Page 8 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Eight

VISIT TO A MORTUARY

T he gaslight flickered weakly along the damp stone walls as I stepped through the narrow archway marked St. James’s Mortuary . A biting wind swept down the alley, carrying the sharp scent of coal smoke, wet cobblestones, and something darker—something unmistakably tied to death.

Inside, the air was heavy and stale, tinged with sourness and damp. Low wooden benches lined the narrow corridor, and a heavy oak door marked the entrance to the viewing room. As I reached for the handle, a figure stepped quickly into my path.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the man said, holding up a hand, his voice polite but firm. “The doctor has strict instructions—no one’s to disturb the examination tonight.”

He was broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark coat with rolled sleeves, a stained apron tied at his waist. His dark hair was slightly mussed, his neatly trimmed beard framed a face lined with fatigue, yet his voice held no sharpness—only quiet professionalism.

Slipping off one glove, I reached into my coat for my card case. “You may inform the doctor,” I said calmly, handing my card to him, “that the Duke of Steele requests entrance.”

For a heartbeat, the man blinked, and then his eyes widened.

“I . . . forgive me, Your Grace,” he stammered. “Please wait here—I’ll inform him at once.”

Folding my hands behind my back, I waited in the stone corridor to be given access. Save for the faint drip of water somewhere down the hall and the low hiss of gaslight overhead, it was eerily silent. But then ghosts do not speak.

Within minutes, the assistant returned, slightly breathless, followed by a lean man in a dark waistcoat, sleeves rolled, collar askew.

His hair was thinning at the temples, and round spectacles perched low on his nose.

He couldn’t have been much older than thirty-five, yet there was a gravity in his eyes that marked him as someone long accustomed to death.

“Your Grace,” the man said, bowing slightly. “I’m Dr. Loughton. Mr. Tovey tells me you wish to see the girl.”

“I do,” I answered quietly. “I’ll be careful not to disturb your work.”

He exchanged a glance with the assistant, then gave a small nod. “Very well. Please come through.”

We entered the main chamber—a cold, low-ceilinged room lined with rough stone. A single slab stood at its center, the pale form of a girl laid out beneath a thin sheet. The gaslight overhead hissed faintly, casting long, wavering shadows on the walls.

“That’s her, sir,” Tovey said softly, his voice gentling. “Elsie Leonard.”

I stepped forward, boots clicking faintly on the stone floor, and drew a slow, measured breath. She looked so terribly small—pale lashes resting lightly on bruised skin, hands folded neatly atop the thin shroud.

“She was barely sixteen,” Tovey murmured beside me, his eyes clouding. “A resident at St. Agnes. A gentle girl.”

“You knew her?” I asked, glancing at him sharply.

He hesitated, twisting his fingers. “Not well, Your Grace. But . . . I volunteer sometimes. Help deliver parcels—food, blankets, clothes. A little charity, St. Luke’s Guild. I’d see her now and again when I brought things to the home. Always quick with a thank you, she was.”

Tovey’s throat worked, and he cleared it roughly. “Didn’t sit right, seeing her end up here. She wasn’t just another girl from the streets, sir. She had . . . kindness in her.”

I let that settle for a moment, watching the girl’s still, pale form under the flickering gaslight.

“Thank you, Mr. Tovey,” I said quietly. “You’ve done right by her.”

Dr. Loughton spoke quietly, respectful of the stillness in the room. “I examined her shortly after they brought her in. Blunt force to the side of the head. But it wasn’t the blow that killed her—it was strangulation. Manual, not by ligature. A man’s hands.”

My brow drew down. “You’re certain it was a man?”

Loughton gave a measured nod. “The size of the grip tells us a great deal. Let me show you, if you can bear it.”

Without waiting, he gently rolled the sheet down to Elsie’s collarbone, revealing the pale, bruised skin of her throat. Dark, fingerprint-shaped marks marred the delicate flesh, wrapping from beneath her jaw to the base of her neck.

“These impressions are too wide for a woman’s hand,” Loughton murmured, pointing carefully. “And the depth of pressure here—along the sides—indicates considerable strength. She was overpowered.”

A cold weight settled in my chest. “She never stood a chance.”

“No,” Loughton said softly. “Not against him.”

I drew a slow breath and rolled my shoulders back. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been thorough.”

