Page 34 of A Murder on London Bridge
“By noon, as I said. Her aunt has sent word.”
“Very good.” I turned to Anne. “We have what we came for. Thank you.”
She caught my cue. “Yes, my lady.” And to the woman: “Good day.”
We slipped out, my fingers steady upon the comb, the book slipped into my pocket a small pressure against my side, as if it had a pulse of its own. The door to Lady Margaret’s room closed, and I exhaled. Anne’s eyes searched my face as we walked—a question there, and something like reproach, and behind both a fierce loyalty that would forgive me anything if it kept me alive.
“You should not have lingered so long,” she whispered once we had put distance between ourselves and the west passage. “My heart nearly stopped when she approached.”
“I know.” I could not help the small laugh that escaped—thin, breathless, not at all like mirth. “But we have what we came for.”
Her gaze dropped to my skirts, perhaps sensing that I had taken more than a comb. “What did you find?”
“A journal,” I said softly. “Has to be hers.”
“Lady Margaret’s?” Her hand rose to her throat. “Sweet mercy.”
“Hush.” We passed a corner where two women stood, their heads bent together like pigeons, their whispers cooing and harsh by turns. “Not here.”
We turned into a lesser passage, one the sunlight barely touched, where the panels had darkened to the color of wet walnut and the smell of beeswax hung heavier in the air. Here, the palace breathed more quietly. The servants who passed us kept their eyes low. A boy carrying a jug of ale stumbled in his haste and recovered, cheeks pink.
“In my chamber,” I said, “I will read what I can. The hand is not impossible, but I will need a clear head.”
“And if it names a man?” Anne’s voice was almost not a voice at all.
“Then we will decide what must be done.” I thought of Hollingsworth, the way his eyes had warmed when I spoke without flinching, the warning in his voice after.Beware, Lady Halloran. “I will show it to Hollingsworth.”
Anne hesitated. “You trust him.”
“I trust him to want what is right,” I said, and heard the steadiness in my tone as if it belonged to another woman. “And I trust that he will not flinch from danger.”
We reached my chamber without incident. Inside, I barred the door—not a habit here, but a necessity now—and drew the journal from my pocket. The leather left a faint bloom upon my palm, as if the oil from Margaret’s hands still rose from it. I set it upon the table, where the light from the window fell best, and opened it to earlier pages than I’d already read.
Anno Domini 1666, the fifteenth of August.“The King more merry than of late. Heard that Sir T— returned from Lambeth. N. A. spoke to me at last, but not of what I had hoped.”The letters blurred a moment and then sharpened again. Myeyes would need to learn the hand’s little games. The next page carried more. “Heard again the name Redwyke upon a whisper; advised by J— to keep my counsel and my ears open. Saw W— pass a paper to G.P., who stuffed it in his glove and walked as though his feet were sore.”
“G.P.,” I murmured. “Gabriel Parquier?” The name leapt up from the well Hollingsworth had mentioned in the cloistered walk. If Margaret had noted him, then she had seen more than she should have.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Not the polite rap of a great lady, but the quick, economical signal of a man who could stand in plain sight and not be seen. I closed the book and slid it beneath the folded linen upon the table. Anne retreated to the far side of the room and busied herself with a basket as though we had never been more innocent.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Hollingsworth.” His voice came quietly through the panel. “May I enter?”
I lifted the bar and let him in. He entered as a man enters a sickroom—cleanly, without fuss, his gaze taking in the corners first, then the faces. He bowed to the courtesy that was due, but when he straightened, his eyes were all business.
“You have news?” I asked.
“I do,” he answered. “Although it’s not much, what I have may matter. Parquier has been abroad more often of late, holding quiet meetings. I have it from a man who watches doorways better than I do. And this—” He set upon the table a folded scrap, its seal broken. “Found where it should not have been. The hand is not his.”
I opened it. The paper was thin, almost translucent, the ink hurried but deliberate.
The Swan Tavern. Midnight. No signature. No mark save a faint smear, as though the writer had pressed too soon upon the wax.
“Whose hand is it?”
“A man who signs with an N and wears the Asquith crest,” he said. “You see why I am uneasy.”
Nathaniel Asquith. The initials found in Lady Margaret’s journal.
