Page 21 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Twenty-One

THE BOX AND THE BURDEN

T he morning after the shooting lesson dawned grey and listless, with a curtain of low clouds pressed against the city. Too exhausted to attend breakfast downstairs, I had a tray brought to me.

I had known something would happen between Steele and me. But I told myself that learning to shoot was the sensible, necessary thing to do. A practical decision. A safeguard. And walked into danger myself.

At least we hadn’t kissed. I could take comfort in that. But not because I had denied him. Because we had been interrupted.

What if Lord Langford hadn’t walked in? What if I had let Steele kiss me? Or worse—what if I had kissed him back?

That was a line I could not cross. A Rubicon that, once passed, would carry us toward consequences I wasn’t prepared to face.

And that was a luxury I could ill afford.

So I had no recourse. From this moment forward, I would continue the investigation on my own.

Without his assistance. And I knew just what I needed to do.

During the restless hours of the night, somewhere between sleep and fevered dreams, a thought had come to me.

Elsie must have had a box. A place where she kept her things, however few they might have been.

If such a box existed, it would be at St. Agnes.

And maybe, just maybe, it held some overlooked detail or clue that I could pursue on my own.

I had no time to waste. It was already mid-morning.

With Tilly’s quiet assistance, I donned a modest gown, not once looking in the mirror. I had no desire to see my thoughts reflected there.

But before I could make my escape, Chrissie appeared in the entry hall like a warden at the gate.

“We missed you at breakfast. Is something wrong?”

“No. I simply overslept, that’s all.” I couldn’t very well tell her what had transpired last night.

Her gaze swept over me, sharp and assessing. “You’re going out?”

“Yes. There’s something I must attend to.” I didn't share where I was planning to go. Steele might very well come to call. If he did, I didn't want her to tell him.

“You will be back by this afternoon?” Her voice wobbled, just a touch. “It’s our at-home day. You can’t leave me to face the tea-and-tattle brigade alone.”

I managed a faint smile. “I’ll do my best.”

Before she could protest further, I slipped out the front door and into the clamor of Grosvenor Square—mid-morning carriages clattering past, booted footmen at attention, the air sharp with horses and coal smoke. Raising a hand, I hailed the nearest cab.

The ride to St. Agnes took me through the grey lace of narrow streets, the city blurred behind rain-flecked glass. I sat back against the worn seat, hands clenched in my lap, the steady clatter of wheels beneath me no match for the noise in my mind.

My thoughts, unbidden, began to drift again—to the gallery, to the way the air had shifted between Steele and me, heavy and electric. To the quiet look in his eyes, the nearness of his breath, the weight of something unspoken.

I exhaled sharply and turned my gaze to the window. No. I would not waste time puzzling over what had never happened. There was a murdered girl and a trail of secrets that needed to be unraveled to find the truth.

Progress was slow. The streets were thick with traffic—delivery carts lumbering under the weight of produce, horse-drawn omnibuses rattling past with passengers packed shoulder to shoulder, well-dressed ladies with parasols crossing carelessly in front of wheels.

The cab lurched and creaked its way eastward, stopping and starting, inching past Oxford Circus and the press of Holborn.

By the time the cab turned down the narrow streets of Clerkenwell, the church bell in the distance was tolling the noon hour.

The bells had just finished tolling when the cab finally turned down a narrow lane and jolted to a stop outside St. Agnes.

I stepped down with my umbrella at hand and drew my cloak tighter.

A fine mist made the air feel much cooler.

Before I could lift the brass knocker, the door creaked open, revealing a young novice with downcast eyes and flour-dusted hands.

“Lady Rosalynd,” she greeted me softly.

“I need to speak with Sister Margaret,” I said.

The girl bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, milady. Please come in.”

After I crossed the threshold into the familiar hush of St. Agnes, the door closed behind me, muffling the noise of the street. The scent of starch, candle wax, and boiled linen greeted me like a memory—one steeped in sorrow, urgency, and quiet discipline.

