When we enter the church hall, I experience a sudden stage fright. All the guests are waiting, and I’m the center of attention again. Cheers and applause greet Barrett and me.
Barrett’s father hurries up to us. “Did you solve the murder?” A retired police constable, he loves to talk shop and enjoys living vicariously through his son.
“Not yet,” Barrett says.
Mr. Barrett and his police cronies hasten to offer their theory that the killer is a member of one or another East End gang. Mrs. Barrett interrupts, “Please, dear, none of your morbid police chatter now. It’s time to eat.”
She herds everyone to tables that she’s decorated with white linen cloths, ribbons, and roses. When I told her I wanted a simple celebration, she said, “Don’t be silly. A girl wants things special on her day, and since you haven’t a mother to help you, leave everything to me.” Now I’m thankful, because the decorations are lovely, and I hope they mean she’s trying to overcome her dislike of me. Barrett and I sit at the main table with his parents, Sir Gerald, and Sally. It’s not a company designed for easy conversation. I have little in common with Mr. and Mrs. Barrett, and her disapproval makes me tense and quiet. And although I like Sir Gerald and I’m thankful to him for my job and the generous salary he pays Hugh, Mick, and me, his presence is equally inhibiting. I’m glad to have Sally for moral support, but she’s shy with Sir Gerald and the Barretts, none of whom she knows well.
Sir Gerald stands and raises his glass. “A toast to the new Mr. and Mrs. Barrett. May they live a long, prosperous, and happy life together.”
Amid cheers, we drink champagne that Sir Gerald has provided. The liquor calms me. I take a deep breath for the first time all day, and the horror of Charles Firth’s murder recedes a little. My mother-in-law is positively giddy about having Sir Gerald at her son’s nuptials. I’m surprised he’s stayed this long, for he must have important business to attend to, but of course even England’s wealthiest, most powerful men need to eat.
When he tastes the first course, creamed rice soup with vegetables, he says, “Delicious.”
Mrs. Barrett preens. “Thank you; I made it myself. The menu is based on Princess Beatrice’s wedding breakfast.” She laughs gaily. “I’m a big admirer of the royal family.”
She overruled my suggestion of sandwiches, cake, and tea. I tried to explain that Barrett and I needed to save money to furnish our new home, but she said he was her only child and this would be her only chance to organize a wedding, so we let her have her way and paid the bills. She economized by doing the cooking herself, with the help of her sisters and nieces. They must have been up all night. As we progress through lamb cutlets with mushrooms and beef filet wrapped in bacon, I’m glad everyone seems to be enjoying it. The whole day has an air of unreality. The conversation around me goes in one ear and out the other …
Until Mrs. Barrett says to Sir Gerald, “Will you be very sorry when Sarah leaves the Daily World?”
“I wasn’t aware that she’s leaving,” Sir Gerald says.
They both turn to me. “I’m not,” I say.
“You mean you’re going to keep working now that you’re married?” Mrs. Barrett speaks as if I’d announced my intention to become a circus performer.
“Yes.” It’s obvious she assumed I would stop and that Barrett hasn’t told her otherwise. When I catch his eye, his sheepish expression says he wanted to avoid her reaction.
Mrs. Barrett demands of him, “And you’re letting her?”
“Sarah and I both think it’s a good idea.” Barrett’s tone is apologetic. “We could use the money.”
“Money is good reason,” Sir Gerald says.
My biggest reasons for keeping my job are more personal. Given my history, I’m loath to give up my financial independence and rely on a man for support as other married women do. That’s a sensitive subject I’ve not discussed with Barrett. Now it occurs to me that perhaps he would rather I quit my job. It’s certainly caused him enough trouble in the past.
“And you’re going to photograph more dead bodies and chase more murderers?” Mrs. Barrett says to me, lowering her angry voice so that guests at other tables won’t hear.
Her husband is busily eating, not wanting to get drawn into the argument. I don’t want to fight with my mother-in-law on my wedding day, but I’m not about to back down. “Yes, I am.”
“That’s not only improper but dangerous. Look how many times you’ve almost been killed!”
She knows about my exploits, at least the details that have been published. She doesn’t know that I have an affinity for danger, a quirk in my otherwise sedate nature. Although danger scares me, it also excites me and makes me feel alive. A dangerous person or situation is like a sleeping wolf that I feel an irresistible urge to poke and wake up.
“Sarah has solved crimes and delivered criminals to justice,” pipes up Sally, my loyal admirer. “She’s a heroine.”
“You’re just as bad as she is,” Mrs. Barrett says. “Working for the newspaper, following in her footsteps! You’ll be lucky to get a husband.”
Sally flushes and looks at her plate. She’s twenty-three, and she’s said she would like to marry, but she hasn’t any suitors. Before she recently began working for the Daily World, she was a maid in a wealthy family’s house, and her prospects were limited. She’s achieved her dream of becoming a writer, but marriage still isn’t in the picture.
“Don’t you talk to my sister that way,” I say to Mrs. Barrett. Sally is dearer to me than she would be if we’d grown up together instead of learning of each other’s existence less than two years ago. I couldn’t love her more if we shared a mother as well as a father. The common factor in our pasts has formed a unique bond between us.
Mrs. Barrett ignores my sharp retort and Sally’s discomfort. “When you find out how much work it is to take care of your husband and your home, you’ll be glad to quit your job.”
“Since we don’t have a home yet, my job won’t get in the way of my domestic responsibilities,” I say.
Mrs. Barrett’s jaw drops. “What do you mean, you don’t have a home yet?”
I frown at Barrett. Here’s another thing he neglected to tell his mother. As he winces, she says to him in an accusing tone, “I thought you’d rented a flat. I thought you’d moved in already and Sarah would be joining you there today.”
Barrett’s shoulders hunch up to his ears. “I didn’t actually say that. I let you think so because I didn’t want you to worry. I’m still living in the police barracks.”
“We haven’t been able to find a flat,” I say. I want one close to Hugh and Mick, and decent flats in Whitechapel are hard to come by.
Mrs. Barrett gasps. “Do you mean that until you find one, you’re going to keep on living with those males?”
That’s how she refers to my friends. She hates that Mick is a former street urchin with a history of petty crime and Hugh a homosexual. She thought it disgraceful enough that her son’s fiancée lived with two single men of such bad character; now she’s even more scandalized that her daughter-in-law will do so.