Page 13 of A Murder on London Bridge
“The medical examiner was swift with his report.” His tone was measured, betraying little, though the gravity in his eyes told me enough. “Oswald Merton was struck down by a single blow to the head. His body was found at the southern end of London Bridge. A deliveryman heard raised voices followed by a cry, but didn’t see anything. The killer vanished into the fog before he found Merton, quite dead.”
“Was anything stolen?” I asked.
“No.” He ticked the items off with a faint gesture of his hand. “His watch, his rings, his purse—all untouched.”
“Merton must have had the manuscript on him. They killed him for it.”
“That’s the most likely explanation.” Robert’s gaze sharpened, his expression tightening with the weight of certainty.
“He kept it tucked in his safe at the shop. But when Mrs. Merton checked it this morning, it was empty. And the safe had not been forced open.”
He sat back, gaze thoughtful. “Merton must have arranged a meeting, although whether at London Bridge or somewhere else remains to be seen. Whoever killed him knew he was carrying it with him and ended his life so he could take the manuscript.”
“That makes sense. But I also think he was killed because he knew what was in it.” I toyed with my wineglass, turning it slowly. “He’d read the manuscript. He knew the names contained within it and had connected them to someone high up in the government. Someone whose life would be ruined if the contents of that manuscript were ever made public.” I gazed at Robert. “But what could they have said that Merton would risk bringing the manuscript with him?”
“Merton seemed to be motivated by money. Chances are, they offered him a great deal of it to take a simple peek.”
“That tracks with what Mrs. Merton said.”
While Robert took several moments to think things through, I enjoyed a bite of the creme brûlée and sipped my coffee. “But London Bridge seems an odd place to choose for an examination.”
“More than likely, that was not the meeting place. Somewhere close to it, though, so his killer knew he would travel through there.”
“By foot and at sunrise? It would be rather chilly at that time of day.”
“Great questions for which we’ll need answers.”
“The killer picked the right time, though.” I leaned back, picturing it. “At that hour, they would not have been easily seen.What with all the early morning fog. And even if someone had, a description would be next to useless.” I hesitated. “There were no other witnesses other than the deliveryman?”
“No. But the Yard is putting the word out. Something should appear in the papers tomorrow. Maybe someone will come forward.” Robert tipped his glass toward me. “So what did you learn from Mrs. Merton?”
I set aside my spoon and folded my napkin with deliberate care. “She is grief-stricken, of course. Pale as a ghost, but determined to find her husband’s killer. She said Merton had been restless, distracted, and that he had taken the manuscript home briefly before locking it in the safe at the shop. As I mentioned, it wasn’t there this morning.”
Robert’s jaw tightened, though he said nothing.
“She also overheard him on the telephone,” I continued. “Arranging a private showing. Three interested parties—Sir Peregrine Loxley, Professor George Whitford, and someone at the Ministry. Merton did not share that name with her. Only told her he intended to attend.”
Robert leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Without a name, it’ll be hard to track him down. Did she mention anything else about the Ministry man?”
“Only that her husband seemed eager for his interest.” I reached for my reticule and drew out the card. “Someone else showed interest as well. Monsieur Alphonse Duret. A French collector. She said he visited the shop two days ago, asking questions about Stuart artifacts. Left this behind.”
Robert turned the card over thoughtfully, his thumb grazing the embossed letters. “I know the name. I’ve seen him at an auction or two. Smooth as cream. But a man who asks after Stuart relics just as a manuscript naming seventeenth-century plotters disappears?” His eyes lifted to mine. “That stinks of calculation.”
For a moment we both sat in silence, the firelight flickering over the rows of the library books. The clink of the clock on the mantel seemed suddenly very loud.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So. We have Loxley, Whitford, a nameless Ministry man, and this Monsieur Duret. Which one do we pursue first?”
Robert raised an amused brow. “Is that the royal we? As in your friends and family, including me?”
I couldn’t help smiling. “No friends and family. Only you. Ned and Lily are getting married in two months. We’re moving offices to a new address, which means Emma must stay on top of that. Mellie is clamoring for more responsibility at the agency, although I think she could be helpful with Monsieur Duret. And Richard will soon be off for Oxford to lecture. I’m afraid that only leaves you and me. I won’t be able to do this without you.” I gazed at him somewhat sheepishly. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not.” He covered my hand with his own. “But those friends and family may have something to say. Knowing them, they’ll want to keep a hand in. Ned’s assistance would be especially useful. He’s kept in touch with his friends at the Ministry of War. Somebody there is bound to know something.”
“But would they be able to share? Official Secrets Act and all that.”
“Yes, that is a problem.”
I tapped the rim of my glass thoughtfully. “Why don’t you start with Duret, since you’ve seen him at the occasional auction. I’m sure you can come up with a reason to talk to him.”
