Page 44 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

THIRTY-ONE

Dear Lady Agony,

Have you read about Mary Jane Harrison, who went to work at a biscuit factory, by the request of her mother, only to be assaulted by her employer once they were alone?

After struggling against him, stumbling into the knob of a door, she returned home with a terrible pain in her side.

Six weeks later, she is dead and the employer fined only three pounds.

It was said an abscess on her liver caused her death, either by the violence or natural causes.

The deputy coroner gave the employer the benefit of the doubt, deciding on natural causes.

At seventeen years of age, though, how could it be?

Devotedly,

Doubting Delilah

Dear Doubting Delilah,

You have every right to doubt the shameful outcome.

I have also read the sad story of Mary Jane Harrison and the turmoil she suffered for six weeks before dying.

The pain in her liver ended her employment and eventually her life, but nothing can stop the deplorable actions of some men, except what we are doing here, which is to discuss them, question them, and refute them.

Audibly, deliberately, and without shame.

Until justice is served, it is our only matter of recourse.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

Amelia finished climbing to the second floor.

Of course Rose Rothschild was murdered. She was a young woman with something valuable, and it was unsurprising—perhaps even predictable—that someone took it from her.

Mr. Baker gave her money. He was not completely without charity.

To be able to say he paid for the goods was gentlemanly.

Just, even. Amelia imagined this is what Mr. Baker told Mr. Cross when Mr. Cross confronted him.

He was an honorable man, a good man. He would never steal from a woman.

Yet when Miss Rothschild demanded more money, as she must have, he refused.

A factory girl could have an accident without incident.

No one would question the death of a poor girl from the East End falling clumsily to her death.

Mr. Baker had removed the screws from the ladder, and then what?

Did he call to her? Did he hide one of the ingredients?

Whatever brought her up the ladder was important enough to make the towering trek.

Unbeknownst to him, however, Cross had taken down the recipe for collateral, perhaps when Miss Rothschild gave him the books.

When she died in an accident of convenience shortly thereafter, Cross must have confronted him.

Amelia remembered the biscuit tin on Cross’s desk.

It was proof Mr. Baker had been there. Everyone who knew the recipe must be killed.

A breath hitched in her throat. Including Mrs. Rothschild. The Plate he was the man in the back of All Saints on Margaret Street with his sleeves rolled up.

He was speaking with Mr. Cross when she entered the church the morning of his murder.

Mr. Cross must have delayed the meeting until that evening, when he could speak to him in private.

She no longer needed the appointment book. She knew it was Mr. Baker.

“You see?” His smile was cunning. He was as clever as any East End fence.

“You are not the only one who can travel across town. When you came with your stylish friend, I had hoped it was only an extravagance of an overdone wedding breakfast. But when my man told me there was a break-in last night, I suspected a connection. I’ve been awaiting your arrival. ”

There was no use dissembling. He knew, and they were alone. She might not get out of the situation alive, but she would get out of it with the truth. “Mr. Cross was your friend.”

He shrugged. “He sent me workers with the souls of angels. How could we not be friends?”

He did not admit to the murder, and she needed him to. “He thought you were helping people find decent work, but you were only helping yourself.”

“Who else would I help?” He walked to the desk, and as he grew closer, the practiced manners fell away.

He had no need for them now. He was not a gentleman; he was a crook.

“Who is there to help me? You?” His chuckle was harsh.

“No. Not you. I’ve come up from nothing, like everyone else in my factory.

But I grow tired of work. I deserve a rest.”

“Which is what the recipe would allow,” supplied Amelia. “Why you stopped at nothing to obtain it.”

“Miss Rothschild came to me, sold it to me.” He shook his head, and a shock of dull gray hair fell over his forehead, making him appear older than she realized. “I hired her to package biscuits. She insisted I try her mother’s recipe, and I did. It was good, and I bought it. I did nothing wrong.”

“Except kill her.”

He seemed genuinely insulted by the accusation. His small eyes, marred by wrinkles, widened at the acknowledgment. “Her death was an accident. She fell down the ladder.”

“She indeed fell—because of you.” Amelia was surprised, too, by the strength of her own voice. Miss Rothschild’s murder would be acknowledged. It would not be forgotten like so many others in the area.

He leaned over the desk between them, and she instantly leaned back. He sat down in the chair across from her with a laugh. “That’s what’s wrong with women like you. You have too much time on your hands. What possible reason would I have for murdering Miss Rothschild?”

“I don’t need a reason. I have these.” Amelia pulled the screws from her pocket, shoving them forward.

The laughter stopped abruptly. He knew he’d been discovered.

“Miss Rothschild was a street urchin and cheat. I gave her money, and she wanted more. When I refused, she tried to take back the recipe she gave me—just like I knew she would. I planned for it, removing the screws from the ladder. She took her life into her own hands when she decided to climb up that ladder and steal it from my office. If you knew the East End better, you would understand the truth of it.”

She knew it was about money but was glad to have it confirmed. “It is not cheating to demand what you’re owed. The recipe was worth much more than you gave her. You knew it. She knew it. Mr. Cross knew it.”

“Cross knew nothing!” Mr. Baker’s voice boomed.

“Holding church services in the area did not make him one of us. Nor did his little society. He grew up in affluence. We were lucky to grow up at all.” His voice turned gritty.

“So save your moralizing for your friends in Mayfair. We do what we must to get by.”

“And Mr. Cross did what he had to do, which was to write down Mrs. Rothschild’s recipe.”

“I burned that,” he shot back automatically.

“Was that before or after you murdered him?”