A Rip Through Time(51)

“Does that explain the bird staging, though?” Gray says. “Are we to presume it is what detective novels call a false clue? Something to distract us from the killer’s true intent?”

“Stool pigeon,” Findlay murmurs.

McCreadie looks up, raised teacup in hand. Gray glances over.

Findlay lowers his gaze again. “I-I could be mistaken, sir, but I thought perhaps the pigeon could signify a stool pigeon. An informer.”

McCreadie smiles. “That is brilliant, my boy. Excellent insight.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Gray nods. “Hugh is right. That is an excellent theory. If that were the case…”

The discussion continues. I cut one of my petits fours in two and pass half to Gray, who lights up so much I have to smile. Then I settle in to join the conversation, feeling happy and at home for the first time since I arrived.



* * *



I spend the rest of the day catching up on my chores, working straight through dinner and into the evening. Alice tries to help me refill the coal. I tell her no. Mrs. Wallace says the silver doesn’t need to be polished yet. I insisted on doing it. This is my job, and I will show I can do it while helping Dr. Gray, at least until I’ve proven myself enough for Isla to decide her brother needs me more than Mrs. Wallace does.

What really drives me that evening is Isla herself. Oh, she isn’t watching me. Isn’t judging me. She’s not even home, and that’s the problem. She’s been gone all day, and I sense trouble. Mrs. Wallace expected her back for dinner, and Isla sent a note that she was dining out, which seemed to surprise Mrs. Wallace. When the door opens after eight, I tense, every muscle held tight as I will Isla to continue on upstairs for the night.

Instead, her footsteps tap into the dining room, where I’m polishing the silver. “Catriona?”

I turn to see her in the doorway.

“I’d like to speak with you in the library, please,” she says. “You may put away your polishing cloth. You are done for the evening.”

I reluctantly return the cloth to its place and try not to trudge into the library like a prisoner awaiting sentencing.

“Close the door, please, Catriona.”

I do, and when I turn, I find her seated behind the desk, the huge wooden barrier between us.

I eye an overstuffed armchair that I’ve dreamed of curling up in with a book. I look at it now, tear my gaze away, and take a hard-backed chair near the desk.

“Have you had any luck locating my locket, Catriona?”

Inwardly, I wince. Outwardly, I look as mournful as I can. “No, ma’am. I have not, but I have scarce had time to search. I was thinking it may have fallen—”

“Let us abandon the charade where we both pretend to have no idea what happened to my locket. Where we pretend you have been a saint since Detective McCreadie brought you to me. I did not expect sainthood, Catriona. I fancy myself more worldly-wise than the charitable matron who gives a ha’penny to a beggar child and is shocked to find her pockets picked. My birth placed me three rungs up from you on the ladder of life. I am reaching down to give you the boost denied by fate. That is all.”

She folds her hands on the desk. “I did not expect you to immediately abandon your old ways. It was half a year before Alice stopped picking the pockets of our guests. I did not scold her. I simply gave her the support she required to finally accept that her life here was secure, that she would not soon need those pennies to survive.”

Isla rubs a hand over her face. “Now I sound exactly like those I seek to rise above, the matron so smug about her goodness and charity. I am tired, Catriona, and I am frustrated, and I am trying to explain something that you already ought to know, because you are not a ten-year-old child. I know you have stolen from me. I know Mrs. Wallace has caught you and not told me. Little goes on in this house of which I am not aware. My point is that I know you stole my locket, and I will no longer dance around the accusation. You have it, and I want it back. It is not like the pennies Alice stole, easily replaced. Return it, and we shall speak no more on the matter.”

“I…” I take a deep breath. “I do not doubt that I stole it, ma’am, and I have upturned my room searching for it. I do hope to find it. Only I cannot remember that I took it and where I put it.”

“On account of your head.”

“Yes, ma’am. My memory is worse than I have been letting on for fear of losing my position, but I do not feel right hiding it from you.”

“Your memory is damaged, and yet you clearly remember how to speak, even better than before. Your vocabulary is much expanded, your diction is higher, and you have suddenly remembered your ability to read and write. It is almost as if that blow to the head improved your memory rather than damaging it.”

“I realize that may seem odd,” I say, “but I suspect it’s not that I’ve suddenly remembered manners or vocabulary. Rather I have forgotten that I am supposed to be playing a role. Clearly my life before this was such that I learned to hide my upbringing and education for fear of seeming to act above my station.”

“Which you continued with me, lest I think you were putting on airs knowing how to read and write.”

“Er…” I remember saying something like this to Gray, and his obvious confusion. That makes much more sense now that I’ve met Isla. Also now that I’ve realized that when Alice disappears for half the afternoon, she’s doing lesson work. I’ve seen Mrs. Wallace reading, and I suspect Simon reads, too.