Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) (4 page)

Betsy squared her shoulders and followed Grace. She needed to notify Winnie Baxter that Miss Brown had been terminated.

 

Half an hour later, she considered telling Mr. Redcake that he must hire a proper bakery manager instead of simply having a lead salesgirl. She’d felt more like she was having a gossipy coze with Winnie rather than a professional meeting. Anyone who’d been hired directly into the Kensington location had not been treated to the superior environment created by Lord Judah Shield at the flagship emporium. Breeding will out, and Lord Judah was a proper aristocrat, not a mere wealthy mister like Greggory Redcake.

With that thought, she held her head high as she went into his suite of rooms and asked Mr. Redcake’s secretary to inquire whether he had time to speak to her. The young man nodded and rapped on their manager’s inner chamber, then poked his head inside the door. After a moment, he gestured to Betsy and she went in.

Greggory stayed at the window, in a pose he’d adopted since the death of his wife. She could remember when he was always seated at his desk behind a mound of papers, back in the early days. Now he seemed to spend much of his time deep in thought, the habitual slightly purple circles under his eyes giving him a haunted, aesthetic appeal. He looked as if he was a man with a slightly bruised soul. Appealing but out of reach.

He turned to her. “I understand Simon Hellman was in. Any chance we can poach the flagship delivery manager for our location?”

Betsy shivered. “I should think not, sir. Our man is fine.”

Greggory frowned. “Do you have a chill? Should I have a fire lit?”

“No, no. A goose walked over my grave,” she said. “No, I think Mr. Hellman is dedicated to his current position. And he lives south of the river.”

“Of course,” Greggory murmured. “You do have such a memory. I believe your brain is a veritable filing cabinet of employee facts.”

Pleased, Betsy said, “I’ve been with Redcake’s since the beginning, sir. There are not so many who can say that.”

“Simon Hellman is one of those,” Greggory said.

“Yes, of course.” She wished he would drop the subject of that odious man and resolved to move the conversation along. “I had to let Miss Brown go today.”

“Still too slow?”

“For stealing, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. Good riddance, then.”

“Yes, but I must tell you she made threats. Nothing serious, I think, but I wanted to make you aware.”

“Thank you, Miss Popham.” Mr. Redcake set his hands behind his back and paced the short walk between one wall and the other.

“I thought we might send Grace Fair over to the shop side. She has a good head for figures.”

“Which leaves us a position open in the tearoom?”

“Exactly. That girl you saw me comforting? Violet Carter?”

“The one with the dead mother.”

“Yes.” Betsy sighed. “I’m sure we have other candidates, but we’re so busy, it would be nice to take on someone I know is available immediately. I can make it clear she’s here on a trial basis, and that we can terminate her at any time if she doesn’t pick up the work quickly.”

Mr. Redcake nodded. “Best to make that clear, because she has very little experience. I would suggest you find time to interview, however; a girl as pretty as Miss Carter is as likely to find a husband as stay with us even until the end of the year.”

Betsy thought about how Violet was used to being coddled and agreed. “You may be right. I will find time to consider other applicants.”

“Why don’t we take a look at the files right now? Many hands make light work,” he suggested. “My secretary has a file of letters.”

“Of course.” Betsy wondered why the manager had nothing more pressing to do, but she wasn’t about to question him.

They spent two hours in a pair of armchairs in front of his desk, going through letters requesting employment, and identified three likely candidates for the shop positions. Betsy found one person so highly qualified that she broached the idea of hiring a bakery manager. Mr. Redcake set the letter aside, saying he’d consider the matter if they had good sales for the month of May.

No one had any waitressing experience. Few restaurants hired women for such positions, so most women had experience tending children, or sewing, or waiting in shops.

“Miss Fair might best be kept in the tearoom,” Mr. Redcake said. “She probably makes more money there because of tips. We can hire one of these girls for the bakery.”

“She has more opportunity for promotion on the bakery side,” Betsy said.

“Why? Don’t you think she’ll marry? A pleasant girl like that.”

“Not every girl marries.”

Mr. Redcake perused her slowly. “Why have you never married, Miss Popham? I’ve never thought to ask.”

“I keep house for my father,” she said.

“Yes, I learned your father is a widower, but still, you must have had followers, a girl like you.”

She wondered what he meant. Did he think men liked her? “I had someone I loved once, but it didn’t work out.”

“I’ve heard rumors about you and Simon Hellman,” he said in a casual tone. “Is that why he came here, rather than to inquire about a transfer? Are you engaged?”

This time, she mastered herself enough not to shudder. “It is true we kept company for a time years ago, but I don’t love him. He has discussed marriage with me, but I would never marry him.”

