The Price of Murder Read Free

simply told her that we two are betrothed.”
    “That was a bit hasty, was it not?” said I. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”
    “Well, it won’t be after we have posted the banns.”
    You see, reader, what I had to contend with.
    Having spent some time in Covent Garden, we had collected two or three bags full of fruits and vegetables. Still, we had yet another stop to make, and probably the most important of all. Mr. Tolliver, our butcher and indeed the only one there in the Garden, was but two stalls down from Mrs. Malter’s. He was busy that day, as he usually was, and, while waiting in line, I had the opportunity to enlighten and instruct Clarissa in his ways. He took care of each customer according to her needs (all were women), and so there was more than ample time to whisper to her of Mr. Tolliver’s involvement with Lady Fielding before Sir John appeared and quite dazzled her with his knighthood. Since then, of course, things had gone well for the butcher. He had married, and married well—a widowed dressmaker from his home in Bristol, who earned money enough in her shop so that they might move from the two rooms in which they had begun their married life. They now lived in a modest house in the lower, respectable part of St. Martin’s Lane.
    “His only complaint today,” I concluded, “is that his diligent and resourceful wife is apparently a bit too old to bear children. But then, if she were not, she would have the very devil of a time running her shop and cutting her copies of the latest in French fashions, with children all round.”
    I had spoken in such a quiet tone that I was reasonably certain that Mr. Tolliver had heard nothing. Indeed, I was certain of it when we stepped up before him.
    He greeted me with a great smile and a wink. “Well, Jeremy,” said he to me, “what shall I do for you today?” And then, before I could respond, he quietened me with this: “And who, pray tell, is that fine-looking young lady seekin’ to hide herself behind you?”
    With that, I introduced Clarissa to him, and told him that she would be coming round from time to time, doing the buying, when Molly or I were otherwise employed.
    “And do you cook?” said he to her.
    “I’m learning,” said she.
    “Well, that bein’ the case, you’ll wish to start with something simple. What about a nice stew—beef or mutton, either one.”
    “I’ve done both on a number of occasions, and it turned out well enough. So I thought, perhaps something a bit more demanding . . .”
    “Something like a pot roast, you mean?”
    “Something like that, yes. Have you the right meat for pot roast?”
    “I do indeed,” said he. “Here, let me show you.”
    And show her he did, hacking off a long corner of red from the side of beef that hung behind him. He then brought it over to show us.
    “Now, what you want to do,” he said, “is take this long piece here, roll it round and tie it so. Give it the better part of the afternoon in the oven with potatoes and carrots, and you’ll have a fine pot roast for dinner.”
    “How will I tell when it’s done?”
    “I take it you’ll be cooking this all by yourself? Molly won’t be round to tell you how?”
    She shook her head in the negative. “No,” said she, “I’ll be on my own this whole week or longer.”
    “Ah well, there’s no problem that I can see. Just keep the heat up in the oven and sink a fork into it from time to time. When it goes in easy and comes up clean, you’ll know it’s right.” Then he looked at her right sharp. “Now, what about tomorrow?” he asked.
    “That’s a question I can’t now answer. I’ll be back tomorrow, after I’ve given the matter some consideration.”
    “Fair enough,” said he, “but just remember, the day after is a holiday, and you’ll need to get here early—earlier than this.”
    She nodded solemnly and accepted the package he had wrapped for her.
    To me, he said, “Shall I add it to your bill, or . .