottom of my problem.”

Amelia and Kitty shared a knowing look. The person he meant was Lady Agony. Amelia was exactly where she needed to be. All she needed to do was figure out why.

Mrs. Evans interjected with a plump finger. “Perhaps that is due to the nature of your problem. A woman might know how better to help than a man.”

“What problem?” Kitty asked.

“Twice my oven has started a fire. My husband blamed the flue, but I wonder if some person is responsible. Mr. Rothschild claims my goal is to shut down his pub, but I assure you it is not. I like to eat as much as everyone else, and the business puts food on our table.” She checked her rising anger, which grew as vocal as a nagging child.

She continued more calmly. “When my husband rejected the idea, I mentioned it to Mr. Cross, and he was quite concerned for our safety. I worry if it happens again, I might not be in time to stop it.”

“What you are suggesting is sabotage.” Amelia couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice. On top of all that had happened to this woman—a friend maimed, a daughter killed—someone was trying to harm her or her business.

“Perhaps not purposefully,” Mrs. Rothschild was quick to add. “Perhaps it was a malfunction.”

“But it must be on purpose. Once might be an accident, but twice?” Amelia shook her head. “It cannot be unless it is something relating to mechanics, as your husband suggests.”

“Mr. Rothschild blames the church for preaching against alcohol.” The sympathy in Mrs. Lewis’s eyes was palpable, her voice full of concern for her friend. “He said they wouldn’t be happy until the doors are closed for good.”

If Mr. Rothschild thought Cross was trying to put an end to his business, he might retaliate to save the pub.

So might any of the business owners affected by his preaching.

But Mr. Rothschild had an additional reason: his daughter’s employment elsewhere and her subsequent death.

But could he and would he kill his wife’s beloved priest?

“He even blamed poor Louisa.” Mrs. Evan crossed her arms over her chest, making her feelings known about the allegation. The idea that Mrs. Rothschild could burn down her own business was absurd to her, but not completely to Amelia.

“He was just angry.” The excuse shot out of Mrs. Rothschild’s mouth quicker than Amelia expected.

Mrs. Rothschild thought the public house was an evil, but perhaps a necessary one.

After all, it provided their livelihood as well as their household above it.

She wouldn’t start it on fire. At least, Amelia didn’t believe so, and Mr. Cross must not have either if he wanted her to write to Lady Agony.

He must have wanted Amelia to investigate the fires, and that’s what she intended to do.

“Of course he was angry.” Mrs. Lewis reached over and patted Mrs. Rothschild’s hand. “Anybody would be, and we must not blame him for assuming the worst when the worst is what he’s come to expect.”

“When did the fires occur?” asked Amelia.

Mrs. Rothschild took a moment before answering.

“The first fire occurred immediately after Rose’s accident.

I remember because I was in a fog, and I assumed I had done something without being aware of it.

Those first days were unmemorable, a string of mornings and evenings and sleepless nights.

The second fire, however, happened two weeks ago, and I was alert and ready for the evening crowd.

Something sparked in the stove unnaturally, not like any wood or coal. ”

Kitty frowned. “Were the contents of the fire examined?”

“They were doused and shoveled out and the flue cleaned.” Mrs. Rothschild sighed. “Despite my concerns, my husband went on serving liquor and apologizing for the absence of biscuits in the basket.”

Mrs. Evans harrumphed. “Drunkards don’t appreciate them anyway.”

“Do you know of anyone who might have tampered with your stove?” Amelia asked. “Anyone who might have had a vendetta against the business?”

Mrs. Rothschild shook her head. “The neighborhood depends on it. We have no garden parties, Lady Amesbury. No drawing rooms to play cards in. Everyone comes. None complain—except when we shut our doors at the end of the night. Why should anyone set fire to it?”

It was a fair question, and one Amelia didn’t easily dismiss.

By all accounts, including Amelia’s firsthand, Mrs. Rothschild was right.

The neighborhood needed the pub. It was the place they congregated and relaxed and forgot.

Other drinking holes existed, certainly.

A gin house was not too far from the location, for Amelia and Simon had spotted it on their return trip to Mayfair.

But a shiny gin palace was not the same as a public house.

“Mrs. Hines certainly had reason to despise it.” Kitty’s comment was met with surprise and perhaps annoyance, but Amelia thought hers was an astute observation.

The attack at the pub had not only taken a limb but her way of life.

Furthermore, it was a source of angst for Mrs. Rothschild.

If they were still friends, Mrs. Hines might have felt adamant about the pub closing so it could wreak no more havoc in people’s lives, including her friend’s.

Amelia came to Kitty’s defense. “What Mrs. Hamsted says is true. Mrs. Hines has every reason to despise the pub. Do you still share a friendship with her?”

“We are on friendly terms.” Mrs. Rothschild’s answer was tentative and perhaps betrayed its untruth.

“I call on her once a month. I bring her items of use and would bring her more, but she refuses my charity. What is charity between friends?” She shook her head.

“Regardless of any possible motivations, she does not have the strength to start a fire.”

Amelia glanced at Mrs. Lewis and Mrs. Evans, who nodded in agreement. “She cannot move ten feet without a stick or chair for assistance.”

“Besides, she hasn’t been back to the pub since the accident.” Mrs. Rothschild sniffed. “It is probably as my husband said, the flue and nothing more. It is an old stove—ancient.”

Amelia wasn’t convinced it was the flue.

Mr. Cross had wanted Lady Agony to get involved for a reason.

Was this it? Was it the same reason he had sent her the news of Rose Rothschild’s accidental death?

Obviously, he thought he’d have time to explain, but he hadn’t.

He’d been struck down before he could finish much of the work he had started.

With any luck, she’d be able to complete this task for him.

“Enough doubt must have existed for you to raise the question with Mr. Cross.”

“It was a concern at the time, and I voiced my concerns too often. I should have kept them to myself, for it only added to the strain on his time.” Mrs. Rothschild laced her fingers together.

“Mr. Cross is gone, and whoever he wanted me to write to is no longer an option. My only prayer is for the arsonist, if one exists, not to act again.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” said Mrs. Lewis.

The comment put an end to other possible questions, and Kitty and Amelia thanked the women for their hospitality.

They invited them to return any time, and a return trip was a possibility.

Knowing Mrs. Rothschild could be harmed weighed heavily on Amelia’s mind.

If something should happen to her or the pub, she would blame herself.

Mr. Cross was counting on her to help stop the violence in the East End.

But this was one instance that might be beyond her capability.

She could give bank notes; she could give advice; but could she give the community a resolution?

She stared at the church, looking for an answer, as the carriage began to roll away.