Page 12 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

She nodded, already half turned toward the door.

Lord Charles watched the exchange with polite curiosity. I lifted my eyes to him and held his gaze a moment longer than courtesy required. “Take care of her,” I said quietly.

Something in my tone must have reached him. The lightness left his expression. He bowed again, more formally. “You have my word.”

Linnet slipped her arm through his, buoyant as sunlight itself. Bexley opened the door, and together they descended the front steps to the waiting carriage.

I remained where I was, watching until the vehicle turned the corner and vanished from sight.

Only then did I let the smile leave my face.

That night, after the house had gone still, I lit a single candle at my desk and opened the notebook. The writing was dense, layered with crossings-out and symbols, names abbreviated, dates circled—a record of what Lydia had witnessed.

A soft movement made me look up.

Linnet stood in the doorway, wrapped in her dressing gown, her hair loose about her shoulders. She came to my side and looked down at the open pages, frowning.

“What is that?” she signed.

“Lydia Gray’s notebook. She asked me to keep it safe.”

A shadow crossed her face. “Lord Charles told me a carriage struck her.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “She is dead.”

She glanced once more at the notebook. “Hard to read.”

I nodded.

“What will you do with it?”

The right thing would have been to hand it to a family member. But if Lydia had family, she had never mentioned them. I had the feeling she was alone in the world. She had given it to me, and that was a responsibility I would not take lightly.

“Try to decipher it,” I answered.

Her brow wrinkled. “Decipher?” She did not understand the word.

“Figure out what she’s written.”

“Why?”

“Because she would want me to.”

Linnet studied me carefully. “You think she was killed.”

I should have known she would see it. She was always watching, always reading the truth beneath what people said.

“I do.”

“Because of what’s in that notebook.”

I nodded.

She reached into her robe and produced her sketchbook. She placed it on the desk and turned the pages until she found what she wanted.

The first drawing showed Lydia at my salon, chin lifted, hand raised mid-recitation. Beneath it was another. Lydia leaving the house. And behind her, across the street, half obscured by a lamppost, a man standing watch. Only a few strokes defined him. But the posture was unmistakable. Still. Waiting.

“When did you draw this?” I asked.