He rubbed his forehead. Maybe he should try to sleep now. Mr. Soeur and his team would wake him up in the wee hours anyway. He went back into the anteroom and turned off the lights, then did the same in his office. When he went to the window to shut the curtain, he heard footsteps on the cobbles below and glanced down, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He saw one of the watchmen with his lantern, walking toward the loading dock.
Then he heard another noise, farther down the alley. He craned his head in that direction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape come from the side of the platform. His attention focused on it. Another man? The watchman started to turn.
As Greggory pushed up his window, he heard the sound of a blow. He watched the lantern fall to the cobbles. The light was extinguished as the man crumpled over it. Had the man been killed?
For a moment, he stood still, stunned. Redcake’s was being attacked yet again. Why? The attacker disappeared, probably moving toward the door by the loading dock as before. How many of them were there? Was there a battering ram again?
Greggory dashed through his office, the anteroom, down the stairs. He hadn’t planned for this. Why not? He had no weapon, though the security guards had truncheons. There were three of them now, all circling the street around the building. One of them would find the hurt man soon.
He reached the bottom of the steps and ran for the kitchen. Knives. Knives were weapons, better than his fists, which hadn’t boxed in two years. He’d let himself grow soft, a family man now, not a young buck.
In the kitchen, he found the knife drawer by touch and pulled it open, took out a long, serrated knife used for cutting through trays of rolls. But that was stupid; what would he use it for, a sword? He dropped it and found something shorter, sharper, by touch.
Then he heard the tinkle of breaking glass. The tearoom again. How many people were attacking? Surely the noise would attract passersby. He tightened his grip around the second knife and went through the kitchen. Trays clattered against his hip as he passed by a rack of them. He grabbed a tray to keep it from crashing to the floor and pushed through the door.
A dark shape climbed through the broken tearoom window. Was it the same individual he’d seen attack the watchman? With the streetlight shining in, Greggory could see the interloper was a man.
And that man was Victor. The youth glanced up, as if an animal sense told him Greggory was in the room. Victor let out a cry and rushed at him. “Where is she? Where is Violet?”
“I have no idea.” Greggory ran, too, weaving around the tables, waving the tray. Light flashed off the silver from the streetlight. Victor glanced to the left, disoriented by the lights, and Greggory hit him in the head with the tray.
The motion shot pain through his wrist. The force of the blow made him drop the tray. Victor leaned forward and head-butted him in the belly. The momentum slammed him into a table. It caught him in the back. His hands snapped forward as he tried to keep his balance. The knife caught Victor at the shoulder, slicing cleanly through layers of cloth, skin.
“You’ll pay for stealing her away,” Victor howled and kicked out.
“I didn’t.” Greggory danced to the side, remembering his boxer training now. He jabbed with his free hand. Victor didn’t even try to block as Greggory’s fist came at his jaw. The youth bent backward, then fell to the ground, bleeding and unconscious.
“Smart girl, that Violet, getting away from you,” Greggory said, looking down.
A clatter came at the open window. He heard pounding on the door.
“Night watchman,” he heard at the window.
“Police!” he heard at the door at the same time. Still feeling enervated from the fight, he jumped over Victor and went to turn on the lights.
At three A.M. Greggory finally went home. The police had left with Victor and the window had been boarded up. The injured man was under a doctor’s care at home. No hope the tearoom could open later that morning. His face had started to hurt and he didn’t know how he could get to sleep after the night he’d had.
At least his house seemed silent and at ease. He’d insisted a constable walk over earlier to make sure no one was assaulting his house as well. No one had been. He’d been wondering where Violet and Prissy were tonight, but as best as anyone could tell, Victor had attacked the watchman in the back and run around the building while Greggory was going downstairs, broken the window, and come in.
He’d wanted to be caught, it seemed.
