A Rip Through Time(35)

Back in the house, I start into my chores. I’m passing the kitchen when Mrs. Wallace looks up from where she’s making pastries.

“I wish to apologize for my earlier accusations,” she says stiffly.

“I deserved them. I know I have not earned your trust, and I intend to do so.” I pause and add, with a faint smile, “Though I will understand if it takes a while for you to believe I am sincere, and not attempting to earn your trust with the plans of later betraying it in a spectacular heist. I do have my eye on Dr. Gray’s library. Did you know he has a first edition of Moll Flanders in there? My father—” I cough softly. “I know people who would kill for that. Well, not literally. All right, possibly literally.”

She’s quiet long enough that I realize I’ve misstepped. Too much Mallory, too little Catriona. I’m looking for the way back when she says, “You are behaving very differently these days.”

I sigh, perhaps a bit too dramatically, but that strikes me as something Catriona and I probably have in common. “People keep saying that. Dr. Gray believes it is the bump on my head. Everything is a wee bit muddled. I’m mispronouncing words I should know. I’m using words I never used before. I’m making up words, too. Perhaps it will pass. If it does not?” I shrug. “I shall make the best of it.”

When I turn to go, she says, “Would you like some tea? I’ve a batch of these tarts that didn’t quite turn out, and I’d rather not throw them in the rubbish. Alice says they’re quite good.”

“I’d love some,” I say. “As for the tea, is there any chance I can push my luck and ask for coffee? Or is that all for Dr. Gray?”

“Since when do you drink coffee?”

I shrug. “It smells good.”

“And tastes disgusting. I’ll put on the pot, and you’ll see what I mean soon enough.”



* * *



On a ten-point scale from gas-station swill to hand-roasted brew, the coffee rates a three. In other words, yes, it smells better than it tastes, but somehow, I doubt Gray is forcing Mrs. Wallace to buy the cheapest stuff available. While his tastes are far from extravagant, they are solidly good, meaning this must be the best coffee widely available at this time. Or perhaps it’s not the beans but the brewing method, which seems to be a drip pot. I wonder whether I could rig up a decent French press? At any rate, having not had coffee in nearly a week, I’ll raise the score to a solid five and won’t turn down future offerings.

I’m finishing my cup when Alice bursts in.

“Something is happening at the funerary parlor,” she says. “There is a cart in the mews, and I heard Detective McCreadie’s voice. There is also a coach in the front.”

I bolt upright. Another murder? If so, Gray might need my help. Or so I hope, because unlike former clerk James, I’d happily hold a body while Gray hacked into it, especially if the alternative is scrubbing fireplaces.

I take my coffee and follow Alice up the two flights of stairs to the drawing room. As soon as I step into the room, I pause and look down at the cup. Am I allowed to bring it in here? I glance at Alice, but she’s already plastered to the window.

I glance out. There is indeed a commotion in the funeral parlor. Voices sound from downstairs, and there’s a carriage pulled up in front. It’s fancy but shows signs of wear. I’m squinting at it when another door slams, and we both jump. I bump into Alice, and in my fear of dumping my coffee on her, I overcompensate and end up on my knees, cup held aloft like a touchdown football.

Alice claps. “You ought to be an acrobat.”

I almost joke that I’m too old for that when I remember that I’m not. Or, at least, my body isn’t.

This body may be younger, but it often feels like driving a clunky rental. Catriona’s strength isn’t the kind I’m accustomed to. Legs that are used to standing all day, yet balk at moving faster than a walk. Arms that can hoist a full water bucket, yet ache after an hour wielding a pen. And don’t even get me started on my core. Remove the corset, and I can barely manage a proper sit-up.

I keep thinking I need to incorporate body-strength exercises into my pre-bed routine, which reminds me of the days when I’d plan a five-mile run after work, only to drop from exhaustion the moment I came through the door. The mind is willing. The body says, “Screw that.”

I’m rising from the floor when Gray’s voice rings out. “Catriona? Catriona? Where the devil is that girl?”

“In here, sir!” Alice calls before I can.

He thunders into the room, gaze sweeping over us, only to land on the cup in my hand.

“I was on break,” I say quickly. “I heard a commotion and came to see what it was. I did not mean to bring a hot drink into the drawing room.”

“I only wondered why you are cradling that cup as if it is a newborn kitten. Finish it or bring it along. They came for young Evans’s body just as I discovered something of interest.”

I’m about to ask for more when the front door opens with a flurry of voices and activity, a woman telling someone to set her bags over there.

Gray’s eyes widen in alarm, and he curses under his breath. Then he strides off toward the stairs.

“Isla,” he calls as he descends. “I thought you returned this evening. Please do not tell me I forgot to pick you up at the station.”