A rip through time, p.14
A Rip Through Time, page 14
What happened between Catriona and Findlay? Something for sure, considering the cold shoulder he’s giving her. Did she tell him to put a ring on it, and he backed off, not being in the market for a wife? Or did he make a pass that she rebuffed?
None of this should matter. I’m not Catriona, and I have no interest in either young man, both being roughly two-thirds my age. It’s like watching a soap-opera romance. Except the friend-with-benefits is a co-worker and the suitor-without-benefits is McCreadie’s assistant, which means I can’t avoid either guy. I’ll need to keep both at arm’s length, which shouldn’t be difficult, considering they’re both unhappy with Miss Catriona.
I resist the urge to read the papers before I run them upstairs to Gray. There are several newspapers plus a few single flyers and pamphlets that I mistake for advertising until I see they’re about Archie Evans’s murder. Huh. I skim one “flyer” as I climb the stairs. It’s a large single sheet that details the crime from the report of “an intimate observer.” According to the sheet, Evans had been brutally murdered, his limbs “gruesomely fashioned” into a bird’s wings and limbs in a “manner this writer dares not describe, so great the horror.” Uh, they’d been tied in place.
The story has been poorly printed on cheap paper. There’s a byline, though, one that proclaims the author “Edinburgh’s Foremost Reporter of Criminal Activities.” The other sheet is a similarly fictionalized account of the murder. It’s as if I said to the writers, “Hey, some guy was murdered and made to look like a bird,” and their imaginations filled in the rest. Imaginations that produced a picture far bloodier and more lurid than the actual murder.
I’m reading through the second account when Gray’s door opens. I’m standing there, sheet in one hand, the other raised for a knock that I have yet to give.
“I believe those are mine,” Gray says.
“Uh, yes. Apologies, sir.”
He waves me inside. “Put them on my desk, please, Catriona. You may keep that one and finish reading it, if you like. I presume you would like that?”
His lips twitch in a way that rankles a little. It’s kind but indulgent, too, as if I’m a child. Then I catch a glimpse of myself in his mirror and see a teenager who looks like a milkmaid, all rosy-pink cheeks and honey-blond curls and cream-fed curves.
In this world, there are two options for a man of thirty with a nineteen-year-old female assistant. Either I’m a delectable morsel, his for the taking, or I’m a clever girl he’s encouraging to explore higher educational interests. Gray is thankfully embracing option two. He’s treating me like a child, because to him, that’s what I am.
I half curtsy. “That is most kind, sir. I’ll read it and be out of your way.”
He waves a distracted hand at a chair. “There are quite enough papers here to keep us from quarreling over them. I would appreciate your thoughts as you read.”
I straighten a little at that. “Thank you, sir.”
“I daresay you shall bring a very different lens to the reading. One untainted by expertise in these matters.”
I bite my tongue. Bite it so damned hard. Instead, I lower my lashes. “Of course, sir. I am flattered that you think a housemaid could have anything to add.”
“Everyone has something to add, Catriona. Do not discount yourself like that. With enough learning, you could be a proper little detective. You seem to have some talent for it.”
“So kind of you to say so, sir.”
Reading those damn papers is an exercise in restraint. In restraining myself from dissecting the accounts of the crime and giving a commentary that will leave Gray gaping.
I am an observer in this world. I cannot risk raising the suspicions of the one person who does not suspect me of anything untoward. I can make the occasional observation—such as noting that Evans had been tortured—but I can’t overdo it.
In truth, as much as I want to show off, I’m not sure I could. There’s nothing in these accounts we don’t already know. Well, nothing of truth. Even the newspapers are rife with fabrications. One journalist, who claims to have known Evans personally, says he was an “unusually handsome young man, with curly hair and the smooth face of an angel.” The guy on Gray’s examination table had been bearded, with straight hair.
“They’re making it up,” I say. “Even the newspapers.”
“Of course.”
