Page 40 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

TWENTY-EIGHT

Dear Lady Agony,

So many of your reports on London’s businesses require discretion. Yet I cannot imagine a quiet quarter-hour in this city. You must conduct many of your inquiries at night. Do you?

Devotedly,

Night Owl or No

Dear Night Owl or No,

Your question is an astute one. That does not mean I’ll be answering it, however. I would rather leave readers unaware of my location at all times, even nighttime.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

The night was cloaked in fog, which was excellent for break-ins but not so good for walking.

However, Amelia had only to make it to Hyde Park, where Simon’s carriage awaited her arrival.

Standing in his great coat, his broad shoulders formed to the cut of the cloth, he watched for her, and when he saw her round the corner, walked toward her.

He wasn’t wearing a hat, and his black hair was sleek and shiny from the mist. His eyes were light, the color of green glass, and like a lamp, they led her to him.

“With the fog, I wanted to come to your house, but I didn’t dare change the plan. I thought we might miss each other in a comedy of errors.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. The walk isn’t far.” She settled into the seat across from him. She was wearing the same trousers she wore the very first night she met him, and she caught him grinning, perhaps with the remembrance.

“I talked to Hamsted, and he is looking forward to our little adventure.” He checked the driver’s direction and sat back. “I fear he might become one of Lady Agony’s ardent devotees. He mentioned writing an article on the poverty in the East End.”

“That was my idea,” explained Amelia. “When we visited Mrs. Hines, I had a notion of doing something. Not just donating money but contributing in some real way.”

“You do contribute by bringing forward injustices in your column.”

“When they suit, which is rare.” Amelia sighed. “People have so many of their own problems to contend with. I am always dealing with them. It is hard to step outside one’s daily concerns and commit to others’ wellbeing.”

He tilted his head, and a black lock of hair fell across his brow. “This murder—it has changed you.”

Amelia took a breath, about to protest, when she realized he was right. “It has changed me. I feel different. I want to make a difference.”

“How?”

“I wish I knew.” She looked out the window, watching the large houses and fine shops disappear behind them.

The streets narrowed, and the carriage felt large and ridiculous, and she looked forward to leaving it behind.

When they approached St. Saviour’s Dock, they did, meeting Oliver and Kitty near the River Neckinger, a name derived from the “devil’s neckcloth.

” Thames pirates had been executed near the inlet until the eighteenth century.

Although executions were no longer performed here, the river was deadly and rank with refuse.

A slimy green film covered the putrid water, and the smell of dead fish rose up in phosphorous fumes.

Kitty kept her mouth and nose covered until they drew close to Mill Street. “A great area to stash the carriages but terrible for walking.” Her words were muffled by her hand.

“Still, you look fetching doing so in that cloak,” Oliver whispered.

Kitty, who wore a black cloak and hood over a nondescript outfit, chuckled.

Amelia ignored the exchange. This might be the one time where more hands meant more work, not less.

The idea was to break up and search the two-story factory for, first and foremost, the mixing book.

Once they were assured Mr. Baker was using Mrs. Rothschild’s recipe, they would look for references to Rose or her unfortunate accident.

They knew she worked in the bake room. They would start there and expand the search if time warranted.

The street was pitch black and afforded them no light for lock-picking, but it didn’t matter anyway. The door had an additional bolt that appeared uncrackable. They weren’t going in through the front door without a hacksaw.

Amelia glanced up, noting a broken pane of a window. While Oliver and Simon looked for another way in, she asked Kitty if she would be able to get her hand through the glass and open the window. She assured Amelia she would.

Kitty held up a hand. “I wore my torn gloves for that purpose. I knew they were still serviceable in some way.” Yes, she loved clothes, but she detested waste and repurposed most of her articles. It was one of many reasons Amelia respected and admired her.

“You are the lightest, and I’m certain Simon or Oliver could lift you up.”

“Not Oliver,” Kitty whispered. “I love him dearly, but when it comes to strength, he has none. Save him for his intellect. It will serve us once we get inside.”

Amelia called for Simon and told him the plan.

Oliver argued at first, contending he should be the one to lift Kitty to the window.

Simon proclaimed all he had to contribute was brute strength and to please allow him to do something.

After a few moments of quarreling, Oliver acquiesced, and Simon easily lifted Kitty to the window above.

She snaked her arm around the broken pane and unlocked the window.

With an extra boost from Simon, she was in, with only a small gulp from Oliver when she landed inside with a thud.

The ten seconds they waited for her to open the back door were heart stopping. Oliver stared without blinking, and when it opened, he practically fell inside, hugging her to his chest and telling her how proud he was. “I had no idea you were so capable.”

Kitty tipped her chin in Amelia’s direction. “It isn’t my first escapade with Lady Agony.”

Amelia handed out four candles, and as Simon lighted them, their location became clearer.

They were in an extremely tall room with wooden rafters.

Upstairs were long packing tables and stalls where employees, most likely women and boys, packaged biscuits.

The main floor contained the baking rooms. Long silver trays and an oven were just beyond her view.

A single ladder led to offices and supply rooms.

Amelia nodded to it. “That must be where Miss Rothschild fell.”

They were silent for a moment.

“I should go up,” Amelia said.

