Page 67 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
Finch took up his notebook and dipped his pen. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything there is to know about the two brothers. Then the household—staff, visitors, who comes and goes. I want everything. Quietly.”
He nodded, already calculating the angles. “Anything in particular I should be looking for?”
“Someone in that house committed murder.”
His pen halted mid-stroke. “Whose?”
“A young woman who worked there. The youngest brother seduced her. When her life was threatened, she fled. A member of that family saw to it she never spoke again.”
Finch’s manner sobered. “You suspect someone in that household silenced her?”
“I don’t suspect,” I said coldly. “I know. The only thing I don’t know is which one of them ended her life.”
He snapped his notebook shut. “All right. I’ll begin in the morning. Full report by the following day.”
“It has to be thorough,” I said. “I want eyes on Nathaniel Vale, Henry Vale, and their aunt, Lady Harriet. Their activities, their associates, their routines—everything. If any of them so much as sneezes, I want to know who handed them the handkerchief.”
Finch gave a low whistle. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”
“I wouldn’t press you if it weren’t necessary,” I replied.
Finch leaned back in his chair. “I can’t cover three people in that time frame. Not properly. Not alone. I’ll need to delegate some of it to an associate.”
“Can you trust him?”
“With my life.”
“Do what you think best.”
“Yes, your highness.”
Fighting back a grin, I nodded and headed for the door. But before I got there, I turned. “And Finch?”
He looked up.
“I believe they’re hiding something. Something more than the murder of an innocent girl.”
“One of your hunches?”
“A lifetime of witnessing what men are capable of.” I stepped out into the cold, the night wind biting across my coat. But it was nothing compared to the fire rising in my blood.
For the girl who’d been silenced.
For the brother who stood too close to the edge.
And for the answers waiting at the Grinning Rat.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
THE GRINNING RAT
Clerkenwell smelled of damp stone and ash—the kind of stink that clung to your skin long after you'd left it behind. But then, I was already wearing it. The last thing I’d expected was to find myself back here so soon. Back where I’d stood this afternoon. With Rosalynd.
That kiss. That maddening kiss.
