Page 83 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

"You are very certain of her," she said.

"I am certain of you both."

Chapter

Thirty-Two

The Same Machinery

His hands were still on mine. I let them stay. He was certain. Not hopeful, not merely kind, but certain, the way a man is certain of ground he has already crossed. It was reassuring to know he was certain of Linnet and of me.

"So what did you find in Edinburgh?" I asked, if only to give myself time to recover my equilibrium.

"Brookes witnessed what was done to Emily Driscoll. There were four of them—my brother and three of his friends. William proposed a wager. A housemaid at Everthorne Manor would be willing to take all of them on. Whoever was first to try her favors would win the wager. But before they reached her, they found Emily Driscoll in the conservatory. Alone. She had gone there to smell the night-blooming flowers."

His voice remained level, but it cost him something to keep it there.

"One of them proposed a change to the wager. A willing housemaid would prove no challenge. But young, innocent Emily Driscoll would. So one of them assaulted her. Emily screamed and fought off her assailant, but she was no match for him. I pressed Brookes for the name. But he refused to tell me. He swore he would take it to the grave."

"Did he try to stop it?"

His lip curled. “No. He was busy throwing up on some plant."

"Not only despicable but a coward."

"I agree."

"How did you leave him?"

"He had heard what happened to people who knew things. So he was planning to disappear into the Highlands of Scotland. I let him go. He must be there by now."

"Then it was a wasted journey," I said, disappointment clear in my voice.

"It wasn't. He gave me the part that matters."

"What part is that?"

"Three older men arrived in the conservatory too late to stop the assault. My father. A clergyman in black. And a third—immaculately dressed, younger than my father, who went to the girl like a man arriving at familiar work."

He paused, watching me. "The clergyman was Grimshaw. The third man had to be the physician."

"Aubrey Strode,” I said. “I met him at Elmwood House."

"The one who will judge Linnet," he said. "He was in that room twelve years ago. These are not two different matters. They are the same.”

A chill crept through me. Not coincidence. Not separate cruelties occurring years apart. The same people. The same institution. The same machinery grinding forward decade after decade.

For a moment neither of us spoke.

Then Thorne reached into his coat pocket. "There is more."

I looked up sharply. His expression had gone completely serious.

"What?"

He drew out a small notebook. “A witness came forward. To Lydia Gray's death."

I gasped. “There was a witness?"