Page 6 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Six

TRAGEDY IN TRINITY LANE

T he following morning after breakfast, I asked Chrissie if I might have a quiet word with her in the morning room.

“I know what you’re going to say,” she said the moment the door closed behind us. “Lord Sefton is a rake. He’s had numerous affairs. He’s no fit suitor for me. And I should stay far away from him.”

I blinked. “How did you?—?”

“I overheard Lady Edmunds,” she admitted with a sigh. “But here’s the thing.”

Even before she spoke again, I knew I wouldn’t like what was coming.

“He’s never seduced a debutante,” she said carefully. “Every woman he’s been involved with has had . . . experience.”

“That we know of, Chrissie,” I countered. “It would only take a whisper for a young woman to be ruined utterly—if her name was linked to him in the wrong way.”

“He hasn’t been shunned by society,” she pointed out. “Lady Yarmouth introduced us. She wouldn’t have done so if she didn’t think he was acceptable.”

“She’s a gossip who lives to fan the flames.”

“He’s witty, charming, and doesn’t speak to me like I’m some silly chit with a dowry to be auctioned off.”

“And there lies the danger.”

She met my gaze steadily. “You always taught me to look past appearances, to trust my instincts. If he behaves improperly, I’ll sever the connection myself. Please, Rosie. Trust me.”

There were a hundred things I wanted to say. But pressing her now would only push her away—and I needed her to keep talking to me. To trust me in return.

“Very well,” I said at last, though every syllable tasted like worry.

There was nothing more to be done—for now.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of half-hearted distractions: reviewing the household accounts, replying to notes I scarcely remembered writing, offering Julia company while she rested on her chaise. But all the while, Chrissie’s words lingered in my mind, like a tune I couldn’t quite shake.

That night, I stood in my bedchamber, preparing for bed, when a soft knock came at the door.

Tilly crossed the room to answer, revealing one of our footmen on the other side. “An urgent missive, milady,” he murmured, extending a small envelope.

My brow furrowed as Tilly handed it to me. Who could be sending a note at this hour?

Lady Rosalynd — come at once. Elsie has been found dead — strangled. Please, I beg you, help us. —Sister Margaret

The words blurred before my eyes, though I read them again. And again. Dead. Elsie was dead. Murdered. An overwhelming grief filled me.

But that would not do. I needed to act. Drawing a sharp breath, I forced myself to steady. Turning to the footman, I instructed him to have the Rosehaven carriage readied at once, then asked Tilly to help me back into a simple gown. No corset. This was no social call.

In no time at all, I was climbing into the Rosehaven carriage on my way to St. Agnes.

A miserable night it was with the wheels rattling furiously over the cobblestones, each jolt stretching the journey unbearably long.

Through the rain-streaked window, the streets grew narrower and darker, crooked buildings huddled close as though whispering grim secrets to each other.

The damp scent of stone, smoke, and refuse crept in even through the glass.

By the time we reached St. Agnes, the very air seemed drenched in grief.

Sister Margaret met me in the front hall, her usually strong, capable face pale and drawn, eyes red-rimmed from weeping. “Oh, Lady Rosalynd.” Her voice broke as she reached for my hands. “It’s too awful. They found her about two hours ago. Strangled.” Her breath hitched. “That poor child.”

I squeezed her hands tightly, swallowing the thick knot rising in my throat. “I’m so sorry, Sister Margaret. Please tell me what you need. How can I help?”

She drew me gently toward her office, closing the door softly behind us.

“The local constable came first. He was kind, as gentle as one could be with such terrible news. But then . . .” She wiped at a fresh tear.

“Then Inspector Dodson arrived.” Her expression hardened.

“I’ve met his kind before. They see girls like Elsie as nothing—just another unfortunate, another waste.

But I won’t stand for that.” Her jaw trembled.

“These young women are of value, no matter what the world says. And I fear . . . I fear he’ll sweep this under the rug.

