“That seems excessive.”
“In my world, people have been drawn and quartered for less.” I glance over at her. “Kidding, obviously. It wasn’t an overreaction to the coffee spill as much as an excuse. Some serial killers murder indiscriminately, because it’s about the act, not the victim. For others, it’s about the victims—picking people who remind them of Mommy or the girl who turned them down or whatever. With this guy, it was a game. He let his victims self-select, so to speak. If someone pisses him off, in a very ordinary way, can he track and kill them?”
“Cerebral,” she murmurs. “That’s what you and Duncan called the murder of Archie Evans. Methodical and cerebral, lacking passion or bloodlust.”
“If I were to speculate, based on the murders in my time and here, I’d say that we’re dealing with a guy who thinks he’s clever. His driving force is ego. He wants to get away with it, and because he’s not compelled to kill in a specific way, he can avoid patterns and connections that would get him caught. Then he arrives here, before the golden age of serial killers.”
“The golden…?” She shakes her head. “I don’t even want to know what that means. Presumably, they become more common.”
“To many people in our time, the first serial killer doesn’t strike for another twenty years. He wasn’t the first, but he’s still the most famous. This guy comes here and thinks he can steal his thunder. Be clever and memorable. Except no one cares. So he goes another route. Replicate those murders. Out-ripper the Ripper.”
“The…?” Another head shake. “I definitely don’t want to ask about that.”
“You do not. The point is that he replicated a future famous murder and will undoubtedly continue on with the rest of the killing spree, meaning we need to stop him before he does.”
“Agreed.”
“We recognized each other in that attack,” I say. “I believe he knows who I am, and I know who he was. It’s the ‘was’ part that’s a problem. He has the advantage.”
“And you think he’s now Simon?”
“I’m theorizing that he could be Simon. What I need from you is either proof that the guy in Simon’s body is Simon or additional support for the idea that it might not be.”
“I honestly can’t say either way, Mallory. I haven’t had enough contact with him in these last few days.”
“Then the next step for me is finding proof. I’m not going to approach him directly—that’s dangerous if he’s the killer, because the killer realizes I’m not Catriona either. Would Mrs. Wallace know Simon better than you?”
“Yes, but she is not … fond of Catriona.”
“Oh, I know it. I can work around that. I’ll talk to her, and maybe talk to Dr. Gray if I can, and then, when I have a better idea either way, I’m going to ask you to send Simon on an errand so I can search his room. Can you do that?”
“Easily.”
“Good.”
THIRTY-FIVE
I’ve been in the house for an hour and haven’t spoken to Mrs. Wallace yet. First, I told myself I needed to come up with subtle questions. Then, I decided I should do some housework, so she won’t grumble about me shirking my duties. The truth is that I want time to think, because I don’t like this solution to the puzzle.
It fits. I know my twenty-first-century killer inhabits the body of Catriona’s nineteenth-century one. I know he tortured Archie Evans for something, and I could be wrong about what, but I am not wrong that Evans was investigating Catriona on behalf of someone who might have been angry enough to kill her.
Is it possible that the note in Evans’s pocket isn’t from the killer? Catriona certainly had multiple enemies. But that would mean the killer randomly grabbed and tortured the friend of someone else Catriona had wronged. Yeah, that’d be one hell of a coincidence and, like Isla, I don’t like them.
Simon fits. He’s friends with Catriona. She’s still up to her criminal ways. She gets him involved in something, and it goes sideways—or Catriona yanks it sideways—and he tries to kill her.
The problem with that scenario? Simon wasn’t a thief, wasn’t a pickpocket, wasn’t any sort of criminal. He was a gay kid who dressed up as a girl to flirt with men and find himself a sugar daddy.
That fits with what I know of Simon, better than I first thought. I’d interpreted flirting, but I can’t say it was more than me jumping to stereotypical conclusions about a close relationship between a handsome young man and a pretty young woman. Simon had no problem with her relationship with Constable Findlay. He even gave her shit for playing Findlay wrong. He also gave her shit for not giving up her thieving ways. As for me seeing a different side of him than Isla did, does that mean he’s a different guy … or just different with a friend versus an employer?
The opium link still bothers me. Seeing him today in the tenements definitely bothers me. I know I saw him. I know he retreated when he spotted me.
I’m almost done dusting the library when a possible explanation thuds into my brain. Dusting rag in hand, I march downstairs to the funeral parlor. I walk in to find Gray deep in paperwork. He looks up as I close the door behind me.
“Didn’t you have a funeral this afternoon?” I say.
He blinks, and I realize I’ve been hanging out with Isla too long today. I need to code-switch before I talk to anyone else in this world.
I half curtsy. “Apologies, sir. I came to clean, expecting to find the offices empty, as Mrs. Ballantyne said there was a funeral today.”
“Tomorrow. She has confused her days.”
“Then, if I may be so bold, sir, may I ask whether you gave Simon a half day off? Or perhaps dispatched him on an errand into the Old Town?”
He hesitates.
“I saw Simon in the Old Town, sir, and he seemed to be following Mrs. Ballantyne, which is concerning … unless you sent him to do so.”
He slowly sets down his pen, exhales through his teeth, and then runs a hand through his hair, streaking ink up his forehead.
“May I be blunt, Catriona?”
I plunk into the chair in front of him—as much as one can “plunk” wearing multiple layers of skirts.
He speaks slowly, as if picking through his word choices. “I understand my sister has forgiven you for her locket, and I know you were attacked by this killer we seek. I do not wish to seem mistrusting.”
“But Mrs. Ballantyne is your sister, and I have not yet proven myself, and so you were concerned for her safety. You overheard us going out, and you asked Simon to follow us to be certain she was in no danger from me.”
“Yes.” He straightens. “I am sorry if you are offended—”
“Not offended.” I pause. “Also apologizing for cutting you off, sir. You have reason for your mistrust. I spotted Simon and was concerned when he seemed to be following Mrs. Ballantyne.”
“You were concerned about Simon?”
I shrug. “I am a suspicious person, and it was suspicious behavior. I am glad that we cleared that up.” I rise. “Will I see you at tea?”
“Yes, and thank you for understanding my caution, Catriona.”
* * *
I’m barely in the hall when the back door flies open and Isla zips in, shutting it behind her. She doesn’t see me until she turns to find me standing there with my arms crossed.
The one thing about gas lighting? It doesn’t exactly illuminate things well, things such as the glower on my face, and she hurries over and whispers, “It is not Simon. I mean, the person who appears to be Simon is actually Simon.”
“You searched his room?” My voice rises.
“Of course not. I am hardly a detective. I spoke to him.”
“You—?”
Gray leans out the parlor door. “Is everything all right?”