Page 31 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

TWENTY-TWO

Dear Lady Agony,

We know June is the best month to marry, but what of the day of the week? Can you give brides any advice?

Sincerely,

Wedding Day Decision

Dear Wedding Day Decision,

I cannot, but perhaps this old rhyme can:

Marry on Monday for health,

Tuesday for wealth,

Wednesday the best day of all,

Thursday for crosses,

Friday for losses, and

Saturday for no luck at all.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

Simon and Amelia had no choice but to follow Mr. Penroy into the vicarage.

Upon entering, they continued making as much noise as possible.

For Simon’s part, he talked loudly, mostly about the medieval architecture.

He praised William Butterfield’s masterpiece and the gothic embellishments.

Amelia, however, knew how to whistle and whistled loudly, also commenting on the prettiness of the stained-glass windows, illuminated by the afternoon sun.

Penroy looked at them curiously. He was a dull man without imagination, the type of person who did not ask questions about the color of the sky or the makeup of the stars.

He was interested in that which involved himself and was unable to remark with any effect on the beauty of the church or the day.

Instead, he continued marching toward his office with a general murmur of acquiescence.

Amelia resisted hiding her eyes as they rounded the corner.

The office door was open, but with relief, she saw that Oliver was not inside.

The curtains, half open, afforded only filtered light, yet it was enough to take in the room.

The fireplace was dark and unlit, and if Oliver had searched it, he left no evidence of himself behind.

Their efforts to warn him must have worked.

They’d just entered the room when Oliver joined them, and Amelia wondered if perhaps he’d ducked out the moment before they arrived.

“You haven’t seen Mrs. Hamsted, have you?” asked Oliver.

Amelia shook her head. “She is probably busily planning the number of orange blossoms to procure.”

“Join us, Hamsted,” said Simon. “Mr. Penroy was just about to show us where the attendants will sign after the wedding.”

“Thank you.” Oliver eyed the bookshelf. “I’ll busy myself with these volumes if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead,” said Mr. Penroy with a hint of exhaustion. He seemed ready for the group to leave. “I cannot vouch for their quality. I haven’t had time to go through them.”

“You have your own belongings to consider, which I assume will be transferred to the vicarage in time.” Amelia selected the chair across from Mr. Penroy, and Simon took the one next to her.

“I moved in my personal belongings immediately.” He pulled open a desk drawer. “This is my home now. I must make it so.”

Amelia had noticed. Although the books hadn’t been touched, the desk was cleared, and Mr. Cross’s favorite tins and particular prayer requests were removed.

His newspapers were also gone, including the serial stories he followed so passionately.

She glanced at the box of the fireplace, where ashes littered the floor. Thankfully it hadn’t been cleaned.

“I am of the same mind.” Oliver was still scanning the bookshelf.

“I cannot feel comfortable without my things. Books, primarily. I especially enjoy a good novel. Have you read The Mill on the Floss? It came out in April in three volumes.” He pulled out one of the deep copper-colored volumes from the shelf.

Mr. Penroy’s lip curled, showing his distaste for the comment. “I have no preference for sensational novels. That was Mr. Cross’s area of indulgence, not mine.”

Amelia remembered the fact with a smile. “He said if he didn’t read for pleasure, he wouldn’t be able to survive his line of work. He was fond of saying reality must be balanced with a healthy dose of fiction. It inspired him.”

“If I am in need of inspiration, I turn to the Bible.” Mr. Penroy said it as if it was the only thing one could do. “I cannot understand why the vicar would need any other book to occupy his time.”

Amelia could think of several reasons but kept them to herself. Oliver was a bookworm and must have a reason for bringing up the work by George Eliot, so she encouraged the conversation. “I myself enjoy many types of fiction by various authors.”

“I know you do,” Oliver added. “Dickens is one of your favorites, and I wonder if he was one of Mr. Cross’s as well from this collection of his work.”

“He was. He followed several of Dickens’s serials religiously.”

Mr. Penroy hiked a brow.

“Excuse me, not religiously,” Amelia corrected.

“Regularly.” It was one of the reasons she’d felt comfortable telling him about her secret pseudonym.

He did not frown on penny weeklies or any magazine people read and enjoyed.

“Life is a cornucopia of choices, Lady Amesbury,” he used to say.

“That kind of bounty is godsent.” And oh, how she believed it, too.

Her letters were as abundant as stars in the sky, each one with its own voice.

She didn’t have to like every one to know she was glad they existed.

“Books are expensive, and I do not believe in squandering money,” said Mr. Penroy.

Amelia thought no money could be squandered on a book.

Even if she didn’t enjoy it, she usually learned something from it, and from that itself she gained enjoyment.

But Mr. Penroy was correct about cost. Although the price of books had reduced dramatically over the course of time, they could still be expensive, which is one of the reasons Mr. Cross cherished the books he did have, rereading them many times over.

In fact, she was surprised at the new book on the shelf.

“Some people think of books as an investment.” Simon’s tone relayed his belief in the statement. “They think books give you something more precious than money in return.”

“I am not one of those people.” Mr. Penroy glanced at his timepiece. “Now to the registry.” He smoothed the paper on his desk. “If we may?”

Though it was a question, Amelia understood they had no option of declining. He covered the registry briefly, and when he was finished, Kitty was there with the curate, who looked fatigued. Amelia imagined that Kitty had him circling the church like a dog after his tail.

