Page 19 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
For a heartbeat, she only stared, something flickering deep in her eyes—something raw, unspoken.
Before I could say another word, the driver called softly from the perch. “Rosehaven House, Your Grace.”
The moment snapped like a pulled thread.
She gathered her cloak, the cool mask slipping smoothly back into place. “Thank you for the escort.”
Before I could so much as shift, she opened the carriage door and vanished into the misty steps of her home, leaving me alone, fists tight, chest aching, and a heart pounding with things I had no business feeling.
Chapter
Eight
VISIT TO A MORTUARY
The gaslight flickered weakly along the damp stone walls as I stepped through the narrow archway markedSt. James’s Mortuary. A biting wind swept down the alley, carrying the sharp scent of coal smoke, wet cobblestones, and something darker—something unmistakably tied to death.
Inside, the air was heavy and stale, tinged with sourness and damp. Low wooden benches lined the narrow corridor, and a heavy oak door marked the entrance to the viewing room. As I reached for the handle, a figure stepped quickly into my path.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the man said, holding up a hand, his voice polite but firm. “The doctor has strict instructions—no one’s to disturb the examination tonight.”
He was broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark coat with rolled sleeves, a stained apron tied at his waist. His dark hair was slightly mussed, his neatly trimmed beard framed a face lined with fatigue, yet his voice held no sharpness—only quiet professionalism.
Slipping off one glove, I reached into my coat for my card case. “You may inform the doctor,” I said calmly, handing my card to him, “that the Duke of Steele requests entrance.”
For a heartbeat, the man blinked, and then his eyes widened.
“I . . . forgive me, Your Grace,” he stammered. “Please wait here—I’ll inform him at once.”
Folding my hands behind my back, I waited in the stone corridor to be given access. Save for the faint drip of water somewhere down the hall and the low hiss of gaslight overhead, it was eerily silent. But then ghosts do not speak.
Within minutes, the assistant returned, slightly breathless, followed by a lean man in a dark waistcoat, sleeves rolled, collar askew. His hair was thinning at the temples, and round spectacles perched low on his nose. He couldn’t have been much older than thirty-five, yet there was a gravity in his eyes that marked him as someone long accustomed to death.
“Your Grace,” the man said, bowing slightly. “I’m Dr. Loughton. Mr. Tovey tells me you wish to see the girl.”
“I do,” I answered quietly. “I’ll be careful not to disturb your work.”
He exchanged a glance with the assistant, then gave a small nod. “Very well. Please come through.”
We entered the main chamber—a cold, low-ceilinged room lined with rough stone. A single slab stood at its center, the pale form of a girl laid out beneath a thin sheet. The gaslight overhead hissed faintly, casting long, wavering shadows on the walls.
“That’s her, sir,” Tovey said softly, his voice gentling. “Elsie Leonard.”
I stepped forward, boots clicking faintly on the stone floor, and drew a slow, measured breath. She looked so terribly small—pale lashes resting lightly on bruised skin, hands folded neatly atop the thin shroud.
“She was barely sixteen,” Tovey murmured beside me, his eyes clouding. “A resident at St. Agnes. A gentle girl.”
“You knew her?” I asked, glancing at him sharply.
He hesitated, twisting his fingers. “Not well, Your Grace. But . . . I volunteer sometimes. Help deliver parcels—food, blankets, clothes. A little charity, St. Luke’s Guild. I’d see her now and again when I brought things to the home. Always quick with a thank you, she was.”
Tovey’s throat worked, and he cleared it roughly. “Didn’t sit right, seeing her end up here. She wasn’t just another girl from the streets, sir. She had . . . kindness in her.”
I let that settle for a moment, watching the girl’s still, pale form under the flickering gaslight.
“Thank you, Mr. Tovey,” I said quietly. “You’ve done right by her.”
Dr. Loughton spoke quietly, respectful of the stillness in the room. “I examined her shortly after they brought her in. Blunt force to the side of the head. But it wasn’t the blow that killed her—it was strangulation. Manual, not by ligature. A man’s hands.”
