A Rip Through Time(47)

McCreadie gives him a look. “They will speak to her because she’s a fetching young lady and they are a household of rowdy young men. That would be obvious to anyone but you, Duncan.”

“No,” Gray says coolly. “I did not mention it because it might suggest we expect her to employ her feminine charms.”

“I’m fine with flirting,” I say. “Help me come up with a cover story and tell me what you want to know.”





SIXTEEN


That afternoon, I’m taking on my first Victorian undercover mission. I’m shocked by how readily McCreadie agreed. Yet more proof that policing is very different in this world. He didn’t need to clear it with a supervisor. He doesn’t need me to sign a waiver. He barely even hesitated when I suggested it.

He’s putting a lot of trust in a layperson. He can’t even mike me to get a recording of the interview for court. Of course, I must remember that Scotland has only had an established police force for about fifty years. This is still the Wild West of policing, and I should be impressed they’re as far along as they are, with “criminal officers” and homicide investigations.

Gray doesn’t try to stop me either. He only makes sure I’m comfortable with the situation. He lets me know I can back out at any time and that if it goes wrong, no one will hold it against me. He does, however, insist on accompanying us, though I suspect at least part of that is just for the excuse to escape his armchair-investigator role and get into the field.

McCreadie will join us in the Old Town with Constable Findlay. Gray needs to attend to a client first, and by the time he’s finished, we’re running late, so he decides to take the coach.

As I climb in, I look around the interior. It’s all black, down to the painted metal trim.

“Is this a hearse?” I say.

Gray gives me a look as he settles in on the seat opposite. “Do you see a place for a coffin, Catriona?”

“It could convert to one. Lay down a few boards to transport the dearly departed, and then flip up the seats for daily use.”

“Somehow I do not think my guests would appreciate traveling in anything used to convey the dead.”

I shrug. “Wouldn’t bother me.”

“The smell might.”

I have to laugh at that. True enough if bodies aren’t being embalmed yet.

He settles into his seat. “As for the coach, yes, you will have noticed it is rather austere. It’s used in funeral processions. The hearse—which I am certain you’ve seen—has glass sides to display the coffin. This one is used for the chief mourners, but it is expedient to also use it personally, as it is of a much higher quality than I’d otherwise purchase.”

I watch out the window as we go, and as much as I enjoy a pleasant walk, I’m glad to be in the coach today. Scotland has a reputation for overcast, drizzly weather, but in Edinburgh you get the wind thrown in for free, and today it’s wicked, driving that drizzle in my face and making me feel like I’m back in Vancouver in November. I try not to think of what it’s like at home right now—sunny and warm, the beaches starting to fill. Still, while I might not love Edinburgh’s weather, the city itself makes up for it, with its gorgeously vibrant gardens and green spaces alongside soot-stained medieval buildings.

When we arrive in the proper neighborhood, McCreadie and Gray decide they’re going to hole up in a pub, with a nice hot toddy. And who will escort me closer to the radicals’ lair? That would be Constable Findlay, the guy who’s been doing his best to pretend I don’t exist.

Wonderful.

We leave Gray and McCreadie at their toasty-warm pub, and we continue on foot to Evans’s lodgings. Simon has taken the coach home—I can’t exactly pull up to the rooming house in a gleaming black coach. We must walk, and walk in silence it seems. I get two blocks before I turn to Findlay. Time to get this over with.

“I know I have done something to upset you,” I say. “The blow to my head means that I do not remember what it is. I must ask you to tell me so I might apologize.”

“I do not wish to discuss it.”

He pulls his cap down over his ears and marches on against the wind. He’s in his civvies, and without his uniform, he looks less like a scrubbed-cheek cadet and more like a regular guy—a kid even, no older than Catriona herself.

I should drop this. The last thing I want is this young man trying to rekindle “our” relationship. Yet if I’m going to help Gray with the case, then I need to calm these waters with Findlay.

“Whatever it is, please know that I am sorry for what I have done. I was not a good person, and it took a brush with death for me to realize that. I have hurt people, including you, and I am sorry.”

He only grunts.

“I just wish to say—”

“You aren’t going to let this drop, are you? Fine. I am not hurt, Catriona. I am disappointed, that is all. Detective McCreadie tried to warn me about your past, and I told him he was mistaken.”

“And he was not,” I say softly.

“There. We have said all we need to say on the matter.”

“I am sorry. Truly sorry.”

“You made a fool of me,” he snaps. “I could have lost my position. You know how hard I worked for it.”

“You could have lost your position because…”