Page 33 of A Murder on London Bridge
Anne pushed the door wider with the back of her hand, as though too respectful—or too wary—to touch the latch. “I will leave it slightly open and keep watch,” she said. “If I hear steps, I shall cough.”
“Two coughs for danger, one for time?”
She nodded once. “Go, my lady.”
I slipped inside.
The air was close, neither freshened nor foul, but bearing that private scent that clings to a room whose owner has not yet risen. A breath of rose water, a thread of lavender, the powdery whisper of starch. The shutters stood partly drawn, admitting a slender band of pale light that lay across the bed and the floor like a silk ribbon. Dust motes turned lazily therein, indifferent to human tragedy. A pair of slippers waited neat and small beside the bed—no scuffs on the toes, no rushes clinging to the heels. The counterpane showed the shallow impression where a body had once lain and would lie no more.
A dressing table stood near the light, its surface an orderly scatter of a young woman’s life—a pearl-handled brush, a few ribbons, the stub of a sealing wax stick, a tiny pomander. Beside them lay a book of hours with a pressed sprig of something pale trapped at the gutter.
I moved first to the hearth. Something about fire and ash will always draw the eye of any investigator. People burn what they wish to hide, and fire, when hurried, rarely finishes the meal. The grate held last night’s embers, dulling to gray. I took the poker and prodded. A flake of black lifted and cracked, exposing a corner of paper no larger than a fingernail, browned andbubbled, with the ghost of ink crawling like a thin river across it. I bent close. Only the faintest curve of letters remained—…quith. It told me very little, but it did reveal someone had burned something recently. Otherwise, it would have gone up in smoke.
A single cough sounded from the corridor. Not danger—time. I needed to hurry.
I crossed to the bed, lifted the pillow, then the mattress edge. Met only dust and the forgotten safety pin of a lace. The trunk at the foot was locked. I traced the seam with my finger—no pry marks, no roughness. A prudent girl, then, or one who had cause to keep certain things close. I knelt beside the bed and peered beneath. A bandbox and a pair of pattens waited there. The bandbox contained a hat and veil, still faintly smelling of violets. Nothing else.
The dressing table called to me again—not the prettiness of it, but the whisper of order. A girl’s vanity will reveal her habits. I slid open the top drawer and found neatly arranged pins, a coil of ribbon, and a sachet tied with blue thread. The middle drawer revealed quills, scraped to points with a careful hand, a knife that would do as well upon paper as upon fruit, and a little box of wafers for sealing letters.
In the back corner lay a scrap of paper cut close, no larger than a visiting card. Upon it, in a small, quick hand:The garden stairs by the buttery, one hour after midnight. It was signed N.A. Unfortunately, there was no date. But the ink was fresh enough to glisten where the pen had been lifted.
My blood chilled. More than likely, this summons had drawn Lady Margaret into the dark—and straight to her death. I slipped the scrap into my sleeve.
A second cough. Time again. Anne was urging me along.
The lowest drawer stuck. I tugged, and it yielded with a soft groan. At first glance, it appeared to hold only odds and ends, including a length of lace that wanted mending. But beneath thelace, my fingers found the edge of something firmer, wrapped in unbleached linen. I drew it out.
It was a book no larger than my hand, bound in brown leather worn soft at the corners, the strap cracked but whole. No name on the cover. When I lifted the strap, the leather sighed as though relieved of a burden. I flipped to the last pages where writing could be found. The last one bore no title—only a date written in a fine, even hand:Anno Domini 1666, the 28th day of August. The script was of its time—spidery, flourished—yet neat enough that I could make it out.
Footsteps swelled faintly in the passage. Not Anne’s cough. But that distant tide that meant life was flowing nearer. One more glance would not hurt. I flipped to earlier pages and found: “…dined with her Majesty in the lesser hall; Lady M— spoke too eagerly of a scheme that might profit those nimble of ear, and I thought her foolish for it. Sir E— stood with W— in the window embrasure; when I drew near they ceased their talk…”
Here, perhaps, was all I had hoped for and more—a mind that had watched and recorded, a habit of putting into words what others left to air. I had no idea who the initials belonged to or if those conversations mattered at all. I blew out a sigh of frustration. It needed to be studied along with everything else. But not now. I had no more time to dawdle.
Just as I slipped the journal into the pocket sewn into my petticoat and let the skirt fall, an unwelcome sound reached me.
The click of the latch.
CHAPTER 18
A JOURNAL’S SECRETS
Iwent still, a hand to the back of the chair, a smile schooling itself upon my mouth even as my pulse leapt. The door moved a finger’s breadth. Anne’s shadow sliced the strip of light. She turned her head, eyes cutting toward someone behind her.
“Forgive me,” she said, voice pitched for courtesy and ignorance at once. “My lady lent Lady Margaret a comb of tortoiseshell—the very one she favors for the evening curls. We came to fetch it back, if it please you.”
A woman’s voice answered—older, practical, neither hostile nor fond. “You’ll find no combs worth keeping here. The chamber keeper is to clear it by noon.”
“If we might look in the top drawer, mistress?” Anne ventured. “My lady is particular about the comb.”
I slid open the top drawer loudly, lifted the comb I had earlier placed there to make our lie true, and raised my voice so thewoman beyond might hear. “Here it is, Anne.” I stepped into view, my expression arranged into mild impatience.
The woman at the door—broad-shouldered, with the rough hands of service—swept me a quick curtsy when she recognized me. “Beg pardon, my lady. I didn’t know you were within.”
“No harm done,” I said. “Lady Margaret was known to me.” Not precisely a lie. “I would not have her borrow my things to be thrown into a basket with the rest.”
She bobbed her head again, a little abashed. “We’ll treat what’s left with respect, my lady.”
“I expect no less.” I let my gaze move across the room as though measuring nothing more than dust and disorder. “When will her effects be removed?”
