“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Kettle asked, confused.
“A ship flying a Scottish flag arrived yesterday or the day before that. You may know it—theAnna Marie?”
Of course, he knew theAnna Marie.It was a thirty-year-old clipper that ran between Le Havre and London at regular intervals. It had recently been outfitted with steam. He’d received the paperwork on her arrival just this morning. “And?”
“And...I have heard that four Weslorian soldiers were passengers aboard that ship.”
Mr. Kettle’s stomach growled.“And?”he said more insistently. “What business is it of yours?”
“Oh, Mr. Kettle. I should think the answer obvious, even to you. If there are four Weslorian soldiers listed on the manifest, a reasonable person might assume they arrived in London for unpleasantry.”
That did not follow at all. “If there arenotfour on the manifest, one might assume they were not on the ship after all, and whoever has said they were has bats in the belfry. And what if they are on the manifest? What does that prove?”
“It proves that I am wrong and you are right, and I will be perfectly satisfied and will leave you to your potato.”
“It is acarrot,” he said tersely. “Once again, Mrs. Honeycutt, it appears you have no idea what you are talking about.”
She laughed softly. “You’re not the first to accuse me of that.” She glanced over her shoulder at the other woman. That woman came forward and Mr. Kettle noticed for the first time that she was carrying a large shopping basket that bounced against her leg as she walked.
“I will concede that my thinking may not make sense to you, but I assure you, I know what I am doing and this is important information. Will you allow me to look, please?”
Mr. Kettle snorted a laugh. Why did she think a Scottish ship would be any different from a Weslorian ship?“No,”he said, his voice full of incredulity.
She folded her arms and fixed him with a stare, not unlike the cold stare Mrs. Kettle had given him the morning she left.
“Mr. Kettle, please allow me to introduce you to my dear friend, Miss Dumont.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Kettle,” the woman said.
Mr. Kettle looked from one woman to the next, both of them looking at him in a manner that left him feeling unsettled. Was he supposed to greet this one? “How do you do,” he said stiffly, and pulled himself up to his full height, which, disappointingly, was only eye level with Mrs. Honeycutt.
Miss Dumont noticed his pail.“Oh,”she said, sounding surprised and slightly disgusted. “Is that your luncheon, sir?”
“Very sad, isn’t it?” Mrs. Honeycutt remarked. “Such a robust man with such a tiny bit of food.”
“It’s tragic,” Miss Dumont agreed. “He must be very hungry.”
Mr. Kettle’s stomach growled again.
“Poor man,” Miss Dumont said.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Honeycutt asked.
“The cakes?” Miss Dumont returned.
The cakes?What cakes?Just the mention of cake caused Mr. Kettle’s stomach to growl again.
“Yes, the cakes,” Mrs. Honeycutt confirmed.
Mr. Kettle looked from one woman to the other, then watched with great curiosity as Miss Dumont reached into the basket and removed a plain brown-paper package tied by a slender red ribbon. He saw the name printed neatly on the paper:Charbonnel et Walker.Mr. Kettle knew that shop. It was one of the best chocolate shops in all of London. He passed by their window several times a week to marvel at the chocolate delicacies and tiny cakes.
Miss Dumont untied the ribbon and folded back the paper. Four small chocolate cakes were nestled inside the paper.
He looked up at Mrs. Honeycutt. “Are you...are youbribingme, Mrs. Honeycutt?” he asked, his voice a whisper of disbelief.
“Bribing?”She laughed gaily. “We are concerned for your wretched lunch, Mr. Kettle! How can you possibly do the queen’s work with no provisions? How uncharitable it would be to have these cakes on our person and not offer you one while you stand here before us with no food to speak of.” She took one cake from the wrapping and put it on the desk. It sat on its own little island of paper, and with one finger she nudged it closer to him. “Perhaps you could enjoy this cake while I have a peek at the Scottish ship manifest.”
Oh, but she was a devil of a woman. But he looked again at the cake and his belly rumbled. He shifted his gaze to the stack of correspondence from this morning, picked up the lot of it, and set it down before her. Then he drew the cake to him.