I followed the novice down a narrow corridor, the soles of my boots whispering against the stone floor. Each step was a reminder of why I’d come—not as a visitor, but as a seeker of truth.

We reached the entry hall, where the air shifted—warmer and tinged with the comforting scents of baking bread and beeswax. The novice gave a small curtsy and disappeared through a side door, presumably to fetch the nun.

Moments later, Sister Margaret emerged from the passage beyond, her hands folded tightly in front of her. “Lady Rosalynd, you’ve returned.”

“I was hoping you might allow me to see Elsie’s belongings. I’m hoping there was a box.”

“There is. You’re making progress?” she asked.

“Yes. But I’m hoping an examination of her things might help move things forward.”

Sister Margaret gave a single nod. “Of course. Come with me.”

She led me into a small, dim room with a narrow window and a worn writing desk. From a cabinet filled with containers of all sizes, she produced a simple wooden box, no larger than a hatbox.

“She didn’t have much,” she said with a tinge of sorrow. “I kept it, hoping it might be of some use.”

I nodded. “You were right to do so. Do you know what’s in it?”

“No. We never pry. It’s the least we owe our young ladies. They’ve suffered enough already.”

“Thank you, Sister.” I opened the clasp and lifted the lid.

Inside lay a folded scrap of lace, a dried flower pressed between two pages of hymnbook paper, a handwritten note, and two items that made my breath catch.

A gold cufflink, finely engraved with the familiar arc of the same crest we had seen on the stationery and the carriage door.

And a handkerchief. A plain one, save for the embroidery in pale blue at the corner: H.V.

I turned the cufflink in my fingers. It gleamed softly in the dim light. No servant would wear something so finely made, nor carry a monogram so boldly. This had belonged to him—the man who had seduced Elsie. The man who had gotten her with child and left her to rot in secrecy.

She kept them. As proof? As a memory? Or as something far more painful?

Footsteps approached—brisk, light. A soft knock sounded at the door to the room.

Sister Margaret looked up. “Yes?”

The same novice who’d greeted me peeked in. “Excuse me, Sister. There’s a gentleman at the door. He says he’s come to collect Miss Elsie’s belongings.”

Sister Margaret’s mouth flattened into a thin line before she turned to me. “Stay here.”

With swift efficiency, she crossed the room, her nun’s habit swishing lightly as she followed the novice out into the corridor.

I crossed to the half-curtained door that led into the corridor and listened.

“Yes?” came Sister Margaret’s voice.

“I’ve come for the girl’s things,” said a man. His voice was low, edged with threat. “Elsie Leonard. I’m her brother.”

Carefully, I eased the curtain aside just enough to glimpse the visitor.

He stood just inside the vestibule, tall and broad-shouldered, water beading on the shoulders of his charcoal coat. As he removed his hat—black felt, slightly worn at the brim—I noticed a small, out-of-place flourish: a bright red feather tucked into the band. It quivered slightly as he moved.

His face was pale, angular, with a faint scar along one cheek and eyes that flicked restlessly over the entryway. His hair, a dark coppery brown, curled damply at the edges. There was something watchful about him, something tense. A man who told too many lies.

He caught Sister Margaret’s gaze with a veneer of solemnity, but I saw the way his jaw clenched and his fingers flexed—nervous, not grieving. A signet ring flashed on his right pinky as he tucked his glove into his coat pocket.

I didn’t know his name. Not yet. But I knew I wouldn’t forget that face—or the feather in his hat.

After a long pause, Sister Margaret replied, “She had no brother listed.”

“She kept it private. Family shame.”

“I will need proof of kinship. We do not hand over property without documentation.”

“My mother asked me to collect them.”

“Then your mother may write to the abbess.”

Silence. Then a sharp exhale. The door creaked shut again.

Moments later, Sister Margaret returned, her face pale.

“He’s gone,” she said.

