I placidly spoon up my cream soup. “I believe Mrs. Ballantyne is a grown woman, who ought not to be treated as a child. If she wishes to endure a conversation that may cause nightmares, that is her choice, is it not? She knows the gist of it now. She can make her own decision.”
“Thank you, Catriona,” Isla says, and she pulls sharply on her chair, wrenching it from McCreadie.
The detective looks to Gray for help, but Gray only shrugs as he slices into his goose. “The girl has a point. Isla now knows what happened to the woman, and the choice is hers. I would strongly suggest”—he slants a look at his sister—“that she not view the body, but otherwise, I accept her choice.”
“Good,” Isla says as she sits. “Now tell me about this poor woman.”
The victim, as her sister confirmed for McCreadie, is one Rose Wright. Widowed and living with her sister, the one who’d come to identify the body.
“Is she a sex worker?” I ask when McCreadie finishes explaining.
McCreadie chokes on a bite of goose.
Isla clears her throat, obviously trying hard to keep from laughing. “I know your vocabulary has been disturbed, Catriona, but we do not generally use that word in company, polite or otherwise.”
“Worker?” I say, catching her eye with a look that makes her lose control of that laugh.
Gray only shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips.
“Fine,” I say. “Is she a prostitute?”
There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with that word. As a police officer, I’d been trained to use “sex worker” instead to avoid the stigma that is associated with “prostitute.” The exact same stigma, I realize, that is attached to “sex” in this time period. Of course, judging by what I read of Lady Inglis’s letter, Victorians are having—and enjoying—sex. They just don’t talk about it. How terribly Victorian of them.
I press on. “The fact that Rose has taken money for, er, her time doesn’t mean that’s her primary occupation. When I was on the streets, I knew women who’d, uh, sell their favor, if they really needed the money. They had jobs, but those jobs didn’t always pay the bills.”
“Catriona is correct,” Isla says. “While this woman may have engaged in prostitution, do not presume that makes her a prostitute, and even if it does, please do not treat her any less for it.”
“I would not do that, Isla,” McCreadie says, and there’s a gentleness in his voice. Their eyes meet as she nods in acknowledgment.
“I cannot answer the question either way yet,” McCreadie continues. “I was not about to interview her poor sister over the body. That will be my first stop this afternoon. Interviewing the family.”
“Might I come along?” I ask.
“To the interview?” he says.
I hesitate. I’d asked without thinking. Well, yes, I’d been thinking, but only that I wanted to speak to her family and friends.
I have information McCreadie does not. I now know, beyond a doubt, that this is a killer from my own time. I know he’s copying Jack the Ripper. I know there may be a connection between the killer and Rose Wright, if he’s following his pattern of needing a personal connection.
The problem, of course, is that there is absolutely no reason for “Catriona” to be at those interviews.
“I, er, thought I might be able to help. Perhaps I could go along as your secretary?”
“A female secretary?”
“It is the nineteenth century, Hugh,” Isla says tartly. “Women may be barred from many occupations, but they are perfectly capable of being whatever they want, including secretaries.”
“I am not arguing that,” McCreadie says. “But I thought Catriona would be needed to help Duncan with his examination of the body.”
Gray takes a bite of cheese, his face studiously neutral. “If Catriona would prefer to help you—and you have need of her—then I understand. My work is not as interesting as yours.”
Here stands the proverbial crossroads. I can stay behind and work with Gray. Or I can convince McCreadie to take me along to witness—and maybe help with—the interview.
I do want to help examine Rose’s body; I just want to postpone it until after the interview. That isn’t possible.
Pick one, Mallory.
There’s no real question. Long-term, I want to help Gray, and so I murmur, “I was not thinking about the body, sir. I would prefer to stay, if it is all right with you.”
Isla gives a slight nod of approval. Then she says, “How about we discuss the interview? While I know Hugh is quite capable of handling it on his own, we may be able to come up with interrogative directions he has not considered.”
“Certainly,” McCreadie says. “I’m always happy to accept assistance. After all”—he winks at Isla—“I’m the one making the salary and the one who’ll reap the benefits. Unpaid help is always welcome.”
“Oh, you will pay for it,” Isla says. “I have a short list of dangerous chemicals I cannot obtain on my own. A police officer, however, would have no such difficulty requisitioning them from the chemist.”
McCreadie smiles. “Consider it done.”
* * *
After lunch, McCreadie conducts an interview. Not the one with the victim’s family. The one with the killer’s former victim: me.
One would think this might have taken precedence over lunch. One would also think that—having been nearly murdered by a serial killer and escaping through my wits and fists—I’d get a little more, oh, I don’t know. Sympathy?
Hey, Catriona, seems you really were nearly murdered by the guy we’ve been looking for. Why don’t you take the day off dusting? Relax. Put your feet up. Anything we can get you? A cold drink, perhaps? A plate of biscuits?
We settle into the drawing room and McCreadie says, “So it seems Catriona escaped our raven killer after all.”
“What?” Isla says, in the midst of lowering herself onto a chair.
Naturally, just because I’m about to be interviewed by the police doesn’t mean I need privacy or anything. I don’t actually care, but yes, it’s a little odd to retire to the drawing room, as if we’re about to sip a fine glass of port, maybe play a little charades, and instead …
I say to Isla, “There was a peacock feather found with the body, which matches the one my attacker dropped. Dr. Gray asked me to describe it before we arrived on the scene, to be sure my recollection wasn’t tainted by seeing it again.”
I don’t blame Gray for that. Standard practice, even if he wouldn’t realize it.
“That was a good idea, Duncan,” McCreadie says.
“I’d make a good…” Gray glances at me. “Consulting detective?”
McCreadie laughs. “As long as you don’t expect a cut of my pay, you can call yourself whatever you like. Yes, it appears to be the same killer. I would say it is, but we must always leave room for doubt when any exists.” He glances at me. “No insult to Catriona.”
“None taken. I am satisfied as long as no one continues to doubt that I was attacked by what seemed to be the raven killer.”
“There is no doubt of that,” McCreadie says. “I apologize again for the earlier confusion. Now, would you take me through the events of that evening?”
I glance at Isla. “I think I should be honest here, as to what I was doing out that evening. If I may?”
Isla hesitates. It won’t do me any favors to admit I’d stolen her locket. Any lie, though, taints my testimony.
Isla nods. “You may. I would like to say, first, that the matter has been resolved, and I am fully persuaded of Catriona’s commitment to this second chance life has given her. I do not hold this—or any—prior action against her.”
“Well, now I really do want to know what you were doing out there,” McCreadie says.
I explain. As I do, both men’s moods shift, sparks of outrage from McCreadie and a descending thundercloud of anger from Gray.
“Your locket?” McCreadie says. “She stole your grandmother’s locket?”
Isla raises her hands. “The old Catriona stole it. The one sitting with us does not recall that and, on realizing what she had done, she took the necessary steps to retrieve the necklace. Dangerous steps that nearly cost Catriona her life.”