Page 43 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

The answer had to be yes. Many horrible deeds had been done for the sake of money.

It was the reason money was considered the root of all evil.

It had the power to persuade people, all people.

Young, old. Rich, poor. East London, West London.

If only she could be certain. If only she could have proof of what he’d done, she’d be more confident of her direction.

Kitty flung up her hands. “What else?”

“I need to think on it.” Amelia put a hand on her friend’s arm. “You and Oliver discuss the matter, and we will come to a decision.”

“Yes, Oliver.” Kitty blinked. “He is so bright. He will have many ideas on how to proceed.”

“Indeed.” She walked her to the door. “He will appreciate your coming to him with the problem.” And me for keeping you safe, she silently added in her head.

While her friend was taking the short walk home to consider the matter, Amelia understood what she must do.

More than once, she’d tried to confirm the person in Mr. Cross’s office the day of his murder.

No one had been able to tell her who it was.

The time was blocked out, after hours, but no name was written in his appointment book.

But if she went back to the factory, through the window they’d left open, she might be able to locate Mr. Baker’s calendar.

As a man of business, he certainly had one.

If his time was blocked, she could be more certain of her next action.

The trouble, however, was that she would have to enter the factory in daylight on a Sunday. She couldn’t wait until tonight. Tomorrow was the wedding. It must be done now. She saw no way around it.

In her room, she put on her drab mourning hat with veil, as she did the night she went to the Plate he would not catch her if she fell. Until then, she hadn’t realized how much she relied upon him being there.

It made her extra cautious, and each step was slow and methodical.

She forced herself not to rush, not to anticipate the appointment book.

As she approached the new rung, thinking of Miss Rothschild as she did, she noticed the screws that held it in place.

She couldn’t not notice them. Shiny silver screws.

She inhaled a quick breath. Except for the sheen, they matched the ones in Mr. Baker’s desk drawer.

Rose Rothschild hadn’t fallen.

Rose Rothschild had been murdered.