“Miss Popham?” A young constable appeared at the bottom of the worn stairs. “The coroner will see you now.”
“Miss Popham?” Greggory tried to sound casual when he rounded the corner and spotted Betsy at her desk that afternoon. “The coroner’s verdict has come back. Willful murder, presumably by Hellman, Carter, or persons unknown.”
“Did you learn anything new?” she asked, sounding as unconcerned as he hoped he did. She’d left after giving her testimony.
“Some things about Cross’s doings as a jewel thief. Nothing that concerned us.”
She nodded and looked back to her stack of paperwork. “I see.”
“Are you working on an important order?”
“It’s almost wedding season. We don’t do the cakes of course, but we have many orders for other desserts. At least we did. Cancellations are starting to come in.” She lifted one sheaf of papers, then another.
“That’s not good. We count on a profitable June.”
She nodded. “I was hoping the inquest would bear better fruit.”
“I’d expect you to be more, I don’t know, passionate about it. It’s your livelihood, too.”
She set the papers down and rested her palms on them. He felt sick as he considered the idea that she’d been deeply insulted by their kiss. Had he misinterpreted the shared nature of the connection? Was she about to give notice?
“I am sorry. I have a great deal on my mind.”
“I will continue to provide security,” he assured her. “I will even have someone meet you and Violet in the mornings, if you like. Chiswick isn’t so far.”
“We won’t be in Chiswick anymore,” she said, her voice trembling ever so slightly.
“No?”
“That money Victor stole a few days ago was all our savings. The money he stole Saturday was our rent. The landlord was delighted to kick us out. He wants our house for his daughter. I pack this evening and then—”
“Then, what?” he prompted.
“I guess we are going to Fulham.”
“To the Carters’ flat?”
She shrugged. “Victor hasn’t turned up.”
“Do you think it is safe?”
“Safer than being on the street.”
“Respectable people don’t belong on the street. Or in Fulham, for that matter.” He made a snap decision. “Stay with me. You and your father. Violet can stay with Winnie Baxter. I know she had a sister who just married and moved away. I gave her a discount on a wedding cake.”
“After yesterday—” Betsy said, her fingers straying to her lips.
He winced. “Ignore yesterday. Emotions ran high. You are long-term, respected employees of my family. You don’t belong in some dead woman’s flat in a poor neighborhood.”
“I wonder if we’ll ever stop paying for what my mother did,” she said.
He hated the dullness in her voice. She sounded so exhausted. He wanted his bustling, competent, lovely assistant manager to return. “I have a very nice suite standing empty. Dudley, my brother, stays there when he is in town. One of you can stay in the sitting room and the other can have the bedroom. Unless, that is, you want to take an advance on pay.”
She seemed to be staring right through to the wall behind him. “We still couldn’t find lodgings tonight, unless it was a hotel.”
“That will eat up your money so quickly that you won’t be able to get ahead.”
She nodded. “My father insisted I not take an advance. He’s worried that it would be stolen, too.”
“He’s not wrong, with Victor on the loose.”
“And Simon Hellman. He’s taken at least a quarter of my income for years.”
“He has no power over you now.”
“Except his acts of violence or insanity. I cannot wait until Mr. Cross’s murder is resolved. I am desperate to know if it is me at fault. If so, I’m going to return to Bristol and you’ll never hear of the Pophams again.”
He stepped forward and pressed his hand against her arm. “Never say that, Betsy, please. Redcake’s would not be such a place of refuge for me if you were not here.”
She blinked, the sight of those large, thick-lashed eyes making him harden. “I would have said I make Redcake’s more difficult.”
“No, never. Especially not for me. I have had hard times as well, you know. Seeing you bustle about, cheerful and efficient, has helped me go on. ‘What would Miss Popham do?’ I’ve asked myself when I’m at my most exhausted. Your energy gives me strength.”
