“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?”