“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.”
He only grunts.
“I just wish to say—”
“You aren’t going to let this drop, are you? Fine. I am not hurt, Catriona. I am disappointed, that is all. Detective McCreadie tried to warn me about your past, and I told him he was mistaken.”
“And he was not,” I say softly.
“There. We have said all we need to say on the matter.”
“I am sorry. Truly sorry.”
“You made a fool of me,” he snaps. “I could have lost my position. You know how hard I worked for it.”
“You could have lost your position because…”
He hunkers down against the drizzles and picks up his pace. “I believed you when you said you were interested in my work. You only wanted information you could pass on to your friends.”
Goddamn it, Catriona. Just when I think you couldn’t stoop any lower, you need to prove me wrong, contrary wench that you are. So that’s why she flirted with Findlay. Not for his trinkets. Not for the hope of a wedding band. For information she could sell.
Wait.
How angry was he?
Angry enough to ambush her in an alley?
I say, carefully, “I am sorry to push this. I truly have lost my memories. That attack…” I shiver. “It was nearly the end of me.”
As I speak, I watch his face for even a flicker of guilt. Nothing passes behind his eyes except a spark of hard anger.
“Yes,” he says. “It was. When I heard you had been hurt, I silently vowed that I would bring your attacker to justice myself. I started asking questions, poking about the Grassmarket, and what do I hear? How you were selling my information the very night you were attacked.”
So Findlay didn’t know about Catriona’s betrayal until after the attack. No wonder he’s so angry. He strode in, determined to bring her assailant to justice … only to discover his sweet maiden had betrayed him. That she had been in the act of betraying him when she was assaulted.
Catriona had been attacked while selling police information.
That’s a solid clue. I know she was in a black-market pub. Now I know why.
“You have nothing to say to that, do you?” Findlay says.
“I—I am not certain how to respond, beyond apologizing with all sincerity. I have wronged many people including you. I am sorry.” I meet his gaze. “Very, truly sorry.”
He glances away and says abruptly, “Let’s get this over with.”
* * *