She nodded and drew herself up. “Then, Mr. Redcake, I shall endeavor to be the employee, and the woman, you think me to be.”
“Use the telephone in the bakery to phone your father to tell him you’ll both be staying with me,” he said, wondering how she’d react if he told her what kind of woman he’d like her to be.
“I will, and I’ll also ask Winnie to speak to Violet. I admit I will feel more secure being separate from her.”
“Has she been trouble?”
“I must confide I don’t entirely trust her. Not from anything she’s done, but just because of the Victor situation.”
“It is wise to split his focus,” he agreed. Did Betsy even trust him? “I hope the police will pick up both men soon. Now that they are officially persons of interest, I hope the matter will receive the attention it deserves.”
Betsy stayed late at Redcake’s that evening, putting the tearoom back to rights. Mr. Redcake had given most of the cakies the day off, so she and Violet had a great deal to do and couldn’t do it while the bakery was open for fear of disturbing the customers with the sound of moving furniture. When Winnie came to collect Violet, they were only half-finished, but then Betsy’s father arrived and helped her with the final cleaning of the floor.
“That’s all set to rights, then,” Betsy said with satisfaction.
“Your dress will need a thorough scrubbing,” her father said, looking at the streaks of chalk, furniture polish, and who knew what else marring Betsy’s skirt.
“Not until after we’ve packed up the house. We’re going to be up most of the night.”
“We only have until midnight,” he reminded her. “It was kind of Mr. Redcake to offer us the delivery cart and driver. I don’t imagine he expected you to be here all hours. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were afraid to go home.”
Betsy’s jaw tightened. “Are you sure you know me so well, Papa? Why wouldn’t I be afraid? I’m happy to leave our house. It’s unkind of me to wish mischief on our landlord’s daughter, but honestly, she is welcome to take on Victor Carter.”
“You’re exhausted. Having Violet in the house is a trial.” Her father shook his head. “I could hear her snoring through the wall. At least we don’t have to wait for the bus.”
They went out through the loading dock, where the Redcake’s delivery driver, Liam McNair, waited for them. A family man with a fourth baby on the way, he was willing to take on any little task that netted him more money for his growing family.
Betsy climbed up next to him, feeling her lower back and hips ache as she finally sat after long hours of manual labor. Her father climbed under the canvas canopy, where a wooden crate would be his seat.
Despite Liam’s long day, he effortlessly shifted crates through the Pophams’ narrow front door and carried them out again when they were full. It only took three hours to remove their sparse belongings from the house.
“It might have been a blessing that Violet stayed with us,” her father said as they packed their dishes into straw-filled crates. “She ate everything, so our food supplies didn’t go to waste.”
“Were you sweet on Mrs. Carter?” Betsy asked, hoping enough time had gone by since her death that she could ask without upsetting her father.
“We understood each other. Neither of us had it easy,” Ralph said. “There was a time when I might have aspired to some other kind of life, but these past years I’ve settled into my own little routine.”
“Whi
ch she fit, nicely.”
“I know you resented the Carters, but it was our Christian duty to take care of them. If Maria had worked outside the home when they were young, what would have become of her children? Tied them to her chair, most likely, so she could bend over a needle sixteen hours a day. Terrible life for a child.”
“So you gave her all our money so she could stay at home while I worked?” Betsy let the weight of sarcasm fill the words. Didn’t her father realize he’d sentenced her to the life he hadn’t been willing to give his Maria Carter?
“She took in fine washing in recent years,” he said in a calm voice. “Wasn’t one to sit around embroidering.”
“Then where has our money been going?” Betsy asked. “Two decent incomes between us, especially these last two years. I don’t understand.”
“I know you wouldn’t.” Her father’s hand went to the chain holding the cross he wore around his neck. It always rested against his throat under his shirt.
“You’ve been giving all our money to the Church?” she said incredulously.
“What was left. For your mother’s sins.” His own jaw tightened, reminding Betsy that they did have some characteristics in common, no matter how much she looked like her late mother.
