Page 19 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Nineteen

THE INQUEST

T he morning after our visit to the stationer, Steele arrived promptly in his carriage, just as he’d said he would. He was, as always, courteous, composed, entirely unruffled.

I, on the other hand, was anxious about the inquest we were about to attend. Would any new information come to light? Would fresh evidence be presented? Something that might help us untangle the truth? Might a witness be called whom we hadn’t anticipated?

And most importantly: would someone appear who didn’t belong?

Inquests often drew the curious, especially after a sensational killing—and Elsie’s murder had already made the papers.

Some claimed it was another Whitechapel slaying, though the crime bore little resemblance to those infamous butcheries.

But sensationalism sold newspapers, so it was only to be expected it would draw a large crowd.

With luck, someone of a higher station—a man or a woman—might slip in under the guise of public interest. And if they did, I meant to see them.

By the time we arrived at the coroner’s court behind St. James’s, the morning was already thick with smoke and the scent of wet stone. Steele offered his arm, and I took it, conscious of the eyes that followed us as we ascended the steps together.

A man with a smudged collar and ink-stained fingertips stood just inside the gate, notebook in hand.

His gaze flitted from Steele’s unmistakable bearing to the discreet elegance of my mourning attire.

Recognition sparked. He tilted his head, scribbled something quickly, and tucked his pencil behind his ear.

“ The Illustrated Police News ,” Steele muttered under his breath. “God help us.”

I leaned in slightly. “You know him?”

“I’ve dealt with him before,” he said, jaw tightening. “He has a talent for dressing up fact as fiction and fiction as scandal.”

Inside, the courtroom was cramped, just as I’d expected, the air stale and still despite the open windows.

A number of ladies were already fanning themselves with slow, deliberate motions, though the heat and press of bodies made little difference.

We took seats near the back, our arrival drawing subtle glances from those already present—solicitors, clerks, a pair of constables, and two dozen or so idle spectators in search of drama.

I folded my gloved hands in my lap and kept my eyes forward. But even before the coroner called the room to order, I could feel the heat of judgment settle along the back of my neck—not just for attending, but for daring to care.

The first witness called was Constable Collins, the officer who’d found Elsie’s body.

He stepped forward awkwardly, removing his helmet before taking the stand.

He was a young man, not more than thirty, with a plain, earnest face and a uniform that sat stiffly on his tall frame.

His voice wavered slightly as he gave his name and rank.

As he spoke, there was no bravado in his manner, no practiced detachment. Only quiet regret.

He had discovered the body just after ten o’clock in the evening, while making his rounds along Trinity Lane. She was lying behind a bakery. The back door of the shop had been left ajar, and the scent of yeast and burnt sugar still hung in the air.

“I thought maybe she’d fallen ill,” he said, fingers tightening around his notebook. “But when I knelt beside her . . .” He paused, cleared his throat. “It was already too late. I sent for assistance and remained with her until help arrived, doing what I could to shield her from curious onlookers.”

“She didn’t deserve that,” he added, quieter now. “She was always respectful when I saw her on her errands.”

Something in my chest twisted. This man had known her only in glimpses, and yet he'd extended a measure of compassion that others—those who should have protected her—had not.

The constable stepped down, shoulders stiff as he returned to his seat. A brief murmur passed through the room before Doctor Loughton was called up.

He rose from the front bench and approached the stand with the same brisk efficiency I remembered from the mortuary.

But unlike that evening when he’d worn a blood-smeared apron, today he was dressed in a dark frock coat and high collar, the very image of professional detachment.

After adjusting his spectacles, he opened a slim leather folio and began.

“I examined the deceased, Miss Elsie Leonard, at St. James’s mortuary on the evening of the fourteenth,” he spoke in a clipped, clinical tone. “There were no signs of robbery. No bruising consistent with a fall. Cause of death was strangulation.”

He turned a page and tapped notes with one long finger.

“Ligature marks were absent, which suggests the act was committed by hand. There was bruising along the throat and a fracture to the hyoid bone—typical in cases of manual strangulation. Based on the pattern and depth of pressure, I am confident the assailant possessed considerable strength.”

He paused, lifting his gaze from the page. “This was not done in panic. It was deliberate. And given the breadth of the bruising across the neck and jaw, I believe the hands belonged to a man.”

The hush that followed was different this time—sharper, as if the room itself bristled at the word deliberate . Although I couldn’t imagine how one could classify it as something other than that.

Beside me, Steele shifted just enough that his coat brushed mine. I didn’t look at him. My eyes remained fixed on Dr. Loughton, who quietly snapped shut his folio and stepped down, his polished shoes clicking softly on the wood.

The coroner called the next witness—Inspector Dodson. He took the stand with a faint sigh, as though the entire proceeding were a waste of his morning.

His coat hung unbuttoned, the hem slightly askew, and his boots were scuffed with wear. He looked much the same as when I first encountered him, except now his disinterest was even more apparent. He didn’t so much as glance at the jury as he began.

