Page 30 of A Murder on London Bridge
“I am,” I said, though my heart hammered. Already I feared the risk. To caution Catherine directly was no small step. One word misplaced, one glance observed, and the Queen’s kindness toward me might be twisted into suspicion. Worse still, waggingtongues could turn my warning into gossip. And gossip in Whitehall could be as deadly as any blade.
“Then we are agreed,” he answered gravely. “You guard the Queen at her table, and I will hunt her enemies in the shadows. And know this—” his hand brushed mine briefly, deliberately “—I will not see harm come to you either.”
For a long moment we stood in the silence of the cloister, the chill air coiling between us like a vow. Then Hollingsworth reached for my hand—not in courtly show, but with the sure clasp of a comrade. His fingers were warm against mine, steadying, binding. Moonlight silvered the arches and caught the dark gleam of his eyes as he held my gaze. “Together, then,” he said softly.
A dangerous warmth stirred in me, answering his. Here, in this strange century, I had found an ally—and more than that, perhaps a kindred spirit. Yet even as the thought quickened my pulse, another shadow rose—Robert. I could almost see him pacing Eaton Square, searching for me, frantic for word. If I were hurt—or worse—he would be beside himself. The knowledge twisted inside me, leaving me torn between the man before me and the one I had left behind.
CHAPTER 16
A FATAL FALL
Sleep was hard to come by that night, a fragile thing that hovered just out of reach. Hollingsworth’s words, the priest’s warning, the memory of the Queen’s serene face—all wove themselves into a restless tangle, leaving me dozing rather than dreaming. When at last slumber caught me, it was shallow, easily broken.
Through the mist of that half-sleep, a voice reached me—Robert’s voice, raw with grief.
“Come back to me, Catherine. Please … come back to me.”The anguish in his tone was unbearable, every word weighted with sorrow. “I cannot lose you. I will not let death claim you.”
I jolted awake with tears upon my cheeks, his plea echoing through me. What was happening to me in 1925? If I lay unconscious, how long could I remain so before my body faltered? How long before Robert’s fears became truth? I had to return. I had to find a way back. But how? The question pressedupon me like the stones of the cloister itself, heavy, unyielding, offering no answer.
“My lady!”
Anne’s urgent whisper snapped me upright. She stood at my bedside, her cheeks pale, her hands clutched tight around her rosary. Her gaze fell upon my face, stricken. “You were weeping in your sleep.”
I touched my cheek, still damp. “A bad dream. That is all,” I whispered, though the ache in my chest told me it was far more than that.
Her gaze lingered on me, full of sorrow. “I am sorry to wake you to yet more grief … but I fear I must.”
My throat tightened as I forced myself to meet her eyes. “What is it?”
“One of Her Majesty’s attendants—Lady Margaret Elwood. They found her this morning, at the bottom of the back stair near the buttery.” Anne’s voice faltered, her fingers knotting tighter around the beads. “She is dead.”
Cold swept me more surely than the draught in the room.
The name stirred only a faint impression—one of the many young women who drifted like shadows in the Queen’s train. Fair hair, perhaps? I had spoken with her once. But she did have a bright spark in her eyes when she lingered near the Queen’s circle and had been quick to offer some tidbit of gossip and opinion. She’d struck me as young, ambitious, and eager to be noticed. The thought of her lying broken at the foot of some dark stair hollowed my chest. No matter her temperament, her death must be investigated.
“How did she die?”
“They say she fell.” Anne swallowed. “Others claim she was seen drinking too much mead last night. Or wine. That she lost her footing in the dark.”
In 1925, no coroner worth his salt would rest on idle talk and rumor. Cause of death demanded facts, not whispers in corridors. If she had fallen, had anyone seen it? If she had drunk too much, who had given her the wine?
“Was she alone? Did someone see her fall?”
Anne appeared somewhat confused by my question. “I know not, my lady.”
Clearly, I would not get any more facts from her. She was only repeating what others said. I needed to discover the truth for myself. And that meant, at the very least, inspecting the place where Lady Margaret had fallen.
“Help me dress so I can ascertain the truth for myself.”
Anne’s gaze flicked to me, startled by the sharpness in my tone, the sudden resolve. “My lady … you must be careful,” she whispered.
Sage advice. One I doubted I would follow. With her help, I dressed in haste, my mind tumbling with questions that rose faster than I could voice them. Why that stair, near the buttery of all places? What had drawn her there in the first place—a lover, or something else altogether?
The corridors were already astir when we stepped into them. Clusters of courtiers lingered in corners, their whispers sharp as the snap of dry twigs. Faces turned as I passed—some pale with fear, others alight with morbid curiosity. From the far end of the gallery came the hushed wordsaccidentandfall, chased quickly by darker murmurs ofmurder.
I reached the stair to find a crowd had gathered, their whispers eddying like smoke:
“She was ever reckless.”
