A Rip Through Time(124)

“Mallory. Mallory Atkinson.”

“What am I supposed to say to that, Detective Atkinson? That I will not allow you to help me when you obviously can? When you’re ideally suited to help me advance a science I’ve dedicated my life to advancing? What sort of man would that make me?”

“I-I’m sorry. I just meant that I understand you feel…” I struggle for a word that won’t make him close off more, insist he doesn’t feel hurt at all.

I start again. “I lied. Misrepresented myself. Withheld evidence from an investigation. I can defend my choices, but I still acknowledge that I did all that, and so you might not be comfortable working alongside me.”

“I’m not,” he says shortly. “I won’t pretend otherwise. I have been seeing you as a child, a girl trying to better herself. I still see that girl, but instead, she’s a woman of my own age, a professional officer of the law, and she has been that the whole time and I feel…” He inhales, as if steeling himself for an admission. “I feel foolish. I feel I should have stopped long enough to wonder how my housemaid could suddenly read and write and show such aptitude for my studies and detection.”

“Because ‘She’s clearly a time traveler’ isn’t going to be anyone’s first or last guess.” I say it lightly, trying to ease the mood, but his expression doesn’t change.

“Perhaps not, but I feel very discombobulated, and I will need time to adjust to…” He looks at me. Really looks, like he did earlier this evening, when he seemed to see past Catriona to me. This time, he pulls back sharply and shakes his head.

“I will adjust,” he says, his voice still frosty. “In the meantime, I can hardly turn down any assistance you might offer.”

“I’ll be careful,” I say. “I won’t tell you anything about forensic science that could mess up history.”

He shakes his head, relaxing a fraction. “You have an interesting idea of how science works. The other day you mentioned fingerprints. Scientists have said that fingerprints can be identifiers. They’ve studied the phenomenon since before I was born. That does not mean the police are willing to employ it. I cannot simply pass along whatever you tell me. I would need to prove it, which would take years, and they still would not use it within my lifetime. It could, however, help in investigating Hugh’s cases.”

When I don’t answer, he continues, “You will need to keep the housemaid position, to explain why you are living in the household of an unmarried man. That would be too unseemly for my assistant, even with my sister here. We will not, of course, require you to fulfill those duties.”

“You’ll need to have me do some chores to keep up appearances. Except scrubbing out the chamber pots. Please hire someone else for that.”

Again, I’m trying to lighten the gloom, but he only nods abruptly. “As you wish.”

The ticking of a distant clock fills the silence as it stretches. I want to say more. So much more. But it’s not the time. Not yet. When a rap sounds at the back door, I swear we both exhale in relief at the interruption.

Gray strides from the funeral parlor. I hurry after him to see who’s come to call at this hour.

When Gray throws open the back door, McCreadie stands there, and for a moment, time circles back, and I’m opening the door to meet the criminal officer for the first time. I half expect to see Findlay behind him, and when I realize I never will again, a pang darts through me. Grief for the loss of a promising young officer, mingled with anger at what he tried to do to Catriona.

“Duncan,” McCreadie says. He leans around Gray and nods. “Catriona. You had quite the night, didn’t you, lass?”

I murmur something indistinct as I nod.

“I know it is a ridiculous hour,” McCreadie continues. “But I need to speak to you, Duncan. It’s about the case.”

Gray backs up to let him in.

As McCreadie steps inside, he looks at me. “You do not need to tarry with us, lass. You have earned a decent rest.”

“No,” Gray says. “I believe she’ll wish to join this discussion.” He glances at me. “As my assistant in such investigations.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say.

We head back to the funeral parlor sitting room.

“Would you like tea, Detective?” I ask.

“That won’t be necessary,” Gray says before McCreadie can answer. “If it is needed, we’ll get it ourselves. Sit.”

There’s the distinct air of a command to that last word, and I settle into an armchair.

“What seems to be the problem, Hugh?” Gray says as he leans against the wall, arms crossed.

“Besides the fact that my constable murdered two people and tried to kill Isla?” He pauses. “And Catriona, of course.”

Gray uncrosses his arms. “Apologies. I did not intend to be sharp. I am overly tired and out of sorts.”

McCreadie’s gaze slides between me and Gray, as if he’s sensing exactly where that tension comes from. “Understandably so. You have suffered a blow to the head as well, which may explain the rather muddled explanation you gave when you came to my lodgings. I was not quite awake, and I kept telling myself that your story would make more sense once I was. Yet I have taken care of Colin’s remains and examined the scene, and I can only say that your recounting of events makes even less sense now. Which is why I am here.”