“You’ve been giving my money—the money I’ve earned—to the Roman Catholic Church to say masses for my dead murderess mother’s soul?” she shouted. “I don’t eat well, I don’t dress well, I work my fingers to the bone, for that?”
“You have no right to speak to me that way,” her father said quietly.
“How dare you?” she said, spinning on her heel. Unable to ignore it, she picked up the crate carrying her secondhand, chipped teapot and cups, and hauled it out to the cart.
“You’re crying,” Liam said when he saw her. “Here, let me take that. It’s hard to lose a home, I know.”
She wiped angrily at her eyes. “No, I’m glad I’m leaving. I’m done with this life. I’m never turning my paycheck over to a man ever again.”
Liam’s bushy red-brown eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’re a grown woman to be sure, but until you marry, you’re under your father’s care. It’s the way of things.”
“He should be under my care, the foolish things he’s done,” she hissed. “To think we came to this because of a thief and a funeral. How am I ever going to hold my head up at Redcake’s?”
“No need to have so much pride,” Liam said. “You’re one of us, Miss Popham. Just one of us folks, despite being friendly with Lady Hatbrook.”
“I’m not that friendly with her,” she admitted. “She has two children now, lives in Sussex. I might get a letter from her once a quarter.”
“Time to find new friends,” Liam said. “Let the past go.”
“I agree with that.” Betsy crossed her arms against the night chill and pulled her shawl close as she looked back at the house. “I’m letting the Carters go, and this house, and my father’s religion. From now on, I worship at the church of commerce.”
Liam crossed himself and shook his head. “You’re too good a soul for that, but I’ll admit you’ve had a trying time, between that corpse and Simon Hellman and this eviction. No harm in your being bitter for a few days, before you pull yourself together again.”
Her father came out with a crate in his hands. “That’s the last of it. Betsy, you should look through the bedrooms one last time.”
“We’ve packed it all,” she said. “I’m too efficient to have missed anything.”
He looked her over slowly, then nodded. “Very well, then. It is very late. I’ve turned off the gas, so all we have to do is pass off the key.”
He gave Liam the address of the landlord’s house, three blocks away. Half an hour later, they were driving toward Kensington and an uncertain future. Betsy only wished she and her father were heading to separate destinations.
Betsy expected they’d need to tiptoe into the house through the back after unloading their possessions into the garden shed Mr. Redcake had said they could use, but even at nearly midnight, when Liam rattled off in the cart for a few hours of sleep before the morning bread deliveries, the lights were still blazing in the four-story brown-brick Redcake house.
When the housekeeper appeared at the kitchen door to welcome them in, Betsy heard the first sounds. Babies crying. Not just one either.
“Are the children ill?” she asked, concerned despite her own exhaustion.
“No. The poor mites aren’t the best sleepers. That’s the way of it in this house. I’m Mrs. Roach, and I’ll take you up to the rooms you’ll be in. It’s the third floor, I’m afraid. The master has the babies on the second.”
“We are much obliged,” her father said, smiling at Mrs. Roach. “Especially this late.”
“Nothing unusual in this household.” The wrinkles around the middle-aged housekeeper’s mouth folded into themselves as she pursed her lips.
“When do they sleep?” Betsy asked as they were led out of the room to the stairs.
“Their best sleep is a solid three hours in the middle of the day. One long nap. They are champion nappers. It’s the nighttime that continues to confound us.” Mrs. Roach paused on the landing of the second floor.
The sound of the babies’ cries increased. Mr. Redcake appeared in the doorway, his dark hair standing up in spikes around his temples and forehead. He held a baby against each shoulder. The white fabric on both sides appeared to be darkened with moisture. While he had a waistcoat on, his coat was missing. Betsy had never seen him dressed so improperly. The moment seemed dangerously intimate. The late hour, crying children . . .