“But why? There was a press conference. I hardly saw anyone there.”
Gray shrugs, his eyes still scanning an article. “Why bother attending that when they can invent something more entertaining? They are wordsmiths, crafting a narrative to suit their audience.”
“And these?” I lift one of the single pages. “These are pure fiction.”
“Yes, and probably written by the newspapermen under a nom de plume. They could not get away with that level of insinuation and lurid detail in the regular press.”
He glances over his newspaper at me. “I know broadsides are going out of fashion, but I am surprised you have never read one.”
“Why would anyone read them?”
“Presumably for the reason they are written. Entertainment. Crime is a profitable business. My sister has, more than once, threatened to turn my cases into novels to make her fortune. I think she was joking, but I am not actually sure.”
I flip through the pile of newspapers, along with the two “broadsides” plus two pamphlets that go into slightly more—equally fictional—detail. “The case is getting a lot of attention.”
He tilts his head. “I presume you speak in jest.”
“This isn’t a lot?”
He gives a low laugh and then rubs away his smile. “I do not mean to mock. You obviously fail to share the public’s fascination with murder, and so this might seem like a great deal of attention. It is the opposite, in fact.”
“Why? It’s a strikingly singular murder.”
“Too singular, and in entirely the wrong way.”
“Explain.” I cough. “I mean, please explain your thinking, sir, if you would.”
“It is singular in its staging. As an intellectual exercise, poor Evans’s death is fascinating. What person conceives of such a thing? I am no alienist, but even I must wonder at such a mind. It is almost, dare I say, artistic.”
“The killer has a vision. Or else he is plagued by inner demons, and this is his way of expressing it. A compulsion.”
Gray’s eyes light up, and I feel like a student giving a perfect answer. “Quite right. That makes the murder and the killer remarkably interesting to me, and apparently also to you. However, to the average citizen, Evans’s murder lacks passion. It is a cerebral killing, and therefore quite dull. Nary a severed limb to be found. They’re bloodless crimes, and as such…”
I feign a yawn, and that has his face lighting up in a way that makes my heart stutter.
Gray leans forward, warming to his subject. “They are boring. That is why we have this.” He lifts one of the broadsides. “Writers doing their best to work with what little they have.”
“What are people looking for?” I ask. “Blood and gore?”
“That is the question, Catriona, and one you ought to discuss with my sister, who is fascinated by which crimes do—or do not—catch the public’s attention. As soon as one thinks one has the answer, there is an exception. Blood and gore, as you put it, certainly sells papers and broadsides. Yet you will also find such cases knocked clean off the front page by a man falling from a ladder and dying of internal injuries.”
“Because there’s more story to the man on the ladder? He was about to marry or have his first child or such?”
“Pathos, yes, that certainly plays a role. Violent and pathetic deaths. An innocent babe, murdered alongside her sweet mother. A promising young man, his head bashed, bits of brain on the ceiling. An elderly woman, throat slit as she awaits the first visit from her great-grandchild. Yet again, Isla could show examples of the most tragic situations that barely rippled the public’s attention. Also, one must account for competing events. I was following one particularly fascinating case myself four years ago, when it disappeared from the press, swallowed by a foreign murder.” He waits, as if to see whether I’ll figure it out. “The shooting of an American president.”
“Lincoln?”
His lips twitch. “You truly do not follow the news, do you? Yes, the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. That month, the most horrific deaths would not have made the front page. Then there is the issue of urbanization—”
He cuts himself short and pulls back with the faintest smile. “I will spare you that particular lecture.”
“No, please. Go on.” I meet his gaze. “I am interested.”
“Briefly, or we shall be here all day. While murder is hardly a new invention, it became far more commonplace in the city, where one might hope to escape justice in the way one could not in the country.”
“Where everyone knows everyone else’s business.”
