Page 29 of A Murder on London Bridge
“But what can we do?” The words tumbled out sharper than I intended.
If I had been in my own time, I would have known exactly what to do—investigate, identify suspects, and ask questions until the truth slipped free. But this was not my time. Here, one false step could hurl me into peril. If memory served, they thought nothing of chopping off heads in this century—one careless word branded treason. And though the great witch trials were waning, women who spoke too boldly, or knew too much, might still be whispered of as witches. The thought made me draw my shawl closer, as though its thin folds could shield me.
“There are many things we can do,” Hollingsworth said slowly, his voice steady as the stone beneath our feet. He paused then, his gaze sharpening as it fixed upon me, as though he meant to pierce through every layer of disguise I wore.
“But before we speak of any of them,” he continued at last, his tone low and deliberate, “there is something I must know.”
A chill stole through me, though the draught had never ceased along the cloister.
“The portrait you claimed to have seen,” he said, each word deliberate, “does not exist. I have never sat for one. And the pearl earring you noted with such certainty—” He touched his ear, where the jewel glimmered faintly in the moonlight. “I acquired it only months ago while I was away from the court. It could never have appeared in a likeness.”
My throat tightened, the cold air rasping in my lungs.
“Nor am I the man you called me. Until this day, I bore no title but Sir Edmund Hollingsworth, a mere knight. Only by the King’s hand was I raised to a marquis this afternoon.” He leaned closer, his eyes unflinching. “So tell me, Lady Halloran, how did you know me at once? You looked at me as one greets an old acquaintance. Yet, we had never before set eyes upon each other.”
His words struck like hammer blows. I had thought my explanations clever enough—that a slip of the tongue here, a feigned memory there, might carry me through. But I had not counted on time itself betraying me. He had indeed had his portrait painted, but not yet. He had acquired the pearl, but only months ago. And I had addressed him as a lord before the King had bestowed the title. Heaven only knew how many more such mistakes I would make. No matter how careful I was, I was bound to stumble. And each stumble brought me closer to ruin.
“Who are you?” he asked, voice low but inexorable. “Tell me truly. I have traveled far and seen marvels beyond counting—wonders and terrors enough that little could astonish me now. Whatever truth you hold, I will not be driven from you by it.”
The arches loomed about me, stone and shadow pressing close.
I closed my eyes for a moment, summoning courage. Heaven help me, the truth was too wild to be believed. Yet to say nothing would condemn me more surely.
“You are right,” I said at last, my voice no more than a whisper. “I knew you without ever having met you. Because I come … not from here. Not from now. From another time altogether.”
His gaze sharpened. “Another time?”
“The future,” I forced out. My breath caught, but the words spilled on. “I live in the year 1925. I saw your portrait once, hanging in a . . . gallery. I couldn’t very well tell him it was at his descendant’s home. I knew you from that likeness—the same eyes, the same bearing. That is how I recognized you.”
Silence pressed between us, heavy as stone.
At length, he tilted his head. “A clever tale. And yet …” His eyes searched mine, as if weighing not the words but the conviction behind them. “There is more. You tell me of portraits and centuries yet to come, but I know when a story is half-told. There is something you keep back.”
My pulse thundered. Of course I kept it back. I could not tell him the whole—could not risk unraveling the future that bore his name, nor endanger the very man I had known in my own century. If he thought me mad, so be it. Better madness than the annihilation of his line.
“I have told you the truth,” I said, though my voice shook.
Hollingsworth studied me for a long moment. Then, to my astonishment, he gave the faintest smile. “You are unlike any woman I have ever met, Lady Halloran. Perhaps even unlike any woman in this world. I will not press you further tonight. But know this—whatever else you conceal, I will find it out.”
I swallowed hard, fearing what he might uncover, yet some part of me warmed at his words. For all his disbelief, he had not turned from me.
“We cannot waste time,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. “If what you have heard is true, and what I was told tonight as well, the Queen may already be in mortal danger.”
“What are you planning to do?” he asked.
“I must warn her,” I said at last, lifting my chin. “Not with wild tales, but plain advice. She should take food and drink only from those she trusts—the attendants who came with her from Portugal. At least then the risk of poison would be lessened. And all else—the preparation of her dishes, the pouring of her wine—must be watched with care.”
Hollingsworth regarded me steadily. “Sensible counsel. She is more likely to heed it if it comes from a woman she trusts. But how would you approach Her Majesty?”
“I will ask to speak to her quietly,” I said. “Better she think me over scrupulous than suffer for my silence.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “You are bold, Lady Halloran. Bolder than most men at court. Very well. Warn her, but guard your own steps as closely as you would hers.”
“What will you do?” I asked.
Hollingsworth inclined his head. “I will keep my eyes upon the men who spread this venom—Overton, Parquier, their creatures—and learn what I can. My friends at court still trust me. And in taverns and coffeehouses, tongues wag more freely than they should. If there is to be a strike, I mean to hear of it before it falls.”
His gaze softened. “Between us, we may yet keep Catherine safe. But it will require silence, patience, and no small amount of cunning. Are you willing?”
