Page 31 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
Chapter
Twelve
THE BEAT OF THE CITY
Snow Hill Station squatted just off Farringdon Street, a soot-darkened hulk of brick and stone with narrow windows that glared like watchful eyes. A brass lantern hung above the entry arch, its glass blackened by years of coal smoke, and a battered blue noticeboard stood crookedly to one side, plastered with faded reward posters and theft reports.
I stepped inside.
The air smelled of ink, leather, and pipe smoke—overlayed with the faint, metallic tang of dried blood and damp wool. Inside, the station was cramped but efficient. Rows of coat hooks lined one wall; a pair of truncheons hung behind the counter, along with a notice declaringNo Gratuities Accepted by Officers of the Law. Footsteps echoed from the corridor beyond, accompanied by the clatter of a typewriter.
A heavyset desk sergeant in uniform looked up as I approached, his mustache stained with tea, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his helmet.
“Yes, sir?”
“Good afternoon. I’m looking for Constable Collins,” I said. “I’m told he regularly patrols near Trinity Lane and the vicinity of St. Agnes.”
The desk sergeant eyed me warily, his gaze flicking over the quality of my coat, my gloves, and—no doubt—the impatience I wasn’t bothering to conceal. I drew a leather case from my pocket and flipped it open, revealing my credentials—less a badge than a seal from the Home Office, discreetly embossed with my title.
Recognition settled across his features like a thaw.
“Aye, Your Grace. Collins is the one you want.”
“I understand he discovered the body last night.”
His expression sobered. “One of the girls from St. Agnes. Poor soul. Terrible business, that. Strangled.”
I nodded once. “Do you know where I might find him?”
The sergeant rubbed his hand over his jaw, the stubble rasping like sandpaper. “He’s on the afternoon circuit—started just after two. Usual beat takes him from St. Bride’s Passage, down along Puddle Dock, circles up past St. Agnes and the back of Trinity Lane. He’ll be coming round to Creed Lane in the next half hour.”
“Good,” I said. “I’ll find him.”
The sergeant hesitated, then added, “He’s been off since early this morning. Quiet. Pale as milk. I reckon finding that girl . . . well. No man’s made of stone.”
“No,” I said quietly. “He isn’t.”
I thanked him with a nod and turned back toward the door, the heavy scent of pipe smoke trailing behind me. Outside, the clouds were breaking, but the day felt no brighter. I set off toward the river, boots striking the pavement with purpose, ready to find the man who had seen what most could not forget.
The streetsof the city pressed in around me as I moved east, my coat collar turned up against the wind. The pavements were slick from earlier rain, and the sky above was the color of tarnished pewter. Smoke from chimney pots curled downward rather than up, smothered by the weight of the air.
I passed under the shadow of St. Bride’s—the spire rising like a tiered wedding cake into the gloom—and turned down the narrow passage that bore its name. A delivery boy dodged past with a tray of bread balanced on one shoulder, his boots slapping the stones. Behind a shuttered shopfront, a woman’s voice cursed in French as I moved by.
Puddle Dock reeked of river water and rot. With the low tide, barges sat heavy in the mud, their chains groaning as they shifted. A drunkard sat arguing with a rat terrier near a set of stairs. Neither seemed inclined to back down. I cut north again.
As I neared Trinity Lane, the streets narrowed and the noise changed. Here, the city’s pulse beat slower. Fewer carriages. More silence. Houses with curtains drawn at all hours. A washerwoman hung damp linens between two windows overhead, her gray hair fraying in the wind like string.
As Creed Lane opened before me in a wash of wet stone and coal smoke, I spotted the constable—tall, with a slight turn in the left foot, standing beneath the jut of a crooked awning as he scribbled something into a leather-bound notebook.
I approached with purpose.
“Constable Collins?”
He looked up. Younger than I’d expected. His jaw tensed beneath the weight of his helmet.
“Yes, sir?”
I drew the leather case from my coat and flipped it open, revealing the Home Office seal once more and my name beneath it. “I understand you were the officer who responded to a call near Trinity Lane last night—a girl, found behind a bakery.”
