Page 52 of A Murder on London Bridge
“I could have,” I agreed, “but I didn’t. And now, I shall have marmalade as my reward.”
He gave me a look that would have cowed half of Scotland Yard. It had never done more than amuse me. As I let it wash over me, I busied myself buttering toast and ladling on marmalade.
“Would you like some eggs?” he asked.
“Yes, please, and bacon.”
He approached the sideboard, ladled the food onto a plate, which he then placed in front of me.
“Coffee?”
I nodded. Once I’d taken a forkful of eggs and a slice of bacon, I asked, “How is the Merton investigation going?”
He put his cup down so forcefully I thought it might break. “No.”
“No? What does that mean?”
“You are not to concern yourself with Merton’s murder. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever again. The doctor was explicit about you needing your rest. I will ensure you do so.”
I set my fork down with care. “Robert, I lay for three days on that hospital bed. And now three more at home. I cannot just rest and sleep.”
“You can, and you will,” he said. It was the first time I had heard that tone directed at me—firm as a judge’s gavel, not angry but immovable.
“Sweetheart,” I said as gently as I could. “I need to know.”
For a heartbeat, the air between us felt taut as a drawn wire. Then his gaze softened, the iron in his expression giving way to concern. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine. “I know how much it eats at you to sit idle,” he said quietly. “But you’ve done more than enough. The case has been turned over to Inspector Simpson at Scotland Yard. He’s competent. You can trust him to see it through.”
Behind his gaze, I glimpsed the terror of those hours he spent by my side, not knowing whether I would live or die. The chair pulled close to my hospital bed. The steady drip of the glass bottle. His hand clasping mine as though sheer will alone might keep me tethered to the living. It was not a terror I could dismiss with a jest or a careless toss of the head. But he deserved the truth. It was time to come clean.
“I know how much you suffered,” I said softly. “Not knowing if I would wake. Not knowing if I would live. Didn’t you ever wonder where I was during those days?”
“On a hospital bed,” he replied, his tone roughened by memory. “Unconscious.”
“That’s how it seemed to you. But in reality, I was not.”
His brow furrowed. “Were you dreaming?”
“No. It was far too vivid for a dream.” I paused, my pulse quickening. “I’d like to tell you where I truly was. May I?”
He hesitated, studying me as if weighing how much truth he could bear. Then he inclined his head once. “Tell me.”
“You’ll need to keep an open mind,” I warned gently.
His jaw tightened, the faintest muscle twitch betraying his unease. At last, he nodded again. “I’ll do my best.”
I drew a breath to steady the tremor in my hands. “Then listen closely,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “and I’ll tell you where I truly was.”
CHAPTER 26
THE TELLING
Itold him slowly, because the telling dragged at something in me and sometimes haltingly, because the memory rose too bright, too close. I told him of awakening in another century, removed from everything I had ever known, discovering that I was one of the Queen’s ladies, and not knowing how I was to go on. How my maid had helped me, how the Queen had trusted me, of her hand cool and steady, when I told her of plots against her, of the smoke that pressed like hands, of heat that breathed, of streets gone red and gold and black, the terrible knowledge that a city can be both hearth and pyre. I told him of the moment when both centuries clanged together in my skull, and how the only thing that brought me back was the weight of his hand on mine.
He listened without interruption, his face very still. When I faltered he poured more coffee for me. When I was finished, he said, “I think you should return to your bed.”
“No, Robert. Not again. I need clarity. I need to find out what happened back then. But most of all, I need to find Merton’s murderer in the here and now. Don’t you see? They’re both weaved from the same cloth.”
“Catherine, all you had was a fevered dream. You somehow took the facts of that manuscript into your mind and created an entire story about what you had learned. That’s all it was.”
