Page 39 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
If Phillip was tangled up with the kind of men who conducted business behind shuttered windows and tannery stench, then God help us all.
The fog thickened as the carriage passed beneath Holborn Viaduct, the lamps casting long bars of gold against wet stone. Beyond it lay Clerkenwell—rundown, neglected, and at times, downright vicious.
“This is as far as I dare go, Guv’nor.”
I tossed him a generous coin and watched the hackney disappear into the fog. I passed a shuttered gin shop with broken panes stuffed with rags. The tannery came next—long since abandoned but still reeking faintly of hides and lye. Behind it, a crooked alley curled like a snake into the dark. Cobb Court.
I moved quietly, each step swallowed by soot-streaked fog, the kind that made it hard to breathe. Finch’s directions had been precise. East side. Black shutters. Second floor lit.
The house loomed at the end of the row—three stories of peeling brick, its windows shut like eyelids. A faint amber glow flickered behind the second-floor panes. I paused at the mouth of the alley and listened.
There was no shouting. Just the muted thrum of voices—male, indistinct. A low murmur that carried through the cracked panes or down a narrow chimney, blurred by distance and stone.
I circled the rear, stepping carefully over a half-collapsed crate and a pair of boots that looked recently abandoned. A sideentrance nestled beneath a rusted staircase offered just enough cover. I eased forward, gloved hand closing around the iron latch. It gave way with a soft groan. I slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind me.
No turning back now.
The stench hit me first—a rank stew of sweat, smoke, and something sharp and metallic that clung to the back of the throat. Blood.
A narrow hallway opened into a dim room, lit by the weak sputter of an oil lamp. Beyond a threadbare curtain, two male voices carried—sharper now. One edged with menace. The other laced with pain.
I moved toward them, silent as a shadow.
Through a gap in the worn fabric, I saw them: four men, two standing, one seated, another on his knees.
The man kneeling was in rough shape—one eye swollen shut, lip split, arms hanging useless at his sides. A hulking brute, all muscle and old scars, loomed over him, fists clenched from the beating. Another figure lingered in the shadows—silent, watchful, calculating. The fourth sat apart at a small table, his face obscured by a mask. His identity was hidden, but his boots—polished to a gleam—marked him as someone who didn’t belong in Saffron Hill.
“You said you saw something,” the brute growled.
“I didn’t,” the bloodied man gasped. “I saw nothing.”
“Funny,” the brute said, stepping closer. “Word is you’ve been spouting off about a girl from St. Agnes. Said you saw someone kill her.”
My pulse kicked.Elsie.
The man on his knees shook his head weakly. “I was drunk. I didn’t mean?—”
“Was it true?” the brute pressed. “Or just mouthy lies to make yourself feel big?”
“I don’t know what I saw,” the kneeling man mumbled through his broken mouth. “Just shapes in the dark. A man—dressed like a gent. Long coat. Gloves. Didn’t see his face, I swear.”
“But you told someone,” the brute snapped. “Said he waited for her in the alley behind the bakery. That you heard her cry out.”
The man’s voice cracked and turned into a sob. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” the brute said grimly. “It matters a great deal.”
The seated man lifted his hand—a silent signal.
The brute pulled a knife from his coat.
That was it.
I stepped forward fast and silent, voice like steel. “That’s quite enough.”
All heads turned. The brute spun first.
“Who the hell are you?”
