Page 5 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

FOUR

Dear Lady Agony,

Do you read the Accidents and Offenses in the dailies? I do, and increasingly, I’m disturbed by their nature. I find myself thinking about them even when I do not wish to, spending nights tossing and turning long after I’ve shut the paper. What is to be done about London’s problems?

Devotedly,

Saddened by News

Dear Saddened by News,

I am a penny paper authoress, not a constable or clerk with answers to why harm comes to others.

I do, however, have answers on how to stop harming yourself, and that is to set the daily aside.

It is doing you no good to dwell on the crimes and, in fact, is doing you harm.

Sometimes we must be the ones to preserve our own health even at the cost of information.

As the old Bible story tells us, not all knowledge is good for us.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

Murdered? The Reverend Mr. Cross? Amelia shook her head.

It could not be. Mr. Cross was a pillar of the community.

He’d begun a Society for the Greater Good.

He was helping the poor in Wapping, finding them work and steering them away from a life of crime.

No one in the world would want to murder him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dougal. I don’t believe I heard you correctly. ”

Kitty came to Amelia’s side, grasping her hand.

“You heard correctly,” Mr. Dougal said. “He’s gone.”

Amelia could not find the words to respond.

Mr. Cross was not only her priest but her confidant, and she had very few of them in her life.

He’d buried Edgar, counseled her in her grief, and encouraged her to start again.

When she told him about her column, he was happy, proud even.

He admired the work Lady Agony had done to share workers’ grievances and hold employers accountable.

Dead? He could not be dead. Certainly not murdered.

After a moment, Kitty asked, “What happened?”

“The police believe it was a robbery gone terribly wrong.” The worst of his news heard, Mr. Dougal proceeded more quickly.

“The poor box was missing, and Mr. Cross was dead on the floor of his office, struck by the clock on his fireplace mantel. The officers believe he confronted the robber and was killed for doing so.”

“That cannot be.” Amelia heard the words more than said them. “The poor box is in the vestibule. According to your account, Mr. Cross was in the vicarage.”

Mr. Dougal looked from Kitty to Simon, his jowls shaking slightly. “It is what the officer said, word for word. I swear it.”

Simon gave him a reassuring look. “I believe Lady Amesbury means the theory doesn’t make sense. If Mr. Cross was indeed killed because of the poor box, he would have struggled with the thief near the box, not his office.” He glanced at Amelia with compassion. “Correct?”

“Yes.” Amelia was beginning to find her voice. “If Mr. Cross interrupted a robbery in progress, one would think he would have been found somewhere in the church.”

Mr. Dougal nodded, perhaps relieved to clear up the misunderstanding. “I understand your question, but maybe the thief left through the vicarage. Maybe Mr. Cross caught him fleeing.”

Amelia agreed it was a possibility. “The police know the time of death?”

Mr. Dougal nodded. “The clock read ten minutes to ten. Mr. Cross lay there until this morning, when I found him, and called for the constable.” He choked on the saliva lodged in his throat. “I cannot get the image from my mind. I think it will be there always.”

Amelia understood. Death was the most ordinary thing in the world until it entered one’s sphere. Then it was extraord-inarily cruel and unkind, offensive even. And surely never forgotten. “When was the last time you saw him, before this morning?”

“Yesterday, before I left, around five o’clock.

He had a late tea and returned, planning to work into the night.

” His forehead creased with consternation.

“It’s why I am here. I almost forgot.” He pulled an envelope out of his great coat pocket.

The coat was tight and ill-fitting, and the envelope was badly wrinkled.

“He asked me to make sure you received this. Not to send it in the post.”

On the envelope, Amelia recognized her name in Mr. Cross’s excellent penmanship, the loop of the L in Lady distinct in its perfection. Her fingertips lingered over the ink, a message from a friend now gone.

Mr. Dougal stared at the envelope. “I assume it has something to do with your sister’s wedding …”

Amelia turned it over, slipping a finger under the seal. She glanced up at the curious sets of eyes upon her, then opened it.

She expected a letter, some sort of explanation of what had happened.

