Her eyes snapped open. “Pure foolishness,” she muttered. No man did such things. Well, Ewan had, but only after they’d made love. She’d never had anyone to play maid for her before. What fun that had been. Damn Simon Hellman for ruining the only good thing she’d ever had in her life.
Mr. Redcake had his head tilted, a quizzical look in his eye, when she entered. “I could hear you stomping from the end of the corridor. Was there a trail of spiders to annihilate?”
“Flour moths,” she said.
He blanched. “I do hope you are joking.”
“Of course,” she reassured him. “Not funny. Quite right.”
“My uncle has impressed upon me how carefully we must protect our stores against such pestilence. If you ever uncover evidence of such things you must tell me immediately.”
“Of course.” She nodded. Should she tell him about the honey? No, she didn’t want the simpleminded kitchen assistant to lose his job.
He stared at her hard, looking much less boyish than usual. “After you, Miss Popham.”
As she started down the stairs, the lights behind her were extinguished. She craved this silence after a long, busy day. No more customers, no cakies or shopgirls bustling about.
When she reached the entry hall, she saw one of the ferns, hanging in pots on wires above her head, was swaying. Mr. Redcake stopped behind her and breathed on her neck.
“What is wrong?”
She pointed up. “The fern is swaying, as if someone bumped it.”
He lifted his hand and stopped the basket from moving. “It’s up seven feet. No one bumped it, unless we had a late customer who is a circus freak.”
She turned. “A man could reach up a hand and set it into motion as easily as you stopped it. Or a very tall man with a tall hat could have bumped it.”
He pulled a silver pocket watch from the interior of his coat and peered at it. “No one should have been here this past half hour.”
They both stood silently, craning their necks, not sure what they were looking for.
“How long would it take for a fern to stop swaying?” she asked.
“Not half an hour. Was a window left open? The doors are closed.” He raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll check the tearoom,” she said.
“I’ll see to the bakery.”
They separated. She saw one of the doors to the tearoom was open slightly, which was unusual at this time of night. The double doors were usually locked because the tearoom closed an hour before the bakery did.
She peered through the door, hearing the snick of a key in a lock as Mr. Redcake opened the bakery doors, which must have been closed properly. Light still streamed in through one window. White and gold lace and cotton curtains properly covered all but that window on the far right. She glanced along the room, following the path of the light.
When she saw the man’s shoe, slack and brown against the gleaming white floor, she screamed.
Chapter Four
Greggory poked at the last of the windows, making sure all of them were secure. Because the doors leading to the bakery were locked, it made sense that nothing from this end of the building had set the fern in motion. He’d thought maybe a feather from Miss Popham’s hat had set it to swaying, but her straw bonnet had not a single frippery gracing it.
He took one last glance around and returned to the door, pulling his key ring from his pocket.
A scream resounded from across the entryway. He dropped his keys and ran.
“Miss Popham?” he shouted, grabbing at the tearoom door to slow himself when he saw her. He didn’t want to topple over her.
She stood in a wide ray of sunlight, her gloved hands fisted in front of her face. He went to her without thinking and put his arm around her.
“What?” he asked, but by then he’d already seen the shoe, and the leg, and the thick pool of blood under the body.
“We need the police,” Miss Popham said weakly, holding herself upright on one of the tables.
Greggory grabbed her under the arms and turned her toward the door, then marched her out of it. He shut the door and leaned against it, feeling sick himself.
Betsy wiped at her forehead. “Why was there a dead man on the tearoom floor?”
Greggory shook his head, then regretted the motion as dark spots danced before his eyes. “I’ve never seen him before. He’s not one of the bakers?”
“No, he wasn’t dressed like one. And none of the bakers are so slim.”
“How old do you think he is?”
“Oh, sweet Jesus, I didn’t look at his face. His neck had been cut open.” She squeezed her eyes shut and swayed.
He wrapped both arms around her shoulders, trying to keep her upright. She slid in his grasp, her face slipping along the fabric of his coat. He pushed her hat away so she could nestle against him. Her hair smelled powdery, like flour, with a faint sweet undertone. But beyond that, if he took a deep breath, he could smell the metallic scent of that man’s life’s blood, ebbing away on the floor.
He was struck with a sudden impulse to go back into the dark tearoom and check the man’s pulse, make sure he was dead. But how could he not be, with a wound in his neck like that? How long had he been downstairs while they were upstairs making plans for the shop? Where had the killer been, and why here? Why kill a stranger in a tearoom?
“We need to telephone the police.” His voice came out raspy.
“What if the killer is still inside here, with us?”
He hadn’t thought of that. Automatically, his thoughts went to weapons, but he had nothing, not even a knife. “Was the window open?”
She swallowed hard, lifting her face up to his. Only inches away, he saw her eyes had leaked tears at some point. They glistened, making the gold in her amber brown eyes sparkle.
“You’re so lovely,” he whispered, angling his mouth toward hers instinctively.
She pulled away. “Mr. Redcake!”