When Greggory opened his bedroom door, he saw a light was on in his dressing room. He found Betsy asleep in a chair next to an oil lamp. What was she doing there? He went forward to pick her up and carry her to bed, but his footsteps woke her and she opened her eyes sleepily.
She saw him, then blinked again, before opening her eyes for a second time, though she still didn’t really seem to register his presence. Then she leaped to her feet and put her hand to his cheek. “You’ve been cut! There’s blood on your face.”
He put his hand over hers. “I didn’t realize. Must have been cut by broken glass. It was everywhere.”
She stroked his cheek gently. “What happened?”
“Victor happened. But the police have him now.”
Her skin felt sleep warm and silky against his face. “Redcake’s?”
“Another broken window. Won’t be opening the tearoom today.”
Her fingers stilled on his cheek. “All that advertising for nothing.”
He shrugged. “Can’t do anything until the window is repaired.”
He watched her force a brave smile. “We will have it done as soon as the glaziers are open for business. The newspapers will report our problems are solved and the customers will return.”
He squeezed her hand. “You are so sure Victor is the murderer?”
“He has an unholy attraction to the tearoom,” she said, pulling away. “I’m going to find a basin of water and clean the blood from your face.”
“You should be resting.”
“So should you,” she said over her shoulder, walking away.
Greggory slumped into the chair she had vacated and pulled off his shoes. His hand and shoulder ached and the rest of him felt stiff from a missed night’s sleep. He let his head drop to the back of the chair.
By the time Betsy returned, she saw Greggory was down to shirt and trousers, his discarded clothing tossed on the floor next to him. But he appeared to be asleep. The floorboard creaked as she moved toward him and his eyes opened. Only half-asleep then.
“Any other injuries?” she asked, dabbing his cheek with a damp towel.
“No. I had a knife. I sliced his arm, then knocked him out with one blow. He had no idea how to fight.”
Her fiancé knew how to fight, however. Pride surged through her. “Just break windows.”
“I suppose you are right. Ultimately, he did the most damage.” He forced a smile.
“It makes me wonder how he managed to kill Manfred Cross, if he’s so inept,” Betsy mused, touching his face with her towel again.
“I don’t care. I miss the days where the police simply picked a murderer and strung him up. All this waiting for investigations is destroying my business.”
Betsy stepped back instinctively.
“What?” he asked. “Is my cut clean?”
Her hand shook as she dropped the towel into her basin. “How can you say that to me? Of course the police should investigate thoroughly. What if they pick the wrong person?”
“Why?” He frowned. “You surely don’t think your mother wasn’t guilty of those murders.”
“I’d feel a lot worse if she was innocent.” She glared at him.
“Betsy, this isn’t about your mother.”
“Of course it is. The story never ends. Victor was there because of my mother. Because my mother killed his father after he attacked her.” She laughed harshly. “At least I can have no doubt that he was as evil as she, given the behavior of his son.”
“The
n you can’t doubt Victor is a murderer.”
“What about Violet? Or even Prissy, my mother’s daughter. Or Simon Hellman, the blackmailer.” She spit out each name, each betrayal.
“My money is on Victor. He’s the one hanging around.”
“What is his goal?”
“To punish you, I think. You tried to help his sister get away from him, and you’ve had a good life, despite what your mother did.”
“A good life,” she said softly. “I might have, for a moment, but it never seems to quite work out.”
“Betsy,” he said.
She shook her head. “I’m very tired, but I’ve had half a night’s sleep and you have not. I’ll rest another hour or two, then go into the shop and explain what has happened to Mr. Soeur. You can sleep until early afternoon.”
Betsy went to Redcake’s at six A.M. and talked to Mr. Soeur. Stoically, he canceled his plans for tearoom cooking and baking and said he would have the kitchen thoroughly cleaned when they were done with what the bakery needed. They stocked the bakery as usual, but few people came in. She blamed the boarded-up window, but even during the late afternoon, after it had been mended, when everything appeared to be back to normal, not many customers entered.
