Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) (5 page)

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.

She came forward to block the door, but the two women were already inside.

“We were walking by and saw the lights were on,” Grace explained. “Is something wrong, Miss Popham?”

Betsy looked from one woman to the other. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The seamstress’s nostrils flared. “Something smells very bad in here.”

Grace turned to her in alarm. “You are right. What is that?”

“Death,” Betsy said. “Someone was murdered in the tearoom.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Prissy put her hand to her throat and was across the hall and peering through the open tearoom door before Betsy could protest.

Mr. Redcake had left his post in the doorway and was inside, gesturing animatedly to the window as he spoke to one of the policemen.

Grace shrieked and grabbed for Betsy’s arm when she saw the legs of the dead man, but Prissy, a much bolder character, stepped right up and stared down at the man.

“Why, I know him,” she announced after a long glance. Betsy couldn’t see the seamstress’s expression, but she sounded cool and composed.

One of the policemen turned toward Prissy. “You do? Who are you?”

“Prissy Weaver, Constable,” she said pertly.

“All right, then.” He took out a notebook and a pencil. “Who is the deceased?”

“Manfred Cross,” Prissy said.

Betsy heard no doubt in the woman’s voice, but it wasn’t the name of the man that struck her. It was Prissy’s surname. Weaver? That had been Betsy’s mother’s name before she married her father. Who was Prissy Weaver? With her similar looks and suspicious name, she had to be a relation.

Grace still held her arm. Betsy asked the girl, “How long have you known Prissy?”

“She started working for my mother about three weeks ago.”

“Do you know where she came from?”

Grace nodded. “Bristol.”

“I’m from Bristol,” Betsy said.

Grace frowned. “I hadn’t noticed before, but she looks so much like you. You could be cousins for certain.”

“If her name is really Weaver, she can’t be my cousin.”
She could be my sister, though.

“Why not?”

Betsy shook her head. “Just thinking aloud.”

“Who is Manfred Cross?” Grace asked.

“I have no idea.”

Mr. Redcake had moved back toward the body now, and was talking intently with Prissy and two policemen. His usually friendly, animated face looked drawn. Prissy, on the other hand, was smiling when she turned around and came toward the two women.

“What a shock that I actually knew who he was,” she said, as if proud of her accomplishment.

“I think you should take Grace and go home now,” Betsy said. She could feel the younger woman’s body trembling. “This is really upsetting her.”

“Don’t you want to know the story?”

“No, I want you to take care of Grace,” Betsy said. She could learn all she needed to know from Mr. Redcake. As for Prissy herself, she wanted to talk to her father.

“Oh, she’ll be fine. Murder is so exciting, isn’t it? It’s like a novel come to life.”

“But you did know the person.”

Prissy gave her a blank stare. “I recognized him, that is all. He’s quite notorious in some circles.”

Grace swayed.

“Please take Grace home,” Betsy repeated, though not without a faint sense of irritation, because she did want to know why the dead man was notorious.

Prissy gave a sharp little nod. “Very well. Come along, Grace. We were meant to fetch sausages for your father’s dinner.”

At that, Grace turned green. She doubled over and was sick on the entry-hall floor. Betsy glared at Prissy, who merely shrugged and handed her handkerchief to Grace.

A minute later the two women were gone, leaving Betsy nauseated. Two of the constables came out of the tearoom.

“I’ll fetch the doctor,” the taller one said, and walked out to the street. “The sooner we can have one here, the sooner we can have the body moved to a morgue.”

The other constable came up to Betsy, who was glad to hear the body wouldn’t be staying on the premises for long, and pointed at the locked doors in the middle of the room.

“Where do those lead to?”

“The back rooms. Mr. Redcake and I were on the floor above, in the offices. We found the body when we came downstairs.”

“Everything locked up?”

“Not the tearoom or that one window. The bakery was locked.”

“You been in there?”

“Yes. We used the telephone in the bakery to call the station.”

The policeman nodded. “If it were locked up tight, no need to investigate. But the back rooms weren’t locked if you were still there.”

She nodded. “But we were definitely alone on the top floor.”

