Page 11 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Eleven

INK AND ASHES

A fter taking my luncheon in solitude, I changed into a dusky gray gown unlikely to draw notice. I wore no hat trimmed in feathers. No jewels to gleam beneath the afternoon sun. Only gloves, a plain cloak, and a sense of grim purpose.

At precisely two o’clock, the carriage arrived.

Steele had arranged for it. It was just like him—ever in control, but doing what he could to soften the sharp edges of what lay ahead.

After I settled into the seat of the waiting vehicle, the driver snapped the reins, and the horses moved forward at a brisk pace. Afternoon light slanted through the windows, flickering over my skirts as the city passed in a blur.

I arrived at the mortuary at St. James’s just as the sky began to cloud, the air thick with the threat of rain. I reached for the door latch. But before I could grab it, the door opened from the outside.

Steele, of course. “Lady Rosalynd,” he said, his voice low and certain, “you should remain in the carriage. There’s nothing inside worth seeing.”

“I’m not afraid,” I replied, shifting forward.

He shook his head once. “That’s not the point.”

Without giving me the chance to argue, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The scent of rain clung to his coat, mingling with bergamot and something deeper—darker. His face was drawn, his expression carved in restraint, and the tightness around his eyes warned me not to press.

“I have the note,” he said, withdrawing a folded sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his coat. “The mortuary assistant gave it to me without protest.”

I accepted it, our fingers grazing as he passed it into my hands.

The parchment was of unusually fine quality—too fine for Elsie.

I slipped off one glove and turned the paper over carefully, angling it toward the carriage lantern’s warm glow.

There, faint and just catching the light, was a raised watermark: a curled W within a laurel wreath.

“Wigmore & Sons,” I said quietly.

Steele glanced at me. “You’re certain?”

“I’m quite certain. My father used them exclusively for his personal correspondence.

” I hesitated, frowning. “They’re popular among the nobility, which makes it all the more difficult to determine who ordered this particular batch.

” I tilted the note again, fingers seeking the familiar texture of watermarked vellum.

A shadow caught my eye—something more. “There’s something here,” I murmured.

“Where?”

“There,” I said, pointing. “A curved line. Just here.”

He took the note from me, and as our fingers brushed again, something fluttered inside my chest—sharp and fleeting. I held still, watching him lift it to the light. “That could be anything.”

“It’s a clue,” I said firmly. “Wigmore & Sons might recognize it. You should sketch it before it fades from memory.”

Without argument, he pulled the same small notebook he’d shown me at St. George’s from inside his coat. As he began to draw the curve with precise strokes, the scent of bergamot stirred again—familiar now, unsettling in its own way.

As a lull settled between us, I turned my attention to what I sought to do. “I would like to see Elsie,” I said in a firm tone.

Steele paused. “And what do you hope to gain, Lady Rosalynd?”

“It isn’t about what I hope to gain,” I replied softly. “It’s about what I hope to give. That poor girl was murdered, examined, and left lying alone in the cold. I’d like to offer a parting touch. A moment of kindness. If she’s covered, that’s fine. But I would like her hand visible.”

He exhaled, long and low. “Very well. Wait here while I arrange it.”

After a few minutes, he returned. Wordlessly, he helped me down and guided me into the mortuary’s inner chamber. The air was heavy, laced with the unmistakable scent of formaldehyde. But that didn’t matter. Elsie did.

She lay beneath a shroud, small and still. One hand had been left uncovered.

I approached quietly and stood beside her. Taking her hand in mine, I was struck by how cold it felt—cold and delicate, as though even in death she was trying not to trouble anyone.

“Elsie, it’s Lady Rosalynd,” I whispered. “I hate what has happened to you. You had a life ahead of you, but it was cruelly cut short. I promise, from the depths of my soul, I will find who did this to you. I will see justice done.”

A tear slipped down my cheek, and Steele offered a handkerchief—linen, with a faint trace of his scent clinging to the fabric.

“Rest in peace, Elsie,” I murmured. I bowed my head and whispered a fervent prayer over her.

I turned to find Steele watching me, his expression unreadable. But his eyes were not unmoved.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

“Come,” he said, his voice a little rough.

We stepped out into the gray afternoon where the air felt no lighter than within. As we left the mortuary behind, the sorrow clung to us still—like a funeral veil trailing in our wake.

Rather than take his own conveyance, Steele opted to join me on our brief journey to St. Agnes, leaving his carriage to follow behind.

Our ride passed in silence, save for the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves and the occasional creak of the carriage.

He sat across from me, one arm braced on the window ledge, his gaze fixed outward.

I found myself studying the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders—his quiet, implacable rage at what had been done to Elsie.

I understood it. I felt it as well.

The Home for Unwed Mothers stood like a pale sentinel amid the soot-streaked brick of Trinity Lane.

It may have been humble, but it was carefully kept in order.

Flowers bloomed along the front path. Someone had scrubbed the steps clean that morning.

