Page 61 of A Murder on London Bridge
A murmur of unease rippled through the room.
“To prove the connection,” I continued, “we’ll need more than conjecture. Which is why I asked Hollingsworth to have his estate manager search the attics of his ancestral home. If Edmund left even a scrap of writing from those days, it might tell us how the ledger passed through the generations.”
Hollingsworth’s expression shifted, a flicker of amusement in his usually steady gaze. “My manager telephoned this morning. Although there were papers in the attics that dated back to that time, he suggested we should look elsewhere.”
My brief hope faltered. “Look where?”
“The British Museum,” he said.
A hot flare of irritation rose in me. Did he really need to add more mystery to our mystery? I had half a mind to seize Hollingsworth by the lapels. “Please explain.”
He glanced briefly at Mellie, then back at me. “Years ago, our mother found a journal that belonged to Lord Edmund. A thick, leather-bound account of the Fire and the days surrounding it. She thought it of more value to scholarship than to family pride, so she donated it to the British Museum. Their rare books collection.”
For a moment, I could only stare. “So it has been there all this time?”
He inclined his head. “Catalogued, cared for, but rarely touched. Because it’s so valuable, only select scholars are permitted to view it.”
Almost as one, we all turned toward Richard.
He held up his hands and laughed. “Don’t look at me. I’m no expert on rare books.”
“No,” I said, smiling faintly, “but you are an Oxford man. And after the way the museum treated you, they should be eager to make amends. The new director, in particular, owes you that courtesy. You needn’t check it out—only read it. If it contains names, records, anything of the plot, it could prove invaluable when this comes to trial.”
Richard groaned. “You want me to go there now?”
“At the very least, arrange to see it,” I replied. “There’s a telephone in my parlor upstairs. You can speak privately there.”
He muttered something about slave-driving sisters but rose nonetheless and left the room.
The rest of us took the opportunity to stretch. The ladies refreshed ourselves with tea and coffee; the gentlemen opted for whiskey. While we waited for the outcome of Richard’scall, the conversation eased into a gentler rhythm—just like old times. Hollingsworth regaled us with tales from his travels—a misadventure in Greece involving a stubborn donkey and an overly enthusiastic guide, followed by a sunlit story of Mallorca that made us all dream briefly of turquoise seas instead of London fog.
Twenty minutes later, Richard reappeared, looking both triumphant and faintly resigned. He resumed his seat. “The director was delighted to assist. Special arrangements must be made to bring the book out from storage, so I’m to meet him at the museum in an hour. I’ll be permitted to examine it, but only under supervision.”
“Splendid,” I said, clapping my hands lightly. “Then you’d best go before he changes his mind. Rare books have a way of slipping out of reach if one dallies.”
Though Richard sighed, I caught the spark of curiosity in his eyes.
“Now then,” I said, leaning forward once more, “let us return to the matter at hand. Ned, tell us more about Mr. Parker.”
CHAPTER 31
THREADS CONVERGE
At the close of yesterday’s meeting, Robert telephoned Inspector Simpson to share our latest deductions—chief among them, that Sir Reginald Parker might very well be Merton’s murderer. Explaining his reasoning proved a delicate task, as he could hardly mention my fevered dreams. Instead, he told the inspector that Merton had spoken of a cabinet minister’s keen interest in the manuscript, and that the witness’s description bore a striking resemblance to someone Ned knew. It was a tenuous lead, but persuasive enough for Simpson to pursue.
This morning, I awoke a different woman from the one who’d existed these past several days. My head was clear, my step steady, and my thoughts no longer shrouded in fog. When Robert gazed at me across the table from his bacon and eggs, he smiled with quiet approval.
After breakfast, he’d headed off to Scotland Yard to learn whether our lead had yielded anything of substance. With luck,he’d return in time for our investigative committee meeting. Everyone intended to be present—eager to hear both what Richard had uncovered in Edmund Hollingsworth’s journal and what progress had been made in the official investigation.
By three o’clock, the library had assumed its now-familiar guise—half drawing room, half war chamber. The mahogany table gleamed beneath the afternoon light, its polished surface scattered with the genteel weapons of our campaign: sandwiches cut into neat triangles, a plate of delicate iced cakes, and silver pots filled with tea and coffee. At the far end, a decanter of whiskey caught the light in glints of amber fire.
I had barely settled in before the committee members began to arrive. Ned appeared first, followed by Lady Emma and Lord Marlowe. Hollingsworth and Mellie entered last.
“You look more like yourself today,” Emma said, helping herself to a cup of tea.
“Feel more like myself,” I answered with a smile.
“That’s excellent,” Ned said, visibly relieved. “Mother and Father have been quite worried. News of your improving health will do them a world of good.”
