Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) (6 page)

“I did wonder why she never confided in me,” Betsy admitted. “Maybe I was not a very good friend.”

“Friendship is a strange and wonderful thing. Each is different, just like each marriage is different.”

“Do you hate my mother?”

Her father smiled at her and took her hand. “No. She gave me you. I have no regrets as to my own actions. I still believe she acted in self-defense. But . . .” He shook his head. “She made a poor choice of weapon. Poison. If only she had confided her troubles to me.”

Betsy didn’t have the ability to forgive as her father did. Her mother had not killed her tormenters in the heat of the moment. She’d made a cold-blooded choice to end their lives. Why had her father felt the need to tell her she and Prissy looked so much like their mother? She didn’t like knowing that.

Feeling a headache pulsing in her forehead, partially caused by only four hours of sleep the night before, she forced a smile for her father. “You had better leave for work. Take a cab. Mr. Redcake said you should.”

“Given the time,” he said, glancing at the wall clock, “I had better do exactly that. I wish I could think of someone to write to about Prissy, but I did not keep in touch with anyone from Bristol.”

“I know, Papa. We’ll simply have to judge her on her own merits, if she comes around again. Last night may have been an accident, because she lives with a Redcake’s employee.”

“Very well.” Her father stood, then bent down to kiss her cheek. “I will see you at home this evening.”

She nodded, then stood herself, smoothing down the black skirt and blouse he’d brought for her to wear today. Suitable for mourning, it would do nothing for her complexion, but also, she was entirely unobjectionable.

“You would think we would remain closed today,” Mr. Soeur said to her after her father left. “I had no idea I was entering a crisis. Everyone is in a black mood.”

“I’m so sorry no one informed you of the goings-on,” Betsy said. “It was so late when we discovered the body that only Mr. Redcake and I were still here.”

Mr. Soeur made a clicking sound with his tongue and teeth. “I do not know what to expect today. Will we have many customers or none?”

“You and I will both be guessing at that. I would imagine many customers, but none of them spending much money. A different sort from usual.”

He sneered. “Bah! Gawkers. I much prefer our usual ladies.”

“We shall see who comes.” Betsy locked her jaw when she felt a yawn coming on. “I need to check on the bakery now.” She just hoped she would have time to take a break at lunchtime. Her father might think they should wait to see if Prissy stopped by again, but she intended to visit the Fair home to speak to Prissy herself.

 

“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Fair said when she met Betsy at the door during her lunch hour. “Prissy was able to find the fabric we needed to fix your skirt.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“I’m not so glad to hear about the dreadful business at Redcake’s,” Mrs. Fair added as Betsy walked into her work space. She hastily swept a palmful of scattered threads from her blouse and skirt. “Do you think it is safe for Grace to work there?”

“The murder took place after everyone was gone. I’m sure the killer will be caught soon. The victim is the nephew of an earl.”

“My goodness.” Mrs. Fair put her hand to her chest. “Grace has often told me how refined the Redcake’s customer is.”

“When you serve the best goods, you attract the best customers,” Betsy said. “I didn’t really think my clothing was finished. I wondered if I might have a word with your assistant?”

“Yes, dear, that is fine. I was just about to pop down the street for some thread.” Mrs. Fair picked up her hat and a shawl and let herself out of the room.

Prissy stopped working at the sewing machine against the wall as soon as her employer had left. She folded a half-sewn forest green skirt, set it aside, and turned around. “Ready for a good gossip about Manfred Cross?”

Betsy folded her arms over her chest. “No, Miss Weaver. I don’t very much care about him. I’m more concerned with the murderer than the victim. And you.”

“And me?” Prissy’s lips curved.

Betsy chose to be bold. “Are you my half sister?”

“Oh, that.” Prissy tilted her head. “Of course I am.”

“Did you know who I was when I was here the other day?”

“Certainly, though only once you were introduced. It gave me such a turn, to meet you like that. I’m not surprised to know you work for Redcake’s of course. You did in Bristol, but I’d have expected you to labor at the main emporium.”

“It was a promotion for me to come here,” Betsy said. “My father still works at the other location.”

“Don’t let Lady Hatbrook and her ilk forget about you,” Prissy advised. “It’s all very well for Mrs. Fair to be impressed by the Kensington clientele, but it isn’t quite as upper crust as the main location’s patrons.”

“I’ve no part of their world,” Betsy told her. Grace must gossip a great deal at home.

“Why, you were all but engaged to an earl!” Prissy said.

Feeling exhausted, Betsy lowered herself to a stool at the large table in the middle of the room. Bits of thread and infinitesimally small pieces of cloth littered every inch of the table, evidence of a new dress being cut. “Where did you hear that?”

“Grace told me you and Lord Fitzwalter used to court. You are a legend among the cakies.”

“A very long time ago. He married a Redcake. In the end, the upper crust will stick together. I’m just a worker, like you.”

“Don’t give up. You’re so close.”

“No, I am serious. It was four years ago.”

Prissy tapped her lips with a carefully manicured index finger. “Who has courted you since?”

Betsy frowned. “All I’ve done since is work.”