“Not him, or not any man?”

Mr. Redcake was her employer. She wished she knew what he wanted to hear her say. “I am sure any heart can be persuaded for the right person. But I am an independent woman with a father to care for. I would not take just any man as a husband.”

“Nor should you. I’d hate to see you end up one of those unfortunate women with a houseful of children and a lazy husband who lived off your wages.”

Like her mother’s first husband, the first man her mother had killed. Not only had he not worked, he’d drunk away any profit to be found from the boardinghouse her mother had brought into the marriage. He’d beaten her mother regularly, too. He’d knocked half the teeth from her mouth before her mother had poisoned him. Or so her father had said, his face screwed into an expression of sympathy for his dead wife. Betsy knew her father hadn’t known the truth when he’d married her. At what point had he learned what sins the woman he’d loved was capable of committing?

“I would like to avoid that,” she told Mr. Redcake. “Luckily, my father is a good man, and I think with his example in front of me, I will be able to choose a good man of my own.”

Mr. Redcake nodded. “I’m sure you are right, Miss Popham.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s late. We should have noticed the light changing.”

“It’s light so long at this time of year that it’s easy to lose track of time.”

“We’d best be going. I don’t want anyone to think I’ve been compromising your virtue.”

She felt her body tighten at his suggestive words, in an almost sexual response. How inappropriate. She blinked, wondering why, for the second time, Mr. Redcake had gone to thoughts of intercourse in her presence. He must need companionship, even though he obviously was still mourning his dead wife. And she wasn’t wearing her apron, but a fitted purple blouse and gray skirt. At least her stays hid the evidence of her plumped nipples. She rubbed her palms together, feeling their dampness.

“We may be the only people here,” she said. “Doesn’t your secretary come in to say good night?”

“When he remembers. Oscar is an absentminded lad. Reminds me of myself ten years ago.”

“I should be going home, then. Dinner for my father.”

“Might be some soup left downstairs,” Mr. Redcake suggested.

Something about those words made her glance at his mouth. Thoughts of spoon-feeding him luscious, creamy soup came unbidden to mind. The thought made her think of that full mouth on parts of her anatomy that hadn’t been touched in four years.

“Soup?” he prompted, an adorable look of confusion on his handsome face.

She forced herself from her reverie. “I could hardly carry a crock of hot soup on the omnibus.” She forced a laugh.

“Mmm, I suppose you are right. It wouldn’t do to slosh it on the other passengers. I’ll escort you downstairs.”

“Thank you.” She struggled to her feet. Her body didn’t seem quite prepared to hold herself up. All this talk of husbands was reminding her of the physical benefits of marriage. She didn’t want to leave her father, but she also wouldn’t mind having a lover again. Few men, though, were as discreet as Ewan Hales had known how to be. He’d had a private room in a quiet house with a landlady who never troubled him. And he never talked, never gossiped. She’d always wondered how Simon Hellman had found out they were lovers. He’d threatened to tell her father if she didn’t break with Ewan and take up with him and, shamed, she’d done as he demanded.
Ruin
.

“What? Ruin?” Mr. Redcake said. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had spoken aloud.”

He put on his hat. “Still, that’s quite a word.”

“I was just thinking about how easy it is for a reputation to be ruined,” she temporized.

“In what context?”

“Oh, perhaps it is just that I fired a girl today. She deserved it, of course. I wonder if she had done such things with other employers.”

“It’s something to be careful about when you research our new candidates,” he agreed.

They walked through the front of the office and to the stairway.

“Oh, I should get my things,” Betsy said.

“I’ll wait.” He put his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall, whistling.

Bemused, Betsy went down the corridor to her own work space and gathered her coat and other possessions. A man waiting for her at the end of the day? It felt like courtship. A man like Greggory Redcake, however, was not for the likes of Betsy Popham. At twenty-eight, he wouldn’t look for an experienced woman, which in his world meant a widow; he’d find another blushing virgin. She hoped his second wife would be a practical sort, with those motherless babies to raise.

Her secondhand coat had never seemed so shabby before. The light black wool appeared to have an uneven dye and one part of the hem had somehow come down since the morning. She found a pin in her drawer and tacked it up, debating if she should just drape her coat over an arm instead of wearing it. But then, he’d want to help her put it on, and he’d see it up close. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the fantasy of his large male hands on her shoulders as he helped her with her coat. He might offer to do up the buttons on the front, his fingers brushing the slopes of her breasts.

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.

G
reggory 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 them, 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.”

Greggory stood from the bench, feeling a good decade older than he had when he’d sat down. “I will telephone them now.”

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.