Page 62 of A Murder on London Bridge
“Please do tell them.” I could only imagine how they must have suffered while I lay unconscious. Having lost a daughter to the Spanish flu, they would have been terrified of losing me as well.
“Any news from Richard?” Hollingsworth asked, pouring whiskey into a Glencairn glass for himself and another for Ned. It wasn’t an idle question. Richard’s research into his ancestor’s journal had become the linchpin of our inquiry.
“No word yet,” I said. “But even if he has no answers, he’ll be here. He knows how eager we are for his report.”
The atmosphere was far easier than at our first meeting. The stiffness had melted away, replaced by the easy familiarity of old friends drawn together by common purpose. Mellie alreadyhad her notebook open, pencil poised for duty. Emma and Lord Marlowe had claimed one of the settees, sitting bare inches apart—as affianced couples are wont to do.
I had just reached for my cup of coffee when the door opened and Richard entered at last, his satchel bulging at his side and his expression alight with triumph. He looked as though he had walked straight through the dust of centuries.
“I apologize for my delay,” he said, brushing a bit of imagined soot from his sleeve, while he took his seat. “I wanted to verify something with Professor Whitford.”
“You’re only a few minutes late,” I assured him, leaning forward eagerly. “So, what did you find?”
Even as I spoke, his hands were already at work, drawing several pages of close-written notes from the satchel and spreading them across the small table in front of him like prizes captured in battle.
“I had the privilege of reading Edmund Hollingsworth’s journal—the record of our Hollingsworth and Mellie’s ancestor,” he began, his voice ringing with excitement. “It is no mere diary. It’s a firsthand account of the Great Fire of London and of his role in bringing the conspirators to justice.”
Mellie’s pencil froze midair. “He wrote it down? Every detail?”
“Every important one,” Richard said, eyes gleaming. “He described how he overheard the conspirators plotting at the Swan Tavern—just as Kitty said.” He nodded toward me. “He recorded how he carried word to Whitehall, to both the Queen and the King. Her Majesty was moved to safety under royal guard, placed upon a barge with her ladies, and taken downstream before the flames reached Whitehall. He even noted that Lady Halloran assisted him, though he was discreet about the extent of her involvement.”
“He likely wished to protect her reputation,” I said, “in case the journal ever fell into other hands.”
Emma leaned forward, her cheeks flushed. “So she was remembered, if only faintly. History may have blurred her name, but her presence endures.”
“She did more than endure,” Mellie said softly. “Thanks to her—and to Lord Edmund—Hollingsworth and I are here.”
A shiver touched me, though I smiled to hide it. My small part in those long-ago events had not been lost entirely. Lady Halloran’s name had survived, and through it, so had I.
“Did he mention the conspirators?” I asked.
“He did indeed.” Richard unfolded another page with the flourish of a scholar, certain he held his audience fast. “Parquier vanished in the chaos, presumed drowned in the Thames. Asquith’s body was found in the ruins, a victim of the flames—or so it was believed. The others were captured swiftly and met justice in short order. Edmund spared no detail—he recorded names, dates, and places with the precision of a man determined the truth should endure.”
Ned gave a low whistle. “So the truth was always there, waiting in a dusty book no one thought to read until you pried it open.”
“But none of this ever came to light,” I said. “How can that be?”
“He explained that as well,” Richard replied. “His Majesty did not wish the truth to become public. In the aftermath of the Great Fire, justice was quietly served, and the matter buried. Most believed the conspirators had perished in the flames, like Asquith. And, of course,” he added with a faint, knowing smile, “no one questions a king.”
The weight of Richard’s words seemed to press the room into silence. Then, with perfect timing, Robert appeared in the doorway and came straight toward me.
“Hello, darling.” He bent to kiss my cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“Wonderful.”
He studied me, as he always did, to confirm it for himself. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, for he settled easily into the settee next to me. “So,” he said lightly, “what did I miss?”
Richard offered a concise summary of his report. When he finished, I turned to Robert. “Your turn. Tell us what you learned at Scotland Yard.”
“This morning,” Robert began, “Parker was brought in for questioning by Inspector Simpson. While Simpson occupied him, officers searched both his home and his office. In the bottom drawer of his desk at home, they discovered a manuscript—a Stuart-era volume, seventeenth century.”
“He kept it?” I asked. What a monumentally stupid thing to do.
“So it appears. Owing to its fragile condition, a rare books expert from the British Museum now has it in custody. Even from the brief passages he examined, there’s an unmistakable reference to one Parquier.”
The name rang through the room like a struck bell.
“A direct reference?” Hollingsworth asked.
