Page 58 of A Murder on London Bridge
CHAPTER 29
IN SEARCH OF EDMUND
Morning broke pale and uncertain, the sort of light that makes one question whether the world is truly awake or merely pretending. The curtains glowed with a soft haze, and the faint aroma of coffee drifted from the tray Grace had set beside my bed. My limbs still felt heavy, as though they belonged to some other creature entirely—but at least not as treacherous as they had the night before.
Robert had left for Scotland Yard before I awoke, his note left neatly upon the tray:Remain in bed until my return. The more he forbade, the more restless I became. There were things I needed to know. Things only Hollingsworth could answer. And that meant finding a telephone, the nearest of which was in my parlor.
Grace balked at the notion of my rising, but after a good deal of pleading—and perhaps a touch of quiet rebellion on my part—she relented, though only on the condition that she accompany me. So, with her hovering at my side, I made my slow progresstoward my home office. The corridor was empty. Good. No witnesses to report my disobedience to their lord and master.
After locating Hollingsworth’s number, I had the operator connect me.
“Hollingsworth House,” came an impeccable voice. The butler, of course. He informed me that his master was not at home.
I had no choice but to leave a message. “This is Lady Rutledge. Kindly inform Lord Hollingsworth that I would be obliged if he would call on me at his earliest convenience.” A mere telephone conversation would not suffice. I needed to see him.
Before Grace could properly scold me for my exertions, I allowed her to shepherd me back to bed.
An hour later, a discreet knock sounded. “My lady, you have a visitor—Lord Hollingsworth. He waits in the library.”
My heart gave a treacherous leap. Finally, some answers. “Help me dress, Grace.”
“Milady—” Panic flickered across her face.
“You may accompany me if it eases your mind. Hollingsworth can take over from there. Now fetch my dove-grey gown, if you please.”
She clucked and fretted, muttering dire warnings all the while, but obeyed. Between us, we contrived a respectable appearance. She fetched my small pearls, insisting they lent me color. I allowed it. My complexion was rather pale.
Supported by her arm, I descended the stairs one careful step at a time. Twice, the world wavered, forcing me to grip the banister until the dizziness passed. Grace fussed like a broody hen, but I would not turn back. Pride—and sheer stubbornness—carried me downward.
As I entered the library, Hollingsworth rose at once. “Kitty, you look ... well.”
“Lying was never one of your sins, Hollingsworth. I’m pale and still dizzy, but otherwise quite myself. My faculties are intact. And that’s what matters.”
After I settled into my favorite settee, I turned to my maid. “Thank you, Grace. That will be all.”
“Yes, milady.” She curtsied and withdrew, though not without a last, fretful glance in my direction.
“Coffee?” Hollingsworth asked, gesturing toward the silver service.
“Yes, please.”
He poured with his usual care, adding cream and sugar before handing me the cup. “Now,” he said, taking the armchair opposite, “what can I do for you?”
For one dizzying instant, the resemblance to his ancestor struck me so forcibly that the room tilted. Edmund’s portrait—the proud set of the mouth, the thoughtful eyes that had seemed to follow me across centuries—was suddenly alive before me. I caught my breath, willed the weakness away, and steadied my hand on the cup.
Hollingsworth’s brow furrowed, as if he had marked the moment, but he said nothing. He merely waited, patient and grave.
“Robert will have told you,” I began, “of my—what he insists on calling—‘fevered dreams.’”
“He did,” Hollingsworth replied mildly, though curiosity gleamed behind his calm.
“They were not dreams.” My voice emerged steadier than I felt. “They were real. Somehow—by what mechanism I cannot begin to explain—I slipped back in time and witnessed those days before the Great Fire. Your ancestor played a vital role.”
He did not laugh or dismiss it as fancy. Instead, he regarded me with that steady intelligence of his, fingers loosely cradling his cup. “You speak with remarkable certainty.”
“Because it is the truth,” I said firmly. “Tell me—did Edmund leave journals, letters, any record of his life? Something that might confirm what I saw?”
“I cannot say.” Hollingsworth frowned in thought. “If such things exist, they’d be at Worthington Manor. The attics are filled with trunks and boxes my family hasn’t touched in generations. I can telephone my estate manager and ask him to look.”
