A Rip Through Time(50)

With no room to escape, I block instead, my arm flying up to stop his, the pies falling to the floor as someone gasps. I think they’re gasping because this guy is attacking me. Or maybe even because I dropped the damn pies. But then I see faces turned my way, the shock on them, and I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in a glass cabinet door, and I see me. Mallory. Oh, it’s Catriona’s body, but the expression is my own, a cold rage that stuns everyone except the guy attacking me.

Thomas sees that look, and he sees me blocking his blow, and he tries to stomach punch me. I almost make the mistake of kicking him away. A mistake because I’m wearing four layers of skirts. My knee rises, and it registers the confining fabric just in time. I grab and twist his arm instead, spinning him around. Then I shove him. He smacks into a dainty side table, toppling it with a crash.

A door flies open, and a white-haired woman appears. While Henry might have made a snide crack about Mrs. Trowbridge “hiding,” when she barrels through that door, Thomas scrambles up, brushing off his shirtfront.

I rush toward her, my eyes wide with feigned terror. She puts up a hand to stop me and then sets her hands on her hips.

“What’s this all about, lass?”

“I-I-I pushed him into the table, ma’am. I am so terribly sorry. I came to pay my respects for poor Archie. This young man accused me of being a foreigner and tried to slap me, and I dropped the pies, and then he tried to hit me again, so I pushed him.”

“Foreigner?” she says, as if this is the most important part of my recitation. She glares at Thomas. “Are you daft? How does this poor lass look like a foreigner?”

His mouth works, nothing coming out.

“Even if she were—which she is not—there is no call to slap her. I won’t have that nonsense in my house. You will apologize, and you will pay her for the pies.”

“Pay her?” he squeaks.

“Apologize and pay her double for the pies, or you can pack your bags and go. The lass came to pay her respects, which is more than any of you have done. Poor Archie has been murdered, and you carry on as if nothing happened. When the school term is done, I want the lot of you gone.”

There’s satisfaction in her voice, as if she’s wanted them gone for a while and is happy for an excuse. They haven’t seemed too torn up over Evans, and her words prove they aren’t. Together with Thomas’s comments about Evans not knowing when to keep his mouth shut, I have a reasonable theory about why Evans was tortured. Someone identified him as the weak link in this group, the one most likely to talk.

I’m not getting anything else from Evans’s roommates. Mrs. Trowbridge might be another matter. For now, she’s a potential asset to stick in my back pocket.

Thomas’s apology is half-assed. He does pay, though, and I try to give the coins to Mrs. Trowbridge for the table. That wins me brownie points I can use later, as her gaze softens and she pats my hand and tells me I’m a good girl but no, the young lads will pay for the table.

By the time she escorts me to the door, Findlay has made himself scarce. I thank Mrs. Trowbridge and head out into the street to go find him.





SEVENTEEN


For my efforts, I am rewarded with a piping-hot drink. Not a hot toddy, sadly. Okay, I don’t actually know what’s in a hot toddy, but it always sounds delightful. Catriona doesn’t get that. She doesn’t even get a toasty little pub to warm her bones. She gets a formal tearoom, which is supposed to be a treat, but damn it, I want my boozy drink and roaring fire.

Also, may I point out that the person who most enjoys my treat is the one who suggests it? Gray is practically vibrating as he surveys the pastries in the window. Ignoring the tiny sandwiches and currant-studded scones on our tray, he goes straight for his cakes and tarts and then starts eyeing everyone else’s.

Findlay hands his over quickly, as if Gray’s sidelong look is an order from on high. McCreadie sighs and gives him one of his tarts. I pretend not to notice Gray eyeing the petits fours that McCreadie bought me separately in appreciation of my “fine efforts.” Those are mine, damn it, and I’m eating every crumb if I need to choke them down.

As for the investigation, it seems when McCreadie called the young men radicals, it wasn’t because he misunderstood the nature of their campaign. To him, a radical is anyone trying to cause trouble, for both worthy and despicable causes. The positive ones fight for things like sanitation. The negative ones fight against things like immigration.

“I fully support immigration,” Findlay says, his first words since we sat down. “It broadens and strengthens our country.”

“I agree that it does,” Gray murmurs. “Though I have no idea why you are looking at me as you say that.”

The poor young man’s gaze drops. “I—I didn’t mean—That is to say, if I implied anything, it was not intended as an insult. You are a man of means, both educated and respected.”

“Best quit while you can, lad,” McCreadie says. “Dr. Gray is as Scottish as I am. He was born here.”

“Whatever these young men believe,” I say, “the important thing is whether it is connected to the murder.”

“How could it not be?” McCreadie says. “If the young man was tortured—and I’m beginning to believe Duncan was right about that—then it must be connected to the murder. That is the information he had. Something to do with these radicals.”