He met with Mr. Soeur for an hour, then went into the dining room, where Miss Popham, Violet, and two other cakies were getting the tables ready before opening. The curtains were still closed, shutting them away from the outside world. He leaned against a wall as Miss Popham picked apart bluebells and crocuses, placing them in small vases for each table.
“I heard a couple of vases were broken yesterday,” he said.
Miss Popham looked up with a smile. “Yes, and a few more were stolen. Murder scene souvenirs, I suppose.”
“A rowdier crowd than usual.”
“I’m afraid our ladies turned away.”
“Literally?” Greggory growled.
“Yes. Winnie said some of them went into the bakery when they saw the working-class crowd in the tearoom.”
He gritted his teeth. “I wish I’d had some way to keep the press from sensationalizing the situation.”
“We just need the murder solved.”
“I quite agree. PC Rivers said they were working hard, ferreting out Cross’s associates. The Brown issue has been dismissed due to all Eugenia’s people having good alibis.”
“What about Simon Hellman?” Miss Popham demanded.
“He’s lost his position at the flagship store because of harassing you.”
“Where has he gone?” she asked. “Did the police question him? Is he a threat to me?”
Greggory wanted to reassure her, but he hadn’t yet found the words when a loud banging on glass came on one of the windows. Instinctively, he moved in between Betsy and the curtains.
Chapter Six
“Ladies, move into the kitchen,” Greggory ordered as one of the cakies squealed. The three cakies dashed from the tearoom to the kitchen. Miss Popham, on the other hand, reached for a broom that was still in the corner, ready for a final sweeping after the room was set up, and brandished it in her fist.
“You should go, too,” Greggory said.
“No.”
They shared a glance. He could see her resolution. “Very well, but if it gets bad, I want you to run to the bakery and telephone the police.”
She nodded and handed him the broom, then reached for a couple of the vases. He wondered what she planned to do with them. Throw them like rocks? Moving forward, he pulled open the curtain.
Outside, he saw only one man, young, blond, squat-formed. Unfortunately, his position on the sidewalk drew Greggory’s attention to detailed chalk drawings on the pavement outside the window that had been unlocked the night of the murder. Someone had been busy earning a few coins telling the story of Manfred Cross.
“Victor Carter,” Miss Popham said, with the air of someone who’d rather spit than speak.
“Violet’s brother?” Greggory risked turning away for a moment.
“Unbalanced and a little bit violent. Probably like his father,” Miss Popham said.
“We really need more men on the premises,” Greggory muttered. “Security, at least.”
Victor put his nose against the glass, then pointed at Miss Popham and laughed. Greggory handed her the broom and decided to go outside to confront the young man, to lead him away from the tea shop if possible.
He strode out of the tearoom, leaving Miss Popham to gape behind him. Then he unlocked the front door and slipped out, careful to relock it behind himself immediately. Victor hadn’t even noticed, engaged as he was in a staring game with Miss Popham.
Greggory thrust his hands into his pockets against the early morning chill. Dew still shone on the bright, colorful flowers in the stone boxes under the tearoom windows, and the bakery window hadn’t yet been filled with enticing morsels.
“It’s a bit early to be visiting your sister on her first day at work, Mr. Carter,” he said, coming up to the young man.
Victor twisted around. “ ’O are you, then?”
“I’m the owner.”
“Not old enough,” Victor said. His carriage seemed to be off, as if one side of his body was stiff or immobile.
Greggory shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
“You old Betsy’s guv as well, then?”
“I am. She’s worked for me for two years.”
Victor sniffed. He resembled his sister in coloring, but he had the nose of a pug and a coarse, vicious expression that seemed habitual. Whatever graces the late Mrs. Carter had imparted to her daughter had been lost on the son.
“She won’t last. Lazy, Mum always said. Couldn’t teach her a thing.”
He ignored this. “Are you employed, Mr. Carter?”
“What’s that to do with anything?”
