“I see the rain hasn’t let up,” Belle said, when Mrs. Tipps stowed her umbrella in the stand and removed her wet wrap and hung it on the rack.
“If this continues, we’ll all be drowned.”
Belle was unfazed by the negativity. She was too tired to try and infuse some cheer into Mrs. Tipps. “I was about to brew some Hot Cinnamon Spice tea. It’s a lovely blend, perfect for days like this. Would you like a cup?”
Mrs. Tipps halted midway to the counter. “Hot Cinnamon Spice?” she said as though the words were another language.
“Yes.” Belle lifted the little packet of tea. “This blend features three types of cinnamon, and they are combined with clove.” She sniffed at the leaves. “Orange rind as well, I think. It has a bit of spice and is said to be good for the circulation.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my circulation.
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“And what is wrong with Darjeeling? Mr. Tipps and I always drink Darjeeling.”
Belle let out a small sigh. What had she been thinking? She knew better than to offer anything new to Mrs. Tipps. “Darjeeling is wonderful. It’s one of our most popular teas.”
“I should think so,” Mrs. Tipps said, coming to stand at the counter. “It’s tradition, and there is nothing wrong with tradition.”
The bell on the door tinkled again, and both women turned to see Mrs. Price enter. She was not carrying an umbrella but held her wrap over her head, ostensibly to keep off the rain. As the rain had slowed from a deluge to a mere stream, she was reasonably dry. “Good morning, Belle. Mrs. Tipps,” she said, hanging her wrap on the rack beside Mrs. Tipps’s damp wrap.
“What’s good about it?” Mrs. Tipps said again.
Mrs. Price—Belle didn’t know why they called her missus, as she’d never mentioned a husband in all the time Belle had known her—paused to consider that question. “The rain is good for the flowers,” she said with a decisive nod. She came forward to join Mrs. Tipps on the other side of the counter. By now, Belle had warmed the pot, spooned the Hot Cinnamon Spice into the teapot, and was pouring the water she’d boiled on the small stove into the pot to steep the tea. Several years ago, she’d suggested to her father they take the unusual step of adding a stove behind the counter so they might brew tea during the day and offer samples to customers. Mrs. Tipps might not appreciate a sample, unless it was Darjeeling, but Belle suspected Mrs. Price stopped in daily because she always hoped for a complimentary cup.
Mrs. Price rarely bought tea and then only the cheapest blends, but Belle didn’t mind. Mrs. Price was always pleasant company.
“Flowers!” Mrs. Tipps scoffed. “It’s November. What flowers?”
“Oh, all the flowers waiting to bloom in spring,” Mrs. Price said airily. “What is that scent, dear? It smells wonderful.”
“Hot Cinnamon Spice.”
“Ooh!” She clapped her hands together. “Might I try it?”
“Of course.”
Mrs. Price threw a look at Mrs. Tipps. “I suppose you will stick with your Darjeeling.”
“It is a classic,” Mrs. Tipps said.
“I love to try something new.” Mrs. Price leaned on the counter. “Speaking of all things new, I noticed you had some commotion at your door last night, Belle.”
Belle bit her tongue in an effort to stifle a curse. She’d hoped that with the dark and the rain, her neighbors would not have spotted the Randalls’ coach or the footmen carrying Mr. Arundel inside.
“Did we?” she said, pretending to rummage about under the counter for the teacups. Of course, she knew exactly where they were. They were right where they always were.
“Yes,” Mrs. Price went on, seemingly unaware that Belle wished to avoid the topic. “Quite a grand carriage too. At least it looked like it from my window.”
Mrs. Price would know as she was almost always looking out her window, keeping a watchful eye on Fenchurch Street. She didn’t have a direct view of the shop as her flat was on the same side as the tea shop, but she could see the street well enough. Belle was usually appreciative of her neighbor’s vigilance. The shop had been vandalized a time or two and no shop in London was safe from urchins who ran in to snatch and grab.
At the moment, however, Belle wished Mrs. Price had been in bed last night. “It was Mr. and Mrs. Randall’s carriage,” she said. “Mrs. Randall is a family relation.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Price said. “Her brother is married to dear Margaret. How is Margaret?”
“Might I have my tea now?” Mrs. Tipps asked, impatiently. Clearly, she was in no mood for chitchat.
“Of course.” Belle held out the tea and took the coin Mrs. Tipps offered. “Margaret is well. She is with Mr. Dormer at his country house.”
Mrs. Tipps gathered her tea and started back toward the door and the rack holding her wrap.
“Then it was not she who was carried out of the carriage last night,” Mrs. Price said. Mrs. Tipps halted, turned, and started back for the counter.
Belle pretended to remember her Hot Cinnamon Spice. “I think this has steeped long enough. Let me drain the leaves and pour you a cup.”
“None for me, thank you,” Mrs. Tipps said. “Who was carried inside last night?”
Belle took her time with the tea, trying to decide what or how much to say. But really, what was the point in hiding the truth or dissembling? Everyone knew the business of everyone else on Fenchurch Street, and it would all come out eventually.
Belle turned with a teacup in each hand. She set the cups on the counter. “It is a man called Mr. Arundel. He was stabbed.”
Mrs. Price made an O with her mouth, and Mrs. Tipps’s eyes widened. She took one of the cups of tea—the tea she had not wanted—and sipped.
“Stabbed?” Mrs. Price said, finally recovering her voice.
Belle nodded. “I don’t know the details, but he is good friends with Mr. Randall. Apparently, he was accosted right outside their home.”
“And how do you know this man?” Mrs. Tipps asked, eyes narrowed.
“I don’t.”
“He is acquainted with Mr. Howard then?”
Belle shook her head. “No. Neither of us had met the man before last night.” She might drag this conversation out by offering only tidbits of information here and there, but that would only mean she would be asked about it all day from one neighbor or another who would find an excuse to stop in. She could avoid some of that if she just told Mrs. Price. Mrs. Price would be certain to inform the rest of the street. Mrs. Price picked up the other cup of Hot Cinnamon Spice and seemed to settle in for a tale.
“The Randalls were quite at sixes and sevens,” she said. “Mrs. Randall is with child, and it seemed the shock of Mr. Arundel’s injury sent her into labor.”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Price put a hand to her cheek.
“The poor woman.” That from Mrs. Tipps, who was still drinking Belle’s cup of Hot Cinnamon Spice.
“Yes, well, the Randalls called the surgeon, and he stitched Mr. Arundel, but the doctor who came could hardly care for Mr. Arundel and Mrs. Randall.”
“Does he not have people of his own?” asked Mrs. Tipps.