Page 9 of A Murder on London Bridge
The fire popped in the grate, a sharp crack that made me jump. Robert folded the paper and fixed me with the steady gaze I knew too well. It was the look that meant I was about to be treated less as a wife and more as a witness.
“Tell me everything about your visit. Who was in the shop when you arrived?”
“Only Merton. No clerk, no assistant.”
Robert’s mouth thinned. “What did he say about the manuscript?”
I drew in a breath, recalling the alcove at the shop, the way Merton had cast a furtive glance toward the tapestry before lowering his voice. “He claimed it was an account from the seventeenth century — private, unsigned, but authenticated. It describes a series of meetings held just days before the Great Fire of London. Gatherings of powerful men, some of them high-ranking, discussing how best to manage what he called a ‘political inconvenience.’”
Robert’s brow arched. “And what was that?”
“The Queen,” I said quietly. “Catherine of Braganza.”
He set his cup down with a soft click, his expression sharpening.
“At first I thought it an exaggeration,” I went on, “but he spoke with such relish. He said the account suggests there was a plot — something meant to damage her influence at court, perhaps even to remove her. And he insisted the document includes a name. An ancestor of someone still in power today. A Cabinet minister.”
Robert let out a low breath through his nose. “If true, it would be dynamite.”
“I know.” I clasped my arms tightly, steadying myself as old memories stirred. “My governess used to tell me stories of Catherine — the Portuguese princess who crossed the sea to wed a king, only to be mistrusted by his people. Londoners blamed her for plague and fire, branded her a witch because of her birth and her faith. I pitied her then with all the fervor of a child. When I heard Merton speak, I pitied her again. To imagine that such treachery truly took place — and that the shadow of it might still ruin a family name two centuries later?—”
I broke off, shaking my head. “It chills me, Robert. And yet he spoke of it as though it were a prize to be flaunted, not a danger to be guarded.”
Robert’s jaw tightened. “Boasting in public, while holding evidence that could topple a man in government. He was a fool.”
“A proud, arrogant fool,” I agreed softly.
Robert’s mouth thinned. “Did you notice anyone following you when you left the shop? Anyone lingering nearby?”
I shook my head. “No one. Just the usual hustle and bustle of city traffic. I felt eyes on me, perhaps, but it may only have been my imagination.”
He tapped the folded paper against his palm. “Then you may very well be one of the last people to see him alive.”
The words hung in the sunlit room like smoke.
I drew a careful breath. “If the Yard is to have any hope of finding his killer, they should be told about the manuscript.”
Robert’s gaze met mine, steady and intent. “And they will be. But not because of what he told you in private. I will not have your name linked to his death in any way.” His voice sharpened slightly, the protective note unmistakable. “He declared it at supper loudly enough for half the room to hear, and that is more than sufficient. I’ll make it clear to the Yard that his own boasting drew attention to him.”
He rose, folding the paper beneath his arm with quiet finality. For a moment he studied me, the weight of his gaze as penetrating as any question.
“The temptation must be great to involve yourself. You knew the victim and what he revealed. But I implore you, Catherine, leave this one be. Dangerous people have already killed Merton. Heaven only knows what they would do to you.”
I managed a faint smile, tracing the rim of my coffee cup as though it were the most absorbing thing in the world. He knew me too well to expect a promise, and I had no intention of giving one.
His sigh carried equal parts resignation and affection. “So be it.” He leaned down, pressed a soft kiss to my lips, and whispered against my cheek, “At least promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Of course, darling.”
He shook his head with a soft smile, then left me — bound for the Yard and the wheels of officialdom.
Of course, I had no intention of sitting idle. Merton’s smirk still lingered in my memory. He’d been a proud, arrogant fool. But he hadn’t deserved to be murdered for his arrogance.
I stared into the dying fire, weighing what Robert had said. Scotland Yard would treat it as a case, file it into their ledgers, and chase the obvious leads. But I had been in that shop. I hadheard Merton’s voice and seen the gleam of self-satisfaction in his eyes. I knew the kind of enemies such arrogance could breed.
If the manuscript truly existed—and I believed it did—then Merton’s murder was about far more than theft or revenge. It was about secrets powerful enough to kill for.
I could not sit still, not when I already held threads the Yard would overlook. But to pull at them, I would need a reason, a door through which to step into the investigation. And that meant speaking to Merton’s widow. She would want answers, and I—as the last to warn her husband—might be in the best position to give them.
