Page 60 of A Murder on London Bridge
By the following afternoon, I was quite done with resting. A single night’s sleep had restored me more than a week abed ever could—well, that and the hope of answers from the journals unearthed in Hollingsworth’s attics.
“You ought to remain in bed,” Robert said over luncheon, arms folded like a magistrate delivering a sentence.
“I have rested quite enough,” I told him. “I’ll attend the meeting this afternoon, and that is the end of it. Unless you mean to carry me upstairs forcibly, you may as well accept it.”
For a moment, he looked as though he might. Then he sighed. “Very well. But if you falter?—”
“—You’ll confine me to bed. I know. I won’t.”
“I’ll be watching you.”
“I should be disappointed if you weren’t, Inspector,” I said sweetly, hiding a smile behind my coffee cup.
When the hour came, we went into the library together. Grace lingered in the hall, ready to swoop should I stumble, but I managed perfectly well without her. Robert stayed close, his watchful gaze following me, though he made no attempt to usher me to the settee. He knew I needed to stand on my own—literally and figuratively.
Our company arrived on time: Ned and Richard, Lady Emma and Lord Marlowe, Mellie with her ever-present notebook, and Hollingsworth, composed as ever, as if no worldly disturbance could ruffle him. Coffee and tea steamed on the tray, accompanied by a mountain of biscuits and sandwiches.
Once everyone had settled, I stood, steady and sure, and smiled. “Before we begin, I must apologize for my fainting spell the other day. I assure you, it will not be repeated.” At least, I fervently hoped not.
A murmur of polite laughter followed. Ned grunted approval, Emma arched a brow, and even Robert’s mouth softened by a fraction.
“Now,” I continued, “we meet today with more than speculation. We have new information, thanks to Robert’s work at Scotland Yard. I’ll let him explain.”
Robert inclined his head and rose. “The inspector has located a witness,” he began. “Not the most reliable fellow—fond of the bottle—but on this point, he was clear enough. He was on London Bridge at sunrise when he saw Merton quarreling with another man. He couldn’t hear the words, but tempers were high.
“It ended quickly. The stranger struck Merton with his cane, and Merton went down at once. His head hit an iron piling. The witness swore the sound would haunt him forever. Then the stranger bent over him, searched his pockets like a man desperate for something, and pulled out a book. Small, leather-bound—the size of a ledger. He tucked it beneath his arm and vanished into the fog.”
A heavy silence followed. Then Lady Emma spoke briskly. “But was this witness close enough to see the man clearly? Or is this all smoke and fog?”
Robert gave a single, firm nod. “He was close enough. He swore to the man’s height—taller than most, broad in the shoulders. He noted a shock of red hair beneath the brim of a top hat. The cane wasn’t merely carried—it was the weapon. Dark wood, silver knob. The blow didn’t kill Merton; his head striking the piling did. It cracked his skull. That’s the sound the witness remembers.”
A stir went round the room. Mellie’s pencil scratched furiously across her notebook. Richard leaned forward, eyes intent. Hollingsworth’s gaze sharpened with thought.
I waited for the murmurs to fade before speaking. “Well then—a tall gentleman, red-haired, broad in the shoulders, carrying a silver-capped cane. Does that sound familiar to anyone?”
For a long moment, the only sound was the ticking of the mantel clock. Then Ned shifted in his chair, the movement abrupt enough to draw every eye.
“I know him,” he said at last, voice low and reluctant. “Or at least I know a man who fits that description. Arthur Parker. I saw him often enough when I worked in the War Department. He was a junior minister then, always hovering where decisions were made. Hard to miss—tall as a lamppost, shoulders like a boxer, and that hair.” Ned grimaced. “Bright red, like a bloody flag. He always carried a cane too. Dark wood, silver knob. A ridiculous affectation at the time—though now…” He trailed off grimly.
Richard leaned forward. “Parker. He’s in Cabinet now, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Ned said. “Minister without Portfolio, last I heard. He’s the sort who turns up everywhere—Trade, War Office, you name it. A man who makes sure he’s in the room, whichever room it happens to be.”
A heavy silence settled over us.
“Parker,” Richard repeated slowly, tasting the name.
“Or perhaps,” I said quietly, “Parquier.”
The effect was instant—a ripple of shock, Mellie’s pencil halting mid-stroke, Emma’s eyes flashing.
“Names change easily when there’s something to hide,” I went on. “Parker is unremarkable enough to pass unnoticed. But Parquier? That name carries a history. And not one a man with ambition would want remembered.”
Hollingsworth leaned forward, thoughtful. “If Parker truly is Parquier, the motive is clear. The ledger would tie him to his ancestor’s treachery—proof enough to ruin a man who’s built his career on respectability.”
Robert’s brow furrowed. “It’s a leap. We can’t condemn a man on a resemblance of names and a patch of red hair.”
“No,” I agreed evenly. “But it gives us direction. Merton died because he had that ledger. The man who killed him took it. And if Parker is Parquier, then the reason is plain—he couldn’t allow the past to rise up and destroy him.”
