A Rip Through Time(105)

Isla cuts me a look, warning me not to say too much, but I ignore her and sit without taking any treats from the tray.

“Detective McCreadie,” I say. “I must be honest with you and admit that I conducted a brief investigation into the first victim, Archie Evans.”

McCreadie’s tea sloshes as his cup clatters onto the saucer. “What?”

“Not alone,” Isla says quickly. “I accompanied her.”

“That does not make this better.”

“I had Simon follow them to ensure their safety,” Gray says.

“Et tu Brute?”

Isla rolls her eyes. “No one stabbed you in the back, Hugh. Catriona had a theory that Duncan found unlikely, and so I accompanied her to young Archie’s rooming house. Duncan wondered at our leaving and sent Simon, not knowing we were undertaking an investigation.”

“Because you are not supposed to be undertaking an investigation. You are a chemist. She is a housemaid.”

“They solve crimes,” I murmur under my breath. When they hear me, I clear my throat. “It would make for interesting detective fiction.”

McCreadie glares at me. “No, it would not. Do you know why? Because you are not detectives.”

“All the best detectives are amateurs,” Isla says tartly. “Every reader knows that.”

When McCreadie’s glower deepens, she says, “However, even better would be an amateur team to assist the professional detective. A widowed chemist, a former-thief housemaid, and a medical doctor turned criminal scientist, all helping the clever and handsome criminal officer, who does not need their assistance but humors them most graciously.”

“Now you’re mocking me,” McCreadie growls.

Isla’s face softens. “Teasing a little, but never mocking, Hugh. I understand that, in our zeal, we may have overstepped, and I apologize.”

“As do I,” I say. “All I wanted was proof to either dismiss my theory or support it before bringing it to your attention. However, what we found…”

I tell him about the list of addresses. I don’t produce the note—I can’t with the reverse being about Catriona. I tell him how we visited three of the addresses and realized that, given Evans’s roommates’ extracurricular activities, it was probably a list of targets for persecution. Then, after we came home, I realized I should have warned the toy shop, as they were singled out for particular attention on the note. In doing so I discovered that they’d already been warned by the police, in the form of McCreadie himself.

“That information came from Archie Evans?” McCreadie says.

“I take it you didn’t receive it directly.”

“Hardly, or I wouldn’t feel as foolish as I do right now, having not realized that the radical group targeting those poor people was the same radical group Evans lived with. In my defense, there are, sadly, many such organizations, and while your visit placed this one on my list for closer examination, I did not consider it could be the same group, nor that Evans might be our informant.”

“Because Constable Findlay didn’t tell you that.”

His head jerks my way.

I murmur, “Constable Findlay mentioned something about it.”

“Hmm. Well, I would have rather he didn’t, but yes, it was young Findlay.”

That’s why Evans’s roommates had known Findlay was a cop. Not because he looked like one—because they actually recognized him.

“Please do not tell Constable Findlay that I said he mentioned it. I would not wish to get him into trouble. I presume he did not tell you which radical group it came from for fear of implicating Evans.”

“Who was dead at the time,” McCreadie grumbles.

“Dead yes, but his reputation lives on, and I can understand Constable Findlay not wanting to soil that in any way.”

McCreadie sighs. “I understand. Yes, Colin has been infiltrating some of these radical groups for me, as he is the correct age to do so. He knew Evans through the young man’s reportage. When Evans came sniffing about, I would have Colin speak to him, so I did not have to. Colin must have used that connection to turn Evans into an informant. Clever lad.”

“Yes,” Gray murmurs. “But it may also have gotten Evans killed.”

McCreadie winces. “Someone found out he was selling information to the police, and they tortured and killed him for it. Then the killer realizes he has a taste for murder that mere strangulation did not sate, and so he proceeds to the horrific mutilation of a prostitute.”

Isla glances over.

I bite my tongue and keep my expression neutral. I feel terrible nodding and acting like his theory makes sense when I know otherwise. That is not the way to treat a fellow officer. I can only hope that once I’ve proved my new hypothesis, I can find a way to convince him of the killer’s identity so he can make the arrest and claim the closure.

“I am glad to see Constable Findlay doing so well,” I say carefully. “He seems a most promising young detective. I have been concerned about him. Does he seem well to you? Normal in his behavior?”

“You mean has he recovered from you breaking his heart?”

“Hugh,” Isla admonishes. “First, it is a woman’s—or man’s—prerogative to change their mind, as I’m sure you know well.”