Page 11 of A Murder on London Bridge
“Is it still there?” I asked.
Her voice broke. “A constable allowed me into the premises this morning. I checked the safe. The manuscript was gone.”
“You think it was stolen?”
“Not as far as I could see,” she whispered. “Nothing was taken. Not the ivory figurines. Not the Georgian snuffboxes. But the manuscript was no longer in the safe. I’m sure someone killed him for it.”
“Was the shop rifled through?”
“No. It was neat as a pin.”
Seemingly, no one had broken into the shop. More than likely, Merton had taken the manuscript with him. Maybe to show someone? “Did he ever mention who might be interested? Potential buyers?”
“He was secretive,” she admitted. “But I overheard him on the telephone two nights ago, arranging what sounded like a private showing.”
“He mentioned an auction to me,” I said.
“Yes, exactly. He spoke of two names—Sir Peregrine Loxley and Professor George Whitford—and then he mentioned someone at the Ministry. He didn’t give the man’s name, only that he wished to attend.”
“That could be important,” I murmured.
“I thought it odd,” Mrs. Merton said, frowning faintly. “Why should a government man care about a seventeenth-century manuscript?”
“Because the contents could ruin someone,” I said softly, more to myself than to her. “And now the document is gone.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Taken from a secure safe.”
Taking a deep breath, I gazed at her with as much kindness as I could summon. “As I see it, Mrs. Merton, someone wanted that document, and he was willing to kill for it.” Merton could not be allowed to live. He’d seen the manuscript and knew what was in it.
Mrs. Merton squared her shoulders and set down her cup with a decisive clink. “That’s what I believe as well. I want you to find out who did this. Scotland Yard will poke around, ask a fewquestions, then declare it a robbery gone wrong. But you and I both know that’s not what this was.”
Clearly, she was made of sterner stuff. “I agree.”
“I’ll pay whatever fee you require. Lord Rutledge as well, if needed.”
I reached over and covered her hand with mine. “No fee will be required. I’m handling this matter pro bono.” Mrs. Merton would be incurring enough expenses from her husband’s death.
Her lip trembled. “Thank you.”
“I need a list of everyone your husband spoke to this past week. Anyone who visited the shop. Any unusual deliveries or meetings.”
“I will check with his clerk. But there was one man,” she said slowly. “He came in two days ago—tall, well-dressed, with a walking stick and a thick foreign accent. He asked after rare items from the Stuart court. Oswald was… evasive.”
“Did you catch his name?”
“No. But he left a card. I’ll find it for you.”
As she rose and moved toward what must be her late husband’s desk, I stood and looked out the window. The street below bustled as usual—children chasing one another, a delivery cart rattling by, a pair of nuns making their way toward the bakery. The world didn’t stop for grief. It never had.
Mrs. Merton returned and handed me a plain calling card with a single name embossed in black ink.
Monsieur Alphonse Duret
Collector – Paris
“He was also at the British Library lecture Oswald gave last month. Seemed harmless. Charming, even.”
“I’ll find him.” I’d assign that task to Mellie. She had a rare gift for locating individuals, including those who didn’t want to be found. And, having been raised in a French convent, she spoke fluent French.
