Page 45 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“I came straight here.”
Of course he had. “Then you’ve had nothing since morning,” I said, rising before he could protest.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“You’re not,” I replied crisply, already moving toward the bell pull. “You’re hurt and half-starved. I won’t have you fainting at my feet from lack of sustenance.”
When Honeycutt answered, I gave him clear instructions: “A plate of cold beef, some bread and cheese, and a pot of tea. Oh, and bring up a bottle of ale as well—something decent.”
Once he left, Steele gave me an amused look. “You like to manage people.”
“It’s only common courtesy. Even dukes need feeding.”
To his credit, he only shook his head, the faintest smile ghosting his lips.
After the tray arrived, I poured the tea while Honeycutt uncorked the ale. After he departed, I set the plate before Steele and handed him the full glass of ale.
With surprising grace, he selected a thick slice of beef, added a sliver of cheese, and folded them neatly between two rounds of bread. Then, as if he were seated in a gentleman’s club, he unfolded the linen napkin and spread it across his lap with a flick of the wrist.
“We need to lay it all out,” I said, settling beside him, with a nice cup of tea close at hand, “everything we know, everything we suspect.” I glanced at his plate, then back to him. “Or would you prefer to address your meal first?”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “I can eat and think at the same time, Lady Rosalynd. It’s one of my finer talents.” And to prove his point, he took a bite out of his meal.
“Right.” I dipped my pen into the inkwell. “First—Elsie worked in a grand household. Likely titled, based on the crest on the carriage.”
“I agree. That carriage didn’t belong to some merchant,” he said, taking a sip of the ale.
“She was a housemaid,” I continued, scratching the nib across the paper, “but Marie said she was trusted enough to mend the master’s shirts. No mention of a lady’s gowns.”
His brow furrowed. “So, either the lady didn’t trust her . . . or there was no lady at all.”
“A widower?” I asked, glancing up.
“Possibly,” he said. “But let’s not forget the younger man.”
“A son living with his father. Or an uncle.” I tapped the quill against my chin. “Marie did mention two men. One older, one younger. The older told the younger to ‘take care of it.’”
“Sounds like a father to a son,” he replied. “Though we can’t rule out uncle and nephew.” He polished off the rest of the beef and cheese sandwich.
I wrote down both possibilities, underliningfather and sonand adding a question mark besideuncle and nephew. “What else?” I murmured.
“Someone got Elsie pregnant,” Steele said flatly, finishing off the ale. “Either the master himself or the younger man.”
“My instinct says the younger,” I replied. “Marie said Elsie believed he cared for her.”
He gave a short nod. “That tracks. If it had been the older man—the master of the house—he’d have likely paid her off and sent her away, or dismissed her altogether the moment he learned she was expecting. But she stayed. And from what we’ve gathered, she hoped for something more. That kind of hope doesn’t come from coercion. It comes from affection—real or imagined.”
“Exactly. She trusted him. Expected him to do the honorable thing. Which he didn’t.”
“Then there’s the murder,” he added, his voice low. “Who did it and why?”
“Because she could talk,” I said slowly, the words chilling even as I spoke them. “She knew who the father was. Or maybe what she overheard.”
His eyes narrowed. “That’s what I keep coming back to. Women like Elsie—maids, nursemaids, companions—they’re seduced and cast off all the time. Disgraced. Dismissed. Left to rot. But murdered?”
“They don’t usually end up strangled in an alley,” I agreed. “They’re paid off. Sent to homes. Banished to the countryside.”
“But Elsie ran,” he said. “She fled. And she stayed gone. So why the need to lure her to her death?”
