Page 10 of A Murder on London Bridge
CHAPTER 5
A WIDOW’S PLEA
By late morning I had retreated to my parlor, the breakfast room seeming far too bright for brooding. The fire here was quieter, the shadows deeper, a place I could think. My coffee sat forgotten on the side table while I stared into the grate and tried to order my thoughts.
It would be crass—unforgivable, even—to appear uninvited on Mrs. Merton’s doorstep in the wake of her husband’s death. And yet if anyone might grant me a reason to involve myself, it would be his widow. She would want answers, and I might be the one to help her find them. Still, there was no polite way to intrude upon her grief.
The sudden trill of the telephone broke the stillness. I rose quickly to answer it. The line in the parlor was a small indulgence of mine. Its summons always felt oddly direct, as though the caller had stepped unannounced into my private sitting room.
“Lady Rutledge?” The voice on the other end was soft but strained, as though every syllable cost her dearly.
“Yes.”
“This is Margaret Merton.” A ragged breath carried down the line. “I beg your pardon for troubling you … but I scarcely know where to turn. I am calling because … because Oswald?—”
“I know, Mrs. Merton,” I said quickly, my voice softening. “I was heartsick to read of it in the morning paper. Please accept my deepest condolences. Your husband’s death is a dreadful tragedy.”
For a moment only silence answered, and then she managed, her voice breaking, “It hardly seems real. Only yesterday he sat across from me at breakfast and now …” Another breath shuddered down the line. “I cannot make sense of it. To lose him so suddenly, so cruelly?—”
“You have all my sympathy,” I murmured. “If there is anything I can do for you, anything at all, you need only ask.”
“That is why I have called,” she said at last, gathering herself with visible effort. “Might you … might you visit me? There are things I must speak of, matters the police will not understand. I believe you may be the only one who can.”
“My dear Mrs. Merton, of course I shall come,” I assured her. “At once.”
By early afternoonI stood before the Merton residence, a sober brick townhouse on a quiet street not far from St. James’s Square. Heavy curtains had already been drawn across the windows, shrouding the house in gloom, and a strip of black crepe hung on the polished brass knocker.
I was shown into a darkened drawing room, the mirrors veiled, the lamps turned low. The air smelled faintly of lavender water, no doubt pressed upon Mrs. Merton in hopes of steadying her nerves. Her pearl-gray mourning dress, though subdued, made her look even more ghostlike than her pale cheeks and wide eyes would allow.
“Mrs. Merton.” I took her hand gently, pressing it with a firmness meant to reassure. “I am so very sorry. Your husband’s death is a loss keenly felt.”
Her lips trembled, and she gave a small shake of her head. “It hardly seems possible. Only yesterday he left this house full of life and plans. And now...” Her words faltered as she pressed a handkerchief to her lips.
I guided her back into her chair and sat close beside her. “You need not speak of it if it pains you too deeply,” I said softly.
But she shook her head with fragile determination. “No. You must understand, Lady Rutledge. They said he was found … on London Bridge at sunrise.” Her voice caught, and her eyes brimmed. “To imagine him lying there in the cold, without me ... without anyone—” She broke off again, her composure splintering.
I laid a hand lightly on her arm. “You are not alone in this, Mrs. Merton. If there is anything I may do—anything at all—you need only ask.”
She lowered her handkerchief and looked at me then, her gaze raw but steady. “That is why I wanted to see you. My husband spoke of you after your visit. He said you pressed him on certain matters.” Her breath wavered. “I believe you may know more than the police ever will.”
Mrs. Merton dabbed at her eyes, then folded the handkerchief with painstaking care, as though neatness might steady her. “Oswald was not an easy man, Lady Rutledge. Hewas proud … too proud at times. But he was my husband, and whatever his faults, he did not deserve to die like that.”
“No, he did not,” I agreed.
Her gaze flickered to the darkened window. “He had been restless of late. Even at our supper table, his mind seemed elsewhere. At first, I thought it was business. He was always buying, selling, bargaining. But last week he began speaking of a manuscript. He was—” She swallowed hard. “He was boastful. Too boastful. He said it would make his name. That no one could ignore him once it was known what he possessed.”
My pulse quickened. “Did he tell you what was in it?”
She shook her head, the gesture seeming to drain her strength. “No. Only that it was dangerous knowledge. I told him not to speak of it in company, that it would only invite envy or worse. But he laughed at me.” Her voice broke again, soft and bitter. “He laughed, Lady Rutledge. He paid me no heed. And now?—”
“You did what any devoted wife would do,” I said gently. “You tried to protect him. His death is not on you.”
Her eyes filled afresh, but this time she held my gaze with quiet intensity. “The police will see only robbery, or some quarrel gone wrong. They will not understand how reckless his words could be, or how they might have placed him in danger. But you were there at his shop. You spoke to him. You may know what they cannot.”
“Did he show you the manuscript?”
She drew a steadying breath. “He brought it home two nights ago, but no, he didn’t show it to me. He took it back to the shop and locked it away in the safe. He said it was more secure there.”
