Page 13 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
There was nothing more to be done—for now.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of half-hearted distractions: reviewing the household accounts, replying to notes I scarcely remembered writing, offering Julia company while she rested on her chaise. But all the while, Chrissie’s words lingered in my mind, like a tune I couldn’t quite shake.
That night, I stood in my bedchamber, preparing for bed, when a soft knock came at the door.
Tilly crossed the room to answer, revealing one of our footmen on the other side. “An urgent missive, milady,” he murmured, extending a small envelope.
My brow furrowed as Tilly handed it to me. Who could be sending a note at this hour?
Lady Rosalynd — come at once. Elsie has been found dead — strangled. Please, I beg you, help us. —Sister Margaret
The words blurred before my eyes, though I read them again. And again. Dead. Elsie was dead. Murdered. An overwhelming grief filled me.
But that would not do. I needed to act. Drawing a sharp breath, I forced myself to steady. Turning to the footman, I instructed him to have the Rosehaven carriage readied at once,then asked Tilly to help me back into a simple gown. No corset. This was no social call.
In no time at all, I was climbing into the Rosehaven carriage on my way to St. Agnes. A miserable night it was with the wheels rattling furiously over the cobblestones, each jolt stretching the journey unbearably long. Through the rain-streaked window, the streets grew narrower and darker, crooked buildings huddled close as though whispering grim secrets to each other. The damp scent of stone, smoke, and refuse crept in even through the glass.
By the time we reached St. Agnes, the very air seemed drenched in grief.
Sister Margaret met me in the front hall, her usually strong, capable face pale and drawn, eyes red-rimmed from weeping. “Oh, Lady Rosalynd.” Her voice broke as she reached for my hands. “It’s too awful. They found her about two hours ago. Strangled.” Her breath hitched. “That poor child.”
I squeezed her hands tightly, swallowing the thick knot rising in my throat. “I’m so sorry, Sister Margaret. Please tell me what you need. How can I help?”
She drew me gently toward her office, closing the door softly behind us. “The local constable came first. He was kind, as gentle as one could be with such terrible news. But then . . .” She wiped at a fresh tear. “Then Inspector Dodson arrived.” Her expression hardened. “I’ve met his kind before. They see girls like Elsie as nothing—just another unfortunate, another waste. But I won’t stand for that.” Her jaw trembled. “These young women are of value, no matter what the world says. And I fear . . . I fear he’ll sweep this under the rug. And Elsie’s murderer will never be found.”
“We can’t allow that to happen.” My voice sharpened, my resolve hardening. Inspector Dodson and I had crossed swords before. He was a man of rigid views and a sharp tongue, withlittle patience for women of my class, much less someone like Elsie.
“No, indeed, we can’t.” Sister Margaret drew in a shaky breath. “You’re a woman of standing, Lady Rosalynd. If you demand justice, perhaps they’ll actually listen.”
I straightened, bracing myself. “Where was she found?”
Her eyes shimmered with fresh grief. “In an alley just behind the bakery, off the main stretch of Trinity Lane. A place where folk leave their rubbish. How she ended up out there, I can’t fathom.” Her voice cracked again. “She never left without permission, especially not at such a late hour.”
The weight of it settled heavy on my shoulders—the injustice, the tragedy, the utter waste of that young life. And beneath it, a slow, simmering anger stirred. I would not let Elsie’s death be dismissed. I would not let her be forgotten.
“I’d like to speak to the young ladies,” I said. “We need to know if anyone has any idea why Elsie left St. Agnes tonight.”
“Of course,” Sister Margaret replied gently. “But I must warn you, most of them are terribly shaken. I doubt many will make much sense.”
“Even fragments may prove useful.”
“They’re in the dormitories, trying to sleep. Though I doubt many are managing it.”
We had only just stepped into the corridor when the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed toward us—the sharp rhythm of polished boots on wood.
Sister Margaret’s mouth tightened. “That’ll be him. Dodson.”
The inspector appeared at the end of the hallway, tall and broad-shouldered, his thick frame wrapped in a rumpled greatcoat that did little to soften the impression of brute force. His dark eyes glinted beneath bushy brows, and his mouth twisted into something that might, in better company, have passed for a smile.
Sister Margaret stiffened beside me, her hands knotting tightly in her apron, as if bracing for a blow.
"Lady Rosalynd," he drawled, his tone steeped in clipped authority. "I heard you were here. How very . . . predictable."
I met his gaze without flinching. "Inspector Dodson."
He gave me a slow, disdainful once-over. "Trying to save wayward lambs, are you?"
I lifted my chin. "If you’re referring to the young women under this roof, they are not wayward. Especially those preyed upon by despicable men."
