Page 12 of A Murder on London Bridge
As I slipped the card into my handbag, Mrs. Merton reached for my hand again. Her grip was firmer this time.
“Don’t let them get away with it, Lady Rutledge.”
“I won’t.”
Outside, the wind had picked up. A chill slid through the afternoon, making the rooftops shiver. Somewhere out there, someone had killed for a secret. I meant to find them ... before they decided one murder wasn’t enough.
CHAPTER 6
NOTES BY THE FIRE
The lamps were already lit by the time I returned to Eaton Square. The under-butler, a sober young man, opened the door in Mister Black’s stead.
“Milady.” He bowed, his manner stiff with effort, as though determined to prove himself worthy of the post while our butler recovered from his broken leg.
“Good evening, Pritchard. Has Lord Rutledge returned home?” I asked, slipping off my gloves.
“He’s in the library, ma’am,” he said, while relieving me of my coat. “He requested that supper be served as soon as you arrived. Does that meet with your approval?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” It had been several hours since my last meal, and my stomach was making its protest known.
I entered the library to find Robert seated before the fire with a glass of wine in hand, the flames playing across the strong planes of his face. As soon as he saw me, he rose at once, hisexpression warm and touched with that loving look I’d long appreciated.
“Been sleuthing, dear?” His tone was mild, but the glint in his eyes betrayed a quiet amusement.
I swiftly crossed the room and kissed his cheek. “You know me so well. But believe it or not, I was summoned.” I sank into the wingback chair opposite him, smoothing my skirt across my knees. “Mrs. Merton telephoned this morning. She begged me to come.”
A corner of his mouth lifted as he swirled the wine in his glass. “And of course you couldn’t resist.”
“Would you have?”
“No,” he admitted, settling back into his chair. “If she’d requested my help, I would have called on her.”
“Which is exactly what I did. And now you won’t have to.”
“Oh, I won’t be investigating the matter.” He reached for the claret decanter, refilled his own glass, then lifted the decanter toward me in silent question. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, thank you.” It had turned rather chilly.
As he handed me the glass, he added, “The superintendent assigned another chief detective inspector to the case. Raphael Simpson. Newly promoted. Still wet behind the ears, but very eager.”
“Do you think he’ll give this investigation its due?” I asked lightly, though inwardly I was dead serious. Eager was one thing. Competent was another matter entirely.
Robert settled back into his chair. “I think he will be very diligent. But he lacks imagination.”
I smiled. “Then it’s just as well I’ve taken an interest in the matter.” Imagination had always been my strongest weapon. It will aid the investigation if Simpson fails to detect the less obvious.
Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees. “Shall we compare notes?”
“Absolutely.”
Before either of us could say more, Pritchard appeared, directing two footmen with the supper trays. Our meal was arranged on the small dining table set near the fire, where two chairs had already been placed. The covers were lifted, releasing the aroma of roasted chicken and thyme, flanked by crisp potatoes and a dish of stewed apples.
Robert carved for us both, added the potatoes and apples, and set my plate before me with quiet precision. It was one of his small, unspoken habits. He liked to care for me. I pretended to mind. But truthfully, I found it comforting. By silent agreement, we satisfied our hunger before tackling the subject uppermost in our minds. The steady clink of silverware and the crackle of the fire were the only sounds in the room.
Once the supper plates were cleared and dessert and coffee were served, Robert leaned back. “Do you want to go first, or shall I?”
“Oh, you, by all means.” I leaned forward, eager. “I’m anxious to hear what you’ve learned.”
