Page 57 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
I caught sight of the man once more as he turned down an alley, then emerged onto a broader street. A waiting hackney carriage drew up as if on cue. He climbed in, and the driver snapped the reins.
I stepped quickly to the edge of the pavement, waving sharply at the next hackney rolling past. “Follow that carriage,” I instructed as I climbed in, breath tight in my chest. “Don’t get too close, but don’t lose him.”
The cab lurched into motion, the wheels rattling over wet cobblestones. We rumbled eastward through the maze of Clerkenwell’s back streets, deeper into unfamiliar territory. The fog thickened as we went, clinging to windows and softening the harsh lines of tenements and alleyways. I kept my eyes fixed on the vague silhouette of the carriage ahead, its single lantern swaying with every turn. The minutes stretched, each one sharpening the unease in my chest.
At last, my hackney jolted to a stop just short of a crooked intersection, where the fog pressed thick against the windows. The cabbie twisted around on his bench and murmured, “That carriage pulled up just ahead, Miss. Stopped outside that grim-looking place near the tannery.”
I leaned forward, peering through the mist. Sure enough, the outline of a black carriage emerged—its lantern flickering faintly in the gloom. The man I’d followed stepped down and vanished through the door of a sagging building just off Saffron Hill.
“I’ll get down here,” I said quietly.
The cabbie shifted and frowned. “I wouldn’t, miss. Saffron Hill’s no place for a lady. Ruffians about. The sort that don’t ask questions.”
“The man we followed is likely meeting someone,” I replied, already reaching for the door. “Don’t worry. I won’t go inside. I just need to see who turns up.”
He didn’t budge. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but that house over there—it’s not right. You want me to wait for you? Or take you back? I could circle ’round?—”
“I appreciate your concern, truly. But I can take care of myself.” After I paid him, I opened my reticule just enough to show him the pistol Steele had given me.
It wasn’t loaded—not anymore. We’d used the two bullets at the shooting gallery during his lesson. Still, the weight of it was reassuring. I doubted a man would ask questions when a barrel was pointed at him.
Today, bluffing would have to be enough.
“You’ll be careful, miss?”
“I always am,” I said, though my voice sounded steadier than I felt.
The cabbie’s brows lifted. “Right, then.”
“One last thing,” I added as I stepped down onto the slick cobbles. Smoke clung to the narrow street, heavy with damp andthe lingering stench of coal. “Return to St. Agnes. Find Sister Margaret and tell her I followed the man who visited the Home. Tell her he entered a building off Saffron Hill, behind the old tannery—just across from a public house called The Boar and Fiddle. I’ll be watching from the alley beside it, behind the empty costermonger’s stall with the blue-striped awning. Now, go.”
After casting a final wary glance down the street, he nodded and turned his cab, its wheels rattling off into the fog.
I stepped into the shadows behind the abandoned stall, my breath curling in the cold air. Across the lane, the door to the building remained closed. But the real answer would come when the next carriage arrived.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
INK AND VELVET
The air inside the Caledonian was thick with cigar smoke, leather polish, and the particular stillness of power at rest. Gentlemen murmured over newspapers, a fire snapped softly in the grate, and the day’s scandals simmered just below the surface.
I handed my gloves and walking stick to the steward and made my way toward the back lounge, where discretion flowed more freely than whisky. Tucked in my inner coat pocket was a folded sketch: a rendering of the arc-shaped crest from the carriage Rosalynd and I had seen outside the inquest.
We hadn’t spoken of it last night at the shooting gallery. Of course we hadn’t. She’d come to learn how to shoot. But something else had transpired.
The memory surfaced—unbidden and unwelcome. Her breath, warm against my cheek. Steady hands wrapped around the revolver. Her maddening scent. That moment when we’d almost?—
Ruthlessly, I pushed the thought aside. There was work to be done.
At the far end of the lounge, I caught the eye of Gibbons, the senior steward. He was older than most of the drapery and twice as observant.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing with the ease of long familiarity. “Something I can assist you with?”
I passed him the sketch. “Have you seen this crest before?”
The steward took the drawing I handed him and examined it carefully beneath the wall sconce. His brow furrowed for a moment, then smoothed in recognition.
