“Thank you.” Fi smiled. “Now that that’s settled, let me catch you up on my meeting with Mrs. Swann yesterday.”
Fi described what the proprietress had told her about Lillian and Martin Wheatley.
“The blackguard!” Glory said fiercely. “We must free Lillian from his dastardly clutches.”
“Now that we have a name, description, and the cough…” Livy narrowed her eyes. “What trades might affect one’s breathing and put burns on one’s hands?”
“Blacksmithing?” Pippa suggested.
“Good thought,” Fi said. “But Mrs. Swann said he didn’t smell of coal, nor have visible traces of it on his skin or under his nails. Not easy when one is working at a forge all day.”
“That rules out a miner as well. And you said Mrs. Swann didn’t think Wheatley was a mill worker either.” Glory twirled her cake-laden fork in the air, muttering, “What other occupation might result in burns, problems with the lungs…”
The realization struck Fi.
“Baker,”she exclaimed.
She and Livy grinned at each other; they’d spoken at the same time.
“When Max and I were little, Mama used to take us to her favorite bakeshop,” Fi said. “The baker had a nagging cough, and I remember Mama offering to bring him her special tea. But he said he wasn’t ill; his cough came from breathing in flour dust.Baker’s lung, he called it.”
“Assuming the name Wheatley is an alias,” Livy said thoughtfully, “the choice would be apropos. Possibly a slip of the tongue.”
“So how do we go about finding a baker?” Glory asked. “There must be dozens of bakeshops in London.”
“Won’t the Baker’s Guild have a list of masters and apprentices?” Pippa suggested.
“Good thinking,” Livy said. “Maybe someone there will recognize this Martin Wheatley from our description.”
Pippa was needed back at home, leaving Fi, Glory, and Livy to visit the Hall of the Worshipful Company of Bakers located on Harp Lane. They were greeted by a lanky apprentice named Tom, whose straw-colored hair kept falling into his eyes.
“We would like to speak to someone about membership in your livery company,” Livy said.
He swatted at his unruly front wave. “May I ask for what purpose?”
“We’re looking for a baker, actually.” Fi gave the story they’d prepared on the way over. “You see, my friends and I were at a ladies’ tea and had the most divine baked goods. We were told the baker’s name and would like to locate and hire him for our next charity event.”
When she punctuated her request with a smile, Tom gave her a dazzled look.
“You’ll be wanting to talk to Mr. Dobson, then. He keeps a registry of members.” Tom tossed his hair back. “Follow me, ladies.”
He led them through an airy hall paneled in rich oak and accented with stained-glass windows. They arrived at a small office at the back of the building. The fellow snoozing at the ledger-piled desk looked like he might have been around at the founding of the livery company—which, according to several plaques Fi had seen, had been in 1155.
Tom cleared his throat. Then did it again louder.
Mr. Dobson woke with a start.
“Eggs,” he cried. “That’s the secret.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Dobson,” Tom said with a respectful bow. “These ladies are looking for a baker, and I told them you were the one to talk to.”
Mr. Dobson blinked. Then patted his chest until he found the spectacles dangling from his waistcoat. Putting them on, he peered at the Angels. In his heavily wrinkled face, his brown eyes were clear and sharp.
“I can take it from here, Tom,” he said.
After the apprentice departed, Mr. Dobson tried to rise.
Hearing the painful creaking of bones, Fi said quickly, “If you don’t mind, sir, my friends and I will join you in sitting.”