“I’ll go with you.” Simon took a step closer to her.

“We’ll check this room and the next.” Oliver looked at Kitty for confirmation. She nodded, and the couples went off in different directions.

Slowly, Amelia made her way up the steep ladder. There were forty rungs at least, and despite not thinking herself afraid of heights, she felt lightheaded when she looked down. She focused on the upper rungs instead. When she neared the top, she paused.

“What is it?” Simon asked behind her.

She ran her hand across the rung. The wood was new, unblemished. “This is it. Where she fell.”

“How do you know?”

She compared it with the one above it. “The wood is new.”

“I believe you’re right.”

She continued up the remaining rungs, scanning the upper floor.

Packaging tables, stands, and boxes filled the area.

Here, workers packaged the goods for delivery and shipping.

The space was the shape of a long rectangle, with one office, and she walked to it directly.

It must be important to have its own door.

She tried the handle, but it was locked.

She pulled two hairpins from the back of her head and felt several pieces of hair fall down her neck.

She used one to create tension at the bottom of the lock.

The other she inserted into the top of the lock to move its pins.

When they released, she turned the tension pin until the lock turned and the door opened.

Simon put a hand on hers. “May I tell you how intriguing I find you at this moment?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Yes, but quickly.”

His bright smile flashed white in the candlelight, and they continued inside the room, which was small and contained a desk, chair, and cabinet.

Amelia started with the desk while Simon examined the cabinet.

The desk was orderly, and the lamp was full of oil, the wick newly trimmed.

No stray papers or ledgers littered the surface.

She opened the center drawer, and it was only deep enough to hold the simplest writing provisions—stamps, notepaper, a pen.

She moved the paper, and two tarnished screws lay in the drawer. Nothing remarkable.

“I’m afraid, in terms of books, I’ve come up empty,” said Simon. “Any chance it’s in the baking room? That might be the usual place for a recipe.”

“Mr. Baker wouldn’t want secret formulas readily available to anyone.” She shut the center drawer and opened the deeper bottom drawer. It contained only one item: a thick black leather book that read BAKER BISCUITS LONDON OFFICE MIXING BOOK. “It’s here,” she announced.

Simon joined her as she laid the book atop the desk, zeroing in on its lock. This one might not be so easily picked.

Perhaps seeing her look of consternation, Simon said, “May I?”

“You?” She couldn’t keep the surprise completely out of her voice.

“I lived much of my young life on a ship with men of debatable morals.” He crossed his arms. “You cannot believe I am ignorant of how to pick a lock.”

She felt her eyebrows raise.

He held out a hand. “The hairpins, if you please.”

She handed them over, and he went to work on the lock. It seemed impossible that his hands could be large yet deft, and she was mesmerized by the action. The lock sprung open, and she blinked. “I stand corrected, my lord. You are a regular cracksman.”

He took a bow, and she put the pins back in her pocket.

The book was old and its pages worn. Amelia carefully turned to the back of the book, where she wasn’t disappointed. On the last page was a newly written recipe. She scanned the ingredients.

“What do you think?” prodded Simon. “Is this the one?”

“I believe so.” She opened the drawer and drew out a pen and paper. “We must copy the ingredients to be certain.”

“You will take them to Mrs. Rothschild, then.”

“Yes. Right away.” She paused as she was writing down the ingredients.

Something about the recipe seemed familiar, but she couldn’t say what.

Odd. No one knew of the recipe except Mr. Baker and the Rothschild family.

She shook off the thought, continuing to write as quickly as she could, stuffing the notepaper into her trouser pocket.

Simon locked the book and returned it to the drawer.

Then they crawled back down the ladder to find Oliver and Kitty.

They located them in the bake room. Oliver was studying the large oven, perhaps fascinated by the mechanics, and Kitty was bent over what appeared to be a ledger.

When Amelia inquired, she explained, “It’s a schedule.

Miss Rothschild was working with a woman named Lydia Hinkel the day she died. They both worked the bake room.”

“She might be able to tell us what happened,” Amelia said.

“It’s a person to ask at the very least.” Kitty flipped to the front of the book. “Her address is listed here with the rest of the bake room employees. I suppose if one is ill, another can be called upon to fill in.”

Amelia looked over her shoulder. There were about a dozen names on the list. “Good work.” She glanced at Oliver. “Did you find anything of interest?”

Oliver glanced at them. “This oven is quite interesting. I imagine it puts out a hundred biscuits or more at a time. Can you imagine? Hundreds of biscuits a day! The room must get very hot with the ovens running from sunup until sundown.”

Amelia was not surprised by the observation. He indeed was a scholar and almost everything interested him. Perhaps his next tome would be on biscuit making. The idea brought a smile to her lips.

Kitty asked Amelia if she and Simon had any success, and Amelia gave the Hamsteds the new information. Kitty wanted to inspect the recipe, but Simon cautioned them against staying too long. Now that the recipe was copied, they could view it any time.

“Our candles are burning low,” he said. “We should go.”

Amelia agreed.

“We can leave out this window,” observed Kitty, motioning to the window in the room. “As Oliver said, the room must become stifling, so no one will be surprised to find it unfastened.”

They agreed, then blew out their candles and slipped out the window into the dark night air.