“What else is on this floor?”

“The kitchen and loading dock and storage rooms. But nothing smelled funny in the back. I mean, no blood or anything.”

“We’d still better have a look.”

“I don’t have the keys. Only Mr. Redcake does. He is the owner as well as the manager.”

“And you are his assistant? I suppose he doesn’t trust a woman with such responsibility.”

“His housekeeper has an extra set of keys and he lives nearby. I could access the keys if I needed them,” she said, maintaining dignity with an effort.

“Very good,” the constable said, making a note. “Anyone else have keys?”

“To their respective departments, storerooms, and so forth, but Mr. Redcake is the only person with every key.”

“I will see him about the keys, then. You might want to go home, miss. Getting late, and we’ll have to remove the body soon.” He tucked his notebook away, then lifted his brows. “One more thing. You must have cleaners. When do they come in?”

“When the bakers do. In the wee hours.”

“A few hours from now, then. Electric lighting here?”

“Yes.”

“Night watchman?”

She shook her head. “There’s been no need. This is a good area. No trouble here.”

“Not like other parts of London, to be sure. I used to walk the beat in Lambeth.” The constable shook his head. “All but a different race living there. Know anything about this Cross chappie?”

“That woman, Prissy Weaver, said he was notorious. She’s just moved from Bristol apparently, so I don’t know if he was notorious there or here.”

The constable made a noncommittal noise. “Speak to your guv, then, but I think you should be getting home, now. He’s vouched for your being with him the entire evening.” He tucked his tongue into his cheek.

The mere idea.
The constable must think they were having some sort of sexual encounter. “It was a business meeting.”

“Of course, of course.” He crossed his arms.

Stone-faced, she left the constable, reluctantly returning to the tearoom to ask Mr. Redcake for the keys. “The constable wants the back rooms opened up.”

Mr. Redcake nodded. “Keep an eye on them, will you? Let’s not allow them upstairs if we can help it.”

“He’s telling me to go home. Doesn’t think this is any place for a woman.”

Mr. Redcake scrubbed his eyes with his hands. “Look, Miss Popham, I know who the dead man is now, and I’m going to have to tell the family.”

“Oh, dear. Is he connected to Redcake’s in any way?”

“I’m afraid so. Now, I know you don’t want your father to worry, but with you as second in command, I need you here, so I can leave.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll do anything you need me to do.”

“Very well. I suppose we’ll have to keep the tearoom closed tomorrow, but the bakery will be open. One of us is going to need to be here at first light, to speak to the cleaning staff and the bakers.”

The tall constable reappeared, accompanied by a cadaverous man in a black frock coat, holding a Gladstone bag. “I have the doctor here to do the examination.”

The constable who seemed to be in charge appeared in the tearoom doorway and gestured the men in with some impatience.

“I could stay upstairs on the sofa outside your office,” Betsy offered, turning her attention back to Mr. Redcake. “You have children to go home to.”

“It’s not suitable. And it is eight hours or more until Mr. Soeur arrives.” His hands went to his tie and he loosened the knot slightly. “Now I see we do need a bakery manager, so that we have more men around in a crisis.”

Betsy froze. Was she going to lose her position because Mr. Redcake and the constable didn’t think she could be relied on? “If I could get word to my father, he would come.” She glanced out the window and happened to see Grace and Prissy walking by again, with a package wrapped in newsprint. The sausages, probably.

She trotted to the door and opened it. “Grace?”

The girl saw her and came up to the front door. Her color had been restored, though she looked exhausted.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, but I need to get word to my father in Chiswick and it’s too late to send a letter. Is there any chance you or your father could go to my house and ask him to come here?”

“I’ll do it,” Prissy said. “What’s the address? If you give me money for a cab, I’ll go right away.”

Betsy was reluctant to have the woman assist her, but she was older than Grace. She went back inside and asked Mr. Redcake for the cab fare, then borrowed a piece of paper from the constable to write her father a note.

Five minutes later, she’d sent Prissy on her way, not knowing what the sight of the young woman would do to her father. She didn’t even know if she or Prissy looked particularly like her mother, Sarah. Her father had made sure not to have any photographs of her around, and her memories from early childhood were cloudy at best.