He gave a weary nod. “I’ll have a formal report ready for the coroner in the morning. But if you require anything further, Your Grace, you’re welcome to come directly to me.”

I met his gaze. “I may do just that.”

Nearby, Elsie’s belongings had been laid out with quiet care: a faded dress, a worn shawl, a thin apron, and a pair of scuffed shoes.

I turned back to him. “May I take a closer look?”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

Carefully, I lifted the garments one by one, fingers running over seams, folds, edges.

At the edge of the dress waistband, my fingers caught on something—a faint ridge, just beneath the lining. My pulse quickened.

With delicate care, I eased it open, working the stitches loose with the tip of my penknife. Inside, hidden so carefully it might’ve been missed entirely, was a tiny, stitched pocket. My fingers tightened faintly as I reached in and drew out a small, tightly folded scrap of paper.

Carefully, I unfolded it, holding it close to the gaslight. The message inside was penned in a delicate, slanted hand:

Dear Elsie, I have news that you will like. Please meet me behind the bakery at the corner of St. John’s Lane and Albion Place at nine o’clock. Tell no one about our meeting. I will explain when I see you.

My jaw tightened. There was no signature.

Whoever had written it hadn’t needed one. Elsie had known the handwriting—known it well enough to trust it. Well enough to leave the safety of St. Agnes and walk alone into the dark.

I frowned as I turned the paper over between my gloved fingers. The texture was fine—too fine. Heavyweight, expensive —the kind of cardstock only a man of means, or someone attached to a wealthy household, might use.

Then, there—in the far corner, barely visible—a faint, embossed mark. Not a stationer’s logo from a public shop, no. This was custom, possibly a crest, the sort of quiet luxury that bespoke wealth and caution.

Someone with money had arranged this meeting. And now Elsie was dead.

I wouldn’t risk removing the original. But I’d seen enough to know this wasn’t some sordid affair gone wrong or a simple fall from grace.

I glanced back at her—Elsie Leonard, cold and still on the slab, her story reduced to a handful of belongings and a folded scrap of paper.

Who did you go out to meet, Elsie? And why did it cost you your life?

Without a word, I pulled a slim leather notebook and pencil from the inner pocket of my coat, carefully copying down the message in full. Once finished, I turned slightly, holding the notebook out.

“Doctor,” I said quietly, “would you sign here? To confirm this is a faithful and true copy of this note found in the girl’s pocket.”

Dr. Loughton blinked, then nodded gravely. After carefully reading the note, he took the pencil from my hand and signed his name in a precise, steady script.

“Thank you,” I murmured, reclaiming the notebook and tucking it carefully away. Only then did I refold the scrap and slip it back into the hidden pocket.

“She was meeting someone,” I said softly, more to myself than to the others. “Someone she was told to keep quiet about.”

Tovey’s eyes flared with a deep emotion. “And that person killed her.”

I gave a slow, steady nod. “It would appear so.”

I turned to both men, drawing in a breath. “Thank you, Dr. Loughton, Mr. Tovey. You’ve been thorough—and respectful. That matters.”

Loughton gave a quiet nod, while Tovey murmured, “I just hope you find who did this, sir.”

“I intend to,” I said softly, and then headed out the door.

Outside, the night air hit like a slap—sharp, cold, heavy with mist. My waiting carriage loomed at the curb, the horses shifting anxiously, stamping their hooves against the cobblestones, their ears flicking back. They smelled it, no doubt—the faint scent of death from the mortuary.

For a brief moment, I paused at the foot of the carriage, glancing back at the low stone building, its narrow windows dimly lit, its shadow heavy against the night. Inside, Elsie lay silently waiting for a justice the world rarely bothered to give girls like her.

As I climbed inside, my coachman tipped his hat silently.

I sank back into the seat, the dark leather creaking faintly beneath me. The lantern outside cast a thin glow through the small window, throwing fractured streaks of light across my knees.

Behind the bakery at nine o’clock.

I closed my eyes briefly, mapping the route in my mind. Who had sent the note? Why lure a young girl out into the night, only to leave her dead in an alleyway?

I drew a slow breath, the cold from the mortuary still clinging faintly to my clothes. The horses jolted forward, the wheels rattling softly as we pulled away from the curb.

No , I thought grimly. She never stood a chance. But I’d be damned if I let the bastard who killed her walk free .