“Miss Carter will earn a wage here, one that I imagine will help to support you if you are unemployed. Therefore, it is not in your best interest to make her seem like a bad candidate before she even begins.”
Victor shrugged and hunched his shoulders. “Doesn’t matter to me. The Pophams pay our way.”
“Don’t you think that should cease now that you are adults and your mother has passed?”
“No,” Victor said belligerently. “Why should it? Things will go on as before. Violet needs to be home to take care of our lodgings now that Mum isn’t here.”
“You want her to leave Redcake’s and come home to serve you, is that it?”
Victor kicked a small rock against the tearoom’s outer wall. “She’s got no business that ain’t mine, and I say she belongs at home.”
“Then you’d best find work,” Greggory said. “That’s the way of things.”
“I wouldn’t come work at this stupid shop no matter what you paid me,” Victor said with a challenging air.
“Oh, I wasn’t offering you a position,” Greggory said. Not anymore.
Victor smirked. “I’ll fix you, Redcake. I already did. And don’t get cozy with my sister.” He pulled a wooden truncheon, similar to a police weapon, out from under his coat.
Greggory realized that had been the reason for Victor’s strange immobility. Before he could so much as shout out a protest, the young man swung the truncheon at the infamous window. The glass shattered, shards raining down inside the tearoom.
Greggory heard Miss Popham shriek. Was she injured? He heard the truncheon fall onto the wood floor inside the broken window. Victor ran down the street away from him, the coward. Greggory kicked the rest of the glass out of the frame and climbed back into the tearoom to check on Miss Popham, his heart beating at double speed.
“Are you injured?” he called, his eyes dazzled by the light outside. He couldn’t see. Instinctively, he put out his hand. Small, warm fingers touched his hand, then squeezed his palm.
“I’m well enough. Why did he do that?”
“He belongs in Bedlam,” Greggory said, squeezing Miss Popham’s hand in return. He didn’t want to let go. Moments passed as he blinked his vision back into working repair. When he could, he peered at her closely, brushing her abundant hair away from her face so he could examine it. While her perfect, peaches-and-cream skin seemed untouched, he found a tiny speck of blood on her cheek. His finger came away with a minuscule shard of glass.
He showed it to her. “He’ll pay for this, Miss Popham. I’ll see him jailed for assault. You have his address?”
“Of course, Mr. Redcake.”
He continued his examination, finally, regretfully, releasing her hand so he could check for glass. One piece had embedded itself in her sleeve, leaving a hole, but otherwise, she had sustained no damage.
“I will pay to have your blouse repaired,” he told her.
“Oh, it scarcely needs mending,” she said, much too calmly for a woman who’d just been hit by flying glass.
Her willingness to dismiss the attack made him want to shake her. Or embrace her. “You could have been badly wounded, even blinded.”
“You told me to go into the kitchen,” she reminded him. “Not only that, I brought Victor’s wrath down upon your tearoom.”
Was she staying so eerily calm for fear that she’d lose her position? “Your mother’s sins, even
your father’s, aren’t yours,” Greggory said. “You don’t suppose Victor killed Manfred Cross? Is there any connection there? He seems too stupid and lazy to work. Even thieving is a profession.”
“My father had most of the contact with the Carters,” Miss Popham confessed. “Your guess would have as much value as my own.”
“I’m going to telephone Lord Judah,” Greggory said. “He’s ex-military. He’ll know some stout out-of-work soldiers who can stand guard here. As soon as I can, I’ll visit the police station and speak to PC Rivers about Victor. His remarks could imply involvement in the murder.”
“I’ll write down his address.” She started to move away, and he realized he still held her sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. The soft fabric was nothing like the satin of her skin, but he couldn’t help stroking it again as he released her.
Her mouth was only inches from his, her face upturned. His hand went to cup her cheek.
“Whatever happened here?” demanded a shrill, elderly voice.
