“You’re a police detective. From Canada. In the year…”
“Two thousand and nineteen. One hundred and fifty years from now, which I figure must have some significance. I was attacked where Catriona was attacked exactly a hundred and fifty years earlier. Two women strangled in the same spot. Do not ask what happened or how or why. I’d love to figure that out, but I don’t think I’m going to solve that particular mystery, detective or not.”
“Your name is?”
“Mallory Elizabeth Atkinson. Elizabeth after my nan, the one who is—was—will be—dying of cancer.”
I take a moment there, finding my voice before I continue, “Mom was born in Scotland and came to Canada after university. She went to the University of Edinburgh for law. Dad’s family is originally from Scotland, but they emigrated … well, it’d be around now, actually. Mom and Dad met at a Burns Night supper in Vancouver. It’s a thing, celebrating Robbie Burns, wearing kilts, eating haggis, drinking scotch to burn away the taste of the haggis.”
“Your mother studied law,” she says, as if that’s where her mind stopped.
“She’s a defense attorney. Partner in a law firm. Dad’s an English prof at UBC, teaching English classic literature. Dickens, Bront?, Hardy…”
“Charles Dickens is literature?”
“Hey, he’s one of my favorites.”
She’s quiet. I sip more tea.
“How old are you?” she asks.
“I turned thirty in March.”
Her brows rise, and I laugh under my breath. “Yeah, thirty in my world is a little less dignified. Hey, when the average life span is over seventy years, you get extra time before you need to grow up.”
“Are you married, then? Children?”
I shake my head. “I can say my career got in the way, which is partly true, but if I’d met the right guy, I’d have made it work. I’m sure I’ll get married someday. Kids are another thing altogether. Women can go to college, get advanced degrees, and take on amazing jobs, but that doesn’t change biology. The baby clock is ticking and…” I shrug. “I try not to think about it too much. There are options if it’s what I want later, married or not.”
When she goes quiet again, I lean forward. “If you want to test me, feel free, but if you’re just seeing how deep my delusion goes, can we skip it? Please? Tell me I’m full of shit, and we go our separate ways. Just do me a favor. When I do find a way home and Catriona comes back, kick her ass to the curb.”
“Kick her…?”
“Sorry. Let me try that again. Please, ma’am, heed my words well and dinnae allow the wee lassie to tarry in your abode.”
Her lips twitch. “We don’t actually speak like that.”
“Would you prefer ‘kick her ass to the curb’?”
“It is much more picturesque.”
“Yet, alas, not permitted here, particularly for women. Feels like being at my dad’s parents’ place, them threatening to wash my mouth out with soap for a ‘hell’ or a ‘damn.’ I need to learn Victorian curse words.” I channel Gray with “What the devil is going on here?” I shake my head again. “Nope, not the same.”
I sober and meet Isla’s gaze. “My point is not to let the real Catriona come back. If I show up on your doorstep acting like her, presume it is her and send her packing. She was stealing from you. I found her stash of money. Also found a box of candies some guy sent you and a letter Lady Something-or-other sent your brother, which by the way, you do not want to read.”
“A letter?”
“Of a most scandalous nature,” I say, affecting an upper-crust accent.
At her frown, I only say, “The point, again, is that you’ve done enough for Catriona.” I push back my seat. “Speaking of which, you have done enough for me, too. Thank you for breakfast, but I can tell I’ve outstayed my welcome. May I get my stuff?” I clear my throat. “Sorry. May I collect my things, ma’am?”
She doesn’t answer. I swear I hear someone’s distant pocket watch ticking off the seconds of silence.
Finally, Isla says, “If you are not Catriona, how did you retrieve my locket?”
I tell her, and her face gives away nothing. Then she says, “And the attack last night? Was that connected to my necklace?”
I go quiet. Then I say, slowly, “I heard a child crying. Obviously, that made me think of how I was attacked in my time, but I still went to investigate, in case it was another rip through time, one that might send me home. It was a trap. A guy tried to strangle me, just like before. I fought, and this time I was better prepared. Catriona had a switchblade, and I’d brought it along. I stabbed my attacker, and I fought, and eventually, two guys showed up and rescued him.”
“Rescued him?”
“Yeah, they rescued the guy attacking me. He fled as fast as he could.”
He’s the raven killer. The one your brother and Hugh McCreadie are looking for.
I don’t say that. I’m not sure I should, because it could go so much deeper than that. I suspect he could be the guy who attacked me in my world. That I didn’t just travel through time. That I brought a twenty-first-century serial killer with me. I don’t tell her that. I’m not even sure what to do with that.
A moment later, Isla pays the bill and walks out. I take a chance on following. She hails a coach. A “hansom” as Gray called it, and as I recall from my Sherlock Holmes reading, though admittedly, teenage Mallory thought it was a British spelling of handsome and meant they were very fine cabs indeed.
I’m standing there on the sidewalk as the hansom pulls over. I hesitate. Then I follow Isla, and she doesn’t stop me. Once the coach is moving, she gazes out the window, as if trying to convince herself she is alone.
When we pass the gardens into the New Town, I clear my throat. “I’ll gather my things and not say a word to Mrs. Wallace or Alice.”
“No.”
“All right, would you like me to say goodbye? Or do you mean you’ll bring my things outside?”
“You are staying. For now. I…” She looks over. “I do not know what to make of your story. I need time to think. You will have a roof over your head until tomorrow at least.”
She pauses and her eyes narrow. “But if you truly are a police detective from the twenty-first century, why would you be trying so hard to retain a position as a housemaid? Surely, it is beneath you.”
I shrug. “I cleaned houses for a summer job one year. That’s normal in the future. Kids—teenagers—take on crappy jobs for a bit of pocket money and work experience. Never thought I’d be doing it again, but what’s the alternative? Walk into a police station and offer my professional services? I’m trying to get back home, whether that means figuring out the trick or solving Catriona’s attack or just waiting for the damn planets to align. Hopefully, it’ll happen soon. Until then, I need a roof over my head, and I’m willing to scrub floors to get it.”
“If what you claim is true, this must be very difficult for you,” she says, her voice softening. “Being separated from your family, from your world.”
“I figure I must be here for a reason, right? So there must be a way back.”
“Of course,” she says, a little too firmly. This is just as likely to be some kind of cosmic hiccup, and we both know it.
“For now, I’m focusing on the practical. I’d like to stay in my job, and I hope you’ll give me another chance. If you do, though, your brother isn’t going to be too happy about it. I got the distinct impression he’s had enough of Miss Catriona.”
“I can deal with my brother.”
She seems about to drop into her thoughts again when her head snaps up. “You’ve been assisting with Duncan’s studies. If you are a police detective…”
“Yep, that’s why I’m honestly interested. He’s doing amazing stuff. I saw how the police treat him. That’ll change. Most of us couldn’t imagine solving murders without forensics. If there’s one thing I’m actually enjoying about my Victorian experience, it’s the chance to see early police work and early forensic science in action.”