And Elsie’s murderer will never be found. ”

“We can’t allow that to happen.” My voice sharpened, my resolve hardening. Inspector Dodson and I had crossed swords before. He was a man of rigid views and a sharp tongue, with little patience for women of my class, much less someone like Elsie.

“No, indeed, we can’t.” Sister Margaret drew in a shaky breath. “You’re a woman of standing, Lady Rosalynd. If you demand justice, perhaps they’ll actually listen.”

I straightened, bracing myself. “Where was she found?”

Her eyes shimmered with fresh grief. “In an alley just behind the bakery, off the main stretch of Trinity Lane. A place where folk leave their rubbish. How she ended up out there, I can’t fathom.” Her voice cracked again. “She never left without permission, especially not at such a late hour.”

The weight of it settled heavy on my shoulders—the injustice, the tragedy, the utter waste of that young life. And beneath it, a slow, simmering anger stirred. I would not let Elsie’s death be dismissed. I would not let her be forgotten.

“I’d like to speak to the young ladies,” I said. “We need to know if anyone has any idea why Elsie left St. Agnes tonight.”

“Of course,” Sister Margaret replied gently. “But I must warn you, most of them are terribly shaken. I doubt many will make much sense.”

“Even fragments may prove useful.”

“They’re in the dormitories, trying to sleep. Though I doubt many are managing it.”

We had only just stepped into the corridor when the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed toward us—the sharp rhythm of polished boots on wood.

Sister Margaret’s mouth tightened. “That’ll be him. Dodson.”

The inspector appeared at the end of the hallway, tall and broad-shouldered, his thick frame wrapped in a rumpled greatcoat that did little to soften the impression of brute force.

His dark eyes glinted beneath bushy brows, and his mouth twisted into something that might, in better company, have passed for a smile.

Sister Margaret stiffened beside me, her hands knotting tightly in her apron, as if bracing for a blow.

"Lady Rosalynd," he drawled, his tone steeped in clipped authority. "I heard you were here. How very . . . predictable."

I met his gaze without flinching. "Inspector Dodson."

He gave me a slow, disdainful once-over. "Trying to save wayward lambs, are you?"

I lifted my chin. "If you’re referring to the young women under this roof, they are not wayward. Especially those preyed upon by despicable men."

His brows lifted. "And you believe Elsie Leonard fit that description?"

"I don’t claim to know the full truth, Inspector. But she was sixteen. What else could explain it?"

His smile turned cruel. "I know whores younger than that who’d skin a man for a farthing." I drew in a sharp breath, stunned, but he continued, unbothered. "She likely slipped out to meet a lover and got more than she bargained for."

"You’re despicable."

He shrugged. "Just practical."

Turning slightly, he nodded to Sister Margaret. "I gather she’s told you the essentials of the crime."

"She has."

“Then I won’t bother to explain.” His lip curled into a sneer. “The body’s been removed to St. James’s mortuary. There’ll be an inquest in due time."

My heart twisted at the thought of Elsie alone and cold on a slab.

“Why a woman of your station sees fit to get involved in matters better left to the police . . .” His mouth twisted again, this time in something closer to annoyance. "Frankly, I’ll never understand."

I folded my hands calmly in front of me. "I happen to care deeply what becomes of young women cast aside by society."

His expression sharpened. "Be that as it may, I must remind you, Lady Rosalynd, this is a police matter. We are conducting an official investigation. I would thank you not to interfere—or distract the witnesses."

"Distract?" My voice cooled. "You mean, speak to the girls who knew Elsie best? Ask the questions you won’t?"

Dodson’s eyes flashed with irritation. "You overstep, my lady. This is no drawing room parlor game. I suggest you leave the investigating to those trained to do it."

Sister Margaret bristled beside me, but I held up a hand, keeping my gaze fixed on him. “I have no wish to obstruct your work, Inspector. But neither will I stand idly by while Elsie’s death is dismissed as the unfortunate end of a throwaway girl. She mattered.”

His jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, the tension between us hung in the air like a struck chord.

“Mind yourself, Lady Rosalynd,” Dodson finally bit out. “You may have influence in certain circles, but you’ll find no favor here.” He straightened his coat. “We will proceed as we see fit. I advise you to remember your place.”

I smiled thinly. “Oh, I assure you, Inspector. I know exactly where I stand.”

Without waiting for his response, I turned back to Sister Margaret. “Shall we go speak with the young ladies?”

She gave a small, approving nod. As we passed Dodson, I felt his narrowed gaze trailing me—a warning, no doubt. One I had no intention of heeding.

We ascended the stairs in silence, the tread of our steps muffled by a thin, worn carpet.

At the top, the corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by a series of wall sconces whose flickering glow cast uneasy shadows along the faded wallpaper and scuffed floorboards.

The air felt close, heavy with sorrow, as though the building itself had gone still with grief.

At the far end, Sister Margaret paused before a narrow door. Her hand rested on the knob, but she didn’t turn it immediately.

“They’ve been trying to rest,” she said softly, “but I must warn you—Marie is . . . unwell.”

“Marie?” I asked, glancing at her. “Who is she?”

Sister Margaret’s mouth pinched, her eyes betraying a flicker of pain.

“Elsie’s closest friend. She’s in her eighth month, poor thing,” Sister Margaret said softly.

“The shock of Elsie’s death has sent her straight to the lavatory.

She’s been sick ever since she heard.” Her eyes glistened with worry.

“It’s best we leave her be until morning. ”

I nodded slowly, though a knot of frustration tightened in my chest. Marie might know something the others didn’t. But pressing her now, in her fragile state, would help no one.

From inside the room came the muffled sound of weeping. A few of the younger girls clung to each other beneath their thin blankets, their faces pale and wide-eyed in the candlelight. My heart ached at the sight. After what they’d endured, it would be far too much to question them tonight.

I turned quietly to Sister Margaret. “I’d best wait until morning. I don’t want to disturb what little rest they have.”

She gave a soft, understanding nod. “Of course. Allow me to walk you to the front door.” Her voice dropped a note, half rueful, half wary. “I wouldn’t want you running into Inspector Dodson on your own.”

As we moved in silence down the dim corridor, I said gently, “Tomorrow, with your permission, I’d like to speak to Marie and the others, after they’ve had some time to grieve . . . and breathe.”

Sister Margaret glanced at me, gratitude softening the worry in her eyes. “Thank you, Lady Rosalynd. For coming tonight—and for caring. Most wouldn’t.”

I offered a faint smile. “That’s precisely the problem. Not enough people do.”

By the time I stepped outside St Agnes, the mist had thickened into a damp, creeping fog, curling in pale ribbons along the cobbles and clinging to the lamplight like smoke.

I pulled my cloak tighter and lifted my chin, determination settling over me like steel.

If Inspector Dodson thought he could sweep this away unnoticed, he was in for an unwelcome surprise.

However prickly, however infuriating our history, he would find me planted squarely in the middle of his path.

The carriage jolted as we turned away from Trinity Lane, the horse’s hooves striking hollow echoes on the wet stones.

I leaned back as exhaustion pressed heavily into my bones.

My heart ached with the weight of it—Elsie’s delicate hands, her shy smile, her darting eyes, now stilled forever.

Grief and anger tangled sharp and restless inside me.

I closed my eyes, drawing in one slow breath after another, trying to steady myself.

Suddenly, the wheels jolted sharply, and I lurched forward with a startled gasp.

“Milady, forgive me!” the coachman called back anxiously from his perch. “We’ve thrown a wheel!”

Bother! It would take a fair amount of time to repair it. I opened the door and peered out into the fog. Thankfully, we were only a few streets from Rosehaven House. “I’ll walk the rest of the way,” I called, already stepping down.

“Milady, I wouldn’t?—”

But I was already pulling my cloak tighter, setting off briskly through the mist.