Chapter 14
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 the touch 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.
The train jerked forward, taking us out of the station into a dark and unnerving tunnel. I preferred looking out of the windows of trains at the passing sights, and moving under the earth was not to my taste.
We moved west, paralleling the river, through Blackfriars, then along to Westminster, Belgravia, and Kensington, looping northward again to Notting Hill, where we descended.
Though I clenched my hands around the basket handle as though it would save me from any dynamite laid by anarchists, we arrived safely in half the time it would have taken to jolt through London in a hansom.
Daniel’s home would be much closer, I decided as Grace and I trudged up the stairs to the teeming street above. However, the camaraderie with and closeness of my daughter as I’d baked today would never be matched.
Hannah awaited us at what was to be my stall. Stall was a grandiose term for the rather rickety table and old stool behind it, but I could not complain.
“You took your time,” Hannah said. “Others are already sold out and packing up.”
“Baking can’t be rushed,” I said calmly, setting down my basket. “If one wants the pastries to be crisp and brown and not soggy.”
Hannah shook her head. She’d never understood my obsession with perfect baking.
“I’ll help you set things out,” she said.
I had brought a cloth, which we draped over the table, and large platters to contain the pies until they were purchased. Joanna had suggested newspaper for wrapping them and had given me ones Sam had finished reading this morning.
“Smells good, missus.” A man in a cloth cap paused as I finished arranging the meat pasties on one tray. “How much?”
I’d given much thought on what to charge, having studied the prices the other stall holders gave to similar baked goods. One haggled in a market, but there had to be a starting price so both seller and buyer would reach one fair to both.
Also, I had to make certain I priced them high enough to make back what I’d spent, but not so high as to frighten away the customers. Or, this being London, to hear their ridicule.
“Penny for the meat pies,” I said. “Ha’penny for the fruit tarts. You can hold them in your hand and nibble at them.” I gestured at the tarts Grace laid out, while Hannah stood back, letting me make my first sale on my own.
“Penny’s dear,” the man said, hesitating.
“Not for the juiciest meat and crispest pastry, baked fresh not an hour ago,” I declared.
“Still…” The man prevaricated, obviously wanting a bargain.
“One penny,” I said firmly. “But as you’re the first customer of the day, I’ll throw in a fruit tart with it. Two for an extra farthing.”
The man gazed hungrily at the pasties and tarts, which not only were perfectly golden brown, but exuded the warm odors of gravy and plum jam.
“I’ll take all three,” the man said at last. “Penny and a farthing.” He laid down a penny and a ha’penny, and I rummaged in my coin purse to return a farthing as his change.
Grace wrapped the fruit tarts in the newspaper as we’d practiced, and I folded paper around the meat pie, handing all to the man. He peeled paper back from the plum tart and took a small bite.
His face changed. “Cor blimey.” He chewed and swallowed, running a tongue over his lips. “That’s a bit of heaven, that is. You be here tomorrow?”
“Monday afternoon and Thursday,” I answered. “I am pleased you like them. I am Mrs. Holloway, if you wish to tell your friends where to find good pies.”
He grinned around his next bite, plum jam smeared on the corners of his mouth. “Right you are, missus.”
He hurried away, stuffing the rest of the tart he’d begun into his mouth.
Hannah pressed her hands together and danced a little jig. “My, my, you were splendid. Your first punter, and you persuaded him to spend more than he meant to. You are skilled at this.”
“If I had been more skilled, I’d have had a penny and half without having to give anything away,” I said glumly.
“No, no. It’s give and take, innit? You sweeten it up, and they buy something instead of walking away. You did exactly right.”
I supposed, if I looked at it correctly, I did just make a penny and a quarter when the man had been prepared to buy nothing.
“I think it’s exciting,” Grace said. “Like a game.”
“Which you will not play, young lady,” I admonished. “You sit quietly and help wrap the things, as we discussed. I will talk to the customers, not you.” Grace was very comely, I had her out in a crowd, and my mother’s fears did not settle.
“Yes, Mum.” Grace’s grin showed me she wasn’t contrite.
Hannah winked at her. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. If you find it dull going, Grace, you can always come to my table.” She laughed at my frown, waved to us, and departed, her dark skirts swinging.
* * *
I did not expect to sell anything more that afternoon, but to my surprise, I had a number of people stop by my stall. My first customer must have indeed told his friends and even passersby, because men and women in all shapes and sizes came to look at what I had to offer.