At least, when she demanded the truth about Prissy Weaver from her father, he would know exactly who she spoke of.

“I
’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your wife’s brother, Manfred, has died.” Greggory sat in a comfortable chair in the private study of Lord Judah Shield’s new Mayfair home. While the man had a decent income from managing the flagship Redcake’s, he’d also made a fortune trading in gems, due to his contacts from his days serving with the army in India. “I was there when the doctor came to examine him, and waited until they took him to a morgue. He was murdered, Lord Judah, only a couple of hours ago.”

“Why are you here and not the police?” Lord Judah asked. He leaned against his monumental desk, hip perched on one edge, swirling the brandy he’d poured for both of them when he’d welcomed Greggory into his private chamber.

Greggory took a deep sip of his own brandy. The burn in his throat reminded him of his exhaustion, and he set his snifter down. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep. “I vaguely recalled that Lady Judah has an older brother, and I assume the police will go to him, or even to Earl Gerrick, as head of the Cross family.”

Lord Judah stared into his brandy glass. “Right. You are likely right.”

“Were you close?”

“No,” he said, not looking up. “I knew the boy would come to a bad end, ever since I saw him during his brief imprisonment in Newgate. He had that death’s head grin.”

Nonetheless, Greggory could hear the affection in the man’s voice. “When was that?”

“Must be about three years ago. He’d turned jewel thief, you see. We think he procured for a highborn lady, who has a well-known love of jewels and plenty of money. He was up in Edinburgh when he was captured, but with the lady’s government connections, Manfred managed to see the charges dropped and himself released.”

“I take it he didn’t become a sober-minded citizen after that.”

Lord Judah glanced up, twisting his lips into a wry smile. “We couldn’t see him after that, not socially. My wife does love fashionable society. She’s at the theater right now, viewing the latest Oscar Wilde play with her cousin, Viscount Napsea, and others of the same ilk.”

“She gave Manfred up, then?”

“Not entirely. He came here sometimes, after dark. It’s been a couple of months, though. We won’t have much to tell the police. I have no idea who his associates were, where he lived.”

“Not even that?”

Lord Judah ran the knuckles of his thumb under his right eye. “Must have an eyelash . . .” he muttered.

The tears he wouldn’t admit to shedding made the amber striations in his eyes glow. He swallowed hard. “Manfred was a charmer and a scoundrel, but he had his good parts. He tried to help my wife when their older brother was sunk deep into drink after his wife died. He even tried to take care of my sister when she ran away.”

“I always wondered how she ended up in Edinburgh, but I never heard the story. I met her husband a couple of years ago, however, when he was down in Bristol.”

“Yes, when Lady Fitzwalter’s son was kidnapped. What a mess. And now this shocking event. I suppose we’ll have to plan a funeral.” He cleared his throat. “Magdalene won’t be home for hours.”

“At least it is fairly late. She shouldn’t be able to hear the news before she arrives home.”

“That is a blessing.”

Greggory couldn’t think of anything else to add on the subject of the murder. “There’s something I should tell you.”

“What’s that?”

“How well do you know your bakery manager, Ralph Popham, and his personal history?”

Lord Judah picked up his glass again. “Good man. Widower, one daughter, who works for you presently.”

Greggory captured his counterpart’s gaze. “Did you know his wife was an executed murderess?”

Lord Judah’s eyes narrowed. “You must be joking.”

“I’m afraid not. Miss Popham told me the entire story tonight. To make matters worse, your Simon Hellman seems to have some kind of obsession with her, and has blackmailed her for years.”

“Blackmail?” Lord Judah slid from the desk to his feet.

“Yes. He was lurking around the Kensington shop today, and Miss Popham is afraid he might have had something to do with the murder.”

Lord Judah set his glass down. “Manfred never worked for Redcake’s. My wife has, of course. I don’t know when Manfred would have met Hellman, nor have I ever heard that Manfred was involved in blackmail schemes.”

“But you don’t really know much about him.”