Greggory whipped around, pushing Miss Popham behind him, only to find one of their customers, leaning on her walking stick, on the street in front of the open window.
“Lady Hunt, how lovely to see you,” Miss Popham said, moving around him. “I am afraid we are not open yet.”
“What is the meaning of this destruction?” the lady asked, lifting her cane to the window, as if her point was not obvious.
“Ruffians,” Greggory told the elderly woman, grateful Miss Popham had known her name.
“More of this murder nonsense?”
“No, my lady,” Miss Popham said reassuringly. “A mentally ill person threw something through the window. Presumably the press reports upset him.”
The woman drew herself up, her jet beads clanking over her expansive chest. “There are no mentally ill persons in Kensington.”
“I don’t believe he lives in the neighborhood, my lady,” Miss Popham said reassuringly.
“I am unhappy with this state of affairs,” the old woman stated.
“As are we, of course,” Greggory said. “I’m going to have guards posted, and the window replaced.”
The woman clacked her false teeth. “What is the world coming to? I do wonder. Redcake’s, the safest establishment in town for ladies, is no longer safe for anyone.” She tottered off without another word.
Greggory realized Miss Popham’s jaw hung slack and expected his face had assumed the same expression. The last thing they needed was for elderly ladies to feel unsafe in their place of business. And yet, she had had a point. With Victor on the loose, anything was possible.
“Go out and find us a new window and have the pavement washed,” he said to Miss Popham. “I’ll telephone Lord Judah and the police. I don’t think I should leave the premises.”
“Yes, sir. Do you want me to go for the police?”
“I don’t think it is necessary. Since you know where he lives, and his sister is here.” He paused. “Incidentally, he does not want his sister to work.”
Miss Popham took on a mulish expression. “But you’re going to have him arrested and put away. Violet will have to be employed, then.”
“As you say, but she’s under my protection now, and I don’t want her beaten by her brother.”
“If Victor isn’t found by the end of the day, I’ll take her home with me,” Miss Popham promised. “All she’ll need is a clean uniform for tomorrow.”
“An excellent suggestion. We’ll protect what is ours, Miss Popham, or die trying.” He squared his jaw and puffed out his chest, hoping his assistant manager saw an impressive specimen, well suited to shielding everyone in his employ.
The tearoom had to stay closed until the glaziers were able to arrive late that afternoon to replace the window. The cakies were kept busy mopping the floor because it rained just after noon. Mr. Soeur fretted about the wasted food, but they were able to sell some of it in the bakery, which continued to do a brisk business. Betsy wasn’t too disappointed to turn away the casual tearoom visitors, who wanted to see where the man had been killed.
Mr. Redcake prowled the halls like a sheepdog, ready to herd his flock to safety. Most of their regular local customers stayed away, though. News of the window breaking had spread throughout the neighborhood, even though it hadn’t reached the newspapers yet.
After the glaziers had finished putting in the window and the tearoom had reopened for one sitting at the end of the day, PC Rivers made an appearance. Betsy hovered behind Mr. Redcake as he received the word that the inquest would be at ten A.M. Monday morning, and that Victor Carter had not been found.
“The constables walking the beat near his flat will keep an eye out for him,” Rivers said. “What about his sister?”
“Miss Redcake is going to take Miss Carter to her home for the night, but Victor Carter knows where it is,” Mr. Redcake reported.
“Where’s that, then?”
“Chiswick.”
“We’ll notify the police there to keep an eye on you.” The constable made a note. “Stay indoors after dark.”
At the end of the workday, Betsy stopped in at Mr. Redcake’s office to see if he needed anything else.
“Still here?” he asked. “You can take a half day on Saturdays, you know.”
“You never do.” She made a point of working his hours and more.
“I’ve taken too much on for both of us,” he said. His olive skin, courtesy of his heritage, made him look jaundiced in the half-light. “I’m going through the books, trying to decide if there is enough money to hire department managers.”
Had she given him the wrong impression? “I don’t mind my workload.”