She had all her work done by the time the doors closed and had no excuse to stay. Winnie Baxter left with her and faked a shiver as they walked out of the door by the loading dock.
“That poor watchman was assaulted right here,” she said. “I can still feel the vibrations.”
“That would probably be a cart,” Betsy said.
“You are entirely too practical, Betsy,” Winnie said. “Don’t you believe in anything outside yourself?”
“I used to believe in the power of hard work. I believed in my father,” Betsy said.
“Used to? What is wrong?”
“You know as well as I do. No matter what we try to do, Redcake’s is failing. It’s not right.”
Winnie linked her arm with Betsy’s and pulled her toward the street. “Are we going to lose our jobs?”
“I think we’ll find out tomorrow. People didn’t stream into the shop after the window was fixed, but the tearoom was still closed.”
“They have to return. The murderer has been caught. When our customers see that in the papers, they’ll be back. I’m sure a lot of fussy old men refused to allow their wives and daughters to patronize us, but that will change now.”
“I hope you are right. I wish I could meet the chief of the fussy old man tribe and have a word with him.”
Winnie chuckled. “I believe you would, and that is why you are the assistant manager.”
Betsy winced, knowing her days in that exalted position would soon be over, but Greggory had yet to officially make the change. If they still had a shop to run, he’d hire a replacement first. She hoped.
Winnie separated from her on the High Street and she continued walking instead of turning toward home. Eventually, a milliner’s shop caught her eye, and she stood in front of the window display, trying to imagine herself in the costly, imaginative designs.
“What kind of hat are you going to wear on your wedding day?”
Betsy whipped around. “Prissy!”
Her sister smiled, the remnants of her black eye giving her a slightly menacing look despite her expression of pure happiness. “Are you delighted? I’m so happy Victor has finally been caught.”
“You are supposed to be in Bristol,” Betsy said, wondering what game she was playing at. What had Prissy ever wanted from her?
“But I don’t have to be now. I’m ready to start your wedding dress. I’ll need some money for the fabric.”
The hair on the back of her neck prickled. “You already had the money.”
Prissy cleared her throat delicately, still smiling. “I had to spend it, you know, for lodgings, when I couldn’t go back to the Fairs. I lost my position, thanks to that awful boy.”
“Greggory gave you money for the train.”
“Yes of course,” Prissy said with an impatient air, “but it’s all gone now. And you’ve a couple of weeks pay I know you haven’t spent. I’ll take it now for the dress, please. You know I’ll need it to make a dress nice enough for a Redcake wedding.”
“No,” Betsy lied. “I’ve spent it all on a new dress. I needed a new wardrobe.”
“I don’t believe you. Greggory would have paid for all that.” Prissy’s mouth twisted. “How lovely for you to have a fiancé. Wedding plans underway?”
“Jealous?”
“Of course not. I’m getting married, too.”
“To whom?”
“I’ve heard about you for years, you see, Betsy Popham, friend of the rich and aristocratic Redcakes, and now you’ve made it to the top. Guess what, little sister? I’ll have a piece of that life, too, please.”
Betsy tried to look over her sister’s shoulder without drawing attention to herself. She wanted a constable, even though she couldn’t have Prissy arrested for simply being a liar. Could she claim blackmail? The thought made her senses tingle and she swiveled her head.
She realized why immediately. Simon Hellman was standing a shop’s length away. When he saw her, he smirked and moved forward.
“Give your sister some money, Betsy dear,” he said. “We know Redcake didn’t have the payroll on Friday, so you must have your paycheck now.”
“That’s not true,” Betsy said. “I have nothing but small change.”
“Then you’ll have to take us home,” he said, still smiling pleasantly. “Share your stash with us, like you used to do with Victor.”
She glanced frantically at both of their hands. Empty, no knives. Her stomach cramped, reminding her of the pregnancy. She couldn’t take risks, couldn’t run. Then she saw the top of a man’s head. She thought he wore a custodian helmet.
