Page 41 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

TWENTY-NINE

Dear Lady Agony,

My response did not appear last week, nor the week before. I assumed you respond to all letters. Do you?

Devotedly,

Nowhere to be Found

Dear Nowhere to be Found,

It’s my dearest wish to respond to each letter, but as much as the paper has enlarged my space, I cannot answer every correspondent. If you respond with Second Request, I will be sure to answer you in the very next column.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

Miss Hinkel lived with her parents in a house on Hare Street, and Amelia and Kitty were glad to find her at home on Sunday afternoon.

It was her only day off, and Amelia hated to interrupt her rest but hoped Miss Hinkel might be able to provide an account of Miss Rothschild’s last hours at Baker Biscuits.

Amelia needed to know more about the Rothschilds’ biscuit recipe and how it found its way into Mr. Baker’s hands.

She guessed it was by Miss Rothschild herself, who was perhaps compensated for the information.

She was also interested in the fall and what the young woman was doing upstairs when the bake room was downstairs.

These questions and more were on her mind as she and Kitty were situated in the cramped front parlor while Mrs. Hinkel went to fetch her daughter.

The girl was younger than Amelia imagined, no more than eighteen years of age, with a waifish figure and large gray eyes that stared at them with wonderment.

Miss Hinkel almost missed the well-worn seat of her chair as she sat down. “How do you do?”

“Very well, Miss Hinkel. My friend and I are glad to meet you.” Amelia nodded at Kitty. “This is Mrs. Hamsted, and I am Lady Amesbury. We are friends of Mrs. Rothschild.”

“Rose’s mother,” the girl said. “I know her.”

Mrs. Hinkel interrupted to ask if they would like tea. “I was just putting the kettle on.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hinkel.” Kitty smiled graciously. “That would be lovely.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” Amelia wasn’t certain how friendly the two girls were, but they were the only females listed in the address book of the bake room employees. Perhaps this was enough to make them associates, if not cohorts. “I understand you worked with Miss Rothschild at Baker Biscuits.”

“Thank you. Unlike most of the girls, who worked in the packaging room, we worked in the bake room.” Miss Hinkel tipped her face toward the window, and the angle gave it a jaunty look, full of dignity. “We were working together the night of her accident.”

“I’m glad you bring it up, Miss Hinkel, because I did not like to recall the uncomfortable moment upon just meeting you.”

“Such a tragic affair,” added Kitty.

Miss Hinkel jerked her head, perhaps surprised by her choice of words. Accidents were common occurrences in London’s factories. To describe it as a tragedy might be taking it too far in Miss Hinkel’s eyes.

“You mentioned that you were working together that day,” Amelia continued.

“That night,” corrected Miss Hinkel. “We sometimes worked evenings.”

“The newspaper account said that she fell off the ladder,” said Amelia.

The hardness and perhaps wiseness of Miss Hinkel came through in a harsh breath.

“I read that too. What you didn’t read is the rest of the story.

She was working on a special recipe for Mr. Baker and had been working sixteen-hour days for a week.

I know she was tired, fed up. She told me so.

She said she might not come back to work the next day.

Turns out, she didn’t know how right she was. ”

Mrs. Hinkel padded in with the tea things. She had a heavy footstep, and the teacups shook in their saucers with the motion. As Mrs. Hinkel poured out, Amelia noted the biscuits were from Baker Biscuits. She recognized the tin from the shop.

When Mrs. Hinkel left, Amelia picked up the conversation. “You weren’t there when she fell?”

Her gray eyes narrowed, and the thinness of her face became evident as the skin stretched over the prominent cheekbones.

“I was told to go. The ovens would be running only the new biscuit. Nothing else was to be produced that evening, and God forbid they pay a person for a minute they’re not working. ”

Amelia thought it interesting that she was dismissed for the evening. As the girl said, she was told to leave. Perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence.

Amelia took a biscuit. “Was anybody else with her at the factory?”

Miss Hinkel slurped her tea. “Mr. Baker had been there and left. I remember because he’d never been at the factory past dark, and that night his oil lamp was burning. Those important sorts never stay for the real work.”

Amelia supposed they didn’t. Indeed, the clerk was happily surprised to find him there the day they visited the storefront.

He might not have any idea how hard Miss Hinkel or anyone else worked to keep up day-to-day operations.

“I assume Mr. Baker left the work to you and Miss Rothschild.” She paused.

“Do you know why he wanted her, specifically, to bake the new recipe?” Amelia hoped to confirm that recipe was indeed Rose Rothschild’s mother’s and no one else’s.

Miss Hinkel put her cup back in the saucer. “Rose was a good baker. She was new to the factory, but everybody understood the fact. There was no one Mr. Baker trusted more with his new idea. He was sorrier than most by her accident.”

