Page 28 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
Finch slipped the envelope into a drawer without looking. “Then I suppose I’d better start doing so.”
Coming to his feet, he extended a hand.
I rose and shook it. His grip was firm. Dependable. “I trust you, Finch.”
“I know. That’s why I’ll get it done.”
Chapter
Eleven
INK AND ASHES
After taking my luncheon in solitude, I changed into a dusky gray gown unlikely to draw notice. I wore no hat trimmed in feathers. No jewels to gleam beneath the afternoon sun. Only gloves, a plain cloak, and a sense of grim purpose.
At precisely two o’clock, the carriage arrived.
Steele had arranged for it. It was just like him—ever in control, but doing what he could to soften the sharp edges of what lay ahead.
After I settled into the seat of the waiting vehicle, the driver snapped the reins, and the horses moved forward at a brisk pace. Afternoon light slanted through the windows, flickering over my skirts as the city passed in a blur.
I arrived at the mortuary at St. James’s just as the sky began to cloud, the air thick with the threat of rain. I reached for the door latch. But before I could grab it, the door opened from the outside.
Steele, of course. “Lady Rosalynd,” he said, his voice low and certain, “you should remain in the carriage. There’s nothing inside worth seeing.”
“I’m not afraid,” I replied, shifting forward.
He shook his head once. “That’s not the point.”
Without giving me the chance to argue, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The scent of rain clung to his coat, mingling with bergamot and something deeper—darker. His face was drawn, his expression carved in restraint, and the tightness around his eyes warned me not to press.
“I have the note,” he said, withdrawing a folded sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his coat. “The mortuary assistant gave it to me without protest.”
I accepted it, our fingers grazing as he passed it into my hands. The parchment was of unusually fine quality—too fine for Elsie. I slipped off one glove and turned the paper over carefully, angling it toward the carriage lantern’s warm glow. There, faint and just catching the light, was a raised watermark: a curledWwithin a laurel wreath.
“Wigmore & Sons,” I said quietly.
Steele glanced at me. “You’re certain?”
“I’m quite certain. My father used them exclusively for his personal correspondence.” I hesitated, frowning. “They’re popular among the nobility, which makes it all the more difficult to determine who ordered this particular batch.” I tilted the note again, fingers seeking the familiar texture of watermarked vellum. A shadow caught my eye—something more. “There’s something here,” I murmured.
“Where?”
“There,” I said, pointing. “A curved line. Just here.”
He took the note from me, and as our fingers brushed again, something fluttered inside my chest—sharp and fleeting. I held still, watching him lift it to the light. “That could be anything.”
“It’s a clue,” I said firmly. “Wigmore & Sons might recognize it. You should sketch it before it fades from memory.”
Without argument, he pulled the same small notebook he’d shown me at St. George’s from inside his coat. As he began to draw the curve with precise strokes, the scent of bergamot stirred again—familiar now, unsettling in its own way.
As a lull settled between us, I turned my attention to what I sought to do. “I would like to see Elsie,” I said in a firm tone.
Steele paused. “And what do you hope to gain, Lady Rosalynd?”
“It isn’t about what I hope to gain,” I replied softly. “It’s about what I hope to give. That poor girl was murdered, examined, and left lying alone in the cold. I’d like to offer a parting touch. A moment of kindness. If she’s covered, that’s fine. But I would like her hand visible.”
He exhaled, long and low. “Very well. Wait here while I arrange it.”
