Page 12 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Twelve

THE BEAT OF THE CITY

S now Hill Station squatted just off Farringdon Street, a soot-darkened hulk of brick and stone with narrow windows that glared like watchful eyes.

A brass lantern hung above the entry arch, its glass blackened by years of coal smoke, and a battered blue noticeboard stood crookedly to one side, plastered with faded reward posters and theft reports.

I stepped inside.

The air smelled of ink, leather, and pipe smoke—overlayed with the faint, metallic tang of dried blood and damp wool.

Inside, the station was cramped but efficient.

Rows of coat hooks lined one wall; a pair of truncheons hung behind the counter, along with a notice declaring No Gratuities Accepted by Officers of the Law .

Footsteps echoed from the corridor beyond, accompanied by the clatter of a typewriter.

A heavyset desk sergeant in uniform looked up as I approached, his mustache stained with tea, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his helmet.

“Yes, sir?”

“Good afternoon. I’m looking for Constable Collins,” I said. “I’m told he regularly patrols near Trinity Lane and the vicinity of St. Agnes.”

The desk sergeant eyed me warily, his gaze flicking over the quality of my coat, my gloves, and—no doubt—the impatience I wasn’t bothering to conceal.

I drew a leather case from my pocket and flipped it open, revealing my credentials—less a badge than a seal from the Home Office, discreetly embossed with my title.

Recognition settled across his features like a thaw.

“Aye, Your Grace. Collins is the one you want.”

“I understand he discovered the body last night.”

His expression sobered. “One of the girls from St. Agnes. Poor soul. Terrible business, that. Strangled.”

I nodded once. “Do you know where I might find him?”

The sergeant rubbed his hand over his jaw, the stubble rasping like sandpaper.

“He’s on the afternoon circuit—started just after two.

Usual beat takes him from St. Bride’s Passage, down along Puddle Dock, circles up past St. Agnes and the back of Trinity Lane.

He’ll be coming round to Creed Lane in the next half hour. ”

“Good,” I said. “I’ll find him.”

The sergeant hesitated, then added, “He’s been off since early this morning. Quiet. Pale as milk. I reckon finding that girl . . . well. No man’s made of stone.”

“No,” I said quietly. “He isn’t.”

I thanked him with a nod and turned back toward the door, the heavy scent of pipe smoke trailing behind me.

Outside, the clouds were breaking, but the day felt no brighter.

I set off toward the river, boots striking the pavement with purpose, ready to find the man who had seen what most could not forget.

The streets of the city pressed in around me as I moved east, my coat collar turned up against the wind. The pavements were slick from earlier rain, and the sky above was the color of tarnished pewter. Smoke from chimney pots curled downward rather than up, smothered by the weight of the air.

I passed under the shadow of St. Bride’s—the spire rising like a tiered wedding cake into the gloom—and turned down the narrow passage that bore its name.

A delivery boy dodged past with a tray of bread balanced on one shoulder, his boots slapping the stones.

Behind a shuttered shopfront, a woman’s voice cursed in French as I moved by.

Puddle Dock reeked of river water and rot. With the low tide, barges sat heavy in the mud, their chains groaning as they shifted. A drunkard sat arguing with a rat terrier near a set of stairs. Neither seemed inclined to back down. I cut north again.

As I neared Trinity Lane, the streets narrowed and the noise changed. Here, the city’s pulse beat slower. Fewer carriages. More silence. Houses with curtains drawn at all hours. A washerwoman hung damp linens between two windows overhead, her gray hair fraying in the wind like string.

As Creed Lane opened before me in a wash of wet stone and coal smoke, I spotted the constable—tall, with a slight turn in the left foot, standing beneath the jut of a crooked awning as he scribbled something into a leather-bound notebook.

I approached with purpose.

“Constable Collins?”

He looked up. Younger than I’d expected. His jaw tensed beneath the weight of his helmet.

“Yes, sir?”

