Page 16 of A Murder on London Bridge
“He is.”
“I imagine he has something to say in the matter.”
“He does, but it’s quite confidential. I hope you understand.” I tilted my head slightly, offering a polite smile.
I recognized the shift. He was asking the questions now—testing me, in his own way. I couldn’t begrudge him a little probing, not after everything I’d asked of him. A fair exchange, to a point. But there were limits.
“Are you investigating the murder or the theft of the manuscript, Miss Worthington?”
“Both. You cannot separate the two.”
He rose and crossed to the sideboard, pouring himself another cup of tea. “Merton treated it as a curio. An artifact to be sold to the highest bidder. But it was never simply that. It’s a powder keg.”
Taking his seat again, he said, “I will give you the same advice I gave to Merton. You must tread very carefully. Whoever now possesses that document may not even know its full contents. But those who do know? They will go to great lengths to keep it silent. Be careful who you talk to. What you say.”
Outside, a distant clock began to chime the hour. It was time to go. But not before I asked him one last question.
“If I happen upon it—or fragments of it—will you examine them?”
“Yes,” he said at once. “But bring them to me directly. And speak of it to no one.”
As I stepped out into the grey London afternoon, a light rain had begun to fall. I wrapped my coat more tightly around me.
If what Whitford said was true—if there truly had been a plot against Queen Catherine, recorded in ink and protected forcenturies—then someone had already killed to keep that secret buried.
And they wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.
CHAPTER 8
THE FALL
The grey afternoon had deepened into a silvered haze of evening by the time I returned to Eaton Square. A light mist clung to the stones, turning the lamps to halos and painting the pavement in slick reflections. Pritchard opened the door at once, his posture straight despite the hour.
“Good evening, milady. Two notes have arrived for you, ma’am,” he said, relieving me of my coat. “One from Lord Rutledge. The other arrived half an hour ago—marked urgent.”
I carried both into the library, where a fire burned cheerfully. Robert’s note was brief, neat, and apologetic. A case had taken an unexpected turn, so he would be staying late at Scotland Yard. He would not return in time for supper.
Bother! That was an unfortunate turn of events. I’d hoped to discuss my conversation with Professor Whitford with him. Robert always had a way of shedding light on such matters. Well, it would have to wait.
The second note bore Marlowe’s crisp, masculine hand. He had found Loxley. The gentleman had agreed to speak with me and had provided a telephone number. But tonight was the only time he could receive me, as he was leaving town early the next morning.
I rang him at once.
After a servant answered with ‘Loxley Residence,’ another voice came on the line—smooth, low, and cultured in the way some men carry like a monocle.
“Miss Worthington,” Loxley said. “I’m so pleased to hear from you. I understand you’re investigating our mutual friend’s untimely end?”
“I am. I was hoping we might speak, just briefly.”
“Of course. I’ll be at home all evening. Please come whenever it suits you.” He ended the call with a courteous farewell.
As much as I longed to consult Robert, there was no time. Loxley was leaving tomorrow morning, and I could not risk missing him.
I took a quick bath, dressed in a dark business suit, and chose a hat and gloves, both stylish and restrained. By the time I descended to the foyer, Pritchard had already hailed a cab.
“Would you like a footman to accompany you, Lady Rutledge?”
I smiled. “No need. It’s only a short call. I shan’t be long.”
