Page 38 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“I haven’t,” I admitted.
“Shall I bring supper to the study?”
“Yes. Thank you, Milford. Something light.”
I didn’t stop to change. Instead, I went straight to the study where light came from the embers in the grate and the desk lamp burning low. I broke the seal of her note and read.
Her words were succinct, but I could feel her in every line. She’d been to St. Agnes. She’d spoken with someone—Marie, I noted. There were hints of things, a story formingbetween the edges. Fear, hasty departure, something overheard. A connection to a house of quality, though which one remained unknown.
I leaned back in the chair and rubbed a hand across my face.
She was always a step ahead. Not just clever—intuitive. And damnably brave.
I fetched a fresh sheet of paper, uncapped the ink, and began to write.
Lady Rosalynd,
I’ve only just returned from Clerkenwell. I spoke with Constable Collins, the officer who discovered Elsie’s body. He remembered little at first, but something surfaced before we parted: several nights before the murder, he saw a fine carriage near Trinity Lane. No business being there, not at that hour. He remembered a symbol on the door, but couldn’t recall the design.
I suspect it was a family crest. If we can identify it, we may know who sent the note and who wanted her silence.
I admire your clarity. And your courage.
—Steele
I let the ink dry before folding the page and sealing it with my ring. Then I sat there a long moment, the letter resting beneath my fingertips, the weight of the evening pressing down like the ever-present London fog. Only then did I turn to the second envelope.
Finch. About Phillip. Whatever he’d uncovered, I had both longed for and dreaded in equal measure. The paper bore the faintest trace of coal smoke—Finch’s usual haunts were not in Mayfair—and the scent of cheap sealing wax. I unfolded his note with care, the paper still crisp. Finch's script was quick, precise—urgent.
Your Grace,
I followed your brother as instructed. He left his club shortly before dusk and made his way east, unaccompanied. I kept my distance.
He passed through Clerkenwell, but his destination was Saffron Hill—a rotting crescent of buildings behind an old tannery. He entered a house there through the rear alley. No signage, no lamps. I lingered nearby and witnessed other men entering, none staying long. No one spoke above a murmur.
The locals call it a place for arrangements. A place where debts, secrets, and favors change hands. Quietly. Permanently.
Your brother emerged after roughly twenty minutes, alone. He walked fast, head low. But I swear to you, he looked worried—truly worried. I know the look of a man who’s heard something he didn’t like. I followed him back to his rooms. A half hour later, he hadn’t emerged. So, I found a boy and sent this note to you.
The house your brother entered is at the end of Cobb Court, just off Saffron Hill. East side. Black shutters, second floor lit. The place stinks of something bad.
— Finch
I folded the letter with deliberate slowness and tucked it into my coat to burn later.
Milford, ever silent, arrived with a tray of roast beef and potatoes and a single glass of claret. “Shall I serve it here in the study, Your Grace?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I have to leave again.”
He didn’t blink. “Of course, Your Grace.” Without asking another question, he turned with the tray and vanished.
Fifteen minutes later, I’d changed into an old wool coat and rough trousers, my collar turned up and my revolver tucked securely into a deep pocket. I strapped a dagger to my boot as well—habits forged in darker corners of the world.
As I stepped into the foggy London night, the wind tugged at my coat like a warning. I hailed a hackney and gave him his marching orders. Saffron Hill.
“I don’t go there, Guv’nor.”
“Then get me as close as you can.” I didn’t blame him for refusing to take me there. Saffron Hill was another creature entirely. The kind of place where doors stayed locked even in daylight, and nothing good happened behind them.