“Help!” she screamed, desperately hoping she’d seen a constable. “Thief! Murder!”
Hellman stepped away from her, a picture of surprise. A whistle blew. Prissy turned to run, but two constables, resplendent in dark blue, converged from opposite directions, striding rapidly toward them. Hellman swore and leaped into the street. A hansom driver yelled at him and stilled his horse just in time. The first constable reached them and hauled him out of the street.
“He’s Simon Hellman and he’s a wanted criminal,” Betsy said.
“Who’s this one?” asked the constable, pointing at Prissy, who stood, unusually still, clearly in shock.
The second constable chuckled, his red lower lip showing beneath his black bushy mustache. Before Betsy could respond, he said, “I’d recognize that one anywhere. Priscilla Dempsey, my love.”
“Dempsey?” said the first constable.
“She’s been wanted in connection with the theft of the Princess of Wales’s bracelet during a charitable event at the Children’s Hospital,” the constable said.
“She’s a jewel thief?” Betsy asked, incredulous. “Like Manfred Cross?”
“Or I’ll eat my buttons,” the constable said, taking her arm. “Come along, love. I’ve a special place for you.”
Prissy turned to Betsy, dignity on display in her serene expression, the haughty tilt of her chin. “You must tell them they have the wrong person.”
“A jewel thief?” Betsy repeated, injecting all the sorrow and indignation she felt into her words. “A jewel thief was murdered at Redcake’s, just when you appeared out of nowhere. Now I learn you are one, too. Do you know what I think, Prissy Weaver? I think you are just like our mother!”
“Manfred wouldn’t steal anymore,” Prissy said, attempting to wrench her arm free. “I had to end our relationship. I didn’t want to pay all his bills.”
“Why would you end it at Redcake’s?” Betsy asked.
Her expression hardened. “That was Simon’s idea.”
Simon was half bent over, a constable behind him, his hair in his eyes, but he managed to look up and smirk. “Never say I didn’t think of you, Betsy.”
&nbs
p; So Simon had been involved. He must truly hate her for her rejection of him years ago. “Oh, Prissy. You decided to marry Simon Hellman? Could you possibly do worse?”
“His mother is dying,” Prissy said. “He’ll inherit her house. If you’d just been willing to speak to him, you’d know that. I came up to London with her originally as her nurse, so she could say good-bye.”
The constable tugged at Prissy, and she was forced to walk away, still smiling at Betsy, while Simon snarled.
Tears blinded Betsy as she walked away from the scene. Two more constables arrived to take orders from the two holding the prisoners. How could she marry now, when her blood was so clearly tainted?
She walked for hours in Kensington Gardens, piecing the story together. Prissy must have been with Manfred and killed him as she ended their relationship. Except she was with Simon already, it sounded like, so maybe he had done it to have Prissy for himself. It didn’t matter. They were in the murder together. Eventually, as night fell, she found herself on Greggory’s street. The front door opened as she walked by, not sure she was ready to go in.
“Betsy,” her father called.
“What?” Her feet dragged.
Her father stepped outside, still dressed for work. “I was worried about you.”
She stopped to answer. “Prissy was arrested for being a jewel thief. She was with Simon Hellman.”
Her father held out his hands. “We know. PC Rivers came to speak to Mr. Redcake. He wasn’t here so I spoke to Rivers. I’m so proud of you, dear. Very smart of you to start screaming when you saw them.”
“I’m sure the police need to speak to me,” she said dully.
“I’m sure they do, but you need to rest first. Where have you been?”
“Walking. Thinking.” Coming to conclusions.
“Now you can concentrate on your wedding. And happiness at last.”
“No,” she said. “I’m going to leave Greggory. Give the child to an orphanage. It will be tainted, Papa. The grandchild and nephew or niece of a murderess. Greggory can’t want either of us now.” She pressed her lips together to hold back a sob.
Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) Page 27