Page 55 of A Murder on London Bridge
“I promised I would remain seated,” I said mildly. “I did not promise I would remain in the present.”
Their confused gazes found me. There was no more time. I needed to explain. Now.
“While I was ill, I dreamt. Not dreams of nonsense, but … a sequence. A place. London, 1666. Whitehall and the court of Charles II. I woke to find myself one of the Queen’s ladies—Catherine of Braganza’s own. I heard whispers, rumors, courtiers plotting to harm her. Upon further inquiry, I discovered two names: Nathaniel Asquith and Gabriel Parquier. Asquith was a scribe. He noted the details of the plot, and the initials of the participants, into a ledger. I believe that’s the manuscript that Merton discovered.”
No one spoke, and Robert did not interrupt. He only watched me with the kind of listening that feels like a hand at one’s back. Mellie, whose imagination had always been practical, was busily writing down everything I said. Richard leaned forward, frowning, as if trying to reconcile the past with the present. Emma’s lips parted slightly while her eyes went wide with the sort of astonishment she rarely betrayed. Even Marlowe, who wore skepticism as comfortably as his cravat, seemed briefly unsettled.
“I … befriended someone. He believed me, and together we investigated. Our search led us to the Swan Tavern, where we overheard the conspirators plotting treason. That same night, the Great Fire of London began. They had struck the match to cloak their scheme. My friend and I raced back to Whitehall to warn the Queen. She made it safely aboard a barge, but I … remained behind. My maid had been taken, and in my attempt to save her, I was struck down. When next I woke, I was in hospital with Robert at my side.”
“Kitty,” Emma said gently, concern written all over her face, “darling?—”
“I know,” I said. “A fever story. Smoke in a skull. I would gladly call it that if I could.”
Ned let out a breath. “Suppose we accept—for the sake of argument—that your mind fetched this from somewhere. What are we to do with it now in 1925?”
“See where the echo lands,” I said. “We have a murdered man in our day looking into this ledger from theirs. If Merton found a note, a reference, a family name?—”
“—someone might believe he could stitch the two eras together,” Mellie finished quietly. “And decided to cut the thread.”
Robert spoke then, slowly, as though weighing each word. “Even if we grant the connection, we need facts from the here and now we can put our hands on. Who saw Merton last? Who knew he was asking about the ledger? Who benefits most from that book never being read again?”
“The families, I would say,” Richard answered at once. “The ones with skeletons dating to Periwig Year.”
“Some of those houses might be friends,” Marlowe cautioned, glancing at Emma. “Or at least … acquaintances.”
“If they are, we can use that connection to gain entry,” Emma murmured, her tone brisk. “Doors open more easily to a friendly knock.”
“So, where do we start?” Ned pressed.
“With Parquier and Asquith, two of the conspirators,” I said without hesitation. “I talked to Sir Loxley and Professor Whitford. They could be interviewed again. Now that we have more information, we may be able to connect them to additional names—Denham, Montagu, Coventry, Jermyn. They were all present at the Swan Tavern plotting treason against the Queen.”
The clock on the mantel ticked, solemn as a curate, each beat a warning that time was slipping through our hands. Rain tapped faintly at the windowpanes, as though London itself urged us on.
“Let’s decide how to proceed,” Robert said, ever practical, his voice carrying the edge of urgency.
The next half hour passed in quick debate, dividing responsibilities while I remained in my seat. Chairs scraped, voices overlapped, Mellie’s pencil scratched furiously across papers. Richard and Marlowe argued over who ought to approach a certain peer, while Emma, unruffled, offered to smooth matters socially. Ned kept circling back to evidence—hard facts, verifiable witnesses—until Robert cut across the clamor and steered them back to order. At last, their assignments lay on the table, stark as a challenge. Robert studied them, then gave a single, short nod. “That will do. But it’s only a beginning.”
“A beginning is better than nothing, darling,” I answered, though my pulse drummed with the knowledge that beginnings could not be delayed.
I could feel my strength ebbing. Our allotted time was nearly done, and soon I would return to bed, where I prayed my dreams might finally grant me ease. Robert, seeing my state, poured acup of tea. Of course he did. Coffee would only keep me awake. His hand brushed my shoulder as he set the cup within reach.
Just then, the library door opened and a footman stepped inside. “My lord, my lady—you have a visitor.”
“Hullo?” called a familiar voice from the threshold.
Hollingsworth.
He stood there, wind-ruffled, eyes alight with exhaustion, a ridiculous grin tugging at his mouth. For an instant, the room seemed to double. Two centuries sliding over one another like glass, Edmund’s profile stamped upon his descendant’s face—the same curve of the mouth, the same proud set of the shoulder.
My breath escaped in a small, startled sound as I lurched to my feet. The world tilted, my vision broke into light and shadow, and in the next moment I collapsed, fainting straight into Robert’s arms.
CHAPTER 28
THE TERMS OF REST
The first thing I felt when I woke was the softness of linen beneath my cheek. The second was Robert’s hand, warm and steady upon mine, as though he meant to tether me to this world lest I drift away.
When I opened my eyes, the familiar carved oak of the bedposts rose around me, solid and reassuring, their weight a sharp contrast to the memory that lingered. Hollingsworth’s face—so uncannily like the one of his ancestor—haunted me. In the instant I saw him, the two centuries had collided, and I had balanced on the knife-edge of time.