“The deceased, Miss Elsie Leonard, had been residing at St. Agnes in Clerkenwell,” he said flatly. “The Home for Unwed Mothers.”

At that, Dodson raised a brow—just a flicker—but enough to make his opinion clear.

As though any woman living at such a place couldn’t possibly be innocent.

“Best assumption is she left the home to meet someone. Likely someone she knew. Someone she trusted. There was no evidence of robbery. No sign of a prolonged struggle. That points to a personal dispute. Possibly a lover’s quarrel.

These things happen.” He gave a small, careless shrug.

No grief. No outrage. No sense that a life had been taken, only the implication that Elsie’s past made her death somehow expected. Acceptable.

“We’ll make a few inquiries,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “but unless a witness comes forward, there’s little to go on.”

Once Dodson stepped down, the coroner turned to the jury. “Gentlemen,” the coroner intoned, “you have heard the evidence laid before you. I ask that you deliberate upon the circumstances and return your verdict as to the cause of Miss Elsie Leonard’s death.”

The men conferred in low tones for barely a minute, their expressions unreadable, impassive. They had no more desire to be there than Dodson had. Not one of them gave any sign they considered Elsie as anything more than a nameless tragedy, barely worth a moment’s thought.

Having seemingly reached their verdict, the foreman stood and cleared his throat. “Unlawful killing by person unknown.”

That was it. Neat. Final. And conveniently impersonal.

The coroner offered a nod, muttered a few formalities, and the jury was dismissed.

There would be no further inquiry. No criminal charge. No deeper investigation, unless Dodson chose to pursue it. And it was clear from his manner that he would not.

A subtle movement to the right of me caught my eye.

A woman, half-shadowed beneath the gallery arch, sat alone, her face hidden beneath a heavy veil.

She wore unrelieved black from collar to hem.

Her hands were tightly gloved. While one rested on a closed parasol, the other was curled into a fist. Once the verdict was delivered, she rose without a sound and moved swiftly past the end of her bench.

I was on my feet in an instant. “There?—”

“I see her,” Steele said, already moving with me.

As best as we could, we pushed through the press of jostling bodies eager to escape the stifling courtroom. We found the sunlight blinding by the time we reached the front steps, and the street a tangle of hansoms and foot traffic.

But just at the edge of the pavement, I saw her.

She was stepping into a dark carriage, its glossy panels reflecting the morning light. A footman shut the door. And for a brief moment, I glimpsed the crest painted near the latch.

A curved arc—simple, elegant, unmistakable.

Before Steele and I had a chance to approach it, the carriage pulled away, folding into the clatter and smoke of the street.

“She’s gone,” I said, breathless and disappointed. We’d been so close.

“But now we know she is real and not a figment of our imagination. Her presence at the inquest means she was heavily invested in its findings. And, just as importantly, she didn’t want to be seen.”

We stood together for a moment in silence, watching as the carriage vanished into the fog of traffic. The noise of the street pressed in—hoofbeats, the shout of a driver, the distant clang of bells—but neither of us moved.

Then, quietly, Steele offered his arm. “Come. There’s something we need to discuss.”

I took it without hesitation.

He led me to his carriage and opened the door. I climbed in, my mind still spinning with the implications of what we’d just seen.

As the door shut behind us and the carriage lurched into motion, I expected him to speak of the inquest. Of Dodson’s indifference. Of the veiled woman and the crest.

But he had something else in mind. “I’ve made arrangements at the Caledonian Club tonight for your shooting lesson.”

I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

His tone was even, unflinching. “We will be using its shooting gallery.”

“We never discussed?—”

“We did,” he said. “Four nights ago, when you brandished a penknife and I told you I’d teach you to shoot.”

“I never agreed to it.” I folded my hands tightly in my lap. “I have no desire to use a firearm.”

“And I’ve no desire to see you walk into a dark alley with nothing but good intentions and a penknife.”

I bristled. “It’s a perfectly serviceable?—”

“It’s a decorative letter opener with delusions of usefulness,” he cut in, calm as ever. “You don’t have to like it. But you do have to learn. Be at the club by midnight.”

Much as I abhorred the thought of handling a firearm, I had to admit he was right. My penknife—dainty, dull, and better suited to trimming ribbon—would offer little protection against someone intent on hurting me. But it wasn’t that alone that gave me pause.

What else would I be learning tonight?

The feel of a pistol in my hand? The weight of responsibility in its aim?

Or something far more dangerous—like what it meant to be alone with him, in a room built for violence, with nothing between us but breath and tension?

Regardless of my troubled thoughts, I gave him the only possible answer. “Very well. I’ll come.”

He didn’t smile. But something in his posture eased.

As the carriage rumbled onward, I turned to the window, the glass cool beneath my gloved fingers, and wondered what the night would bring.