Page 20 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
My brow drew down. “You’re certain it was a man?”
Loughton gave a measured nod. “The size of the grip tells us a great deal. Let me show you, if you can bear it.”
Without waiting, he gently rolled the sheet down to Elsie’s collarbone, revealing the pale, bruised skin of her throat. Dark, fingerprint-shaped marks marred the delicate flesh, wrapping from beneath her jaw to the base of her neck.
“These impressions are too wide for a woman’s hand,” Loughton murmured, pointing carefully. “And the depth of pressure here—along the sides—indicates considerable strength. She was overpowered.”
A cold weight settled in my chest. “She never stood a chance.”
“No,” Loughton said softly. “Not against him.”
I drew a slow breath and rolled my shoulders back. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been thorough.”
He gave a weary nod. “I’ll have a formal report ready for the coroner in the morning. But if you require anything further, Your Grace, you’re welcome to come directly to me.”
I met his gaze. “I may do just that.”
Nearby, Elsie’s belongings had been laid out with quiet care: a faded dress, a worn shawl, a thin apron, and a pair of scuffed shoes.
I turned back to him. “May I take a closer look?”
He inclined his head. “Of course.”
Carefully, I lifted the garments one by one, fingers running over seams, folds, edges.
At the edge of the dress waistband, my fingers caught on something—a faint ridge, just beneath the lining. My pulse quickened.
With delicate care, I eased it open, working the stitches loose with the tip of my penknife. Inside, hidden so carefully it might’ve been missed entirely, was a tiny, stitched pocket. My fingers tightened faintly as I reached in and drew out a small, tightly folded scrap of paper.
Carefully, I unfolded it, holding it close to the gaslight. The message inside was penned in a delicate, slanted hand:
Dear Elsie, I have news that you will like. Please meet me behind the bakery at the corner of St. John’s Lane and Albion Place at nine o’clock. Tell no one about our meeting. I will explain when I see you.
My jaw tightened. There was no signature.
Whoever had written it hadn’t needed one. Elsie had known the handwriting—known it well enough to trust it. Well enough to leave the safety of St. Agnes and walk alone into the dark.
I frowned as I turned the paper over between my gloved fingers. The texture was fine—too fine. Heavyweight, expensive—the kind of cardstock only a man of means, or someone attached to a wealthy household, might use.
Then, there—in the far corner, barely visible—a faint, embossed mark. Not a stationer’s logo from a public shop, no. This was custom, possibly a crest, the sort of quiet luxury that bespoke wealth and caution.
Someone with money had arranged this meeting. And now Elsie was dead.
I wouldn’t risk removing the original. But I’d seen enough to know this wasn’t some sordid affair gone wrong or a simple fall from grace.
I glanced back at her—Elsie Leonard, cold and still on the slab, her story reduced to a handful of belongings and a folded scrap of paper.
Who did you go out to meet, Elsie?And why did it cost you your life?
Without a word, I pulled a slim leather notebook and pencil from the inner pocket of my coat, carefully copying down the message in full. Once finished, I turned slightly, holding the notebook out.
“Doctor,” I said quietly, “would you sign here? To confirm this is a faithful and true copy of this note found in the girl’s pocket.”
Dr. Loughton blinked, then nodded gravely. After carefully reading the note, he took the pencil from my hand and signed his name in a precise, steady script.
“Thank you,” I murmured, reclaiming the notebook and tucking it carefully away. Only then did I refold the scrap and slip it back into the hidden pocket.
“She was meeting someone,” I said softly, more to myself than to the others. “Someone she was told to keep quiet about.”
