Page 30 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
The hallway dimmed as we moved away from the front windows. In the dormitory, the atmosphere was subdued—sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting soft golden rectangles across rows of narrow cots. A few girls sat up, sewing or folding linens. Others lay on their sides, resting with eyeshalf-closed, arms curled around growing bellies. The hush was gentle, but not entirely still—like the pause between heartbeats. I offered a soft greeting and scanned the room for a face that might be willing to meet mine.
“Lady Rosalynd?” a voice called gently.
I turned my head in that direction. “Yes.”
A girl stepped forward from one of the cots—tall and willowy, with dark hair braided loosely over one shoulder and a level, guarded gaze. She was fairly far along. “I’m Marie,” she said. “Elsie was my friend.”
“May we sit?”
She nodded and led me to a wooden bench beneath one of the narrow windows. The light filtered through sheer curtains, pale and diffused, gilding the edges of her tired face.
“I was told Elsie received a note shortly before she died,” I said gently. “Do you know anything about it?”
Marie looked down at her hands. “She didn’t say much, only that it was from someone important. She kept checking her apron pocket, like she needed to remind herself it was real. She was nervous—restless. But she wouldn’t let me see the message.”
“Did she say who sent it?”
“She said it was private.” Marie’s voice dropped. “But she was scared. That much I know.”
“Did you catch a glimpse of the note?”
“Only for a second when she pulled it out of her pocket. Cream-colored paper. Real fine. Not something any of us could afford. I caught a mark in the corner—something raised, like a crest or a fancy letter. I didn’t get a good look.”
The note I’d just held. “You’re doing really well, Marie,” I said, pressing her hands. “Do you know where she was going that night?”
“She was meeting someone. Said it wouldn’t take long.” Marie paused, swallowing hard. “I begged her not to go. It feltwrong. But she just smiled and said I worried too much. That was after supper.” Her gaze faltered. “She never returned.”
A silence stretched between us as a cart rumbled by in the street, its wheels muffled by the drizzle.
“Do you know where she worked before she came here?” I asked.
Marie hesitated. “She didn’t like to talk about it. But I know it was one of the big houses. Not as a lady’s maid—nothing fancy. Just a housemaid. But she was good with a needle. Said the mistress often had her do the mending. Even trusted her with the master’s shirts.”
“She was valued,” I said quietly.
“She was.” Marie's fingers fidgeted again. “But one day she just . . . left. She wasn’t dismissed. She told me she had to get out. Said she wasn’t safe anymore.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said she made a mistake,” Marie replied, voice soft. “Thought someone cared for her. But after . . . he ignored her. Pretended nothing happened. And then she overheard something.”
My breath caught. “What sort of something?”
Marie glanced at the floor. “She heard voices—two men. One younger, the other older. The older one said that it needed to be taken care of before things got out.”
“Take care of what?”
Marie met my gaze, unflinching. “She never said the words, but . . . they knew she was expecting. And she believed they meant to silence her.”
I felt a coldness move through me, sharper than the rain outside.
“She left that same night,” Marie added. “Turned up here the next day. I don’t think she ever stopped looking over her shoulder.”
I pressed her hand again. “You’ve been very brave to tell me all this, Marie. Thank you. You’ve helped more than you know.”
“She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”
“No,” I said, my voice steady now. “She didn’t.” But someone had thought differently. Whatever had transpired in that house, she’d paid for it with her life.
