Page 16 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“Covent Garden Market,” Stella finished for her, recognizing the name Darius had mentioned with regard to the redwood tree seedlings. “I recognize you. You always have the freshest blooms,” she said. “And always a book nearby.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The response was punctuated by a sniffle.

Stella dared another glance at the doorman before she reached down to take the girl’s arm. “Come, let’s get you up off the ground and sort this matter,” she urged. “I am Stella. Agremon,” she quickly added, remembering to use Darius’s place name. She would have used her own, but “Akrotiri” made her sound even more foreign than her accent. “What may I call you?”

Sniffling, the girl said, “Iris O’Connor.”

“Well, Miss O’Connor. Let’s see what we can do about your situation.” She offered her arm.

Iris stood, shook out her skirts, and wiped her face with a sodden hanky. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said then, threading her arm around Stella’s so their elbows were interlocked. She glanced around. “Pardon me for asking, but where is your man?”

Stella waved a gloved hand. “In his workshop at home. I don’t require his presence here at the bank, for I have made other arrangements.”

Obviously confused, Iris was about to put voice to a protest, but the doorman was holding the door for them. “Mrs. Agremon,” he said, nodding as the two entered the bank, studiously avoiding looking at Iris. Coward.

Stella barely paused in the lobby, her steps leading them to a wide corridor away from the bank clerks and the customers who waited in a long line. They walked past three closed doors and stopped before another, with the name, “Mr. Theodore Streater,” painted on the wood panel. Beneath his name in smaller letters was the title, “Head of Clerks.”

Stella removed a glove and knocked three times. When a muffled, “Come,” sounded from inside, she opened the door and led Iris to stand before a massive mahogany desk and the man whose name was on the door.

Although she had never been introduced to him, Iris recognized the head of clerks as someone who had frequently bought flowers from her.

Daisies.

“Mrs. Agremon,” Theodore Streater stated, quickly coming to his feet. When Stella offered her left hand, he reached over the desk with his left hand and shook it twice.

“Mr. Streater, so good to see you again,” Stella said. “Miss O’Connor, may I introduce you to Mr. Streater? He is in charge of the clerks here at the bank.”

Iris curtsied. “It’s very good to see you again, sir,” she said, her expression conveying her confusion as to why they had shaken left hands instead of right hands.

“And you, Miss O’Connor,” he replied, his expression conveying another form of confusion. “Please, do be seated and tell me what it is I can do for you.”

Stella took one of the proffered chairs, Iris following suit but more slowly. She was glancing about the huge office, her eyes wide at seeing the shelves of ledgers across the back wall.

“Are you aware one of your bank clerks has apparently stolen this young lady’s money and closed her account?” Stella asked without preamble.

Mr. Streater’s eyes rounded as he straightened in his chair. “That’s quite a serious allegation,” he stated.

“Indeed,” Stella said, turning to Iris. “Tell Mr. Streater what you told me.”

Iris nodded. “I work for the Jones’ Nursery selling flowers at Covent Garden Market—”

“I’ve bought my wife flowers from you,” he interrupted, recognition bringing a grin to his face. “Daisies. Because her name is Daisy,” he added.

“Yes, I remember,” Iris acknowledged. “Every Wednesday afternoon, I come here to make a deposit on the Jones’ behalf—the week’s sales—as well as a deposit into my own savings account. Most of my wages for the week,” she explained. “I did so yesterday, but then my brother died last night—”

Mr. Streater quickly sobered. “Oh, I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “Did he have an account with us as well?”

“No, sir. He… he said he didn’t trust banks, and now I understand why,” she said.

“Well, that won’t do,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

“Thank you, sir. I wish to pay for my brother to be properly buried, but when I came today to make a withdrawal, I was told my account was empty. That it had been closed.” She held out the slip she had received the day before. “But here is the proof of my deposit. It shows what should be in the account today.”

His brows furrowing in suspicion, Mr. Streater took the slip and studied it for a moment. “You’ve had this account a long time,” he murmured.

“Four years, sir. Ever since I started working for the Joneses. My brother pays the… paid… the rent on our room, so I only had to see to buying our food and an occasional book. I’ve been saving the rest, you see,” she explained. “But the bank clerk who waited on me yesterday claims I withdrew all my money, which I did not.” Tears once again dripped down her cheeks. “And now I don’t have a male relative to assist me, and the man out front won’t help me.”

Suspicious, Stella asked, “Did the clerk say anything to you yesterday? While he was seeing to your deposit?”