Page 17 of A Murder on London Bridge
After slipping into my evening coat, I let him open the door. The cool night closed round my shoulders like a whisper.
Wishingfor a stretch of my legs before I arrived at the Loxley residence, I asked the cab to let me out near St. James’s, not directly at the address Loxley had given me. I regretted thedecision almost at once. The air had grown damp, and the fog was creeping low and steady. I felt certain my coiffured bob would soon fall to ruin. Quickening my pace, I passed a handful of pedestrians, each striding with brisk purpose, collars turned high. Seemingly, they were of a like mind.
Under the dim glow of a streetlamp, I checked the address once more, then moved forward until I spotted the house. It stood slightly back from the road, a narrow hedge guarding its wrought-iron gate. Warm light glowed from the upper windows, a welcome sight against the gathering fog. Still, something about the shadows clinging to the hedge made me quicken my steps.
Almost as soon as I dropped the knocker, the door opened. A liveried young man stood before me—not old enough to be a butler. A footman, most likely.
He ushered me into a stylishly appointed drawing room, where Sir Peregrine Loxley awaited me.
He rose to greet me, a slender figure dressed with the easy extravagance of a man who never left his tailor in peace. His evening coat was cut to perfection, his cravat secured with a jeweled pin that caught the lamplight, and his hair—gleaming chestnut—was brushed to a faultless sheen. A silver-topped walking stick rested against his chair, though I doubted he needed it.
His bow was courtly, his smile even more so, but there was a sharpness in his gaze that belied the languid elegance of his manner. This was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, whether by charm, coin, or sheer persistence.
“Sir Peregrine,” I said, inclining my head, “thank you for receiving me on such short notice.”
He gave a graceful wave of his hand, as though brushing aside the notion of inconvenience. “My dear Lady Rutledge, for a lady of discernment and energy, my door is always open. Besides”—his eyes glinted with a keen intelligence—“when thesubject is Merton and his manuscript, I should think the whole of London might knock, and I would still make time.”
With a flick of his wrist, he indicated a tray on the sideboard. “May I offer you refreshment? Tea, perhaps? Or something stronger, should you prefer it?”
“Thank you, but nothing for me,” I replied.
“In that case, with your permission—” He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a measure of amber liquid, the crystal glass catching the firelight. “A touch of whiskey for fortification,” he said, lifting it briefly in a gesture of apology before taking a slow, deliberate sip.
His gaze lingered on me over the rim of the glass. “You said you wished to discuss Merton—and the Stuart manuscript?” He set the glass down with deliberate care, the faintest smile touching his lips. “A rare volume indeed, and one I had very much hoped would come into my possession.”
“Yes,” I replied. “The manuscript seems to have stirred a great deal of interest. You had the opportunity to see it yourself?”
His eyes brightened. “Only a few pages, alas. Merton was fiercely protective. He scarcely allowed it from his sight. But what I saw was extraordinary. Seventeenth-century vellum, the hand precise, the ink hardly faded. Notes in the margin suggested more than mere record-keeping. I would have paid whatever price he asked.”
“What sort of notes?” I asked quickly.
He regarded me with a touch of superiority, clearly savoring the moment. “Annotations, my dear lady. Curious references to allegiances and oaths. Hints of secret rendezvous. Enough to whet any collector’s appetite. And more than enough to make certain men nervous.”
“What men?” I pressed.
Loxley’s smile deepened, though his eyes sharpened. “Ah, now that is the question, isn’t it? Merton would never say. But I had the impression he enjoyed knowing others coveted what he held. It gave him a certain power.”
I studied him in silence, weighing his words. It was clear he would go no further where the manuscript was concerned, not without some advantage to be gained. Very well. Best to turn the conversation another way.
“And Merton himself?” I asked. “How well did you know him?”
Loxley swirled the whiskey in his glass before answering. “Well enough to admire his eye for rarity. He understood the value of what he had, I’ll grant him that. But Merton was no true scholar. To him, the manuscript was coin in the pocket—nothing more. He was perfectly willing to part with it to the highest bidder.”
His mouth twisted faintly. “In the meantime, he relished the power it gave him. I believe he dangled it before someone who could not afford exposure and enjoyed watching them squirm. A dangerous game. In the end …” Loxley’s shoulders lifted in a delicate shrug “… that game killed him.”
“You make it sound as though you have some idea who Merton was toying with,” I said, leaning forward. “Do you?”
For a moment Loxley’s gaze met mine, steady and unblinking. Then he gave a short, dismissive laugh and raised his glass. “Speculation, Lady Rutledge, is a collector’s vice. One I indulge only when it profits me.”
The words were smooth, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed more than he wished to admit. He knew something—or someone—but the memory of Merton’s fate had sealed his lips.
With no more knowledge to be obtained, I rose to my feet. “Thank you for your time, Sir Peregrine.”
He bowed while still wearing that superior smile. “The pleasure was mine, dear lady.”
“If you think of anything else, I would appreciate it if you would contact me,” I said, smoothing my gloves.
“Of course,” he said at once. “You have my word.”