“I understand all too clearly why you are so eager to please, now. But Miss Popham, you and your father must understand that your servitude to the Carters is over. Your secret is out. Violet has work. Victor belongs in a mental institution.”
“I still have my pride, even if we can look forward to spending more money on ourselves in the future,” Betsy said.
Mr. Redcake took an envelope from his desk. “I am sorry I neglected to give you your wages yesterday. I’ve answered to everyone in the departments.”
She took it and tucked her pay into her skirt pocket. “Thank you, sir.”
“Are you really taking Violet home with you? Perhaps one of the cakie’s families could use a lodger. I doubt you’ll be able to persuade her to pay rent.”
“It’s only until Victor is found. Then she’ll have to decide what to do. Her present home is too large for one person.”
“As difficult as our own situation has been, it is good to keep in mind that this is a young lady who lost her mother recently, and now, in truth, her brother as well.”
“She needs friends,” Betsy said, not sure she was equal to the task. She felt so much more mature than Violet Carter. But she would try, because both the situation and her father seemed to require it.
“Grace Fair seems a nice young woman. If she would take Violet under her wing?”
Mr. Redcake’s words seemed to suggest he understood her reluctance to become too involved in the girl’s life. She stared at him, feeling a moment of connection similar to when they had almost kissed early that morning. What was happening here? She knew better than to succumb to a momentary infatuation. The only future that offered was losing her position.
“Grace might befriend her, but she can’t offer Violet lodgings. Her home is full. I will think about who might have a bed to let among our little community.”
“Check with Mr. Soeur. I remember he had a daughter marry recently.”
“I will. Good night, Mr. Redcake.”
“Miss Popham.”
If she thought his smile seemed a little forced, she chalked it up to exhaustion. After she collected Violet, they went out the back way through the loading dock. Betsy didn’t want to walk past the front windows again. She had shuddered each time she’d had to enter the tearoom that day. On Monday, she’d have to face her
fears. Her workplace could not be a location to dread all of a sudden, no matter what had transpired there. Carters or not, she had to make a living.
“Are we supposed to go out the front or the back?” Violet asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Betsy said, opening the rear door, “assuming it is before or after business hours and there is someone to lock up behind you in the front. The rear door is self-locking.”
“Betsy!”
She heard the voice, the enthusiasm in it, and recognized it with nauseating precision. Simon Hellman. He’d lost his position, been interrogated by the police, according to Mr. Redcake. Why was he still tormenting her? Of course; he wanted money.
She stepped back, reaching for the safety of indoors, of Mr. Redcake, but Violet had stepped out behind her and closed the door. When she bumped into the girl, she apologized.
“Go around the front,” she told Violet. “Go back inside if you can.”
“Who is he?” the girl asked, instead of listening to Betsy.
“I’m Mr. Hellman, Betsy’s fiancé,” Hellman called.
“You are not,” Betsy shouted, furious.
“I told you I was thinking about marrying you,” he said. “Now that I’m out of work, it’s the perfect time. You can support us while I decide what profession I’m best suited for.”
“Picking oakum is what you’re best suited for.” Betsy cast about for something to use for protection.
“I see you’re busy with a friend. Why don’t you toss me a few shillings? I’ll pick us up some dinner, fish and chips, darling? And meet you at your house in a bit.”
“This man bothering you, miss?” a rough voice said. It belonged to a large man walking down the alley. He stopped when he reached the loading dock and stared up at it.
“That’s my affianced wife; kindly leave us,” Hellman said coldly.
Violet wrapped her hands around Betsy’s arm. Betsy shook her off, not wanting to be encumbered by the girl.
“He’s not my fiancé,” Betsy said. “He’s bothering us.”
“I’m doing nothing of the kind, dear. I understand you’re a bit hysterical, what with the murder at your place of business. Redcake’s, you know,” Hellman said as an aside. “But there is no need to show your weakness to a stranger.”
Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) Page 8
