Page 29 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
After a few minutes, he returned. Wordlessly, he helped me down and guided me into the mortuary’s inner chamber. The air was heavy, laced with the unmistakable scent of formaldehyde. But that didn’t matter. Elsie did.
She lay beneath a shroud, small and still. One hand had been left uncovered.
I approached quietly and stood beside her. Taking her hand in mine, I was struck by how cold it felt—cold and delicate, as though even in death she was trying not to trouble anyone.
“Elsie, it’s Lady Rosalynd,” I whispered. “I hate what has happened to you. You had a life ahead of you, but it was cruelly cut short. I promise, from the depths of my soul, I will find who did this to you. I will see justice done.”
A tear slipped down my cheek, and Steele offered a handkerchief—linen, with a faint trace of his scent clinging to the fabric.
“Rest in peace, Elsie,” I murmured. I bowed my head and whispered a fervent prayer over her.
I turned to find Steele watching me, his expression unreadable. But his eyes were not unmoved.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“Come,” he said, his voice a little rough.
We stepped out into the gray afternoon where the air felt no lighter than within. As we left the mortuary behind, the sorrow clung to us still—like a funeral veil trailing in our wake.
Rather than takehis own conveyance, Steele opted to join me on our brief journey to St. Agnes, leaving his carriage to follow behind. Our ride passed in silence, save for the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves and the occasional creak of the carriage. He sat across from me, one arm braced on the window ledge, his gaze fixed outward. I found myself studying the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders—his quiet, implacable rage at what had been done to Elsie.
I understood it. I felt it as well.
The Home for Unwed Mothers stood like a pale sentinel amid the soot-streaked brick of Trinity Lane. It may have been humble, but it was carefully kept in order. Flowers bloomed along the front path. Someone had scrubbed the steps clean that morning. Signs of care in a place most would rather forget.
Steele offered his hand to me as I descended the carriage steps.
Inside, we were greeted by the familiar scent of lavender and chalk, and the sight of Sister Margaret coming down the hallway, her keys jangling at her waist. She halted when she saw Steele—a flicker of surprise crossing her worn features.
“Sister Margaret,” I said gently. “May I present His Grace, the Duke of Steele.”
She dipped into a deep curtsy, though her eyes narrowed with curiosity. “Your Grace. A pleasure to meet you.”
Steele gave a short bow. “I’m sorry we meet under such circumstances.”
“As am I.” She folded her hands tightly. “That poor girl.”
The duke inclined his head. “I’m here to offer my help.”
“Your assistance is much appreciated.”
“In that respect, may I ask the name of the constable who found Elsie?”
Her lips pursed. “Constable Collins. Young but quite dedicated to his duties. He was very kind to us last night when he came with the news about . . .” Her voice cut short.
“No need to explain. That’s all I needed to know. I’ll go in search of him.” He turned to me then, a glance of quiet understanding passing between us. “I’ll leave you to it then, Lady Rosalynd. The carriage will wait until you are done.”
“Thank you,” I said.
With a final nod, he departed, the sound of the front door closing behind him echoing faintly down the corridor.
Sister Margaret gave me a tired smile. “The girls are in the dormitory. Most have finished their chores for the day and are resting before supper. Some have little ones to tend to. Others are . . . preparing for the birth of their child.”
There was a quiet weight to her words.
“Shall I walk you back?” she asked.
“Please.”
