Page 9 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

SEVEN

Dear Lady Agony,

I am sorry you are being blackmailed. One would think a woman who took up an honest cause and defended it with her pen would be praised, not terrorized. But it is always the case, I’m afraid. People have a good deal of morals until a situation affects them. Then all bets are off.

Devotedly,

People Are Petty

Dear People Are Petty,

Thank you for your kind note. I have received many like it and would like to take a moment to thank my readers for their support. People can indeed be petty, but they can also be generous. You are certainly one of the latter.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

Amelia had no excuse to give Penroy, so she told him the truth.

She was drawn to the empty spot on the mantel, where the clock had once sat.

If his frown was any indication, he was dismayed by her curiosity.

He stated that the Metropolitan Police had taken it into evidence, which was unfortunate.

It was a nice timepiece, and Mr. Cross would have not approved of the waste.

On that, he and Amelia agreed. Mr. Cross was considerate and frugal.

He once told her he couldn’t abide indulging in excess when others had so little.

He loved books yet would not spend a farthing on a new one because of their high cost. He and the other priests had so much already.

It was one of the reasons he had created the Society for the Greater Good.

With the abject poverty in London, a stark contrast to their own lifestyles in Mayfair and other posh parishes, how could they not work toward a solution to the problem?

To Mr. Cross, the solution was better wages, better working conditions, better lives for the poor.

Amelia wondered what would happen to the society now that Cross was gone.

Would they continue his work? She asked Mr. Penroy.

“I could not say.” Penroy took a seat at the desk, and she returned to the chair across from him.

“I am too occupied with the needs of this church. Mr. Cross spread himself thin, too thin, in my opinion. I have been dealing with the daily business of All Saints for some time. It is a new church, and it has not been easy.”

She hadn’t thought of the situation from Penroy’s perspective, and she felt an inkling of empathy for the man.

The church was newly built, the members newly installed.

Cost and debt alone would take considerable effort.

Penroy would be left to manage affairs in Cross’s absence.

And from the sounds of it, Mr. Cross had been gone a good deal.

She would find out how much when she visited the East End church.

Penroy thumbed through the pages of the newly retrieved calendar. “Speaking of business, let us get to the business of your sister’s wedding. What date do you suggest before the ceremony?”

Amelia leaned over the desk, hoping for a glimpse into the small notebook. It was brown and battered and something that might have been carried in Cross’s jacket pocket. “May I ask if Scotland Yard reviewed this appointment book?”

“Yes, they did.” Mr. Penroy removed his hand, and the notebook folded shut automatically. “However, they didn’t find anything of use. Cross met with his fair share of thieves and addicts, but rarely did they make appointments, if you understand.”

She did. His appointments were restricted to church people and patrons. But what of the man the curate mentioned? Was the after-hours appointment written down? “Did he have any appointments scheduled at the end of the day?”

Mr. Penroy flipped to the date of the murder. “He had the evening marked off, as if he had plans outside the church, but Mr. Dougal said he was in the office when he left.” He flashed her a peek at the booklet. The evening hours were struck through with an X.

Amelia squinted at the mark. “Mr. Dougal mentioned an evening appointment. Do you know whom he might have met with?”

“I do not. What I do know is that he was preoccupied with the poor in the East End. If he met with someone after hours, it was probably one of them. He’d made quite a name for himself over there.

Even the bishop knew of his work, which perhaps isn’t surprising since Cross was always asking for more money. ”

Cross’s purpose wasn’t fame. Amelia knew it as well as she knew her favorite pen.

However, Mr. Penroy continued before she could argue.

“He thought the poor needed his help more than the residents of Mayfair. He met with vagrants at all hours—after long days, long nights, long absences from the church. But the faithful need inspiration, too. Neither can survive without inspiration. People such as yourself need just as much help as the downtrodden.”

Amelia felt vaguely insulted.

He smiled. “Now then, let us have the date.”

Thirty minutes later, Amelia returned home.

She had just entered the morning room when she heard the voice of Grady Armstrong.

She frowned, wondering what brought him all the way from Bond Street during the middle of his busy workday.

Perhaps he had discovered more information on the Rothschilds or Mr. Cross.

