Free Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) by Heather Hiestand Page B

“Do not hesitate to lean on me and your uncle, Greggory. It will not be business as usual in Kensington any time soon. Be prepared for tough times.”
     
    Betsy drank tea at one corner of a long wooden table in the Redcake’s tearoom kitchen, her father next to her. Though early, the ovens were crammed full of treats to be served later, the fragile items that weren’t shippable from the factories. A tray of factory cakes was being decorated with piped frosting and dried berries. Cream was being beat for trifle topping. On the other end of the table, a cook was cutting vegetables for the day’s soup. A man came through the rear door, hauling cans of milk. The fragrant scent of full leaf tea underlay everything, as it was ladled into pots to be ready for the first brewings.
    Betsy appreciated her view of the orderly comings and goings, the modulated voices and coordination of movement. Especially given the night before. The tearoom had been scrubbed thoroughly about an hour earlier; the coroner had made a special early morning visit to view the scene so the tearoom could be opened. She’d heard someone talking about the Marchioness of Hatbrook and suspected her old friend’s government connections had made the police move quickly.
    When she saw the time on the wall clock, Betsy’s focus turned to her father. “Thank you for coming.”
    Her father put his hand over his mouth to hide a yawn. “Of course. I need to be off to work in a minute.”
    “I know. At least we are close to the end of the week. Not much sleep for either of us last night.”
    He nodded. “Did you manage on that sofa?”
    “Likely better than you did in the chair.” They grimaced at each other. “It had to be done, though. Mr. Redcake had to notify the family.”
    “He had to notify Lord Judah,” her father said.
    “Why? Was Mr. Redcake afraid they would find another dead body at the other tearoom?”
    “You worked with Lady Judah in the Fancy. Don’t you remember her surname was Cross?”
    Betsy lifted her teacup and drained the contents. “It never crossed my mind. Was the dead man her brother?”
    “Yes, younger brother.”
    “I see. Of course he had to notify Lord Judah. Goodness, that means the dead man was the nephew of an earl.”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    Mr. Soeur walked past, a glint in his eye as he saw a baker taste dough with a finger he’d just used to wipe his eye.
    “At least the police are likely to work very hard to solve his murder. I had thought he was quite a low character, given that Prissy Weaver is just a seamstress’s assistant and seemed to know all about him.”
    “You sent her to the house last night.”
    “I had no choice.” Betsy set down her cup and leaned forward. “Who is she, Papa?”
    Her father glanced away for a moment, into space, before responding. “She must be your half sister. I was never clear on the reason why Sarah’s first husband’s parents took Prissy away from her. Of course at the time I didn’t know Sarah had killed her husband. Perhaps she thought they could do a better job with a young child because she was running the boardinghouse.”
    “How old was Prissy then?”
    Mr. Soeur yelled at the baker. He gestured back and stormed off.
    Her father shook his head at the scene before turning back to her. “About two, I suppose. She looks so much like you now, like your mother.”
    So they did look like their mother. “She must be only about three years older than I am.”
    “About that,” her father agreed.
    “What happened to her?”
    “She would have been about seven when your mother, well . . .”
    He lifted his hands, and Betsy filled in the missing words. “Was executed.”
    He nodded. “Yes. We didn’t see Prissy often. You’d have no reason to remember her.”
    “I have no recollection whatsoever,” Betsy admitted.
    “I think the grandparents brought her over on her birthday. Maybe once a year beyond that. It was a very limited contact.”
    “Did she act as