Prissy stood and took a chair that was leaning against a wall and pulled it toward the sewing table. She gestured to it and Betsy invited her to sit.

“There hasn’t been anyone? A pretty young thing like you?” Prissy gave her a knowing grin.

“My blackmailer effectively ruined my ability to court,” Betsy admitted, without really understanding why. Had she been so desperate for an older sister, a confidante, all these years? Was there some part of her that faintly remembered Prissy? Or was it that talking to her was like talking into a slightly more mature mirror?

“Your blackmailer?” Prissy pressed a hand to her blouse.

Betsy noticed she was dressed in black as well. Had one of her grandparents died? Perhaps that was why she’d come to London. “I’m afraid so. I’ve been blackmailed for years because of our mother’s crimes. I was afraid I’d lose my position if people knew.”

“Surely the Redcakes know. How could they not? They are from Bristol.”

“Yes, but no one else did in the business. And I think only the older generation knew. My manager wasn’t aware of the story until I told him.”

“You mean Mr. Greggory Redcake, the Kensington Redcake’s owner?”

“Yes.”

Prissy sighed happily, her large, expressive eyes lifting heavenward. “Such an attractive man. I wouldn’t mind being on his arm. Is he married?”

“A widower.”

“Ah, that accounts for the tragic, disheveled, Byronic air. I did wonder, but of course when I saw him last night it was in the presence of a corpse.” Prissy shivered deliciously.

“A long day and a dead body tend to affect one’s appearance,” Betsy said with a halfhearted attempt at humor.

“My, my, you have feelings for him, don’t you?” Prissy said, her gaze settling back on Betsy.

“I respect him of course. But we have an entirely professional relationship.”

“That must be very irritating,” Prissy said. “Have you made any suggestions otherwise?”

The very idea.
“Of course not. I like my position. I take it seriously. I’ve had to, with my father giving most of his income to the Carters.”

“You must think I hate our mother for killing my father,” Prissy said.

“Don’t you?” Betsy hadn’t really thought about it. The concept of Prissy was still so new to her.

“I shouldn’t like to be beaten by my husband,” Prissy said. “How is one to get away? I can understand why she did it. Maybe she was trying to save my life?”

“But she gave you to his parents.”

“They weren’t bad people. Very religious, very strict.”

“They are deceased?”

“Yes. My grandfather died four years ago. My grandmother just succumbed after a short illness. I nursed her as best I could, but her lungs were bad, poor dear.”

“You have my sympathies. It must be like being orphaned twice.”

“Yes, but we never spoke of my parents. It was as if my grandparents decided I was their child and the others never existed.”

“Do you think that is preferable? To handle the situation that way?”

“Well, it leaves one open to blackmail, doesn’t it? Secrets, I mean. I think secrets are best exposed.”

Betsy nodded. “I told Mr. Redcake about my blackmailer, and about my . . . I mean, our mother. And now my father has told me about you.”

“Good.” Prissy nodded. “I have to get back to my sewing. Daylight is wasting.”

Betsy wondered at the dismissal. Surely Prissy had some interest in her sister. “I’m sure I’ll see you again in a few days when my skirt is ready.”

“I can bring it to your house some evening,” Prissy offered.

“Thank you. That is very kind.”

They smiled at each other, and Betsy left, satisfied at the ending of their encounter. Was her sister right that secrets should be exposed? Did Grace, for instance, know of the relationship between Prissy and the Pophams? What did Simon Hellman have on her after all these years anyhow, except terror? It wasn’t as if Lord Fitzwalter cared that his lover of four years ago was a murderess’s daughter, or that her father could intervene in a love affair four years extinguished. Now Mr. Redcake knew, and there was no one else with any power over her, she might as well stop worrying about her secrets. It might almost be a relief if Simon had killed that man and the police arrested and hanged him. His reign of terror would be over. But if he hadn’t killed Manfred Cross, or the police couldn’t pin the crime on him, then what?

 

Greggory came into Redcake’s very early Saturday morning in order to have a word with Mr. Soeur before the day began. He’d also ordered his secretary in to compile the previous day’s sales. How had it gone? Friday had passed in a blur.

He’d spent the previous day fending off reporters who wanted to know about the murder, always furious because the police gave them nothing. Police Constable Rivers had stopped by to tell him the inquest would be Monday, and that the autopsy of Manfred hadn’t been particularly useful.

Miss Popham had been present all day, but in that mood where one tended to stay in motion without accomplishing much. She was so young that the limited night’s sleep hadn’t affected her looks. If not for her behavior, he’d never have known of her exhaustion. He hadn’t wondered why she spent the day dressed in mourning, however.

But that day, he found her in Mr. Soeur’s kitchen at the table. Next to her was Violet Carter, dressed in a new cakie uniform. Miss Popham had the cakie’s handbook open in front of them and was going over serving details with their newest employee.

He probably needed to hire a tearoom manager as well. The flagship Redcake’s had all these positions, but no assistant manager. He’d thought, with a smaller footprint, that they didn’t need all these other heads of departments with their large salaries, but Miss Popham couldn’t do everything.

Until the last couple of days, though, it had seemed as if she could.

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.

“L
adies, 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.”