He must have been devastated, thought Amelia. Here was a girl he trusted more than any other to make the special recipe. After her fall, he must have entreated someone else to ensure the recipe was properly prepared. “I trust the recipe continued. Whom did he select to continue the work?”

“Not me.” Miss Hinkel snorted. “Any of the bakers might have finished it once Rose had it perfected. I heard it’s to be put in the store next week.

Until then, we’re not to talk about it with anyone.

” She frowned. “I hope you won’t mention it.

I need my job, and I only meant to answer your questions about Rose. ”

“We won’t say a word,” promised Kitty. “You’ve been a great help to us.”

“Mrs. Hamsted is right. Thank you.”

After thanking Miss Hinkel and her mother, they retreated to Kitty’s carriage. When the door was closed and the steps put up, Kitty released a long sigh. “Our conversation was not as fruitful as I anticipated. What now?”

“We gained information, perhaps just not the information we wished for.” Amelia tried to keep her voice patient, but her patience was running thin.

She, too, wanted answers—all of them. “We know Miss Rothschild was alone the night of her death. We also know Miss Hinkel might have been sent home for this very reason.”

“But as she said, they don’t pay her to stand around.” Kitty shook her head, and her blonde curls bounced beneath the pink satin ribbon of her hat. “If she had no work to do, they wouldn’t allow her to stay. Mr. Baker seems like a generous man, but he has a business to run.”

“And he was a favorite of Mr. Cross.” She glanced out the window.

The streets were narrow, and the noise palpable.

A loud buzz of shouting was rising above the din, and she wondered what it was about.

“We cannot discount him entirely, however. I’d like to talk to him about the accident if nothing else. ”

“How do you propose to do that? You already committed to four dozen biscuits. Must you buy four dozen more?” Kitty pressed her lips together to keep in a laugh.

“I confess I don’t know …” The sentence trailed off as she craned her neck to look around the passing street corner. The problem causing the disturbance came into view. It was the Plate & Bottle. The building was succumbing to flames. “Kitty, stop your driver!”

Kitty did so quickly. “What is it?”

A line of men with buckets were attempting to douse the fire, but from the rise of their voices, they were having little success. They were shouting at one another to bring the water faster, but the task was impossible. The buckets were coming as quickly as they could.

“Amelia?” Kitty’s position in the carriage did not afford her the advantage of a view of the street.

“It’s the Plate & Bottle. It’s on fire.” She looked at Kitty’s wide blue eyes. “It appears the arsonist has been successful.”

“No!”

They waited only for the driver to put down the steps before descending. The driver had stopped away from the busy thoroughfare, and they had to walk several blocks before they could survey the damage for themselves.

It was catastrophic. As they grew nearer, smoke infiltrating their nostrils, Amelia saw the kitchen was no more.

The windows had been shattered, perhaps by an explosion, and a hole stood in the pub where she and Simon had danced not that long ago.

She covered her mouth, not sure if she was going to cry or be sick to her stomach.

Nearest the pub was Mr. Rothschild, who continued to demand water despite the futility of the effort.

He had serious gray side whiskers and a prominent brow.

If not for the emotion in his voice when he spoke, Amelia would have thought him brutish.

He glared at the fire brigade even as they started to put out the fire.

“You got your way, didn’t you, old Cross?” He opened his arms above his head. “The pub is no more. A present sent down from heaven.”

“Mr. Rothschild!” Mrs. Rothschild exclaimed. “You must not blaspheme.”

“Pray for me. Pray for me as you did our daughter. I would rather be dead than living.” He looked at his wife, whose face was stricken with disbelief.

Her shoulders drooped, and her stature seemed to shorten before Amelia’s eyes.

She stumbled backward, visibly shaken by his words.

It was only then that he reached out and grabbed her arm to prevent her from falling.

Her chest began to heave as the tears she’d held back began to roll down her cheeks.

The worst being said, Mr. Rothschild took pity on her, drawing her closer to him.

She sobbed into his shoulder, and Amelia saw that his eyes were moist, too.

His life’s work had gone up in smoke. The fire would be put out (Amelia could see hints of it already), but the damage was done.

Amelia didn’t know if they’d ever be able to recover from it.

“The poor Rothschilds,” whispered Kitty next to her. “Haven’t they been through enough? Why must they continue to suffer?”

Amelia couldn’t answer her question, nor could she confront Mrs. Rothschild about the recipe her daughter sold to Mr. Baker.

Not now, perhaps not ever. The woman had no idea what her daughter had done.

If she had, she would have known where the money came from for the gifts.

“Come along, Kitty. Let us examine the recipe ourselves. We never had the chance last night, and there is nothing more to be done here.”

Kitty nodded, but the look of consternation didn’t leave her face. She was angry with the situation, and so was Amelia. She wished to help, but she didn’t know how. There was one thing they could do, however, and that was examine the solid evidence they did have: the biscuit recipe.