A Rip Through Time(6)

The older woman grumbles. “We dinnae need this.”

I struggle to follow the accents, which seem thicker than I’m used to in Edinburgh. My brain smooths their speech into something I can follow.

“Catriona?” the older woman says.

I clear my throat and channel historical-novel dialogue while sending up a thanks to my dad, the English prof.

“I-I fear I am unwell, ma’am,” I say. “Might I lie abed awhile longer?”

I wince. I sound like a community-theater player in a period drama. Even my voice isn’t my own. It’s the higher pitch I heard earlier, with a thick Scottish brogue.

As silence falls, I wonder whether I’ve laid on the “historical-novel-speak” a bit thick.

More footsteps. These ones firm, soles smacking along the hall floor.

“Sir,” the older woman says.

“What the devil is going on?” A man’s voice, clipped with annoyance, his brogue softer.

“It’s Catriona, sir,” the girl says. “She’s awake.”

“Awake?” Genuine shock sparks in the man’s voice.

The knob jangles. The door opens an inch before I thump against it, forcing it shut.

“She’s barred the door, sir,” the girl—Alice—says again. “She’s not herself.”

The man mutters something I don’t catch, and the older woman snorts.

“Catriona,” he says, firm and abrupt, as if speaking to a dog. “Open this door, or I will open it for you.”

“I am unwell, sir, and—”

The door flies open, knocking me forward as a man strides into the room. About thirty, he’s big and rough-hewn, with a lantern jaw and broad shoulders. He must work in the stables, judging by the dirt on his rumpled clothing. Tousled black hair. Dark beard shadow. Brown skin. A thunderous look on his face that has me locking my knees to keep from shrinking back.

He stalks across the room and yanks open heavy drapes, the gray light of a heavily clouded day filtering through. Then he turns on me.

“What the devil are you doing out of bed?” he says. “Get back in there now.”

“Like hell.” The words come before I can stop them, and his dark eyes widen.

I hesitate. I want to fight, to demand answers. Where am I? What’s going on? I know it isn’t what I thought at first. This is not the guy who attacked me, and this is not some sicko killer’s historical-fantasy game.

So what is it? I don’t know, but my gut says to play along. Roll with it. Get answers without making trouble.

“Apologies,” I say, in a tone that doesn’t sound very apologetic. “I appear to have been struck in the head, and I am not quite myself.” Understatement of the century. “Pray tell, who might you be?”

“I might be your employer, Catriona.”

“Name?”

A tiny gasp, and I look over to see the little girl—Alice—staring at me goggle-eyed.

“Your name, please, sir?” I say.

“Duncan Gray.”

“Dr. Gray to you,” the older woman says with a sniff. I glance at her. Her face says she isn’t over forty, but she’s steel-haired, with a glare to match.

“That is Mrs. Wallace,” Gray continues. “My housekeeper.”

“And I am?”

His thick brows knit. “You truly don’t remember?”

“I fear I do not, sir, due to the bump on my head. If you would please kindly assist me by answering my questions, I would very much appreciate it.”

“You’ll ask your questions of me,” Mrs. Wallace snaps. “The master has no time for your nonsense.”

Gray waves her off, his gaze still on me, peering, assessing. A medical doctor, then? I take a closer look at his shirt, and see that what I’d mistaken for dirt is ink stains. Also, possibly a smear of soot. Wait, is that blood?

Gray eases back. “You are Catriona Mitchell. Nineteen years of age. Housemaid to myself and my widowed sister, who is currently abroad.”

“And this place? It is your house, I presume. But the city? Edinburgh, is it?”

Mrs. Wallace continues to glare, as Alice watches me with that mixture of horror and admiration. As interrogations go, mine is downright civil. Probably still not quite appropriate for a Victorian housemaid.

If Gray takes offense, though, he doesn’t show it. “Yes, it is my home. Yes, it is in Edinburgh.” The faintest twitch of the lips. “Scotland.”

“And the date, sir?”

“May 22.”

Before I can open my mouth, he adds, “Eighteen sixty-nine. Today is May 22, 1869.”





FOUR


On May 20, 1869, Catriona Mitchell had been enjoying a half day off, only to be discovered that night in a lane, where she’d been strangled and left for dead … exactly one hundred and fifty years before I was strangled in the exact same spot.

I woke mid-morning, and the rest of the day passes in a fog of denial pierced by bouts of investigation. I am, after all, a detective. Faced with a question, I investigate. I’m also the daughter of a defense attorney. I play both roles here—as a detective, I build my case, and as my mother’s daughter, I try to tear it down again.

What are the possibilities here? I could be dreaming or being tricked, possibly drugged into hallucination. While it doesn’t feel like those are the answers, I can’t just trust my gut. The first step is to find something that doesn’t fit the time period. For that, I automatically reach for my phone to start checking my surroundings against factual history. But without a cell phone—or any internet—I must rely on a layperson’s understanding of the Victorian era, and I’m sure I could be fooled. Also, if it is a dream, it would match my expectations anyway.