Signs of care in a place most would rather forget.

Steele offered his hand to me as I descended the carriage steps.

Inside, we were greeted by the familiar scent of lavender and chalk, and the sight of Sister Margaret coming down the hallway, her keys jangling at her waist. She halted when she saw Steele—a flicker of surprise crossing her worn features.

“Sister Margaret,” I said gently. “May I present His Grace, the Duke of Steele.”

She dipped into a deep curtsy, though her eyes narrowed with curiosity. “Your Grace. A pleasure to meet you.”

Steele gave a short bow. “I’m sorry we meet under such circumstances.”

“As am I.” She folded her hands tightly. “That poor girl.”

The duke inclined his head. “I’m here to offer my help.”

“Your assistance is much appreciated.”

“In that respect, may I ask the name of the constable who found Elsie?”

Her lips pursed. “Constable Collins. Young but quite dedicated to his duties. He was very kind to us last night when he came with the news about . . .” Her voice cut short.

“No need to explain. That’s all I needed to know. I’ll go in search of him.” He turned to me then, a glance of quiet understanding passing between us. “I’ll leave you to it then, Lady Rosalynd. The carriage will wait until you are done.”

“Thank you,” I said.

With a final nod, he departed, the sound of the front door closing behind him echoing faintly down the corridor.

Sister Margaret gave me a tired smile. “The girls are in the dormitory. Most have finished their chores for the day and are resting before supper. Some have little ones to tend to. Others are . . . preparing for the birth of their child.”

There was a quiet weight to her words.

“Shall I walk you back?” she asked.

“Please.”

The hallway dimmed as we moved away from the front windows.

In the dormitory, the atmosphere was subdued—sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting soft golden rectangles across rows of narrow cots.

A few girls sat up, sewing or folding linens.

Others lay on their sides, resting with eyes half-closed, arms curled around growing bellies.

The hush was gentle, but not entirely still—like the pause between heartbeats.

I offered a soft greeting and scanned the room for a face that might be willing to meet mine.

“Lady Rosalynd?” a voice called gently.

I turned my head in that direction. “Yes.”

A girl stepped forward from one of the cots—tall and willowy, with dark hair braided loosely over one shoulder and a level, guarded gaze. She was fairly far along. “I’m Marie,” she said. “Elsie was my friend.”

“May we sit?”

She nodded and led me to a wooden bench beneath one of the narrow windows. The light filtered through sheer curtains, pale and diffused, gilding the edges of her tired face.

“I was told Elsie received a note shortly before she died,” I said gently. “Do you know anything about it?”

Marie looked down at her hands. “She didn’t say much, only that it was from someone important. She kept checking her apron pocket, like she needed to remind herself it was real. She was nervous—restless. But she wouldn’t let me see the message.”

“Did she say who sent it?”

“She said it was private.” Marie’s voice dropped. “But she was scared. That much I know.”

“Did you catch a glimpse of the note?”

“Only for a second when she pulled it out of her pocket. Cream-colored paper. Real fine. Not something any of us could afford. I caught a mark in the corner—something raised, like a crest or a fancy letter. I didn’t get a good look.”

The note I’d just held. “You’re doing really well, Marie,” I said, pressing her hands. “Do you know where she was going that night?”

“She was meeting someone. Said it wouldn’t take long.” Marie paused, swallowing hard. “I begged her not to go. It felt wrong. But she just smiled and said I worried too much. That was after supper.” Her gaze faltered. “She never returned.”

A silence stretched between us as a cart rumbled by in the street, its wheels muffled by the drizzle.

“Do you know where she worked before she came here?” I asked.

Marie hesitated. “She didn’t like to talk about it. But I know it was one of the big houses. Not as a lady’s maid—nothing fancy. Just a housemaid. But she was good with a needle. Said the mistress often had her do the mending. Even trusted her with the master’s shirts.”

“She was valued,” I said quietly.

“She was.” Marie's fingers fidgeted again. “But one day she just . . . left. She wasn’t dismissed. She told me she had to get out. Said she wasn’t safe anymore.”

“Did she say why?”

“She said she made a mistake,” Marie replied, voice soft. “Thought someone cared for her. But after . . . he ignored her. Pretended nothing happened. And then she overheard something.”

My breath caught. “What sort of something?”

Marie glanced at the floor. “She heard voices—two men. One younger, the other older. The older one said that it needed to be taken care of before things got out.”

“Take care of what?”

Marie met my gaze, unflinching. “She never said the words, but . . . they knew she was expecting. And she believed they meant to silence her.”

I felt a coldness move through me, sharper than the rain outside.

“She left that same night,” Marie added. “Turned up here the next day. I don’t think she ever stopped looking over her shoulder.”

I pressed her hand again. “You’ve been very brave to tell me all this, Marie. Thank you. You’ve helped more than you know.”

“She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

“No,” I said, my voice steady now. “She didn’t.” But someone had thought differently. Whatever had transpired in that house, she’d paid for it with her life.