Page 17 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Seventeen

THE WEIGHT BENEATH THE SILENCE

T he moment the door to the sitting room closed behind us, I turned to face him. “I’d appreciate the truth, please. And don’t fob me off with some nonsense like you did Petunia.”

Steele said nothing at first. He flexed his bruised hand once, then drew it behind his back as if to hide it. As if I hadn’t already seen it. “It’s nothing.”

I arched a brow. “I think I deserve more than ‘it’s nothing.’ What happened?”

His jaw ticked. “It wasn’t related to the investigation.”

Clearly, he would not speak of what caused such damage. “Fine,” I said, gathering myself. “Then let’s speak of something that is . Please take a seat.”

He carefully lowered himself into the nearest settee.

“The note I sent you last night didn’t include everything I learned,” I said, joining him. “Only what I was willing to put on paper.”

That earned me a sharp look. “Fair enough.”

“Elsie was scared,” I said quietly. “Marie—her closest friend—said Elsie had received a note from someone she called ‘important.’ Cream-colored paper, fine quality, with a raised mark—a crest.”

“The same one we saw at the mortuary.”

“Exactly. She wouldn’t let Marie read it, but she kept checking her apron pocket as though to make sure it hadn’t vanished.”

Steele’s expression darkened.

“She said she had to meet someone that night. Marie tried to stop her—said the whole thing felt wrong. But Elsie insisted it wouldn’t take long.” I hesitated, then added, “She never came back.”

“And before St. Agnes?”

“She’d worked in a grand household,” I said.

“Not as a lady’s maid, but she was good with a needle.

Trusted, apparently. Until something happened.

She left abruptly, said she wasn’t safe anymore.

She told Marie she’d made a mistake—fallen for someone who turned his back on her.

Then she overheard a conversation between two men.

One older, one younger. The older one ordered the younger one to ‘take care of it.’”

Steele’s jaw flexed. “The younger one had to be the one who got her pregnant.”

“Marie is certain of it. Elsie believed they meant to silence her.”

A hushed quiet fell between us.

“She fled that night,” I finished. “Arrived at St. Agnes the next day. Even so, I don’t think she ever felt safe.”

Steele leaned forward, his breath harshing. “The grand household tracks with what Constable Collins told me. He remembered Elsie. Said she kept to herself but had grown skittish—like she believed someone was following her. She never reported anything, but she was clearly frightened.”

Rosalynd’s expression tightened. “She was right to be.”

“She was found by the rubbish bins,” Steele continued, more softly now. “Blood on her head. Bruising around her neck. Quiet. Efficient. Whoever did it knew what they were doing.”

Rosalynd nodded slowly. “She trusted whoever wrote that note enough to go. Someone used it to lure her out.”

He drew in a breath. “Collins said something else. A few nights before the murder, he spotted a carriage on Trinity Lane. Black lacquered, fine trim, glossy wheels. Definitely not local.”

“From Belgravia, perhaps?” Rosalynd asked.

“Possibly. And it had a crest. He couldn’t make it out—just a vague impression. Circular or ribbon-like, he said. The rain and poor light obscured it.”

Rosalynd’s voice was hushed. “That’s how they came for her. Under the cover of night. With a carriage that didn’t belong in that area.”

Steele nodded once. “They knew where she’d be. And they thought no one would ask questions.”

“Well, they were wrong.” I crossed to my escritoire and returned with a few sheets of notepaper, my pen, and the inkwell. “We need to lay it all out—everything we know, everything we suspect.”

Steele gave a short nod.

I studied him as he shifted once more, careful of his side. Before we proceeded, he needed a moment of comfort, a bit of care. “Have you eaten anything today?” I asked.

He gave a half-shrug, which he immediately regretted. “Breakfast.”

“That was hours ago.”

“I had to attend a meeting of the Legislative Committee at the House of Lords,” he said, his voice low. “We were debating my bill—new safety regulations for factory laborers.”

I blinked, surprised at the issue. “And afterward?”

“I came straight here.”

Of course he had. “Then you’ve had nothing since morning,” I said, rising before he could protest.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“You’re not,” I replied crisply, already moving toward the bell pull. “You’re hurt and half-starved. I won’t have you fainting at my feet from lack of sustenance.”

When Honeycutt answered, I gave him clear instructions: “A plate of cold beef, some bread and cheese, and a pot of tea. Oh, and bring up a bottle of ale as well—something decent.”

Once he left, Steele gave me an amused look. “You like to manage people.”

“It’s only common courtesy. Even dukes need feeding.”

To his credit, he only shook his head, the faintest smile ghosting his lips.

After the tray arrived, I poured the tea while Honeycutt uncorked the ale. After he departed, I set the plate before Steele and handed him the full glass of ale.

