I nod and mumble, “I understand.”
“I sincerely hope you do. Now please enjoy the rest of your evening.”
FOURTEEN
The rest of my evening is spent tearing through Catriona’s room looking for that damned locket. What the hell had the girl been thinking? Mrs. Wallace must have already caught her stealing from Isla’s room, which is why I’d been forbidden to air it out for the mistress’s return. After being caught and let off with a warning, Catriona steals the very necklace Isla is guaranteed to notice missing.
How could she be that stupid?
It’s not stupidity. The more I hear about Catriona, the more I see her reflected in a dozen young criminals I met as a cop. Having a degree in criminology and sociology means I’m very aware of how an early bad start can send a life careening down the wrong path. Or how a little redirection can steer it on a better one.
For every four kids I worked with, there was always one beyond my help. And for every twenty, there was a Catriona, a teenager who professed to desperately want to get out, their eyes shining with tears as they thanked me for putting them in touch with social agencies. They wanted to make better choices. They wanted to overcome their pasts. And the minute they were out of my sight, they were picking another pocket or rolling another drunk, and when they got caught, it was all “Please call Detective Atkinson. She’ll understand.”
Oh, I understood. I understood that I’d been played by a pro.
That is Catriona. She played McCreadie to get this job. She played Mrs. Wallace to keep it. Most of all, she’s played Isla, who took her in and gave her a chance, and in return, Catriona blatantly stole her most prized piece of jewelry. If Mrs. Wallace turns her over this time, she’ll cry and sniffle and tell Isla that she’s a bad seed, unredeemable, and should be cast out on the streets, and Isla will embrace her and promise her another chance.
I have been in Isla’s place. I know how much it stings to have your kindness repaid with inward sneers and eye rolls as your pocket is picked clean. It is painful and humiliating. Still, all that suffered was my pride. I’d never had anything of value stolen, certainly not a cherished locket.
The locket. A deathbed gift from a woman who’d understood Isla, in a way even the best parents never quite can. A bond forged by shared passions and shared disappointments. This barb could not strike closer to my heart if it’d been aimed there.
Where the hell did you hide it, Catriona?
I tear the room apart as quietly as I can. I find the first hiding place in a false-backed drawer where she’s stashed a dainty box of bonbons. It’s half full of sugary confections with a tiny card that reads “For the sweet Mrs. Ballantyne, Fondest regards, Mr. Edwin Perry.”
I curse under my breath. I’d bet my ticket home that Isla didn’t pass on this would-be suitor’s gift to Catriona. I picture Catriona in bed, munching away while rolling her eyes at the sucker who’d asked her to deliver the box to her mistress.
I find the second hiding spot behind a drawer. An opened envelope addressed to Gray.
I hesitate. While I hate to look at his mail, I need to know what Catriona was doing with this.
I unfold the letter and the smell of jasmine rushes out. If that didn’t suggest a female sender, the looping script does.
My Dearest Duncan,
I know you think we ought not to see one another again, but I must implore you to reconsider. Perhaps these memories will spur your return to my doorstep.
I stop after two more lines. Okay, so by sharing “these memories” what she really meant is “let me send you a very explicit description of the last time we had sex.” Well, gotta give Gray credit for that—he definitely left her wanting more. And left me deciding I don’t want to read more.
I skim down to the closing lines and see that the woman has not only a name but a title. Well, two titles, if you include the word “widow,” which seems intended as a reminder to Gray that Lady Inglis is neither maiden nor adulteress.
McCreadie made some comment about Gray not noticing pretty shopgirls and fetching sex workers. Nope, because his tastes run to women his own age who don’t expect cash or commitment. Although they apparently may expect more return visits than he cares to pay.
Catriona has been intercepting the post. Taking anything that looks interesting, like a box of candies. Or anything that looks useful, like a letter for Gray in a woman’s handwriting. I am furious on their behalf. For someone like Catriona, decent people are nothing but suckers who deserve whatever she dishes out.
So what might she be doing if she’s in my body? With my family? Yes, I’m still obsessing about that, but I need to remind myself that my parents aren’t fools. If I start abusing their trust—or asking for large sums of cash—they’ll know something is wrong, and they’re not going to let Catriona empty their bank accounts. Whatever she does in my body, I can fix it.
I keep searching until I find hiding spot number three, and when I do, I let out a truly spectacular string of curses. I’ve spent nearly an hour searching the floorboards, and the whole time, I’d been rolling my eyes muttering that I’m being melodramatic, no one actually hides things under floorboards. Then I find the loose nails. I pry them up to uncover Catriona’s most secret of hiding spots, containing a switchblade and a black pouch.
I take the pouch out, and dump the contents onto my bed. It will be the necklace. I am sure of that. The pouch jangled and had the weight of jewels, and here will be all her prizes.
It is not her prizes. It is the proceeds from her prizes. Money. That’s what lies scattered across my bed. A fistful of coins that adds up to twelve pounds.
Yesterday, Gray gave me a two-shilling coin. It must not be worth too much, because Davina scoffed at it, but it has to be enough to buy a few treats from the market. If I were to guess, I’d say that it’d be like handing over a twenty-dollar bill in modern times, at least as far as buying power is concerned.
If I stumbled over a twenty in the market, I’d grin and buy myself a treat or two, rather than stash it away as a true windfall. Of course, how I’d treat twenty bucks back home as Mallory Atkinson is a lot different from how I’d treat it here as Catriona Mitchell. I seem to recall that twenty shillings equals a pound, making this stash worth more than a hundred times what Gray handed over as pocket money.
Twelve pounds. A small fortune for a housemaid. And it must be what remains of Isla’s locket and whatever else Catriona stole and pawned.
This might be her grand plan. Save up enough money to leave service. To go into business on her own. I’d respect that if she were doing something like selling flowers on her days off. But this is theft from people who do not deserve it, and I am furious.
I am furious and also helpless to do anything to fix it. This is what remains of Isla’s most prized piece of jewelry, and no alchemical magic will turn these coins back into a silver locket.
* * *
Yesterday, I bounced back from my despair over not getting home. I’ve been underplaying that despair, telling myself I didn’t actually expect “going to the same spot” would work. Also, it’s not as if I’m trapped in a Victorian poorhouse.