I drew the leather case from my coat and flipped it open, revealing the Home Office seal once more and my name beneath it. “I understand you were the officer who responded to a call near Trinity Lane last night—a girl, found behind a bakery.”

His eyes flicked to the credentials, then back to me. He straightened. “Yes, Your Grace. I was the first on scene.”

“I’d like to speak with you about it. Shall we walk?”

He gave a nod, cautious but not uncooperative. “Yes, sir.”

We turned east toward the river, boots striking uneven cobbles as the wind swept up from the Thames. The city swirled around us—clattering carts, the shout of a newsboy hawking headlines, the distant chime of a church bell.

“What time were you called in?” I asked.

“About ten,” Collins replied. “One of the bakery lads—boy couldn’t have been older than fifteen—was taking out the ash bins and found her lying there. Thought she was sleeping rough at first. Then he saw the marks on her throat.”

“She was already gone?”

He nodded. “Cold to the touch. No signs of breath. Eyes open.” His voice went quieter. “Still.”

“You knew her?”

“I’d seen her about,” he said. “She was one of the girls at St. Agnes. Kept to herself. Did her errands quick, never lingered. But there was a skittishness to her. Like she thought someone was following her.”

“She ever report anything?”

“No, sir. If she was frightened, she kept it to herself.”

I said nothing for a moment, letting the wind speak for us.

“She was beside the rubbish bins,” he went on, quieter now. “Blood on the side of her head. Bruising around her neck. Whoever did it meant it to be quiet—and fast.”

“She hadn’t been moved?”

“Didn’t look like it. Her skirts were askew, like she’d fallen mid-step.”

I nodded once. “We have reason to believe she was lured out by a note. The paper was fine—watermarked. Something far above her station.”

Collins frowned. “Then it was no accident she ended up there.”

“No,” I said. “It was planned. And likely by someone who knew her—knew where she’d be. Perhaps even someone she once trusted.”

He said nothing for a long time. Then, “I keep thinking—if she’d made it just another twenty feet, she might’ve reached the front of the bakery. There were lamps still lit inside. People.”

“That thought will gnaw at you,” I said. “Let it go.”

He looked at me, startled, but something in his expression settled.

“You recall anyone unusual in the area?” I asked. “Anyone—or anything—that didn’t belong?”

Collins gave a faint shake of his head. “No, sir.”

“No one out of place?” I prompted. “No one dressed too well? Moving too slow?”

He started to shake his head again—then stopped.

“Well,” he said slowly, “maybe one thing. Not last night, but two—no, three nights ago.”

I turned toward him. “Go on.”

“There was a carriage. Late. Well past the usual hour for deliveries. Parked halfway down Trinity Lane, near the alley behind the bakery.”

“What kind of carriage?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “A fine one. Black lacquered. Glossy wheels. Looked like it had come from Belgravia, not Blackfriars.”

“You see who was inside?”

“No, sir. Curtains drawn. But it didn’t belong there. It had no business on that street, at that hour.”

“Did it have a crest?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s what caught my eye. A faint mark painted on the side panel. Could’ve been a family crest or livery. I couldn’t make it out fully. Just the shape.”

“What kind of shape?”

Collins frowned. “Curved. Circular maybe. Or a ribbon. It wasn’t clear. The lamps didn’t strike it well—it had rained earlier, and the reflections muddled everything.”

“But you’re certain it wasn’t a tradesman’s?”

“I’ve worked this beat four years, sir,” he said. “It’s a working neighborhood. Same sorts pass through most days. Traders. Servants. The baker's boy who always runs late. That carriage wasn’t from around here.”

“If you see it again—you don’t approach. You follow.” I drew a leather case from my coat and retrieved one of my cards. Handing it to him, I said, “And then you notify me directly.”

He nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

I left him standing beneath the eaves as the clouds began to gather again, the first cold drops pattering against the stones.

A fine carriage, parked behind the bakery. More than likely to determine the best location to commit murder.

He’d relied on doing his filthy deed in secrecy. But he hadn’t accounted for us.