With surprising grace, he selected a thick slice of beef, added a sliver of cheese, and folded them neatly between two rounds of bread. Then, as if he were seated in a gentleman’s club, he unfolded the linen napkin and spread it across his lap with a flick of the wrist.

“We need to lay it all out,” I said, settling beside him, with a nice cup of tea close at hand, “everything we know, everything we suspect.” I glanced at his plate, then back to him. “Or would you prefer to address your meal first?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “I can eat and think at the same time, Lady Rosalynd. It’s one of my finer talents.” And to prove his point, he took a bite out of his meal.

“Right.” I dipped my pen into the inkwell. “First—Elsie worked in a grand household. Likely titled, based on the crest on the carriage.”

“I agree. That carriage didn’t belong to some merchant,” he said, taking a sip of the ale.

“She was a housemaid,” I continued, scratching the nib across the paper, “but Marie said she was trusted enough to mend the master’s shirts. No mention of a lady’s gowns.”

His brow furrowed. “So, either the lady didn’t trust her . . . or there was no lady at all.”

“A widower?” I asked, glancing up.

“Possibly,” he said. “But let’s not forget the younger man.”

“A son living with his father. Or an uncle.” I tapped the quill against my chin. “Marie did mention two men. One older, one younger. The older told the younger to ‘take care of it.’”

“Sounds like a father to a son,” he replied. “Though we can’t rule out uncle and nephew.” He polished off the rest of the beef and cheese sandwich.

I wrote down both possibilities, underlining father and son and adding a question mark beside uncle and nephew . “What else?” I murmured.

“Someone got Elsie pregnant,” Steele said flatly, finishing off the ale. “Either the master himself or the younger man.”

“My instinct says the younger,” I replied. “Marie said Elsie believed he cared for her.”

He gave a short nod. “That tracks. If it had been the older man—the master of the house—he’d have likely paid her off and sent her away, or dismissed her altogether the moment he learned she was expecting.

But she stayed. And from what we’ve gathered, she hoped for something more.

That kind of hope doesn’t come from coercion.

It comes from affection—real or imagined. ”

“Exactly. She trusted him. Expected him to do the honorable thing. Which he didn’t.”

“Then there’s the murder,” he added, his voice low. “Who did it and why?”

“Because she could talk,” I said slowly, the words chilling even as I spoke them. “She knew who the father was. Or maybe what she overheard.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s what I keep coming back to. Women like Elsie—maids, nursemaids, companions—they’re seduced and cast off all the time. Disgraced. Dismissed. Left to rot. But murdered?”

“They don’t usually end up strangled in an alley,” I agreed. “They’re paid off. Sent to homes. Banished to the countryside.”

“But Elsie ran,” he said. “She fled. And she stayed gone. So why the need to lure her to her death?”

“Maybe it wasn’t her they were afraid of,” I whispered. “Maybe it was the child. The baby was proof.”

He frowned. “Proof of what, though? Unless someone had the means to verify it?—”

“She could have claimed anything,” I murmured, the pen stalling in my hand. “Without letters or witnesses, it’s her word against his.”

“And no one would believe her.”

I looked up, frustration burning beneath my skin. “Then why kill her? Why risk it at all?”

He exhaled—slow, hard, as if forcing something heavy from his chest. “That’s the part I can’t let go. Someone was afraid—afraid enough to silence her. Either Elsie knew too much . . . or someone had too much to lose.”

We sat in silence, the air between us thick with unspoken questions, sharp-edged and unfinished.

“Why did she go, Steele?” I asked softly. “She was frightened enough to run away. Why would she leave the safety of St. Agnes? Why go out into the night to meet someone?”

“Because the person she was meeting wasn’t the one she’d run from,” he said quietly. “It was someone she trusted. Someone who’d helped her.”

I drew in a breath. “A woman. It had to be. Elsie wouldn’t trust a man—not after what she overheard.”

He gave a grim nod. “So there was a woman in that household. She wrote the note that lured Elsie to her death.”

I dropped my pen, the soft clatter sounding louder than it should have in the quiet room. “So many suppositions,” I said sharply. “So many guesses. But we’re no closer to knowing who actually killed her.”

Steele didn’t flinch at the edge in my voice. He didn’t retreat. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his tone quiet but steady. “It’s only been two days, Rosalynd. I know it feels longer. But the inquest hasn’t even been held yet.”

I let out a breath, sharp and unsatisfied. “She’s still lying in the mortuary, and all we have is a single, wretched note.”

He held my gaze. “Then we follow it. The paper wasn’t torn from a book or scrap. It was proper stationery. Monogrammed. Someone who cared about appearances ordered it.”

I nodded. “We’ll go to the stationers. Ask the right questions. Tomorrow. You and I. Together.”

He didn’t smile, not exactly, but something softened in his expression, as if his agreement didn’t need to be spoken aloud.