A Rip Through Time(18)

All the creative thought that went into the staging is ruined by the simplicity of the message. That’s typical. In movies, detectives drive themselves mad trying to figure out what a killer is trying to say. A single raven feather left by the corpse. What ever can it mean? Surely if we answer that we’ll find the killer. In real life, that damned feather is just a feather, either naturally occurring or put there by a killer who presumes detectives will be so engrossed investigating its meaning that they won’t pay attention to any actual clues. Yeah, the average detective just pops that feather into an evidence bag and adds it to the list, acknowledging its existence while recognizing that it probably means nothing.

These feathers do mean something, but it’s a ham-fisted message, one I hope McCreadie doesn’t spend too much time deciphering.

Despite all the staging, the method of murder seems simple enough. There are rope burns around the neck. I pry open an eyelid. Petechial hemorrhaging. Evans was strangled.

Just like me.

Just like Catriona.

My fingers move to the healing bruises around my neck as I look down at the rope. Then I shake my head sharply. There’s no connection to either attempted murder. Mine happened a hundred and fifty years from now. Catriona had been manually strangled. The fact that the rope looks similar to the one used on me is pure coincidence, and I need to stop seeing connections where none exist. This—

The front door slaps shut. I spin. I had intended to just take a quick glance in here because Gray seems to have only stepped out, leaving on the lights, as if intending to return.

There’s no time to leave. The steps are crossing the room, heading straight for this one. I glance around. One table. One body. Shelves of tools and bottles. No place to hide.

A cloth covers the table, but when I move it aside, it’s solid wood beneath, a cabinet with more drawers. I dart to the other side and press myself against the cloth. It’s a poor spot, and he’ll only need to lean over to see me.

Gray walks in. His shoes squeak as he stops beside Evans’s body. A grunt. The clink of forceps. Another grunt.

“You are not interesting,” he says. “Bizarre, but otherwise mundane. Death by strangulation. As boring as they come. Not even worth the effort of matching fibers in your flesh to those on the rope, as your killer left it around your neck. Utterly unworthy of my attention.”

Another shoe squeak. Another grunt. Another clink. Then a clatter, as if he’s tossing down the forceps.

“Completely outside my purview. You would add nothing to my studies. Nothing. Let Dr. Addington deal with you. I have an early start to my day.”

With that, he stalks from the room, shutting the door behind him. I wait until he’s gone. Then I wait a few more minutes. I’m in the next room when voices sound outside the door. McCreadie and Dr. Addington. I hesitate, feeling the urge to hide again and eavesdrop.

Completely outside my purview.

I give a rueful smile. You and me both, Dr. Gray. And I have an even earlier morning than you. Neither of us has time to pursue idle curiosity.

I tiptoe to the back door and creep out just as the front one opens, and McCreadie leads the doctor in.



* * *



The first thing I will do when I’m home is run to Nan’s bedside. The second? Sleep. So much sleep. As a cop, I’ve pulled double shifts, and none left me as exhausted as a single day being a housemaid. When Alice wakes me the next morning, I swear I only just drifted off.

Getting out of bed, I also know how Mom and Dad feel. Lately, they’ve started joking about their age and how it takes a few minutes to get going in the morning, like starting a car with a cold engine. My knees threaten to give way. My shoulders scream. I reach for the bottle of Tylenol I keep in my nightstand drawer. Yep, no nightstand, and no Tylenol.

I stump, stiff-legged, to the washbasin, only to discover it’s the dirty water from yesterday. Because I don’t have a maid to empty it for me.

I use the water anyway. Sure, since I hope to be gone today, I could say screw it, get clean water, and be late for my shift. Yet I’m well aware of Catriona, the girl who doesn’t have an escape hatch to another time. It’s like the old concept of a whipping boy. If I do anything wrong, she’ll suffer the punishment. Scummy, cold water it is, then.

I dress as quickly as I can, buttoning with numb fingers, shivering the whole time. Then I stagger downstairs, only to still get a lecture on tardiness. It’s been ten minutes since Alice came up. How fast am I supposed to dress with five layers of clothing and no zippers?

I suck it up, like I used to when I spent weekends with my paternal grandparents. They lived on a farm and were determined to teach me the value of hard work. What I learned instead was how to push through. Do what I’m told and remind myself that my dad had to do this every day of his life, and at least my term of servitude ended Sunday evening when he came to pick me up.

This term of servitude ends at two. Precisely two, as Mrs. Wallace tells me twice that morning.

“Not one minute before. I know your tricks, and I’ll be having none of them today.”

So Catriona had tricks? Maybe she wasn’t quite the meek and guileless creature I imagine. I can’t blame her. I consider myself a hard worker, and I’d still be trying to sneak out of this job a few minutes early.

Catriona may leave early herself, but I will not do it on her behalf. Anyone doomed to this wretched life doesn’t deserve additional punishment. Yes, yes, I’m well aware that there are people in Victorian-era Scotland who’d have given their eyeteeth for her job, with plentiful food and a private bedroom. But there’s always someone worse off, and my very middle-class life back home makes me a grand duchess compared to poor Catriona.