Page 48 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
All of them had seen the carriage. All of them had seen her. Rosalynd.
She paused, composed but no longer serene. Her lips had thinned to a line. “I should have taken a hansom cab and met you here.”
“The carriage served its purpose.”
“Yes,” she said evenly. “It ensured I’ll be talked about in every drawing room from Mayfair to Kensington by teatime.”
“Do you care?”
She hesitated. “Not as much as I should. They’ll talk about me no matter what I do. Or don’t do.”
Without another word, she took my offered hand and climbed into the carriage before I followed suit.
Inside, she neatly folded her hands in her lap. “The woman who placed the order was most likely a maid. And that means the stationery was commissioned by a lady.”
I nodded. “One who didn’t want her identity known since the maid paid in cash.”
“If we can determine which family that crest belongs to,” she said quietly, “we’ll be one step closer to finding Elsie’s killer.”
We rode in silence on the drive back to Rosehaven House with the weight of that truth settling between us.
Chapter
Nineteen
THE INQUEST
The morning after our visit to the stationer, Steele arrived promptly in his carriage, just as he’d said he would. He was, as always, courteous, composed, entirely unruffled.
I, on the other hand, was anxious about the inquest we were about to attend. Would any new information come to light? Would fresh evidence be presented? Something that might help us untangle the truth? Might a witness be called whom we hadn’t anticipated?
And most importantly: would someone appear who didn’t belong?
Inquests often drew the curious, especially after a sensational killing—and Elsie’s murder had already made the papers. Some claimed it was another Whitechapel slaying, though the crime bore little resemblance to those infamous butcheries. But sensationalism sold newspapers, so it was only to be expected it would draw a large crowd.
With luck, someone of a higher station—a man or a woman—might slip in under the guise of public interest. And if they did, I meant to see them.
By the time we arrived at the coroner’s court behind St. James’s, the morning was already thick with smoke and the scent of wet stone. Steele offered his arm, and I took it, conscious of the eyes that followed us as we ascended the steps together.
A man with a smudged collar and ink-stained fingertips stood just inside the gate, notebook in hand. His gaze flitted from Steele’s unmistakable bearing to the discreet elegance of my mourning attire. Recognition sparked. He tilted his head, scribbled something quickly, and tucked his pencil behind his ear.
“The Illustrated Police News,” Steele muttered under his breath. “God help us.”
I leaned in slightly. “You know him?”
“I’ve dealt with him before,” he said, jaw tightening. “He has a talent for dressing up fact as fiction and fiction as scandal.”
Inside, the courtroom was cramped, just as I’d expected, the air stale and still despite the open windows. A number of ladies were already fanning themselves with slow, deliberate motions, though the heat and press of bodies made little difference. We took seats near the back, our arrival drawing subtle glances from those already present—solicitors, clerks, a pair of constables, and two dozen or so idle spectators in search of drama.
I folded my gloved hands in my lap and kept my eyes forward. But even before the coroner called the room to order, I could feel the heat of judgment settle along the back of my neck—not just for attending, but for daring to care.
The first witness called was Constable Collins, the officer who’d found Elsie’s body. He stepped forward awkwardly, removing his helmet before taking the stand. He was a young man, not more than thirty, with a plain, earnest face and a uniform that sat stiffly on his tall frame. His voice wavered slightly as he gave his name and rank.
As he spoke, there was no bravado in his manner, no practiced detachment. Only quiet regret.
He had discovered the body just after ten o’clock in the evening, while making his rounds along Trinity Lane. She was lying behind a bakery. The back door of the shop had been left ajar, and the scent of yeast and burnt sugar still hung in the air.
“I thought maybe she’d fallen ill,” he said, fingers tightening around his notebook. “But when I knelt beside her . . .” He paused, cleared his throat. “It was already too late. I sent for assistance and remained with her until help arrived, doing what I could to shield her from curious onlookers.”
