Page 55 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“Yes. There’s something I must attend to.” I didn't share where I was planning to go. Steele might very well come to call. If he did, I didn't want her to tell him.
“You will be back by this afternoon?” Her voice wobbled, just a touch. “It’s our at-home day. You can’t leave me to face the tea-and-tattle brigade alone.”
I managed a faint smile. “I’ll do my best.”
Before she could protest further, I slipped out the front door and into the clamor of Grosvenor Square—mid-morning carriages clattering past, booted footmen at attention, the air sharp with horses and coal smoke. Raising a hand, I hailed the nearest cab.
The ride to St.Agnes took me through the grey lace of narrow streets, the city blurred behind rain-flecked glass. I sat back against the worn seat, hands clenched in my lap, the steady clatter of wheels beneath me no match for the noise in my mind.
My thoughts, unbidden, began to drift again—to the gallery, to the way the air had shifted between Steele and me, heavy and electric. To the quiet look in his eyes, the nearness of his breath, the weight of something unspoken.
I exhaled sharply and turned my gaze to the window. No. I would not waste time puzzling over what had never happened. There was a murdered girl and a trail of secrets that needed to be unraveled to find the truth.
Progress was slow. The streets were thick with traffic—delivery carts lumbering under the weight of produce, horse-drawn omnibuses rattling past with passengers packed shoulder to shoulder, well-dressed ladies with parasols crossing carelessly in front of wheels. The cab lurched and creaked its way eastward, stopping and starting, inching past Oxford Circus and the press of Holborn.
By the time the cab turned down the narrow streets of Clerkenwell, the church bell in the distance was tolling the noon hour.
The bells had just finished tolling when the cab finally turned down a narrow lane and jolted to a stop outside St. Agnes. I stepped down with my umbrella at hand and drew my cloak tighter. A fine mist made the air feel much cooler. Before I could lift the brass knocker, the door creaked open, revealing a young novice with downcast eyes and flour-dusted hands.
“Lady Rosalynd,” she greeted me softly.
“I need to speak with Sister Margaret,” I said.
The girl bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, milady. Please come in.”
After I crossed the threshold into the familiar hush of St. Agnes, the door closed behind me, muffling the noise of the street. The scent of starch, candle wax, and boiled linen greeted me like a memory—one steeped in sorrow, urgency, and quiet discipline.
I followed the novice down a narrow corridor, the soles of my boots whispering against the stone floor. Each step was a reminder of why I’d come—not as a visitor, but as a seeker of truth.
We reached the entry hall, where the air shifted—warmer and tinged with the comforting scents of baking bread and beeswax. The novice gave a small curtsy and disappeared through a side door, presumably to fetch the nun.
Moments later, Sister Margaret emerged from the passage beyond, her hands folded tightly in front of her. “Lady Rosalynd, you’ve returned.”
“I was hoping you might allow me to see Elsie’s belongings. I’m hoping there was a box.”
“There is. You’re making progress?” she asked.
“Yes. But I’m hoping an examination of her things might help move things forward.”
Sister Margaret gave a single nod. “Of course. Come with me.”
She led me into a small, dim room with a narrow window and a worn writing desk. From a cabinet filled with containers of all sizes, she produced a simple wooden box, no larger than a hatbox.
“She didn’t have much,” she said with a tinge of sorrow. “I kept it, hoping it might be of some use.”
I nodded. “You were right to do so. Do you know what’s in it?”
“No. We never pry. It’s the least we owe our young ladies. They’ve suffered enough already.”
“Thank you, Sister.” I opened the clasp and lifted the lid.
Inside lay a folded scrap of lace, a dried flower pressed between two pages of hymnbook paper, a handwritten note, and two items that made my breath catch. A gold cufflink, finely engraved with the familiar arc of the same crest we had seen on the stationery and the carriage door. And a handkerchief. A plain one, save for the embroidery in pale blue at the corner:H.V.
I turned the cufflink in my fingers. It gleamed softly in the dim light. No servant would wear something so finely made, nor carry a monogram so boldly. This had belonged to him—the man who had seduced Elsie. The man who had gotten her with child and left her to rot in secrecy.
She kept them. As proof? As a memory? Or as something far more painful?
Footsteps approached—brisk, light. A soft knock sounded at the door to the room.
