Page 45 of Murder in Blackfriars

I did not need to add worry about Mr. Grimes to my others, but it wedged into my mind and would not leave me. As I prepared supper that night, I tried to convince myself that he was well and had gone into hiding for reasons of his own.

The most likely explanation was that he feared he’d be accused of killing Mr. Banks if anyone in Blackfriars had seen him following the man. It was a good idea for him to stay clear of the police at the moment.

As soon as I consoled myself with this idea, I’d immediately worry again that the murderer, whoever it was, had found Mr. Grimes and done away with him too.

I’d feel much better when I saw him again.

Tess returned from her day out, buoyant. She’d spent the afternoon at Joanna’s, mixing doughs and storing them in the coldest part of her larder, as I’d instructed. Doughs for pastry casings needed to absorb all the moisture of the butter and thetouch of cream before they were rolled out, and a cool larder overnight was best.

She’d much enjoyed the time, with Joanna’s cook, Mrs. Mason, and her maid, Carrie, eager to help. Grace had also assisted, peppering Tess with many questions about the pastries and what I would make with them.

“She’ll have a talent for it, cooking,” Tess said cheerily. “Mark my words.”

I wanted better for Grace than to labor in a kitchen, but I said nothing about this, only thanking Tess for her help. I gave her a shilling for her work, which she tried to decline, but I insisted, explaining that a business would pay for the help.

Tess finally took the shilling, and I wrote the expense in my notebook. I’d already tallied the cost of the flour and supplies there. With Tess’s shilling, I’d have to make back almost a pound to come out even.

On Monday afternoon, I took myself to Joanna’s house to begin my role of merchant.

Tess had done a marvelous job of forming the various doughs, which were ready to be rolled out for pies and pasties. The sweet doughs I’d fold over jams and sell as small tarts, while the savory doughs would hold the stewed meat Tess had left to simmer overnight.

I grew excited as all this went into the oven and came out at various times in the next hour. Another advantage of the hand pies was that they didn’t take as long to bake as a full tart or large meat pie.

I understood why Tess enjoyed herself here. Mrs. Mason lent her help without complaint or pushing in, as though it was only natural I should barge into her kitchen and bake things in her oven. Carrie swept up flour from the floor and beamed a constant smile at me.

Having Grace help me spoon in the fillings and seal the doughs was the best thing about the day.

Packing the baskets was a family effort. Joanna, Grace, Jane, Mabel, and even Mark made certain that the pies were well wrapped so they wouldn’t be jostled or broken open on the journey to Portobello Road.

When all was finished to Joanna’s family’s satisfaction, Grace and I set off.

A hansom would deliver us and the pies safely, I reasoned, but it was another expense on the balance sheet. The underground train, on the other hand, would be less than half that price, and would put us at Notting Hill Gate, very near where we needed to be.

I weighed the chance of someone having planted an incendiary device over my need for cheap and swift transportation, then squared my shoulders and led Grace to the nearest station.

I purchased our tickets and we walked down to the platform to wait, me perspiring nervously. Grace, on the other hand, loved the underground trains and watched with interest as one loaded on the opposite platform, puffing and chugging away a moment later.

The smoke and steam, I’d been assured by many, was less than it could be as the locomotives used special engines and fireboxes designed to emit fewer fumes. Also, whenever the trains came out of the tunnels, they paused to let out built-up smoke, channeling it away instead of choking us below.

Our train pulled in at the platform only a few minutes after that, and I bundled Grace aboard. We found a seat, and Grace peered out the window to watch others board.

All at once, she bounced on the seat. “Mum, there’s Mr. Grimes!”

I craned past her to see a large man in a shabby coat making for the stairs. Grace yanked down the window.

“Mr. Grimes!” she shouted.

The man didn’t turn. He increased his speed, trundling upward out of sight.

“It might not have been him,” I said, closing the window again.

Grace stared at me. “It was. I recognize all our friends.”

I agreed with her. The man’s coat was very like the one Mr. Grimes wore, and his height and build matched. The squashed, battered hat was similar too.

My heart thumped as I sat down. If the man had been Mr. Grimes, then he was all right. But he’d run when he’d heard his name, instead of turning to find out who called him. He must have recognized Grace’s voice as easily as she recognized him.

I concluded he hadn’t wanted to be spotted, not by Grace or anyone else. He was in hiding, and I could only speculate as to why.