Page 83 of Murder in Blackfriars

Grace, on the other hand, was exuberant. “We need to get amove on, Mum,” she said. “Don’t want all our punters going to Mrs. Weber.”

She named the sour-faced woman whose baked goods stall was down the street from mine, but even outselling Mrs. Weber had lost its zest for me today.

“It doesn’t matter, Grace.”

Grace towed me to the kitchen table, where she’d already started rolling out crusts. “Yes, it does. I’ll only be able to go to the market with you once more after this, and then we’re leaving.”

Her bravado evaporated, and I gathered her to me.

“I know, love.” We held each other for a moment, then I let out a breath and released her. “Now, you are right. Let us get these things baked and to the market.”

* * *

For Grace, I went back to work. If this was the last time but one Grace would assist me at the market, I’d make the most of it.

We rolled and filled, crimped and baked, then loaded the cooling goods into my baskets.

We lugged our pies and tarts across London to Portobello Road and slid behind our table, which today Hannah’s son had set up for us. Customers surged toward us, and I felt a frisson of pride. My pastries were becoming known for their quality.

There weren’t many lulls that afternoon, but whenever there was, Grace went to Hannah’s table to assist her, and I perused the sheets Mrs. Davies had given me, though I drew no conclusions.

I also pondered the ongoing investigation regarding Mr. Banks. Whether Ramsay proved to be his murderer or not, I wanted to try to find any family Mr. Banks might have had—children, an estranged wife, or even cousins he might have tracked down over the years.

For one, I wished to pass on my condolences, and second, I wanted to give them his Crimean War medal.

Mr. Patterson, Mrs. Kerr’s former beau, might know whether Mr. Banks had ever found any family, or if he’d begun a family of his own. Mrs. Duggan, his landlady, might as well. So might Ramsay, in fact.

I’d have to ask Mr. Fielding or Mr. Grimes how to find Mr. Patterson again. I pulled out my notebook and began to make a list of things I needed to do.

A shadow fell over me as I wrote. I looked up, starting in gladness when I found Daniel gazing down at me.

“I’m afraid all of the scones are gone and most of the tarts,” I said, gesturing to the mostly empty table. “Once I sell those last two pork pies, I will go. Will you escort us home?” I quieted as Daniel peered grimly down at me. “What is it? Did Mr. Ramsay confess?”

Daniel shook his head. “Someone tried to kill Ramsay today. Came upon him as he was wending his way through Blackfriars. Ramsay fought back hard, but whoever it was managed to wound him pretty thoroughly with a knife before he ran away. Ramsay crawled to the nearest building, and those inside helped him to a surgeon.”

“Oh, dear.” My pencil fell from numb fingers. “The poor man. Will he be all right?”

“I think so. Grimes, who’s been helping me search the area, alerted me, and we went to him. He’s in a foul temper, but spooked, definitely spooked. He refused to say who did it to him, claiming it happened too quickly for him to see. He might be telling the truth.”

“It might be a falling-out between Ramsay and a fellow tough, or it might be Banks’s killer believing Mr. Ramsay knows he did it.”

Daniel shrugged. “Or it was a random robbery, but the same sort of attack twice in the same place looks suspicious. Grimes hasn’t found anyone who regularly waits for victims in that area, and in fact says that most ruffians were too afraid of Draper’s men to try to operate there.”

“Then we must wait until Mr. Ramsay decides to tell us what happened,” I said. “Unless he truly can’t identify his attacker.”

“I’m fairly certain he knows, which puts him in danger. He is now in the lockup at Scotland Yard, resting and recovering. He didn’t put up a fuss when I and Scott escorted him there, which means he understands his danger. I’ll question him when he’s feeling better, and Scott will as well.”

“Good heavens” was all I could reply.

After all this time, tangling with Mr. Naismith and uncovering a smuggling ring, we still did not know who killed Mr. Banks and why. Now Mr. Ramsay might be another victim, instead of the culprit.

In the meantime, I had avenues of inquiry I wanted to pursue.

“I’d like to visit the workhouse where Mr. Patterson left you,” I said abruptly. “And speak to Mr. Patterson as well. Not today—I want to spend every moment I can with Grace. But I might convince Mrs. Bywater that Mr. Fielding would like my help on some venture or other to do with the missionaries his church sponsors this Saturday or Sunday, and must travel to the East End. Will you come with me?”

* * *

In the privacy of my bedchamber that night, I again went over the long lists Mrs. Davies had given me. It was a tedious business, and I hadn’t finished by morning.