“He was so secretive that even my sister didn’t know the truth, and they lived in the same home for a time.”

Greggory scrubbed at his eyes and suppressed a yawn. “It seems likely that his profession was the reason for his death. He had been and possibly still was a jewel thief. But why Redcake’s?”

“Could he have chosen the place for a meeting?” Lord Judah suggested. “I can’t imagine why, but he must have the skills of a housebreaker. You said a window was unlocked?”

“It was more than that. The tearoom door was unlocked as well.”

“I wish we knew if he knew Hellman,” Lord Judah said. “But I hardly think Manfred was in a position to be blackmailed. He had not been restored to society. While most people don’t know about the thieving, he never had the money to spend time in society, even as an earl’s nephew.”

“That’s not the story I’ve heard. My cousin Alys said she first met Manfred at a party at Hatbrook’s home, before they were married.”

“It must have been when I was still in India,” Lord Judah admitted. “I can’t say I know everything.”

“It is amazing what we never hear,” Greggory said. “Not only do you now have a dead brother-in-law, you’re going to have to figure out what to do about Hellman. I’ve told Miss Popham that she can hire the daughter of one of her mother’s murder victims to be a cakie, now that both of her parents are deceased.”

Lord Judah chuckled darkly. “Is she going to be any good at the job?”

“I’ve never spoken to her, only seen her. But Miss Popham has always demonstrated good judgment in the past.”

“You think she should have allowed herself to be blackmailed for years? After all, the crimes were her mother’s, not hers.”

“She must have thought she’d lose her position, and her father’s, if it was known. That they’d be shunned.”

“Ralph is a personal friend of Sir Bartley’s. You can be certain he knows all there is to be known about the Pophams,” Lord Judah said with confidence. “I think Betsy suffered needlessly.”

“I don’t know if you are right about that.”

“She must have been all of eighteen then,” Lord Judah said. “Not an age for making the best decisions. I’m glad we both know. I will terminate Hellman’s employment. You should keep a closer eye on Miss Popham and I’ll do the same with her father. They’ve always seemed to be exemplary employees, but it seems their personal lives are troubled.”

Greggory felt defensive. “They are victims here.”

“If she talked you into hiring an unsuitable cakie, then that is a judgment problem,” Lord Judah said coolly. “It could be a mark against her. And, Greggory, if her family’s actions brought murder into Redcake’s, I wouldn’t want her about. You have your income and family to consider.”

“Time will tell. It’s difficult to imagine hardworking, conscientious Betsy Popham destroying my business,” Greggory said.

“It’s murder that will destroy it. The case needs to be solved right away. The lower classes might find murder to be a spectator sport, but I can see every upper-class paterfamilias in Kensington forbidding his wife and daughters to patronize the tearoom for now.”

He crossed his arms. “That would be dreadful. I suppose I had better find out if Mrs. Popham’s crimes touched upon the life of Manfred Cross in any way.”

“I’ll speak to Ralph in the morning. He’ll know far better than Betsy.” Lord Judah put his hands behind his back and began to pace. “I think I’ll go to the theater in my carriage and collect my wife. I won’t be able to relax until I know she is safe.”

Greggory agreed. If his brother-in-law had been murdered, he’d want to know his wife was safe, too. “I shall leave you to it, then. I should return home to my children.”

Lord Judah clapped him on the shoulder. “Do not hesitate to lean on me and your uncle, Greggory. It will not be business as usual in Kensington any time soon. Be prepared for tough times.”

 

Betsy drank tea at one corner of a long wooden table in the Redcake’s tearoom kitchen, her father next to her. Though early, the ovens were crammed full of treats to be served later, the fragile items that weren’t shippable from the factories. A tray of factory cakes was being decorated with piped frosting and dried berries. Cream was being beat for trifle topping. On the other end of the table, a cook was cutting vegetables for the day’s soup. A man came through the rear door, hauling cans of milk. The fragrant scent of full leaf tea underlay everything, as it was ladled into pots to be ready for the first brewings.