Curious, she did not wait for Jones to seat him. She went straight to the entry.

“Mr. Armstrong,” Amelia said with a smile. “This is a surprise.”

Grady handed Jones his hat, and as he did, she noted the furrow on his brow. Something was wrong. He had forgone his lunch to tell her whatever he was about to share, and from the worry lines on his face, it was not positive news.

“Mr. Armstrong must be famished,” Amelia continued smoothly. “Please have tea sent to the library. Tell Cook we have a visitor.”

“Yes, my lady.” Jones nodded and was off.

Grady followed her silently into the library. She glanced backward a few times, only to realize he wouldn’t be uttering a syllable until they were in private.

“Goodness, Grady.” She shut the door. “We’ve dealt with our fair share of thieves, murderers, and thugs. No need for you to pull that face on me now.”

“This arrived today.” He wordlessly retrieved a letter from his inside coat pocket. “I brought it over directly.”

Amelia met him in the middle of the room, glancing at the paper. “The blackmailer.”

“Yes.”

She perused the block letters, so familiar to her eyes now. The handwriting was indistinguishable. The author could be a man a woman or a child. The person had gone to great lengths to disguise his or her penmanship, writing in uppercase letters.

Dear Lady Agony,

You were foolish to publish my letter. If you repeat the mistake, I will make sure you pay the ultimate price. I know your schedule, I know your identity, and I will upset both if you do not act.

Print the name of the Mayfair Marauder without delay. This is the last time I will ask nicely.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

“It isn’t good, Amelia.” Grady returned the letter to his coat pocket.

Amelia took a seat on the green leather couch and gestured for him to join her.

He took the chair across from her. “You won’t want to hear this, but I think it’s time to reveal the name of the Mayfair Marauder.”

“I cannot do that.”

“What other choice to you have?” he continued steadily. “It’s his name or yours, and quite frankly, he did commit a crime. If anyone should pay, it is he.”

“You cannot be serious.” Amelia shook her head in disbelief. “We’ve never cowed to readers’ outbursts before. Why would we now?”

“This is different.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in a nervous swallow. “The blackmailer seeks revenge. People like that will not quit until they have it.” He leaned closer. “You must protect what is yours, Amelia. Your home, your livelihood. Winifred.”

Of the three, the last gave her chills. Winifred and her future must be cared for.

Amelia had promised Edgar, and even if she hadn’t, Winifred was the person she loved most in this world.

She could not have any harm brought to her.

But did the blackmailer actually know who she was?

To date, she had no evidence to confirm it.

The letters were not sent to her home. They were sent to the journal.

The person might be vindictive but also harmless.

“I made a promise—”

“I know, and I also know how seriously you take your promises.” His brown eyes searched hers with desperation. “But you cannot take a chance. We cannot take a chance. I won’t allow you to.”

Grady did not know the name of the thief. Only she and Simon knew it was Lord Drake. But from the look in his eye, if it was up to him, he would reveal the name straightaway.

“Lord Bainbridge, my lady.” Jones barely had the name out of his mouth before Simon joined them in the room. Amelia expected him this afternoon, and his early arrival was not ideal.

“Mr. Armstrong.” Simon took a seat next to Amelia on the couch, the leather squeaking as he sat down. “How good to see you—again.”

“Lord Bainbridge. Always a pleasure.”

“The tea, Jones?” Amelia inquired.

“Will be right in.” Jones shut the door behind him.

Simon seemed ready to make another quip about Grady’s frequent visits when Grady preempted him with an unlikely remark. “I’m glad you’re here.” He reached again for his inner coat pocket. “We’ve just received another letter from the blackmailer.”

Amelia stared open-mouthed at Grady. Of all the churlish behaviors. He was trying to force her hand by including Simon in what was effectively their business. Her business, if she was to be completely accurate.

“May I have a look?” asked Simon in a conciliatory tone.

Amelia continued to stare as he read the letter, watching for any reaction.

“The answer is obvious to me.” Simon returned the paper to Grady. “She must confess the name of the Mayfair Marauder.”

Grady’s face slackened with relief. “I told her the very same.”

“It is clear that the person knows who she is and will have his revenge,” continued Simon. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“I agree.”