Page 44 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
He carefully lowered himself into the nearest settee.
“The note I sent you last night didn’t include everything I learned,” I said, joining him. “Only what I was willing to put on paper.”
That earned me a sharp look. “Fair enough.”
“Elsie was scared,” I said quietly. “Marie—her closest friend—said Elsie had received a note from someone she called ‘important.’ Cream-colored paper, fine quality, with a raised mark—a crest.”
“The same one we saw at the mortuary.”
“Exactly. She wouldn’t let Marie read it, but she kept checking her apron pocket as though to make sure it hadn’t vanished.”
Steele’s expression darkened.
“She said she had to meet someone that night. Marie tried to stop her—said the whole thing felt wrong. But Elsie insisted it wouldn’t take long.” I hesitated, then added, “She never came back.”
“And before St. Agnes?”
“She’d worked in a grand household,” I said. “Not as a lady’s maid, but she was good with a needle. Trusted, apparently. Until something happened. She left abruptly, said she wasn’t safe anymore. She told Marie she’d made a mistake—fallen for someone who turned his back on her. Then she overheard a conversation between two men. One older, one younger. The older one ordered the younger one to ‘take care of it.’”
Steele’s jaw flexed. “The younger one had to be the one who got her pregnant.”
“Marie is certain of it. Elsie believed they meant to silence her.”
A hushed quiet fell between us.
“She fled that night,” I finished. “Arrived at St. Agnes the next day. Even so, I don’t think she ever felt safe.”
Steele leaned forward, his breath harshing. “The grand household tracks with what Constable Collins told me. He remembered Elsie. Said she kept to herself but had grown skittish—like she believed someone was following her. She never reported anything, but she was clearly frightened.”
Rosalynd’s expression tightened. “She was right to be.”
“She was found by the rubbish bins,” Steele continued, more softly now. “Blood on her head. Bruising around her neck. Quiet. Efficient. Whoever did it knew what they were doing.”
Rosalynd nodded slowly. “She trusted whoever wrote that note enough to go. Someone used it to lure her out.”
He drew in a breath. “Collins said something else. A few nights before the murder, he spotted a carriage on Trinity Lane. Black lacquered, fine trim, glossy wheels. Definitely not local.”
“From Belgravia, perhaps?” Rosalynd asked.
“Possibly. And it had a crest. He couldn’t make it out—just a vague impression. Circular or ribbon-like, he said. The rain and poor light obscured it.”
Rosalynd’s voice was hushed. “That’s how they came for her. Under the cover of night. With a carriage that didn’t belong in that area.”
Steele nodded once. “They knew where she’d be. And they thought no one would ask questions.”
“Well, they were wrong.” I crossed to my escritoire and returned with a few sheets of notepaper, my pen, and the inkwell. “We need to lay it all out—everything we know, everything we suspect.”
Steele gave a short nod.
I studied him as he shifted once more, careful of his side. Before we proceeded, he needed a moment of comfort, a bit of care. “Have you eaten anything today?” I asked.
He gave a half-shrug, which he immediately regretted. “Breakfast.”
“That was hours ago.”
“I had to attend a meeting of the Legislative Committee at the House of Lords,” he said, his voice low. “We were debating my bill—new safety regulations for factory laborers.”
I blinked, surprised at the issue. “And afterward?”
