A Rip Through Time(39)

More staring, and I realize my explanation sounded far too technical for Catriona. Either that or Gray’s rethinking having anyone in his home with such a well-rounded knowledge of torture.

“Inflict the sensation of drowning?” McCreadie smiles. “That hardly sounds like torture, Catriona.”

“You don’t think so?” I wave at Evans. “Switch spots with him, and I’ll grab a pitcher of water.”

He only laughs and shakes his head. “I know Duncan speculates that the missing tooth and damage to the nail beds are signs of torture, and it seems you and I have run in opposite directions with that baton. I believe he is mistaken, and you have embraced the theory. No, Catriona, I will accept the possibility of torture, but one cannot achieve such a thing with a little water.”

McCreadie glances at Gray, as if expecting his friend to chime in with laughter. Instead, Gray frowns, thoughtful.

“It is an intriguing idea, Catriona,” he says.

McCreadie clears his throat. “Er, yes, I did not mean to laugh. We may disagree on debate theories, but we ought not to mock them, and I apologize if that is what I seemed to do. I was amused by the thought, that is all. Please do share such ideas with us, Catriona, with no fear of mockery.”

“Yes,” Gray says. “While I shall need to think on this more, I welcome all speculation. The water is important, in some way, and must be investigated further. For now, I wished to show Catriona the damage to the lungs, and then I’ll get him stitched up and off to the morgue.”



* * *



Evans’s body having been removed, we’re in the drawing room having tea. Tea that I served, I might add. I could bristle at that. I just finished taking notes and helping examine a body. They listened to my observations then. But now it’s “Catriona, would you bring us our tea, please?”

It does rankle, obviously. I’m a police detective, damn it. Even if they don’t know that, haven’t I proven I’m more than a housemaid? Yes, I have, and thus they treated me as more, and I must acknowledge that.

It reminds me of all the times someone told me I was lucky to have a detective partner who treated me the same way he would a male partner. Lucky? To have a partner who treated me as an equal? If I do the job as well as a man, should treating me like one be commendable? The fact it is only proves how screwed up the system still is.

Here, it’s different. Here, I must acknowledge that I cannot expect to be treated as a man because we are light-years from sexual equality even being discussed in all but fringe circles. I may not know much about history, but I know we predate the women’s vote. We may even predate the women’s suffrage movement.

My gut tells me that I am lucky to have landed in a household where I’m considered a suitable assistant to a forensic scientist. Lucky to have these two professionals consider my observations. I’ll credit the woman bustling about upstairs unpacking. It’s obvious McCreadie is an old family friend. It’s also obvious that Isla is a chemist—a scientist in her own right—and that this is accepted as normal within these walls.

Is it normal outside them? Again, I’m kicking myself for not taking a history course or two in university. My knowledge of this period is one big blob of Victoriana. If I recall correctly, Queen Victoria reigned for over sixty years. That’s like lumping the twenty-first century with the World War II era and calling it all the same. I know Isla traveled without a chaperone. Is that normal for women? Or only for widows? Or is she defying norms and expectations on her own? I have no idea. All I know is that Gray and McCreadie seem more open to including me than I expected.

Which does not keep them from expecting me to serve tea … because it’s what I’m being paid for. I’m a maid, not a colleague. I serve the tea, and then I leave, with Gray promising to summon me if he requires my assistance with anything else.



* * *



Gray does not summon me. I wait all afternoon and into the evening, like a dog with her ears attuned for the sound of the master’s voice, the pound of his boots, the slap of his door. I hear all those, but whatever he’s doing, he’s managing on his own, and I am left to my scrubbing and washing.

Dinner comes, and Gray and his sister take it in the dining room. Mrs. Wallace insists on serving—not trusting me, apparently—meaning I have no opportunity to speak to him about the case. Afterward, he disappears into his quarters with the door shut. I offer to take him tea, but Mrs. Wallace says he’s asked not to be disturbed.

It’s past eight at night. I’m lingering in the drawing room. My chores are long done, despite the interruption. I had fewer today now that the mistress-returning heavy cleaning is done. I almost wish I were as bone-tired as I’ve been the last couple of days. I’m wide awake, my detective brain popping. With this case, a window keeps cracking open, just enough to let in the sweetest whiff of fresh air and a view of possibilities beyond housemaid drudgery.

An opportunity to experience police work in a past century. A chance to work with a pioneer of forensic science. This is how I could bide my time without losing myself in a gibbering endless panic that I’ll never get back home, that Catriona could be in my body, wreaking havoc on my life, taking advantage of those I love.

Yet that window opens, and I barely get a chance to peek out before it slams shut, and I need to wait until Gray opens it again. As with waiting for the door between centuries to reopen, I am at the mercy of fate, and I don’t do well with that. I make my own choices. I control my destiny as much as I am able to. Hell, I don’t even like to let someone else drive. And now the universe has snatched the steering wheel from my hands, and I swear I hear it laughing at my frustration.