“Yes. In the city, we are more anonymous. Some might also say that population density breeds apathy. Too many people to care about. When you look back at murder fifty years ago, each one was a public sensation. The appetite for details was insatiable. People could eat for months telling the story of how they once dined with the killer in a public house. If the victim died in a barn, that barn could be dismantled and sold for a king’s ransom, everyone wanting a piece. But as cities grew and murders multiplied…”
“People became jaded. They need stories that strike an emotional chord, whether it be horror or sympathy. The murder of Archie Evans is passionless and bloodless. It is getting some attention, because it is odd, but it will not inspire penny dreadfuls.”
He sets down his paper. “There is nothing in these. I feared as much, but I wished to be thorough. My task—our task—is to find clues that will help Detective McCreadie and, if I am fortunate, some of those clues will also prove useful for my studies.” He checks his pocket watch. “Speaking of Hugh, he is due for lunch to discuss the case, and if you’d be so kind as to serve the meal, you may join us and listen in.”
* * *
And as a special treat, little Catriona, you may join us after you’ve waited on us hand and foot.
Yes, once again, my back went up at that, but Gray isn’t a senior officer expecting a female detective to serve the coffee and doughnuts at a staff meeting. He’s a guy expecting his employee to do her job, while he also encourages her outside interests.
I’ve been part of only a few sting operations, and I find myself wishing I’d had more undercover experience to slide into this headspace. I am Catriona. I am a housemaid. I was hired to serve Gray’s meals, and I’m damn lucky he’s letting me join their lunchtime conversation.
He doesn’t make me sit in the corner with my servant’s lunch either. I am given a seat at the table and expected to fully share in their more sumptuous meal. I don’t miss Alice’s shocked face when she pops her head in, and I hate to even think what Mrs. Wallace will say.
As for the lunch conversation, while Gray might say his only interest in the case is forensic, that’s obviously not true. Nor does McCreadie treat him like a crime-scene tech. Lacking a detective partner, McCreadie bounces ideas and theories off his old friend.
I also get the impression Gray isn’t the only one who helps. When McCreadie walks in to lunch, his first question is “Where’s Isla?,” and when Gray says she is away, McCreadie can’t hide his disappointment.
The two men discuss the case. Isla has analyzed the water and believes it is from a tap. It’s definitely fresh water rather than salt, and the lack of foreign particles suggests it’s not from a body of standing water, like a puddle. They still aren’t sure what that means—my waterboarding hypothesis has obviously been dismissed.
Next McCreadie brings Gray up to speed on the day’s work. They’ve canvassed people living near the park where Evans was found. One person reported seeing a masked man in a black cape. Then there’s the guy who insists he saw a huge raven land and grow to human form.
“The young men Evans was living with still refuse to speak to me,” McCreadie says. “I am, apparently, the enemy.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s a household of young radicals, all convinced the police only exist to deprive them of their rights.”
“Kids these days,” I mutter, too low for them to make out the words, but McCreadie glances over at the sound of my voice. “You agree with them, Catriona?”
“I agree that some people have sound reasons to fear the police, not only those who engage in criminal activity, but those who have been unjustly persecuted in the past. There are bullies in any organization, but police do have the ability to ruin a life, and some do.”
“Perhaps, but to tarnish me with that brush is unwarranted.”
I shrug. “Uncomfortable more than unwarranted. They don’t know you, but you don’t know their situation and their experiences with the law. If they are radicals, those experiences have likely been negative. Police are the enemy of protesters because they are often seen as enemy by police.”
“It sounds as if you have some experience with this.”
“I have never been what you would call a radical. I know some who are, though. Getting them to speak to you is going to take time you can ill afford when you only wish to question them. I would suggest you send in someone they will speak to. Perhaps me.”
Gray frowns. “Why would they speak to you?” He pauses. “Ah, yes. You alluded to knowing radicals.”
McCreadie gives him a look. “They will speak to her because she’s a fetching young lady and they are a household of rowdy young men. That would be obvious to anyone but you, Duncan.”
