Oh, let’s not mince words. I don’t mind the uphill walk, but streets are filthy. At least in the New Town, the mud and the animal by-products had been in the wide streets. Here, the narrow roads mean I’m walking in it, and I’m pretty sure not all those by-products are animal. While the cobblestones help, there are still unavoidable patches of muck and some very questionable puddles.
I stare down at my shit-spattered boots and try not to whimper. My indoor boots. My lovely, formerly clean indoor boots.
I glance down at Gray’s, which might be even dirtier, as he isn’t darting about to avoid the worst of the muck. Of course not. He has a maid to clean his boots.
As we walk, I’m aware that I seem to be drawing some attention. Or, I should say, Catriona is. Understandably. She’s young and fair-haired and “winsome,” as they might say in this time. Yet I realize those looks linger less on her pretty face than her stylish jacket. Stylish men’s jacket. I pull it tighter. It is a lovely coat. I find myself wishing I could sneak it back to the twenty-first century.
I’m not the only one attracting attention. Gray gets his share, complete with uneasy glances and careful sidesteps. He is a forbidding figure, taller than most, his workman’s build not quite disguised by his gentleman’s clothing. Yet again, I think it’s more than that, as I take a closer look at him and suppress a chuckle.
“Sir?” I whisper.
He glances over and I motion to his collar, which is half tucked in. He fixes that with a grunt of annoyance. Next I gesture to his misbuttoned coat. As he does it up, I whisper, “Might want to go one higher,” and point at the blood speckling his shirtfront. A put-upon sigh, as if I’m unreasonably insisting he use the right fork at a picnic.
Even after he looks more presentable, he continues drawing those uneasy glances and careful sidesteps, and I remember my earlier thoughts, about how his experiences here might differ, as a person of color. When I look around, I see an Asian couple selling from a battered street cart. Otherwise, the only people of color I recall were back in the New Town, and not residents but staff—a Black coach driver and an East Asian butler opening a door for a matron. That is the true difference then. There are people of color, but I’d guess most are in service or working menial jobs. They are not doctors or undertakers, and not imposing and confident men wearing a gentleman’s attire. That is what makes people uneasy. Gray has stepped out from the box in which they’d like to keep him. Not that different from home, really.
We find McCreadie’s police station. I presume the city has a main station, and that this is not it. I had the impression that Old Town in this period was tenements and slums. My impression was wrong. The station is in a working-class neighborhood, surrounded by shops and services. I don’t recognize it, but without specific landmarks, there’s not much of Edinburgh I will recognize here.
Gray escorts me through a side door of the police station, bypassing the front desk. We go up a flight of stairs to what looks like courtroom space. Huh, that’s interesting.
Before I can look around, Gray steers me into the first room. I glance at the sparse gathering and whisper, “Are we early?”
He checks his pocket watch and shakes his head. “Scarcely on time. It will begin any moment.”
I frown at the half-dozen reporters surrounding us. Only three even have notepads at the ready. Wouldn’t a case like this garner more attention? Maybe people in Victorian Scotland weren’t all that interested in murder.
As I look around, I get looks back. Looks of confusion, paired with frowns. I realize I’m the only woman there and edge closer to Gray, in explanation.
Why, yes, I am here with this distinguished gentleman. A pretty bauble for his arm. Pay me no heed, good sir.
When Gray murmurs something to me, I glance to see a gray-haired man stride through the door. He’s joined by a florid-faced man of perhaps forty, who lifts his chin with a pompous semi-smirk. Both ascend the rough platform.
“Where is Detective McCreadie?” I ask, rising on my toes to scan the front of the crowd.
Gray only makes a noise deep in his throat. A near growl of discontent. Before I can ask what’s wrong, the older man begins. He’s a lousy public speaker—a senior officer who’s been handed this position for his seniority rather than his leadership skill. He stumbles through opening remarks and then introduces the criminal officer in charge of the case—the guy standing beside him.
I rise on my toes, and Gray bends to let me whisper in his ear.
“Has Detective McCreadie been removed from the investigation?”
“No,” he murmurs in my ear. “He is only being deprived of the recognition for it.”
When I frown, he says, “They have put a more senior officer in charge. Detective McCreadie will answer to him. But Detective McCreadie will do the work.”
Huh. Some things don’t change, apparently.
The two men on the podium do a bang-up job of making a fascinating case seem dull as dishwater, so I focus my attention on someone a little more interesting: Gray. I watch his reactions as the men speak. His tight face as he listens. His cheek tic of annoyance when the other criminal officer boasts that he’ll find the killer. His full-body stiffening when that officer brags about all the information he personally gleaned from the body—all the information Gray and McCreadie provided.
Otherwise, it’s a routine press conference. The criminal officer and his superior talk about the case. The reporters ask questions.
We’re walking out when someone taps Gray’s shoulder, and we both turn to see McCreadie, as nattily dressed as he’d been last night, smiling with an ease only barely betrayed by a tension in his eyes.
“I had hoped to see you up there,” Gray says.
McCreadie shrugs. “Someday.”
“That man is an incompetent boor. He solved one case twenty years ago, and he’s skated on his reputation ever since.”
“It wasn’t one case, Duncan,” McCreadie says as he steers his friend to the side.
“Yes, it was. Three consecutive murders but only a single investigation. That makes it one case.”
“A serial killing?” I say.
Gray frowns at me. “Serial … Yes, I suppose that’s what one would call it.”
“Catriona?” McCreadie says as if just seeing me there. “What ever are you doing here? And what are you wearing?”
“A fine gentleman’s jacket,” I say. “Is it not stylish?”
I twirl, and one corner of his mouth rises. “It was … about five years ago. But I daresay it looks better on you than it did on young James. It’s a bold fashion statement. I approve.”
I half curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir.”
His look is half amused, half bewildered. Apparently, I’m not acting like the Catriona he knows.
He gives his head a shake and says, “As for the original question, what are you doing here with Duncan?”
“She was helping with my laboratory observations,” Gray says. “I daresay she did a sight better than James. Perhaps it’s not only his coat she shall take over.”
I expect McCreadie to laugh, but something in his face tightens.
Gray continues, “Catriona made a few astute observations of her own.”
“Did she? And our young Catriona evidenced a never-before-seen interest in your work, I presume?”
“It is very interesting,” I say. “I did not realize so until now.”
McCreadie’s tone chills. “I see.”
We head outside. The two men talk for a few minutes, and I’m looking around, ready to take my leave, when McCreadie says, “Catriona?”
I glance up to see it’s just the two of us. I peer around for Gray.
“I sent Duncan to fetch us pies from the seller,” he says. “I wanted a word with you.”
He motions me around a corner, and I’m about to say we should tell Gray where we’ve gone when I realize that’s the point.
“Yes, sir?” I say after I’ve followed him.
“So you’ve discovered a sudden interest in Duncan’s scientific inquiries?”
“As I said, they are interesting.”
His face hardens. “Do not take me for a fool, Catriona, and do not forget who took you to Isla. I believed you could be redeemed, and you have done nothing but prove I am a very poor judge of character.”
Isla? Is that Mrs. Wallace’s first name? No, Gray said his sister hired me. That must be Isla.
Wait, redeemed?