He blinked. His head swam. “So sorry, Miss Popham. My impulses went astray. The window?”
She twisted her hands together, all outward sign of his competent assistant manager gone. But, brave girl, she spoke calmly enough. “The curtain was open. I don’t know about the window. But I don’t think we should go back in there.”
He wanted to apologize, but why was he worrying about almost kissing her when there was a dead body a few feet away? Focus, man! “As the owner, I have the right to secure my building.” He squared his shoulders. “I’ve got to do it.”
She nodded solemnly. “I’ll be right behind you, sir.”
He moved purposefully past the slack legs and to the window, careful not to take a closer look. The scent of sickness hung in the air now, as well as death, so different from the usual scents of food and ladies’ perfume.
As he had suspected, the window was unlatched, though closed. He put his hand to the lock, hearing the swish of skirts behind him.
“But, sir, shouldn’t we wait for the police?”
“No,” he said. “We should protect ourselves and passersby from looking in at this gruesome sight.” He locked the window and closed the curtain.
She looked so young and vulnerable when he turned back to her that he had to put his arm around her shoulder and draw her out of the room. He didn’t speak as he encouraged her across the floor to the bakery. His keys still rested where he had dropped them.
“We need to secure the doors to the back rooms, then lock ourselves in the bakery until the police come,” he decided. “That way, if anyone else is in the building, they can’t get to us.”
“I’m certain the killer went out the window.” The words were definite, but her tone was not.
“What is it, Betsy?”
She shook her head, but he could see from the way she squinted, as if she were in pain, that she knew something. He put up his hand.
“Give me a moment to lock everything.”
She nodded, and he went to the doors leading to the back rooms and locked t
hem, his keys rattling faintly. His hands shook a little more as he secured the tearoom doors, but he forced his stride to be long and decisive as he moved back toward Betsy. He escorted her through the door, the shop smelling beautifully normal, the clean, homey smell of bread prevalent at the end of the day, because they stocked the bins for family shoppers on their way home from their workdays. No illness on this side, no death.
A telephone hung on the wall around the corner from the main room. He’d contact the police from there.
“Why don’t you sit down on the bench and compose yourself?” Though they discouraged people from eating in the shop, they had to have seating for their elderly customers or those who had to wait while large or complex orders were prepared.
He smiled at her encouragingly, but she stood, frozen, in the middle of the room. “What’s wrong?” When she didn’t speak, he went to her again and put his arm around her. This touching was starting to be a habit. Surely, under the circumstances, it was no bad thing? Their relationship would return to normal when the crisis was over.
Her shining dark hair had puffed and fluffed, a nimbus of strands drifting around her face. While slightly disheveled, she was still the very picture of female beauty. He’d never seen her like this. Had she had a difficult day even before discovering the corpse of that unfortunate soul?
She swallowed hard. “I need to tell you something, Mr. Redcake.”
“What is it?”
Her lips trembled. “It’s Simon Hellman.”
Had she lost her reason? “No, that wasn’t him. I’d have recognized him. I think I’d recognize just about any Redcake’s employee. I’ve a good eye for faces.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I’m afraid Simon killed him.”
Her gaze steadied on him. Greggory realized that Miss Popham was serious. “Why don’t we sit down?”
She slid onto the bench, as if some of her bones had dissolved. He kept his arm around her and used his free hand to smooth her hair down at her temples. The strands felt as smooth and healthy as they looked. Her hair picked up light, it seemed, from any shiny surface. How strange to see such glowing youth when death was also present.
“You are familiar enough with Simon Hellman to call him by his first name?”
“I am intimately acquainted with that blackguard,” she said.
“Lovers?” Greggory asked. Surely this sensual creature was not a virgin, despite her father.
“No.” She shook her head vehemently.
He had to admit to himself that he had sometimes fantasized about her coming to him at the end of the day and having her way with him in his office. His brother always insisted you could tell if a woman was still a virgin by the way she walked. Apparently, he had misjudged her sensuality. That bottom-centric walk of hers hadn’t meant she’d felt the pleasure of a man’s intimate touch.
He put a hand to his forehead. Really, his disordered thoughts were taking him places they really should not. “Why did you call him a blackguard? Do you know that he is a murderer?”
“No, but he is a blackmailer.”
“Who has he blackmailed?”
“Me.”
“What would he have on you?”
“He knew I was closer than I should be to Ewan Hales. He threatened to tell my father about my bad behavior. We were not engaged, though I hoped we would be. Later, I didn’t want Ewan knowing about my mother. I didn’t want anyone at Redcake’s to know.”
Greggory tried hard to follow her. Ewan Hales, now Lord Fitzwalter, had been the secretary at the flagship Redcake’s for years, until he’d discovered he was the heir to an earldom. “When was this?”
“Four years ago.”
“What didn’t you want Lord Fitzwalter to know about your mother?”
Betsy’s lips trembled again. He stroked her hair and caressed her shoulders until her face relaxed.