Betsy appreciated her view of the orderly comings and goings, the modulated voices and coordination of movement. Especially given the night before. The tearoom had been scrubbed thoroughly about an hour earlier; the coroner had made a special early morning visit to view the scene so the tearoom could be opened. She’d heard someone talking about the Marchioness of Hatbrook and suspected her old friend’s government connections had made the police move quickly.

When she saw the time on the wall clock, Betsy’s focus turned to her father. “Thank you for coming.”

Her father put his hand over his mouth to hide a yawn. “Of course. I need to be off to work in a minute.”

“I know. At least we are close to the end of the week. Not much sleep for either of us last night.”

He nodded. “Did you manage on that sofa?”

“Likely better than you did in the chair.” They grimaced at each other. “It had to be done, though. Mr. Redcake had to notify the family.”

“He had to notify Lord Judah,” her father said.

“Why? Was Mr. Redcake afraid they would find another dead body at the other tearoom?”

“You worked with Lady Judah in the Fancy. Don’t you remember her surname was Cross?”

Betsy lifted her teacup and drained the contents. “It never crossed my mind. Was the dead man her brother?”

“Yes, younger brother.”

“I see. Of course he had to notify Lord Judah. Goodness, that means the dead man was the nephew of an earl.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Mr. Soeur walked past, a glint in his eye as he saw a baker taste dough with a finger he’d just used to wipe his eye.

“At least the police are likely to work very hard to solve his murder. I had thought he was quite a low character, given that Prissy Weaver is just a seamstress’s assistant and seemed to know all about him.”

“You sent her to the house last night.”

“I had no choice.” Betsy set down her cup and leaned forward. “Who is she, Papa?”

Her father glanced away for a moment, into space, before responding. “She must be your half sister. I was never clear on the reason why Sarah’s first husband’s parents took Prissy away from her. Of course at the time I didn’t know Sarah had killed her husband. Perhaps she thought they could do a better job with a young child because she was running the boardinghouse.”

“How old was Prissy then?”

Mr. Soeur yelled at the baker. He gestured back and stormed off.

Her father shook his head at the scene before turning back to her. “About two, I suppose. She looks so much like you now, like your mother.”

So they did look like their mother. “She must be only about three years older than I am.”

“About that,” her father agreed.

“What happened to her?”

“She would have been about seven when your mother, well . . .”

He lifted his hands, and Betsy filled in the missing words. “Was executed.”

He nodded. “Yes. We didn’t see Prissy often. You’d have no reason to remember her.”

“I have no recollection whatsoever,” Betsy admitted.

“I think the grandparents brought her over on her birthday. Maybe once a year beyond that. It was a very limited contact.”

“Did she act as though she knew you last night?”

He rubbed his lips together. “She had the other girl with her, the cakie?”

“Grace. Prissy must live with the Fair family. She works for Grace’s mother.”

“I see. I wonder what brought her over from Bristol. All I can say is, I never had any financial responsibility for her, and lost track of her completely after Sarah’s death.”

“It might be nice to have a sister,” Betsy mused. “But I do wonder how she came to know of a man who was about to be murdered.”

“I find it harder to believe you didn’t know about him, given that he’s Lady Judah’s brother and a known thief,” her father said.

“I was never close to Lord Judah or his wife. Lady Hatbrook was my friend. And Ewan.”

He shook his head. “You need to be friends with the common folk, too. They’ll tell you the tales.”

“I’m assistant manager. There’s no place for friendship now.”

“Department heads and such?”

“We don’t have many of those at Kensington. We’re smaller than the flagship. Just Mr. Soeur. Besides, I’ve learned to be cautious, what with one thing and another.”

“It isn’t easy, being your mother’s daughter.” Her father sighed and pressed a palm to the top of his head, where his hair had been carefully styled to cover his bald spot. “However, you were so young and not a part of any of it.”

“Neither were you.”

“It never affected my career. Sir Bartley was good about that. We owe a great deal to the Redcakes.”

She poked his arm. “You should have married Lady Hatbrook back when she was just Alys Redcake, when you had the opportunity.”

He smiled. “Oh, my dear, I never had the opportunity. Her father had the idea she had feelings for someone who worked with her. He didn’t realize it was a customer.”