Page 31 of Murder in Blackfriars

“I would not be too certain. My sister once tried to change the wine merchant Davis had worked with for years, and he wouldn’t speak to the family for several months. It was unnerving to watch him move about the dining room in complete silence, his nose in the air. He didn’t thaw until Rankin ordered my sister to relent.”

I quailed at the thought of Mr. Davis furious with me for that long, but I could hardly break my engagement to please him.

“We will come to an understanding,” I said. “In the meantime, would you take a message to Miss Townsend for me? Please tell her about Betty and her aspirations to the stage. Miss Townsend might be able to steer her along a safe path in that arena.”

Cynthia nodded. “Judith does know everyone in the world of arts and theatre. I believe I will pay her a visit this evening. I can’t stomach the thought of sitting through supper, with Auntie going on about the missionaries dear Mr. Fielding wants to support and Uncle tut-tutting every other sentence.”

She flashed me a smile, then bid me farewell, hurrying out of the kitchen with a light step.

I envied her spending an evening in the elegant house of the equally elegant Miss Townsend. However, I’d hardly fit in with Miss Townsend’s friends, who consumed brandy andcigars and spoke about artists and poets I’d never heard of. Miss Townsend’s circle was decidedly modern.

What I truly would prefer was an evening with Grace, listening to her rattle on about her day while we took supper I’d cooked for just the two of us. I yearned for that so much, it hurt.

Not long from now, she’d be even farther from me, the two of us separated by a gulf of woods and hills that might as well be the oceans between England and Polynesia.

I resolutely pushed these thoughts aside and concentrated on supper and what I’d prepare for Sunday dinner tomorrow.

The markets now carried an abundance of produce—fat potatoes of all colors, apples sweet and tart, figs, damsons—plumlike fruit—and plums themselves, plus red grapes as big as my thumb, juicy and delicious.

I would fill the house with tarts and cakes and make the grapes and damsons into jams that would last all year.

I tried to turn my thoughts entirely to baking as I rubbed butter into flour to begin more tart doughs. I would absolutely not think about Grace leaving London or Daniel trying to creep into the East End and disturb every wasp in their nests there.

I made several different kinds of doughs, from sweet with castor sugar and plenty of butter to savory tart crusts with a minimum of sugar and a pinch of salt. The sweets I divided for plum tarts, apple tarts with fresh walnuts, and one with figs, nutmeg, and raisins.

I chopped up leftover pork and lamb, made sauces from drippings plus wine, and laid them into the savory crusts to bake as meat pies. Mr. Bywater would rub his hands with glee when I sent them up next week, even if Mrs. Bywater had declared she did not like them. Mr. Davis always reported she’d eat every bite, however.

Tess was not happy with my overabundance of energy in the kitchen, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

She’d changed her days out to Sundays, as that was when her beau, Constable Caleb Greene, now had time off, though he had precious little of it for Tess. He’d been promoted to detective constable, and he couldn’t always count on even the Sabbath to remain free. He also could not discuss his cases with Tess, which frustrated her.

Still, she set off happily enough to meet him on Sunday morning. I did not begrudge her the time, though Sunday was when I was at my busiest. Today she left with some relief as I shooed her away, and I returned to my obsessive cooking and baking.

Monday afternoon, I visited Grace, putting aside my worries to immerse myself in her. Daniel did not come, which meant both that I did not have to explain that I’d recruited Mr. Fielding to help and that I had to worry whether he’d been taken captive by Mr. Naismith in the East End.

James relieved my mind on the latter point, when he told me that evening that Daniel had doubled the number of deliveries he and James were making every day. Saving up, James said with a grin and a pointed look at me.

I did not forget my promise to Hannah to bring the down payment on rent for the stall. Grace shopped in the market Monday afternoon while I handed over my shillings to the gent who managed the stalls and signed the paper he presented to me.

My heart thumped hard when I’d done it. It would be another change in my life, whether good or ill remained to be seen.

On Wednesday morning, Mrs. Redfern brought in an envelope for me, saying it had arrived through the post via myagency. The redoubtable lady would never express curiosity, but a flicker in her eyes betrayed it.

I thanked her and took the letter, which bore the stamp of a post office in Whitechapel. As Whitechapel Road led into Shadwell, I was not mystified about who had sent it.

Once Mrs. Redfern had departed, I slit the envelope and withdrew the short letter.

I found her, it began.

10

Or rather, Mr. Fielding’s letter went on,I found out who she used to be.

I was lucky and discovered your Mrs. Kerr after only five attempts. The first three of the parishes I checked had no record of anyone called Mrs. Kerr. St. Bartholomew’s in Bethnal Green had a Mrs. Josiah Kerr who had been fifty when she passed away in 1882, and as you are seeking a woman gone thirty years ago, I concluded this was not she.

At Stepney, on the other hand, I found a record of Mrs. John Kerr, who had been born Jessica Haigh in the parish of Christ Church, Stepney. Her birth year would put her in her late forties in 1855, when she died and was buried in Stepney. Since that parish is very close to Bethnal Green, I am going to posit that she is the woman you seek.

Because I can never leave things alone, and I admit to great curiosity about her, I found the parson of ChristChurch, Stepney, now living in simple retirement, and asked if he remembered Mrs. Kerr.