He looks at me and then examines his hands. “They seem clean enough.”
“You were just handling a decomposing corpse.” I peer at him with a dawning suspicion. “If I say ‘germ theory,’ what do you hear?”
He frowns. “A new theory from Germany?”
At my expression, his eyes glitter. “I am teasing, Catriona. I am well versed in contagion theory as well as the arguments of those who prefer miasmic theory. I lean heavily toward the former. I am quite fascinated by the work of Dr. Pasteur. There is also a new theory from Dr. Lister in Glasgow regarding the use of carbolic acid. I have even read older theories on the possibility of contracting illness through touch, particularly a fascinating account from a doctor in sixth-century India. I tried bringing it to the attention of my medical colleagues, but they called it foreign nonsense.”
He strides to the small water closet, which contains a washbasin. “We probably ought to scrub up. The smell can be repellent, and I do try to remember to wash my hands after handling bodies, in case there is any possibility of contamination.”
He motions for me to go first. As I scrub, he says, “When I was a medical student, my classmates would fairly clamor for the privilege of wearing the apron of a retired surgeon. It had never been washed and was quite stiff with blood and other bodily fluids. They thought that proof of his long and storied career, but I always found it…”
“Horrific, repulsive, and utterly terrifying?”
“I was going to say ‘somewhat unwholesome.’”
My kingdom for a bottle of hand sanitizer.
I dry my hands and turn to him. “While you wash, I shall need to fetch my boots.”
He frowns at the ones on my feet. “Are you not wearing them?”
“These are my indoor boots.”
When his frown only deepens, I stifle a sigh. “I suppose they will do. However, I do require a coat.”
“Ah.” He lifts a hand. “That I can remedy.”
He finishes scrubbing and drying his hands, strides into a side room, rummages in a wardrobe, and pulls out …
Oh my God, it’s a Sherlock Holmes coat. Lightweight tweed with a cape around the shoulders and upper arms. It’s gorgeously tailored, which I’m beginning to realize just means a normal piece of middle-class clothing in a world where most is still handmade. I’m reaching for it when I pause.
“That didn’t come from a client, did it?” I ask.
“Client?”
“Of the nonliving variety?”
A moment’s pause. Then a half-snorted laugh. “No, it did not. This belonged to my apprentice, the one who left.”
“Will he mind me borrowing it?”
“Oh, I’m quite certain he has no intention of returning. It was rather an abrupt leave-taking.”
“May I ask what happened?” I ask as I pull on the coat.
“A most puzzling thing, really. I’d obtained a cadaver from the Royal College. Perfectly legal. All the appropriate paperwork and such. I wanted to test the marks made by various weapons.”
“Weapons?”
“Axes in particular.”
“I see.”
Gray opens the front door for me and ushers me out. “Scotland had two ax murders within a month, which got me thinking it would be advantageous to be able to compare wound patterns. There are many sorts of axes, particularly in the countryside.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I asked James to hold the body down while I wielded the ax. The first blow was rather messy. It had to be a fresh cadaver, you see. Decomposing tissues would have reacted in an entirely different way. Also, in my zeal, I may have severed the cadaver’s arm, which may have shot up and struck James.”
“Uh-huh.” We’ve moved onto the street, and Gray continues talking in a conversational tone, causing two well-dressed ladies to quickly gather their skirts and cross the road.
“I’m guessing that’s when he quit?” I say.
“Quite abruptly.”
“Probably for the best. It seems he lacked a proper appreciation of science.”
Gray nods mournfully. “I fear so. It will be devilishly hard to replace him.”
“I am certain you’ll manage, sir. Though, if I might offer some advice, perhaps the first step in your hiring process should be to hold the interview while you are examining a body. Ask for their help. If they flee, you have your answer.”
“That is a fine idea, Catriona.”
“You’re most welcome, sir.”
* * *
Nan lives outside Edinburgh, which means that while I’ve spent time in the city, I don’t know it as well as I might if she’d actually lived here. It’s like when I grew up in a suburb of Vancouver. I knew the city well enough, but my experience was limited to the areas we visited regularly. Here, I know that the spot where I came through is in the Grassmarket, which is in the Old Town, and I know that Gray’s town house is in the New Town, but I have no clue how to find my way from one point to the other.
My main point of reference in Edinburgh has always been the castle. Yep, kind of hard to miss a big castle on a hill. It’s like the CN Tower in Toronto. No matter where I am, I can orient myself according to that. As we walk, I spot the top of another landmark—the monument to Sir Walter Scott. I’ve climbed the two-hundred-odd steps inside, and while it’s not quite the CN Tower, I should be able to see it from many parts of the city.
Gray lives in the New Town. That’s the new part of Edinburgh … or it’s new in this time period. Edinburgh, being a royal city, was also a walled city, and while that’s great for protection, it’s horrible for expansion. Behind its walls, the city grew crowded and it grew upward. Sometime in the Victorian period—before now obviously—those with money abandoned the Old Town and built the New Town across the mound. As we walk, I can see the Old Town rising on a slope, blanketed by the smog of coal smoke that earned Edinburgh the nickname of Auld Reekie.
As we round the corner I make note of the street name. When I’m back in my time, I want to see whether Gray’s house still exists. Robert Street. It’s a short road, with only maybe a dozen or so town houses. There’s a park to our right. Queen Street Gardens?
After a quick walk, we reach a road I definitely recognize. Princes Street. In the modern world, it’s a massive thoroughfare. It’s the same here, wide enough for five coaches to pass. Busy, too, and lined with shops and hotels.
I try not to gape as I look around, taking it all in. I also need to watch where I’m walking, preferably at the side of the road, away from the mud that I’m sure is fifty percent horse dung. I do look as much as I can, though, taking brief note of the fashions. There are other men in top hats and frock coats, like Gray. The genteel women wear skirts more bell-shaped than my own and … is that a bustle? Are they coming into fashion or leaving it? Leaving it, I hope, with a shudder.
We make our way to Princes Street Gardens and cross to the Old Town. It is only as we walk that I realize another advantage to going with Gray. It’s my first look at the city in this time period, and it gives me time to orient myself, not just to the landscape but to the customs of the time. I can’t afford to call attention to myself before I escape back to my own world.
It’s a brisk and overcast day, yet still a fine walk, one I will commit to memory for the sheer novelty of it. Like strolling through the most elaborate period theme park ever.
We’ve left the town houses and wide streets of the New Town and entered the densely packed tenements and narrow cobbled roads of the Old Town. Now walking gets tougher, as we head uphill. At one point, when I stop to adjust my boot, Gray asks whether I’m all right with the walk. I say I am. He has a groom and presumably horses and a carriage, but he seems to prefer walking. Normally, I would appreciate that, but …