“She killed two men,” she whispered. “Simon found out somehow. He made me leave Ewan and pretend to be his. He left me alone for a long time, but today he came here, as you know, and talked about us getting married. I’m afraid he killed that man to scare me.”
She had said so much that Greggory wasn’t sure where to start. “That’s a rather desperate act to persuade one woman to marry. Are you certain this isn’t just as likely to be that fired shopgirl’s retaliation?”
She passed a hand over her forehead. “Am I being silly?”
“I don’t know.” He paused. All of a sudden, a thousand questions about her mother were coming to mind. And her father, Ralph Popham, a model of meek rectitude. What had he known? But this was not the time to ask any of these questions. My God, they had a body on the floor down the hall. “Why did Hellman pick today? What changed? Why did he want you to be his girl four years ago?”
“His mother came to visit. She lives in Bristol.”
“So four years ago Hellman used blackmail for the sake of appearances with his mother?”
“Yes.”
“Is she visiting again?”
“I have no idea. I have no contact with him. He’s mostly left me alone, except when he wants something for his mother. I’ve learned to have money set aside around her birthday and Christmas.”
What a strain his assistant manager had been laboring under. “Your father knows?”
“Not about Simon. He has enough to worry about, paying the bills for the Carters.”
“Violet Carter,” Greggory said. “The girl who was crying.”
“She’s the daughter of my mother’s second victim. Both murders occurred long ago.”
“Your mother died when you were young?” he asked.
“Yes. She murdered her first husband, who was abusing her; then, when I was four, she murdered one of her boarders, who had attacked her. She was arrested and hanged for that crime. My father has been paying support to his widow and two children ever since.”
“And then his widow died.”
“Leaving nineteen-year-old twins,” she said. “One of whom is Violet.”
“It speaks well of her that she wants a position rather than more money.”
“She shouldn’t need any more of that. We’ve lived like paupers most of my life to pay the Carters’ bills. They followed us from Bristol when we came here.”
“You were sixteen then?” he asked, remembering her history.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand why your father made you part of his burden.”
“I suppose you could say I support him and he supports the Carters. Of course, women aren’t paid as well as men, so that does not help matters.”
Greggory couldn’t even remember what her pay was. He’d set the salary structure based on what Lord Judah had recommended and it hadn’t been revised since. “We are well beyond the topic at hand.”
Betsy folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, sir. There is a dead body in the tearoom.”
“We aren’t going to have a business at all, much less salaries, if the matter isn’t resolved quickly.” Greggory took off his hat and placed it on the bench.
“We will have murder tourists.”
“It’s not hygienic to eat where a body has been found. And our wealthy clientele will vanish when the riffraff comes in. Then where will we be?”
She brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “I suppose we have to give the police Simon Hellman’s name, as well as Eugenia Brown’s.”
“I think the point is moot until we discover who the dead man is.”
“No one lures someone into a tearoom to murder them, not unless there is some kind of connection.”
“I own this tearoom. You manage it. If we don’t know who the man is, it is unlikely he is connected.”
Betsy pressed her lips together and said nothing.
He patted her arm. “We must not quarrel between us. We need to remain strong for everyone else.”
Her voice strengthened. He knew she was losing patience with the conversation. “We need to contact the authorities.”
He made the call, then left Betsy in the bakery while he went into the entry hall to wait. Whether Simon Hellman was responsible for the murder or not, the blackmailer needed to be dealt with. The Carters were easy enough. Violet could work in the tearoom, assuming they still had business. He could hire her brother to make deliveries, assuming he had no skills.
While he paced in front of the door, he realized the Carters were not his problem. But he’d noticed Betsy seemed worn down by cares of late, and she was in danger of losing her youthful bloom. Was it wrong to be grateful that this wasn’t because of her professional duties? Was it a crime that he liked looking at pretty girls at work? After all, the customers did as well, the male ones at least.
Simon Hellman—now, he was a Redcake’s problem. Betsy might not be his only victim. How could he resolve the situation without making Betsy’s secret known? Assuming he wasn’t the murderer, of course. He entertained the idea that some lazy cakie had left the window unlatched, leaving it open for two opportunistic thieves to come in, argue, and then one’s violent death. But they’d been upstairs and heard nothing. Surely thieves would have made noise as they threw things into bags.
Greggory wasn’t exactly sure what would be worth stealing in the tearoom. Teapots? Crockery? Tablecloths? All the money went into the upstairs safe at night. Little of value remained below.
He was puzzling over these interlocking problems when four men came to the door, wearing the distinctive blue tunics and helmets of the police. When he unlocked the door, the men immediately took charge, wandering through the tearoom with a masculine energy that seemed outsized in the rather feminine space. Greggory stood in the doorway as they discussed the body. They didn’t recognize the man either.
Betsy hovered in the entry hall while Mr. Redcake stood in the doorway of the tearoom. She heard footsteps in front of the main door and went to it, thinking she’d be letting in more police. Instead, she saw Grace Fair and her mother’s assistant, Prissy.
Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) Page 5