A priest would portend his own death. He would know what was about to happen and why.

Somehow, he would make sense of it for her.

But it wasn’t a letter; it was a newspaper clipping that appeared to have nothing to do with him.

A notice from the Accidents and Offenses column told of a young woman, Rose Rothschild, who had a fatal and lamentable accident, falling from a ladder to her death at the Baker Biscuit Factory.

A verdict of accidental death had been given at inquest and the girl’s death mourned by the people who loved her.

Amelia turned over the clipping, frustrated.

There was nothing of value on the other side.

No writing, no address, no secret message.

What use was it to her? What was she to do with it?

She knew nothing of biscuit factories, let alone the girl.

Why had he left it for her? And why had he given it to Mr. Dougal to deliver instead of giving it to her himself?

They’d met only yesterday. He could have given it to her then.

“What is it?” Simon finally asked.

“How should I know?” Amelia snapped, frustrated. “I have no idea what it means. Do you?” She directed the question at Mr. Dougal.

Mr. Dougal leaned over to look at the paper clipping.

“I do not know the name Rothschild, but the society met at St. George-in-the-East. It might be near the factory. For whatever reason, the church was a favorite of his. The members had no respect for him or what he was trying to accomplish. One week, they put tacks on his kneelers. The next week, he asked to be transferred there.” Mr. Dougal shrugged. “He could not be deterred.”

Amelia imagined the clipping had something to do with his work in the East End. She returned it to the envelope. Why give it to her though? Perhaps he wanted her to investigate the girl’s death. He, like Amelia, was always on the alert for employers with bad behaviors.

It was just like him for his last concern to be for someone else and not himself.

The longer she considered the missive, the angrier she felt.

She had wanted an explanation of last night’s events.

What she received was a newspaper clipping that, while sad, was an ordinary occurrence in London.

This girl meant nothing to her, and he’d meant so much.

She sat staring at the envelope, willing it to take on a new meaning.

For the letters to rearrange themselves into a secret message, one that would make sense of the senseless act of murder.

But nothing changed except the sadness she felt, seeping from her heart to the rest of her body.

It took hold and began to make her numb to her surroundings.

Simon must have understood, for he interceded in her lapse of conversation. “Did Cross have any unexpected visitors yesterday? Do any conversations stand out as peculiar?”

“He had a busy morning, but that was not unusual. Lady Amesbury and her sister’s wedding was at the forefront of his mind.

He wanted it to go as smoothly as possible.

” Mr. Dougal lifted his chin in Amelia’s direction.

“He said my lady had enough to deal with and to come to him with questions. He called it an opportunity for me to learn.” He smiled, his gaze trailing to the window.

“He had great faith in me, more faith, perhaps, than I deserve.” He sniffed.

“I’m not a gifted orator, and I often fumble my words or their meaning.

No one wants a preacher who cannot give a decent sermon. ”

“I’m sure you can,” Kitty put in enthusiastically. “I can tell that from talking to you.”

“Thank you.” He smiled. “But I’m a buffoon in front of a congregation.”

Simon gently cleared his throat. “I take it you can recall no specific conversations then.”

“No …” Mr. Dougal frowned. “There is one thing. It may be nothing, but I did note it. He had an appointment with someone after hours. It was the reason he dined early.”

“Do you know whom the appointment was with?” asked Kitty with new enthusiasm.

“I’m afraid not. He didn’t say.” Mr. Dougal’s face was open and honest and reflected exactly what he was thinking. He looked as if he regretted mentioning the occurrence. The room was too eager for details that might be irrelevant. “As I say, it might not be important.”

“Or it might be very important,” Amelia countered. “It might have been the last appointment Mr. Cross kept.”

Mr. Dougal’s breath hitched.

“Do you know if the appointment was with a man or a woman?” pressed Amelia.

Mr. Dougal sat silent for a moment, trying to recall the information.

“A man,” he finally revealed. “He referred to the person as he, but as I said, Lady Amesbury, Mr. Cross gave himself to the church wholeheartedly. He met with persons at all hours of the day. If they needed him, he was there. He did not keep usual hours.”