“He’ll be back,” I said tightly. “Or someone else will.”

“I believe you’re right.”

I clutched the box for a moment longer, then turned and pressed it into Sister Margaret’s hands. “Please keep this safe. Not with the others. Hide it somewhere no one would think to look.”

Her brows lifted slightly, but she nodded without hesitation. “I’ll see to it myself.”

“Thank you,” I said, already moving for the door. “I have to follow him.”

Sister Margaret blinked. “Alone?”

“There’s no time to fetch anyone else. Please have a message delivered to my sister at Rosehaven House. Tell her I won’t return in time for our at-home. Ask her to send for Lady Edmunds to chaperone. She’ll understand.”

She gave a solemn nod.

“Thank you,” I whispered, already at the door. “Pray I don’t lose him.”

Outside, the man with the red feather in his hat was already half a street ahead, disappearing around the corner of the iron railings. I rushed down the steps and flung open my umbrella to blend with the modest crowd.

I caught sight of the man once more as he turned down an alley, then emerged onto a broader street. A waiting hackney carriage drew up as if on cue. He climbed in, and the driver snapped the reins.

I stepped quickly to the edge of the pavement, waving sharply at the next hackney rolling past. “Follow that carriage,” I instructed as I climbed in, breath tight in my chest. “Don’t get too close, but don’t lose him.”

The cab lurched into motion, the wheels rattling over wet cobblestones.

We rumbled eastward through the maze of Clerkenwell’s back streets, deeper into unfamiliar territory.

The fog thickened as we went, clinging to windows and softening the harsh lines of tenements and alleyways.

I kept my eyes fixed on the vague silhouette of the carriage ahead, its single lantern swaying with every turn.

The minutes stretched, each one sharpening the unease in my chest.

At last, my hackney jolted to a stop just short of a crooked intersection, where the fog pressed thick against the windows. The cabbie twisted around on his bench and murmured, “That carriage pulled up just ahead, Miss. Stopped outside that grim-looking place near the tannery.”

I leaned forward, peering through the mist. Sure enough, the outline of a black carriage emerged—its lantern flickering faintly in the gloom. The man I’d followed stepped down and vanished through the door of a sagging building just off Saffron Hill.

“I’ll get down here,” I said quietly.

The cabbie shifted and frowned. “I wouldn’t, miss. Saffron Hill’s no place for a lady. Ruffians about. The sort that don’t ask questions.”

“The man we followed is likely meeting someone,” I replied, already reaching for the door. “Don’t worry. I won’t go inside. I just need to see who turns up.”

He didn’t budge. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but that house over there—it’s not right. You want me to wait for you? Or take you back? I could circle ’round?—”

“I appreciate your concern, truly. But I can take care of myself.” After I paid him, I opened my reticule just enough to show him the pistol Steele had given me.

It wasn’t loaded—not anymore. We’d used the two bullets at the shooting gallery during his lesson. Still, the weight of it was reassuring. I doubted a man would ask questions when a barrel was pointed at him.

Today, bluffing would have to be enough.

“You’ll be careful, miss?”

“I always am,” I said, though my voice sounded steadier than I felt.

The cabbie’s brows lifted. “Right, then.”

“One last thing,” I added as I stepped down onto the slick cobbles.

Smoke clung to the narrow street, heavy with damp and the lingering stench of coal.

“Return to St. Agnes. Find Sister Margaret and tell her I followed the man who visited the Home. Tell her he entered a building off Saffron Hill, behind the old tannery—just across from a public house called The Boar and Fiddle. I’ll be watching from the alley beside it, behind the empty costermonger’s stall with the blue-striped awning. Now, go.”

After casting a final wary glance down the street, he nodded and turned his cab, its wheels rattling off into the fog.

I stepped into the shadows behind the abandoned stall, my breath curling in the cold air. Across the lane, the door to the building remained closed. But the real answer would come when the next carriage arrived.