Page 59 of A Murder on London Bridge
Relief and hope surged together, bright enough to banish the last of my dizziness. “Yes, do. If anything remains in Edmund’s own hand, it might illuminate what history has chosen to conceal.”
“You have my word,” he said simply.
I was about to thank him when the sound of the front door opening echoed down the hall. Moments later, Robert appeared in the library.
He halted on the threshold, taking in the scene—the steaming coffee, Hollingsworth opposite me, my unsteady poise on the settee. A frown flickered across his brow before he mastered it for our guest’s sake.
“Hollingsworth,” he greeted coolly. “Good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” Hollingsworth replied, offering no explanation, for which I was grateful.
Robert’s gaze lingered on me. “How are you feeling?”
“Well enough to receive our visitor.”
“That’s good to hear,” he said, though the doubt in his tone betrayed him.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat beside me. The familiar weight of his presence filled the room, as solid and grounding as the oak shelves surrounding us.
“How was Scotland Yard?” I asked.
“I spoke to the witness who saw the altercation between Merton and his killer.”
My pulse quickened. “And?”
“He gave a detailed account,” Robert said, his voice low and controlled. “Contrary to what Inspector Simpson implied, the man was lucid. He said he saw Merton shortly after sunrise, walking toward the southern end of London Bridge. Another gentleman suddenly appeared—tall, broad-shouldered, well-dressed, carrying a dark walking stick. They argued for several minutes. The witness couldn’t hear the words, only the intensity. He moved closer. He was within a few feet when the stranger struck Merton with his cane. Merton fell, his head striking an iron piling. The witness said he’ll never forget the sound.”
A chill rippled through me. “And then?”
“The assailant bent over Merton,” Robert continued grimly. “He rifled through his pockets, frantic, searching for something. Then he pulled out a small, leather-bound book. He described it as a merchant’s ledger. The witness swears the man clutched it to his chest, looked around once, and vanished into the fog.”
My breath caught. “The Stuart manuscript,” I whispered. “The very account that was never meant to see the light of day.”
Neither man contradicted me. The silence that followed was eloquent enough.
“When will the committee meet again?” I asked, steadying my voice.
“Tomorrow,” Robert said.
I turned to Hollingsworth. “Will that be time enough for your estate manager to search the attics?”
“Attics?” Robert echoed.
“I asked Hollingsworth whether his ancestor left any journals,” I explained. “He believes there may be something stored at Worthington Manor.”
Hollingsworth inclined his head. “I’ll have him put as many hands on the task as necessary. If anything is there, we’ll find it.”
Robert addressed Hollingsworth, “You always did know how to rally the troops.” They had both served in the Great War. Turning to me, he lowered his voice. “And you, my dear, should now be rallying your strength.”
I met his eyes, refusing to yield. “Strength is precisely what I’m doing.”
He sighed, exasperated but not unkind. “I suppose I should know better than to argue with you.”
“Yes, darling,” I said with a grin, “you really should.”
CHAPTER 30
SECOND MEETING OF THE INVESTIGATIVE COMMITTEE