Her father spoke. “So sorry to disturb you, sir. We’re just on our way upstairs. We shall be so quiet you won’t even know we are here.” He attempted to take Betsy’s arm.
She wrenched her arm from his grasp, forcing a smile when Mr. Redcake looked at her curiously. “You must need help, Mr. Redcake.”
“I will take one of the babies when I have you settled,” Mrs. Roach said, digging a finger into the corner of one reddened eye.
“Show my father upstairs,” Betsy said. “I’ll stay here until you return.” She stepped off the landing toward Mr. Redcake. “Shall I take one? What are their names?”
“Artie and Sia.”
“Which one has the more forgiving nature?” Betsy asked.
“Are you sure? You’ve had a dreadfully long day.”
“Yours doesn’t seem to have been any shorter,” she said, holding out her arms in what she hoped was an approximation of a safe baby hold.
“Err, you’ll have to peel one off my shoulder,” he said. “Their cheeks stick a bit.”
“Oh, I see.” She moved around to his left side and looked at the glued-on baby. Larger than she imagined, the baby had dark, curly hair, damp with sweat, screwed tight eyes, and a beautiful rosy pursed mouth that was matched by cheeks stained crimson. She glanced down at the small form and decided to start with an arm, placing it on her own neck. Then she tucked her hands under the baby’s armpits and slowly pulled it away from Mr. Redcake.
“I’m supposed to mind the head right?”
“No, that’s for the very little ones. Sia is nearly thirteen months.”
“I see.” She had very little experience with babies. Sia was not sweet-smelling, as she expected, and much heavier than she had seemed. However, the baby tucked her face against Betsy’s neck when she began to sway, instinctively, rubbing the baby’s back. Sia settled into snuffling sobs instead of full-throated screaming.
With one arm free, Mr. Redcake was able to secure a better grip on his son. Soon, both babies weren’t asleep but at least were much calmer.
“No nursemaids?” Betsy asked.
“They leave. Flightier by far than cakies,” he said.
“Our waitresses rarely come to us inexperienced. Are you only hiring green girls?”
He smiled, weariness showing in the creases around his eyes. “You do not know how often I have wished you were her
e managing my home life, Betsy. I feel as if I am dreaming.”
“My father is here,” she reminded him.
“Yes, of course, Miss Popham, he is.”
“But it is flattering to think you consider me capable of managing your home. I have no experience of homes like yours.”
“It isn’t so large; just a few rooms really. It is the area that is decidedly nice.”
“These babies are lucky to have such a lovely home, and we are very lucky you took us in. As soon as we can be out of your hair, after a payday or two, we shall go.”
“Not until you’ve managed us here just a bit,” he said. “I hope.”
“I’ll try to help you hire a nursemaid, but I would assume Mrs. Roach knows better.”
“You would think.” They shared a glance. “Now, before she returns, what is going on between you and your father? I’ve never seen you be less than respectful and loving with him, but the mood seemed very different now.”
“I feel that I cannot keep secrets from you any longer,” she said.
“I would prefer you did not.” Artie stirred his head, and Mr. Redcake began to move about the room.
Betsy followed him. “It’s only that I discovered my father has been giving quite a lot of our money to the Church. Less than I thought to the Carters and more to the Church. We have nothing, and this is what he’s done.”
“Many do the same.”
“He can do what he likes with his money, but what about mine? Let us say some modest man—like Lord Fitzwalter when he was merely Ewan Hales, for instance—wants to marry me? What do I bring to the marriage? A trousseau of embroidered clothing and pillow slips and tea towels? Of course not; I never embroidered, I worked. A tidy sum of money to go toward our first home? No, that’s all gone to pay off my murderess mother’s victims. Maybe some family dishes or a grandmother’s old rocking chair? Of course not; that was all stolen by murder enthusiasts after my mother was arrested and we fled the boardinghouse in fear for our lives.”
Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) Page 11
