Page 6 of A Murder on London Bridge
Doris Perkins, our newest hire, had already proven herself indispensable. Young, brisk, and blessed with boundless cheer, she brought the sort of energy that could make even the most reluctant client sit up straight. In only two weeks, she’d memorized our schedule, color-coded the appointment ledger, and begun answering the telephone in a tone so perky it could slice through fog. She was the sort of person who tidied things that weren’t hers, labeled drawers no one had asked her to label, and somehow made us all feel slightly behind schedule.
The main telephone rang at the reception desk. A moment later, Doris appeared in Emma’s doorway, brisk as ever.
“Lady Emma,” she announced, “Lord Marlowe is on the telephone. He says it isn’t urgent.”
Emma set down her pen with a composed nod. “Thank you, Doris. I’ll take it here.” She lifted her receiver with a smile. “Hello, darling. Hold a moment. I have Kitty in my office.”
That was my cue to leave, if I ever heard one. Rising from my chair, I said, “I’d best get on with the Harwood case. If I’m not back by teatime, send biscuits. I’ll be in desperate need by then.”
“If you find the will,” Emma replied smartly, “make a copy.”
“And if I find a body?”
Her grin was quick. “Then Robert is your man.”
Quite sensible. Robert was, after all, a Detective Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard. “Understood,” I said, sweeping out the door—infidelity, forged paintings, and a kleptomaniac grand dame swirling in my wake.
CHAPTER 3
A VISIT TO AN ANTIQUITIES SHOP
Two mornings after our supper party at Rutledge House, I paid a visit toRutland & Merton, Antiquaries, the shop Robert had once discovered by chance while seeking shelter from a raging downpour. He had returned home soaked to the skin but full of enthusiasm, speaking in a way that betrayed genuine excitement. He described cabinets crowded with relics, manuscripts that seemed to whisper of forgotten hands, and a proprietor whose eye for provenance was matched only by his relish for secrets.
I had never stepped inside myself, though I had half-promised Robert I would one day. Now seemed the perfect opportunity.
There was something oddly charming about antiquities shops—the scent of time clinging to polished wood and worn leather, the hush of reverence that hangs over forgotten treasures. Rutland & Merton’s was no exception. Tucked discreetly between a gentlemen’s haberdashery and a solicitor’soffice off Chancery Lane, its leaded-glass windows gave the impression of a place where secrets went to retire.
I paused a moment outside, studying my own reflection amid the dulled gleam of old coins and ivory chessmen displayed in the front window. The glass was faintly warped, making my image ripple like a ghost between centuries. A shiver ran through me—half from the brisk April wind, half from the peculiar gravity the place seemed to exude.
I pushed open the door, and a silver bell announced my entrance with a tone so delicate it might have belonged to a seventeenth-century drawing room. The air inside was warmer than the street, heavy with the mingled scents of beeswax, old paper, and a faint trace of pipe smoke clinging to the rafters.
Cabinets of curiosities stood like sentries, each one filled with relics from long ago—snuff boxes, carved cameos, gilded miniatures, and fragile pages encased in glass. Narrow aisles wound between them, and the hush was such that my own footsteps sounded impertinent. Dust motes swirled in the weak sunlight filtering through the leaded panes, transforming the air itself into something venerable.
A small sound drew my eye. I turned to find Mister Merton emerging from a side aisle. His spectacles perched halfway down his nose, giving him the air of a slightly distracted scholar, though I had already learned from Robert that nothing escaped him. He was tidily dressed, coat buttoned, collar starched, and a faintly amused expression in his eye as though everything and everyone existed to provide him some private entertainment.
“Lady Rutledge,” came the cheerful greeting. “I was hoping you might pay me a visit.”
I smiled, slipping off my gloves and tucking them neatly into my handbag. “We were so pleased to have you at supper the other evening. I trust you enjoyed yourself?”
“Very much,” he said with a small bow. “Your table was most gracious, and the company even more so. I count it a privilege to have been included.”
“I am glad to hear it.” I let my gaze travel slowly over the nearest cabinet, where a Roman oil lamp sat beside a medieval reliquary, incongruous yet somehow harmonious. “I’ve come not only to see for myself the wonders Robert has praised to the skies, but also in search of a gift. Something rare. Preferably ink-stained. Possibly a little dusty.”
“For Lord Rutledge?” he guessed, eyes twinkling.
“Just so. He is difficult to surprise and harder still to impress. But rare books generally manage the trick.”
“In that case,” he said, beckoning, “follow me.”
We wound our way through the narrow shelves, my skirt brushing against ancient wood, past cabinets filled with medieval seals and Tudor coins. I felt as though we were slipping backward through time itself. Eventually we reached a small alcove tucked behind a faded tapestry of Queen Elizabeth I. There, nestled like a secret, was a glass case holding half a dozen books.
“I acquired this one just last week,” he said, carefully unlocking the case with a little flourish. “An early English translation of Lucretius—On the Nature of Things. Slight foxing at the margins, but the binding is original.”
I leaned closer. The pages were uneven, as though cut by hand, the ink faded to a soft brown. Exactly the sort of thing Robert would find fascinating—science and poetry entwined in ancient vellum. For a moment I pictured his face lighting with delight as he unwrapped it, the lines of care that office and responsibilities etched upon him giving way to boyish eagerness.
“I’ll take it,” I said at once. “Robert will think me brilliant.”
“You are brilliant, Lady Rutledge,” Merton replied with a grin. He drew a length of fine paper toward him and beganto wrap the volume with deliberate care, folding the corners crisply, as if the ceremony mattered nearly as much as the gift itself. Then, as his fingers tied the string with practiced ease, his glance flicked toward me.
