A Rip Through Time(101)

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?”

I turn and half curtsy. “Apologies, sir, I was telling Mrs. Ballantyne that she was mistaken about the funeral today and that you invited her to tea with Detective McCreadie. We will retreat upstairs, so as not to disturb your work.”

He heads back into the funeral parlor, and I glare at Isla, making sure I’m under the lights so she can see my expression. Then I herd her up three flights of stairs to the attic. Only when her laboratory door closes behind me do I let myself explode.

“You questioned Simon? By yourself?”

“You said you could not, and I agreed. So I did it myself.” She settles onto a chair. “I was very discreet.”

“He could have been a killer.”

“He is not.”

“You didn’t know—” I bite my tongue. This is going to take us right back where we were earlier, with Isla accusing me of patronizing her. We’re going to need to talk about this. A long discussion on the danger of what she just did and the fact that she isn’t an amateur sleuth in a Victorian novel.

I need to say that without sounding as if I’m treating her like a child, and I’m not in the mental state to navigate that conversation successfully. I’ll return to it when I’m calmer.