Page 2 of A Murder on London Bridge
As Lady Rutledge—I was still getting used to that title—I sat at one end of the table while Robert—as Lord Rutledge—sat at the head. We began with a spring pea and watercress soup, the color so vivid it looked as though someone had dipped a brush straight into a meadow. A touch of mint gave it an unexpected brightness—refreshing, though I rather missed the comfort of something with a little more body. Still, it seemed to please everyone.
The pheasant, of course, was the centerpiece—and quite right, too. Roasted to golden perfection and brushed with a whisper of lavender-honey glaze, it was the sort of dish that practically announced,“You’re dining at Rutledge House now, darling. Do try to keep up.” As if either Robert or I cared about such pomp. Cook had tested the lavender idea three times before settling on the precise measure. Leave it to her to make a bird smell faintly of an herb garden and somehow still taste like heaven.
The new potatoes glistened with chive butter, and the asparagus was braised until just the right amount of tender, with a lemony bite that made one feel terribly virtuous. The baby carrots, too, sweet and caramelized, added just enough cheer to balance the rest.
I didn’t pretend to be a connoisseur of wine, though I’d tasted enough at society dinners to spot the difference between something truly excellent and something merely expensive. The white Burgundy served with the pheasant that evening was, happily, both.
Before long, Mother dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, her eyes sparkling with thinly veiled anticipation. “Everyone,” she said, her voice slicing cleanly through the clink of silver and low hum of conversation, “Richard has something he’d like to share.”
I set down my wine glass, looking fondly at my brother across the table. Robert tipped his head in quiet encouragement.
“Thank you, Mother,” Richard began with a small, modest smile. “As some of you may recall, I’d mentioned that I would be lecturing at Oxford over the summer. Well,”—he let the words hang just long enough to catch our attention—“after further discussions, the university has decided to bring me in earlier than planned. I’ll be teaching during Trinity term.”
“So you’ll start in two weeks?” Emma asked.
“That’s the plan. I’ll be focusing on archaeology—particularly my fieldwork in Egypt—as well as the ancient trade routes that connected Egypt, Greece, and the Near East.”
A ripple of polite surprise traveled around the table, followed by soft applause. I couldn’t help beaming. “Oh, Richard, how wonderful! You must be thrilled.”
“I am,” he said warmly, his eyes meeting mine for a heartbeat. “It’s a rare chance to combine excavation work and historical interpretation. I'm rather looking forward to it.”
Mother gave a prim, satisfied little nod, as though she had personally orchestrated the whole affair, which, to tell the truth, I wouldn’t put past her. She’d do anything to keep Richard home.
Robert raised his glass with a wry half-smile. “To Richard. May his students find him as fascinating as we do.”
Laughter rippled softly through the room, the clink of crystal and silver wrapping the moment in gentle warmth as we toasted to Richard’s new chapter.
Mr. Merton gave an approving nod. “A fine topic, young man. One can learn much about a people by the objects they leave behind. That’s always fascinated me.”
“As it should,” Richard said, warming to the subject. “Trade is civilization in many ways. It reveals everything—what a society valued, feared, worshipped. The everyday and the sacred all wrapped up in grain shipments and pottery fragments.”
“And if the lectures go well?” Lord Marlowe prompted.
“A permanent position in the autumn,” Richard admitted, trying—unsuccessfully—not to beam. “A lecturer’s post, if the department finds my lectures satisfactory.”
“Which I’m sure they will,” I said confidently. “You’ve a knack for making dusty things seem rather compelling.”
“It’s splendid news, Richard,” Father added, a rare softness in his voice. “We’re quite pleased.”
I could see why he felt that way. It would mean Richard would remain in England, at least for a time. As Richard suffered from malaria, he could never return to his archaeological digs in Egypt. To do so would mean a likely death if he suffered a relapse.
I was proud of my brother—his brilliance, his steadiness. And more than a little relieved he’d be staying on home soil. “Will you be residing with Margaret and Sebastian while in Oxford?” I asked.
“They have issued an invitation which I’m more than glad to accept. Their house is a darn sight better than a leased flat.” Sebastian had bought a house at Norham Gardens, one of the more exclusive Oxford neighborhoods, for those times when he and my sister Margaret resided there. As chair of a committee to increase women’s enrollment at the university, her efforts had already shown progress, but it was early days yet. She also had raised funds to establish a women’s health clinic and had been highly successful in that effort. Sebastian hadn’t been idle. He’dbeen instrumental in an effort to increase organic farming in the United Kingdom.
With the birth of baby Thomas, those efforts had been put temporarily on hold as they both wanted to enjoy time with their child. They planned to resume their efforts during the summer, which meant Richard would have the house to himself, at least during Trinity term.
“I must say, Lady Rutledge,” Mr. Merton said, dabbing delicately at his mouth with a linen napkin, “this is a most delicious meal. Your cook has outdone herself.”
“Indeed,” his wife added with a polished smile. “The pheasant is exquisite.”
“Thank you,” I said, returning the smile. “Cook takes great pride in her work. Deservedly so.”
When the conversation lagged, Robert said, “Mr. Merton is something of an expert in antiquities.”
The gentleman chuckled. “Expert may be generous, Lord Rutledge, but I do have a fondness for lost manuscripts and forgotten relics.”
Richard perked up. “Manuscripts? Truly?”
