Page 18 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)
Chapter
Eighteen
INK AND INTENTIONS
T he carriage bearing my crest pulled up before Wigmore & Sons.
I’d chosen it not for vanity but to make a point.
I wanted the shopkeeper to know exactly who he was dealing with the moment I stepped through the door.
Subtlety had its uses, but so did authority.
And nothing conveyed authority quite like a carriage with a coronet on the door.
What I hadn’t considered was the rest of the street.
As the footman swung open the door, I caught the sound of feminine voices and light laughter, the unmistakable hum of society on the move.
The milliner’s two doors down had just let out a cluster of ladies with sharp eyes and sharper tongues.
One froze mid-step. Another clutched her bonnet like it might take flight.
Whispers began before I’d even offered Rosalynd my hand.
She took my arm and descended gracefully, utterly unbothered by the stares gathering around us. At least on the surface.
“If anyone asks,” she murmured as we approached the door, “I was selecting ink for my petitions.”
I nodded. “Naturally.”
The bell above the shop door rang a crisp chime as we stepped inside.
Wigmore & Sons was a temple of order. Shelves rose floor to ceiling, lined with cream, dove grey, and ivory stationery, some edged in gilt, others pressed with fine patterns.
Inkwells, quills, and sealing wax sat in gleaming rows, untouched and intimidating.
The scent of lavender, India ink, and beeswax mingled with the hushed air of reverence.
Behind the counter stood a man who looked as if he’d been shelved there himself.
Tall and spare, with a face like a lemon left too long in the bowl, his cuffs stiff as razors, and spectacles perched like judgment on the tip of his nose.
He clasped his hands before him as though unsure whether we were customers or a potential plague.
“May I assist you?” he asked, tone sour enough to curdle cream.
Rosalynd stepped forward, all poise. “We’re hoping to identify the source of a custom stationery order. It would have included a monogram and a crest with an arc. We’ve brought a sketch.”
I produced the folded paper and handed it across. The drawing was rough—a simple monogram and the barest outline of a curved crest. No heraldic beast. No family motto. Just a fragment.
The clerk sniffed as though the very idea of a sketch offended him.
“I’m afraid we cannot release client information without formal authorization. Wigmore & Sons prides itself on discretion. Even the suggestion of identifying private orders?—”
“It’s a matter of some urgency,” Rosalynd interrupted. “A young woman died, summoned by a note written on your stationery. We believe the paper may help us determine who took her life.”
His expression did not change. If anything, it flattened further.
“Client information is confidential, madam. If you wish to submit an official request, you may apply in writing. We will respond in due time.”
Rosalynd blinked once. She was losing patience. I, on the other hand, had already lost mine.
I slowly removed my gloves, set them on the counter, and spoke in a voice just loud enough to cut through his recitation of shop policy. “Fetch Mr. Wigmore.”
His mouth opened, shut, then reopened in protest. “Mr. Wigmore is not generally summoned?—”
“Is there a difficulty out here, Snimble?” A rotund man with a polished bald head and a red waistcoat stepped into view, wiping his hands on a cloth. His eyes moved to Rosalynd, then to me—and stopped.
There was a beat of silence as his gaze dropped to my signet ring, took in the cut of my coat, and settled on the subtle gleam of the ducal crest worked into the handle of my cane.
And if that weren’t confirmation enough, a glance out the window caught the waiting carriage, unmistakably marked. He paled by several degrees.
“Your Grace,” he said with a bow so deep it nearly toppled his spectacles. “I do beg your pardon—I wasn’t made aware.” He shot a look at Snimble, who had gone very still, like a man realizing he’d just insulted royalty. “I’m Wigmore. How may I be of service?”
Rosalynd, ever gracious, stepped in. “We’re hoping to trace the origin of this paper design. The original note was destroyed, but his Grace copied the crest and monogram as best he could. We believe it was used to summon a young woman the night she was killed.”
“How dreadful!” Wigmore took the sketch and carefully held it up to the light. After a moment’s study, he nodded. “Yes, I remember this. Someone brought in a drawing nearly identical—weeks ago. An arc motif. Quite unusual. We didn’t recognize the crest.”
He turned to the ledger beneath the counter and began flipping through the entries with practiced fingers. “Let me check our records. It should be here.”
After scanning the page, he paused, fingertip resting lightly on a line. “No name associated with the order—that’s what struck me at the time. It didn’t come from any of our regular clients. No household name. Just the sketch. Monogrammed H.V., with a crest featuring an arc.”
“You don’t know the origin?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, Your Grace. It wasn’t a full coat of arms. We assumed it was private or possibly foreign. Still, we were paid in full and asked to keep the order discreet.”
Rosalynd narrowed her eyes slightly. “Who placed the order?”
“A woman. Well-dressed, but not a lady—likely a maid in respectable service. She came in twice. The first time, she brought a sketch of the crest and some specifications for the monogram. The second time, she gave final approval and paid in cash. Didn’t give a name. Polite. Kept her head down.”
“No name, no delivery address?” I asked.
“None. She collected the stationery in person.”
Rosalynd and I exchanged a glance.
“Before we go, I’d like a sample of the stationery from that order—same paper, same monogram, if you have it.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Wigmore said quickly. He disappeared behind the curtain, returning a moment later with a single folded sheet. “From the same stock. One of the few extras we keep on hand, in case of misprints.”
The texture was smooth, weighty—expensive.
But it was the monogram that caught the eye: H.V.
, pressed into the corner beneath a faint arc that curled like the edge of a crescent moon.
Whoever sent that note had gone to careful lengths to avoid detection—and yet they had left behind a trace.
Not a name, but a symbol. Not a message, but a shape.
The arc. I tucked it carefully into the inner pocket of my coat. “Thank you, Mr. Wigmore.”
“My pleasure, Your Grace,” he said with another bow. “Should you require any further assistance, do not hesitate to ask.”
From behind the counter, I could hear Snimble breathing again as we exited the shop.
The street had grown noticeably livelier during our short visit.
The same ladies from earlier were still gathered near the milliner’s, but they had been joined by others.
A gentleman loitered beside a lamppost with far too little interest in his newspaper.
A pair of shopgirls were watching from the window of the grocer’s next door, pretending to arrange lemons.
All of them had seen the carriage. All of them had seen her. Rosalynd.
She paused, composed but no longer serene. Her lips had thinned to a line. “I should have taken a hansom cab and met you here.”
“The carriage served its purpose.”
“Yes,” she said evenly. “It ensured I’ll be talked about in every drawing room from Mayfair to Kensington by teatime.”
“Do you care?”
She hesitated. “Not as much as I should. They’ll talk about me no matter what I do. Or don’t do.”
Without another word, she took my offered hand and climbed into the carriage before I followed suit.
Inside, she neatly folded her hands in her lap. “The woman who placed the order was most likely a maid. And that means the stationery was commissioned by a lady.”
I nodded. “One who didn’t want her identity known since the maid paid in cash.”
“If we can determine which family that crest belongs to,” she said quietly, “we’ll be one step closer to finding Elsie’s killer.”
We rode in silence on the drive back to Rosehaven House with the weight of that truth settling between us.