Page 32 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
His eyes flicked to the credentials, then back to me. He straightened. “Yes, Your Grace. I was the first on scene.”
“I’d like to speak with you about it. Shall we walk?”
He gave a nod, cautious but not uncooperative. “Yes, sir.”
We turned east toward the river, boots striking uneven cobbles as the wind swept up from the Thames. The city swirled around us—clattering carts, the shout of a newsboy hawking headlines, the distant chime of a church bell.
“What time were you called in?” I asked.
“About ten,” Collins replied. “One of the bakery lads—boy couldn’t have been older than fifteen—was taking out the ash bins and found her lying there. Thought she was sleeping rough at first. Then he saw the marks on her throat.”
“She was already gone?”
He nodded. “Cold to the touch. No signs of breath. Eyes open.” His voice went quieter. “Still.”
“You knew her?”
“I’d seen her about,” he said. “She was one of the girls at St. Agnes. Kept to herself. Did her errands quick, never lingered. But there was a skittishness to her. Like she thought someone was following her.”
“She ever report anything?”
“No, sir. If she was frightened, she kept it to herself.”
I said nothing for a moment, letting the wind speak for us.
“She was beside the rubbish bins,” he went on, quieter now. “Blood on the side of her head. Bruising around her neck. Whoever did it meant it to be quiet—and fast.”
“She hadn’t been moved?”
“Didn’t look like it. Her skirts were askew, like she’d fallen mid-step.”
I nodded once. “We have reason to believe she was lured out by a note. The paper was fine—watermarked. Something far above her station.”
Collins frowned. “Then it was no accident she ended up there.”
“No,” I said. “It was planned. And likely by someone who knew her—knew where she’d be. Perhaps even someone she once trusted.”
He said nothing for a long time. Then, “I keep thinking—if she’d made it just another twenty feet, she might’ve reached the front of the bakery. There were lamps still lit inside. People.”
“That thought will gnaw at you,” I said. “Let it go.”
He looked at me, startled, but something in his expression settled.
“You recall anyone unusual in the area?” I asked. “Anyone—or anything—that didn’t belong?”
Collins gave a faint shake of his head. “No, sir.”
“No one out of place?” I prompted. “No one dressed too well? Moving too slow?”
He started to shake his head again—then stopped.
“Well,” he said slowly, “maybe one thing. Not last night, but two—no, three nights ago.”
I turned toward him. “Go on.”
“There was a carriage. Late. Well past the usual hour for deliveries. Parked halfway down Trinity Lane, near the alley behind the bakery.”
“What kind of carriage?”
