Page 35 of A Murder on London Bridge
My heart tightened. “He expects a meeting tonight.”
“So it seems,” Hollingsworth replied. “And if Parquier means to attend, then we may at last see the face behind the shadow.”
“I have something also,” I said.
I did not tell him at once. It was not coyness but the habit of a woman who has learned that once a thing is spoken, it cannot be recalled. I drew the journal out and set it between us, a small, quiet bomb.
He did not touch it at first. He read the shape of it as if the leather could speak. “Lady Margaret’s?”
“I believe so.”
He looked at me then, and for a moment the severity fell away and what remained was simple admiration—and worry. “You should not have done this alone.”
“I was not alone,” I said, thinking of Anne beyond the door. “And I am not now.” A brief pause. “The initials N.A. are in it.”
“Nathaniel Asquith, a younger son who makes up in zeal what he lacks in fortune.”
“I believe that Lady Margaret had hopes in his direction.”
His gaze sharpened. “You’ve discovered that much?”
“Yes, and I hope to discover more. But … the handwriting is not what I’m used to. Initials, not names. They will be difficult to identify. I fear that time is not on our side.” Not only for the Queen’s sake, but my own. I needed to return to my own century.
His mouth tightened, not in displeasure but in calculation. “When you have read enough, we will keep the book in safer hands.”
“Whose?”
“Mine,” he said simply. “Unless you have another to suggest.”
I shook my head. “No. Give me tonight. Tomorrow you may have it.”
“As you wish.” He inclined his head. “I must caution you to be wary, Lady Halloran. Your presence in the west passage was noted. They watch to see who grieves and who pries.” His gaze flicked to the journal. “Do not give them cause to agree upon which one you are.”
When he left, the room felt smaller for the knowledge he had brought with him. I opened the journal again and read on, lips shaping soundlessly. Lady Margaret’s hand yielded, page by page, its secrets. She had been relentless in her watching. Had written names as a fisherman casts nets—broad, indiscriminate at first, then drawing tighter when she felt the tug of weight. Parquier. Asquith, Markham, Overton. Another note about the buttery stairs. She’d met Asquith there before. No wonder she hadn’t thought twice about meeting him there again.
At the bottom of one page, barely inked, a line that made the skin at my nape rise:“If I am wrong, I shall beg their pardon. If I am right, I will need friends.”
I closed the book and rested my palms upon it. “You have one,” I said aloud, though she could not hear me. “I will not let you be the girl who fell in the dark without finding justice for you.”
Anne turned from the basket then, her face composed but her eyes wet. “Will you go to him?” she asked softly.
“Hollingsworth? I will see him tomorrow and hand the journal to him.” I flipped the book back to the first page. “But first, I will copy what I can in case the original is taken.”
“And then?”
“And then,” I said, feeling the steadiness settle in me like a stone in a river, resisting the current, “I will find the man who pushed her into the dark and see that he steps into it himself.”
Anne crossed herself. “God keep you, my lady.”
“He had better,” I said lightly, for her sake if not for mine. “I intend to be very troublesome.”
CHAPTER 19
DECIPHERING A JOURNAL
Before evening, the Queen sent notice that she was indisposed. So, thankfully, my services were not needed. I was grateful that the weight of ceremony did not press upon me. A quiet night was a rare mercy.
Anne left to fetch both our meals. Upon her return, she set down the tray upon the small table, careful not to rattle the dishes. “Cold meats, bread, and a bit of syllabub, my lady. The kitchens are in a flurry with the banquet, but I pressed them for something plain.”