“No,” Gray says coolly. “I did not mention it because it might suggest we expect her to employ her feminine charms.”
“I’m fine with flirting,” I say. “Help me come up with a cover story and tell me what you want to know.”
SIXTEEN
That afternoon, I’m taking on my first Victorian undercover mission. I’m shocked by how readily McCreadie agreed. Yet more proof that policing is very different in this world. He didn’t need to clear it with a supervisor. He doesn’t need me to sign a waiver. He barely even hesitated when I suggested it.
He’s putting a lot of trust in a layperson. He can’t even mike me to get a recording of the interview for court. Of course, I must remember that Scotland has only had an established police force for about fifty years. This is still the Wild West of policing, and I should be impressed they’re as far along as they are, with “criminal officers” and homicide investigations.
Gray doesn’t try to stop me either. He only makes sure I’m comfortable with the situation. He lets me know I can back out at any time and that if it goes wrong, no one will hold it against me. He does, however, insist on accompanying us, though I suspect at least part of that is just for the excuse to escape his armchair-investigator role and get into the field.
McCreadie will join us in the Old Town with Constable Findlay. Gray needs to attend to a client first, and by the time he’s finished, we’re running late, so he decides to take the coach.
As I climb in, I look around the interior. It’s all black, down to the painted metal trim.
“Is this a hearse?” I say.
Gray gives me a look as he settles in on the seat opposite. “Do you see a place for a coffin, Catriona?”
“It could convert to one. Lay down a few boards to transport the dearly departed, and then flip up the seats for daily use.”
“Somehow I do not think my guests would appreciate traveling in anything used to convey the dead.”
I shrug. “Wouldn’t bother me.”
“The smell might.”
I have to laugh at that. True enough if bodies aren’t being embalmed yet.
He settles into his seat. “As for the coach, yes, you will have noticed it is rather austere. It’s used in funeral processions. The hearse—which I am certain you’ve seen—has glass sides to display the coffin. This one is used for the chief mourners, but it is expedient to also use it personally, as it is of a much higher quality than I’d otherwise purchase.”
I watch out the window as we go, and as much as I enjoy a pleasant walk, I’m glad to be in the coach today. Scotland has a reputation for overcast, drizzly weather, but in Edinburgh you get the wind thrown in for free, and today it’s wicked, driving that drizzle in my face and making me feel like I’m back in Vancouver in November. I try not to think of what it’s like at home right now—sunny and warm, the beaches starting to fill. Still, while I might not love Edinburgh’s weather, the city itself makes up for it, with its gorgeously vibrant gardens and green spaces alongside soot-stained medieval buildings.
When we arrive in the proper neighborhood, McCreadie and Gray decide they’re going to hole up in a pub, with a nice hot toddy. And who will escort me closer to the radicals’ lair? That would be Constable Findlay, the guy who’s been doing his best to pretend I don’t exist.
Wonderful.
We leave Gray and McCreadie at their toasty-warm pub, and we continue on foot to Evans’s lodgings. Simon has taken the coach home—I can’t exactly pull up to the rooming house in a gleaming black coach. We must walk, and walk in silence it seems. I get two blocks before I turn to Findlay. Time to get this over with.
“I know I have done something to upset you,” I say. “The blow to my head means that I do not remember what it is. I must ask you to tell me so I might apologize.”
“I do not wish to discuss it.”
He pulls his cap down over his ears and marches on against the wind. He’s in his civvies, and without his uniform, he looks less like a scrubbed-cheek cadet and more like a regular guy—a kid even, no older than Catriona herself.
I should drop this. The last thing I want is this young man trying to rekindle “our” relationship. Yet if I’m going to help Gray with the case, then I need to calm these waters with Findlay.
“Whatever it is, please know that I am sorry for what I have done. I was not a good person, and it took a brush with death for me to realize that. I have hurt people, including you, and I am sorry.”