“Thank you, Mr. Dougal,” said Kitty. “You have been entirely helpful.”

“It was my pleasure.” Mr. Dougal was audibly winded, and his cheeks were as flushed as the roots of his ginger-colored hair. He was a man who did his due diligence, however, and none could accuse him of shirking his duties.

Simon and Amelia thanked Mr. Penroy, and Kitty and Oliver did likewise. After another round of thank yous to the curate, they were gone and only waited to be seated in the carriage before asking Oliver for the results of his subterfuge.

Amelia had rarely seen Oliver so pleased. He was a distracted man with attention for only a book or his wife. Rarely did he draw attention to himself and could disappear from a party—most likely to glance at a library—without anyone noticing his departure.

But now, he smiled at their rapt attention, and Amelia thought he even delayed the telling of events to savor the moment, his efforts, or the information.

“Well?” Kitty pressed. “Did you find anything of importance?”

Still smiling, Oliver said, “You heard me mention the book titled The Mill on the Floss?”

Kitty waved away the comment. “This is not the time for one of your book reports. Lady Amesbury and Lord Bainbridge need to know what was found.”

“It is what I found. Three new books among very old tomes. It must be important.”

Kitty tapped his knee. “But the fireplace, Mr. Hamsted.”

Oliver pulled a singed scrap of paper out of his coat pocket. “A handwritten note. I can make out the word our.”

Simon, Amelia, and Kitty leaned closer, and Amelia could indeed make out the word also. “It’s Cross’s handwriting. But what does it mean?”

“It could be a reference to the church,” Simon put in.

“True.” Amelia squinted at the fragment. “But no word or punctuation mark follows it.”

“Maybe it is a list.” Kitty held up a finger. “I make lists all the time for my parties.”

Amelia thought on the idea. It could be a list, but what sort of list ended with the word our? She returned to the book. “What of The Mill on the Floss? He wouldn’t have splurged on himself.”

Oliver cleaned his glasses. “I agree with you. The books in his collection were a decade old. Maybe someone loaned him the books.”

“Maybe someone gave them to him,” added Simon.

“Maybe Miss Rothschild,” Amelia thought aloud.

“But she worked at the factory only a month.” Kitty frowned. “I cannot imagine she had excess funds to purchase several expensive gifts.”

A thought came to Amelia. “Such as the cross necklace she gave her mother.”

Kitty gasped. “Yes.”

Simon touched his chin. “Miss Rothschild might have been involved in something she shouldn’t have been, something that earned her additional funds.”

“But what?” Oliver asked.

“That is the question.” Amelia glanced at the group. “It’s one I’m going to put to her mother, who might have some idea where the money came from for her necklace. She had to wonder about it, given their reduced circumstances. Perhaps she asked.”

“A solid plan,” said Kitty. “We must go back to St. George-in-the-East.”

“I must,” Amelia corrected. “You don’t have to do anything.”

Kitty reached for Amelia’s hands. “After all you’ve been through, I would never desert you in your hour of need.” Her blue eyes darted to Oliver. “Mr. Hamsted would not expect me to, would you, dear?”

Oliver rushed to assure them both. “Of course not. Mr. Cross was your friend and confidant, Lady Amesbury. After all you’ve told me about the situation, I think only you might be able to puzzle together the pieces of his death. If my wife can be of support, who am I to withhold her assistance?”

“She is indeed a great help to me. You all are.” She shook her head.

“How can I ever repay you?” She was overwhelmed by the support she felt in the carriage.

Even Simon, who’d been so reluctant when they first met, was prepared to help her in every way.

He was still overly cautious, in her opinion, but he was there for her in ways that she never expected.

“By your friendship—and esteem.” Simon’s voice dipped lower with the last word, and with it, Amelia’s stomach.

“You have it,” promised Amelia.

“I have a feeling you’re going to rely on us all a good deal to get through these next few days …” Oliver was staring out the window distractedly. He pulled back the curtain so that they could see what he was seeing. His face revealed the hopelessness Amelia felt upon taking in the situation.

In front of her house was one, two, three carriages—and that didn’t account for the family coming by train.

Members of the Scott family were in various states of unloading, and Bailey, despite having his hands full, was taking a large trunk from Aunt Gertrude.

As the carriage drew closer, Amelia heard her say it was impossible to find good poultry in the city, and she’d brought a nice duck for dinner.

She only hoped the cook might know how to dress it properly.

While this comment was dreadful enough, still more dreadful was the fact that Aunt Tabitha watched all of it unfold from the front step.

She stood as rigid as a watchtower guard, determined not to allow the enemy entrance.

With her raven-handled cane gripped at her side, she made a formidable obstacle, but Winifred circumvented her.

She ducked under her arm, running down the steps to greet Madge and Veronica Scott, whom she already thought of as family.

Veronica, Amelia’s mother, greeted her with a generous hug, and despite the chaos of the scene, Amelia felt herself smile.

Her smile was dampened, however, by the icy eyes of Tabitha Amesbury, which landed on hers at that very moment.

Amelia’s only relief was the necessary wait she must endure to get into her own house.

Indeed, it might be several minutes before their carriage could unload, and she savored those moments like a prisoner’s last meal.

“I suppose none of you wants to join me?” All at once, they spoke their excuses. “I do not blame you. I suppose I must face the lion’s den alone.”

The carriage inched forward.

It stopped in front of the house, and she sighed. “‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.’”