A Rip Through Time(106)

McCreadie’s cheeks flush.

Isla continues, “Second, Catriona does not remember what she did to young Findlay. She is only concerned for his well-being. Does he seem well?”

McCreadie shrugs. “Well enough. He’s always a quiet lad. He’s been a bit absentminded lately, forgetful and distracted, but he has been beside himself with apologies for that. I know he was fond of Catriona, and so I understand his melancholy. Which is not to blame you, Catriona. Isla is right. I might tease, but it is your right to end a relationship, and I am only glad you did it before it became more serious.” He sips his tea. “That is far harder on all involved.” Another sip. “Now, back to this theory regarding Evans…”

Gray and McCreadie continue discussing it. Isla and I add nothing to it—we can’t make this worse. They don’t notice our silence, though, or they mistake it for agreement. We finish our tea, and the two men leave, still talking about how they should proceed, forgetting all about us.

When they are gone, Isla moves to sit closer to me and whispers, “Constable Findlay?”

I nod. “Does he seem like the same guy to you?”

“I’d hardly know. I haven’t seen him since I returned, but even that isn’t unusual. As Hugh said, he’s such a quiet lad. Hugh handpicked him from the constables shortly after Constable Findlay joined the force. He’d made little impression on the others, being so quiet, but Hugh saw promise in him. He always said the lad only needed a push and a dose of confidence.”

“Quiet and shy then.”

“Very. I know Hugh encouraged him to join the men for a pint after work and such, but it took effort to make him go. Keeps his own company, he does.”

“Yet he was courting Catriona?”

Isla sighs and shakes her head. “I discouraged it. However, Hugh was reluctant to intercede. He thought such a relationship could help them both, Catriona drawing young Findlay from his shell and the boy adding some stability and gravitas to Catriona’s life. I feared Catriona was taking advantage of Constable Findlay, but Hugh could not see how she could do so with a young man of very limited means and prospects.”

“Well, for a starter, she was selling the trinkets he gave her. Simon told me that. It’s also possible she was selling information she gleaned from him. Police information.”

She starts another, deeper sigh, and then stiffens. “But if you are suggesting that the killer is in Constable Findlay’s body, does that also not suggest the real Constable Findlay tried to murder her?”

“I suspect so.”

“Oh my.” She falls back in her seat, hand to her chest. “I-I cannot believe—”

She swallows and pulls herself straight again. “Allow me to rephrase that. Can I believe that Catriona would drive a young man to murder? Particularly one inexperienced in matters of the heart, betrayed and cast in the role of fool? Yes. I can. Which does not, obviously, relieve her attacker of blame. Murder is only justified in self-defense, where no lesser course is available. However, that would not keep me from feeling pity and even some responsibility if that is the solution to this mystery.”

“Whatever Catriona did to Findlay, it wouldn’t justify killing her. It is a motive, though, and it is tragic. We can acknowledge that without blaming Catriona. We can also acknowledge it without blaming you or Detective McCreadie. Neither of you foresaw that. If this is the solution, which I still need to prove, I’ll get the evidence and find a way to present it to him.”

“Good. Will you search young Findlay’s apartment tomorrow?”

“If I can get his address.”

“We’ll do that right now. I’ll tell Duncan that I wish to send him a basket, in appreciation for all he is doing for the immigrants of Edinburgh.” She rises. “Then we will search his apartment on the morrow.”





THIRTY-SEVEN


I lied to Isla. Well, half a lie. I do plan to search Findlay’s apartment. I’m just not waiting until morning.

Part of that is to avoid taking her. I can’t afford to be locked in a battle of wills I might not win. More importantly, I am on a schedule here, and I have no damned idea what that schedule is.

The killer is now copying the murders of Jack the Ripper. He’s taken victim one, and he’ll take victim two exactly the right number of days later. The bastard is nothing if not precise. I hear the relentless tick-tick of that clock, which would be so much more helpful if I could see its damned face.

Was it two days between the first and second Ripper murders? Five days? A week? I have racked my brain for this information and found nothing. I do know that the next murder will be worse. They will all be worse. The clock is ticking, and there’s a bomb on the other end of it, and I cannot sleep knowing another innocent woman might die.

I argue with the impulse. Isn’t there another way? I stabbed the killer twice. Why not test that with Findlay? Find an excuse to grab his arm and see if he flinches. In a penny dreadful, that would be the solution, but in real life, it’s not good enough. I can use those stab wounds as proof—maybe to convince McCreadie—but I need more first.

Would it not be better to search Findlay’s apartment tomorrow while he is at work? He isn’t known for going out in the evenings. Yes, but that’s Findlay, not the imposter, who will be hunting for his next victim, whether he kills her tonight or not.