Page 57 of A Murder on London Bridge
He sat on the bed and gazed at me for a long time, measuring my breathing, no doubt, and the color in my cheeks. He must have been satisfied by what he saw because finally he said, “I spoke to Hollingsworth. About Edmund.”
I forced myself to breathe normally. “And?”
“He survived the Great Fire and married Lady Halloran. They had three children—two sons and a daughter they named Catherine, after the Queen. He built the Hollingsworth estate that still stands today and lived long enough to see grandchildren.”
I breathed out an easy breath. You couldn’t ask more of life than that, especially in his age. But there was so much more I wanted to know. “What about the plot against the Queen? Were those traitors brought to justice?”
Robert hesitated, his gaze steady. “Richard telephoned Professor Whitford. He assured Richard there is nothing in the record. Although there were many whispers and rumors before the Great Fire, no actual plot was carried out.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. How could that be? Had I imagined it all—spun from whole cloth by a mind too fevered with mystery? The Great Fire, the conspirators, the peril to Catherine of Braganza. Could it truly be nothing more than a mirage?
Robert sat upon the edge of the bed, his hand closing over mine once more. “Do not torment yourself. The past is fixed. Whatever dangers once loomed, they did not touch the Queen. After Charles’s death, she returned to Portugal where she lived to the ripe old age of sixty-seven. Edmund thrived and sired a dynasty, our Hollingsworth and Mellie proof of that. That is what matters.”
I turned my face away, unwilling to surrender so easily. In my bones I felt it. There had been a plot. If history recorded otherwise, then history had been deliberately smoothed, and the truth buried.
As though sensing the storm within me, Robert continued, “There is also news about the Merton investigation. Scotland Yard has a witness. A man who claims he saw Merton attacked.”
My breath caught. “At last! And?”
“Unfortunately, the fellow is somewhat too fond of the bottle. His testimony is … not exactly reliable.”
“Still, it is something,” I said fiercely, clutching at the thread of hope. “You must talk to him, Robert. Hear his account for yourself.”
He looked unconvinced. “I dislike chasing phantoms.”
“Not a phantom,” I countered. “A man. A witness. However clouded his mind, he may recall something of value.”
Robert hesitated, then inclined his head. “Very well. If only to silence your doubts. But you will not bother yourself with this.”
I smiled faintly, recalling my earlier promise. “I have already agreed to rest. I shall keep my word.”
That seemed to satisfy him, though his eyes remained wary. He bent, brushed his lips against mine, and murmured, “See that you do.”
As he rose, I caught my tongue before the words could escape. To tell him I meant to speak to Hollingsworth myself—whether in person or by telephone—would only provoke hisdisapproval and further restrictions. Best to let Robert believe I would remain docile, tucked up in pillows and the dreaded broth.
Robert lingered a moment longer, then turned and strode to the door. His shoulders were squared, the set of his back still rigid with concern. “I’ll have Grace bring your supper.”
“Not broth!”
He smiled. “Yes, broth, along with roast beef and potatoes.”
I clutched my hands to my breast. “Be still my beating heart!”
He turned dead serious. “Don’t.”
Poor darling. He worried I would fade away again. “Not to worry, sweetheart. I mean to stay. If for no other reason than to find Merton’s murderer.” After a beat, I added, “And you. I missed you dreadfully while I was gone.”
“Did you?”
“Of course, Robert. You’re the love of my life.”
The air grew still between us. “As you are to me.”
Without another word, he withdrew, the door closing quietly behind him.
Alone once more, I sank against the pillows. Perhaps I had dreamt the danger of the past. Perhaps I had conjured Edmund’s role out of desperation. And yet, deep within me, certainty pulsed like a second heartbeat: the truth had not been erased, merely concealed.
And when my strength returned, I would uncover it—whatever the cost.
