Page 63 of A Murder on London Bridge
“Direct enough,” Robert replied. “And not only that—the witness who saw Merton struck down on London Bridge identified Parker as the assailant. Between his testimony, the Stuart manuscript, and Edmund Hollingsworth’s account, there’s sufficient evidence to charge Parker with murder.”
I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Then it’s done.”
“Not done,” Robert said softly, “but certainly begun. The Director of Public Prosecutions will review the evidence anddetermine the formal charge. Once laid before the court, Parker will stand trial for murder and answer for what he’s done.”
“Two manuscripts, from centuries ago, converging on the same name—and a witness to the attack,” Mellie said. “It is more than enough.” She turned to her brother. “And to think, our ancestor played a great part in it.”
“Our ancestor—and Kitty,” Hollingsworth said, gazing at me. “It’s quite astounding.”
Ned lifted his glass. “Well, here’s to justice being meted out. He’ll not wriggle free now.”
The decanter caught the light as he poured for everyone, the amber liquid glowing like captured fire. I found myself thinking of another fire—the one that had nearly consumed a city, a queen, and, very nearly, myself.
Emma reached across and clasped my hand. “You have brought this circle to its close, Kitty. Without you?—”
I shook my head, overwhelmed. “Without all of us. Without Richard’s scholarship, Mellie’s diligence, Ned’s connections, and Robert’s steady hand, never mind Lord Edmund’s account. We are a chain—each link holding the others fast.”
Robert’s gaze met mine across the room, and I caught the faintest flicker of warmth. “Just so,” he said.
The mantel clock chimed the quarter, breaking the hush. Glasses were refilled, sandwiches and biscuits eaten, and Mellie’s notes folded into tidy stacks. Yet beneath the rustle and clink, a strange stillness held us all. We had threads enough to bind a man to justice—threads spun from fire and ash, from ink and paper, from courage and blood.
For the first time, I felt the weight of centuries settle upon me not as a burden, but as a mantle. The past had reached across the gulf of years, and we had answered the call.
CHAPTER 32
A MONTH LATER
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
It was the first tranquil Sunday we’d enjoyed since the Merton inquiry. I was profoundly grateful for the return to Mother’s beloved Sunday suppers. The windows of the Worthington House drawing room stood open to the mild May air, fragrant with lilac and the freshness of an earlier rain. The long table near the hearth—now cold, for we’d no need of fires in May—was covered with the remains of dessert: Mother’s lemon-custard pudding, a bowl of sugared strawberries, a particularly scrumptious sponge cake, and the coffee and tea service.
In the weeks since Parker had been taken into custody, the case had moved steadily through official channels. Sufficient evidence had been found for the matter to be committed for trial at the next Assizes. With all that had been uncovered—the Stuart manuscript found in his possession, the witness statements, and, of course, Edmund Hollingsworth’s journal—Robert fully expected a guilty verdict.
“You’re not too cold, dear, are you?” Mother asked. “A blanket can be fetched, or the windows closed if you prefer.” She couldn’t help but worry like a mother hen.
“Robert is keeping me quite warm,” I assured her. Snuggled close to him as I was on the sofa, I honestly did not feel the least chill. “Thank you for offering.”
“Very well. If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
But even with that assurance, she spoke a soft word to our butler who swiftly moved to close the windows closest to me.
I glanced at the husband I adored, thankful beyond words for his love and steadfastness. The last month had not been without its difficulties. There were nights when the horrors of that house returned in my dreams—the smell of smoke, the creaking of timber, the fear. Each time, I would wake to find Robert beside me, ready to offer whatever comfort I required. Sometimes it was only his quiet presence; other times it took more to banish the ghosts. He always obliged, without hesitation or complaint.
Smiling, he whispered into my ear, “They’re at it again.”
“Who?”
He nodded toward the dessert table where Marlowe and Emma were arguing over the lemon pudding. Seemingly, there was only one bite left.
“You should give way to me. After all, I am soon to be your lord and master.”
“Ah, but mine is the greater need. For I shall soon have to bear your pompous ways.”
Ned soon entered the fray, his spoon poised like a judge’s gavel. “Really, Marlowe, it’s beneath a peer of the realm to squabble over pudding.”
“I wasn’t squabbling,” Lord Marlowe replied, adopting an expression of wounded dignity. “I was defending my inheritance. Emma here has already taken two-thirds.”
