A Rip Through Time(72)

I laugh. “Good call.”

“I take a handbag with a bit of money, but mostly paper, pencil, handkerchief…”

An idea hits. “What about keys?”

“For what?”

“The front door.”

“Why should I need keys? It is never locked except at night, and if I were out past dark, Mrs. Wallace would leave it open for me.”

I’m about to ask whether that’s safe when I answer my own question. This is a prosperous street in the New Town. Being in the city, residents will still lock their doors at night, but they’re not worried about anyone breaking in midday.

So if my attacker jumped into Catriona’s attacker’s body, how would he find out who that guy is in this world? Or would he just not bother—pick up and carry on, stealing what he needed?

My fingers itch to grab my phone and start tapping in notes.

“I’d like a notepad,” I say. “Or just paper and a pen. Any extras floating around?”

“Check the top drawer. You’ll need to use loose paper until I can get you a proper writing journal. If you find one in here, even empty, I would strongly advise you not to take it. My brother knows every notebook in his possession, and if one’s empty, he will claim he left it that way because it is exactly the right size and paper for charts or sketches or whatnot.”

“Don’t borrow blank notebooks from Dr. Gray. Got it. I just won’t borrow anything. Considering Catriona’s past, that seems best.”

I tug on the top left drawer. It seems to stick, and before Isla can say “Try the other one” I yank enough that a box on the desk skates across the polished top. I lunge to grab it, falling out of my chair but landing on my well-cushioned bottom, holding the box.

Isla claps. “Well done. Quite an astonishing display of athleticism.”

“It’d be more impressive if I didn’t fall on my ass.” I sit up. “Catriona’s strong, but she’s not exactly a gymnast. I’m guessing sports aren’t part of a Victorian girl’s life.”

“Heavens, no. How would one expect to bear children, jostling around the womb in such a fashion?”

“The … womb?”

“Of course. If one otherwise engages in sporting activities, it bounces around in the torso.”

“And gets lost?”

Her lips twitch. “Presumably. Or becomes untethered from its moorings. Yes, the field of anatomy has advanced enough that a proper physician no longer worries about wandering wombs, but science and popular opinion rarely progress at the same rate. Women are encouraged to engage in only light athletic activity, such as purposeful perambulations about the garden.”

“Sounds strenuous.”

“I think it is. But I suspect we have different opinions on that.”

I start to stand, only to find that the box landed upside down on me, and when I rise, everything tumbles out into my skirts.

I shake my head and right the box, a gorgeous piece with an inlaid mother-of-pearl conch shell on the top. I return the contents, piece by piece, taking my time because they are obviously valuable and delicate. Nah, I take my time because I’m nosy.

My detective brain wants to get a good look at this odd assortment of items Gray keeps so carefully. And they are indeed odd. A big-cat claw fashioned into a brooch. A handful of ancient Roman coins. An ornate hair comb carved from ivory. An enamel scarab inlaid with gems. A few other items, too, that I can’t immediately identify.

“Interesting stuff,” I say as I pack the box. “Dr. Gray has the travel bug, I presume.”

Isla shakes her head. “Those are my father’s. He was briefly an army doctor, which is how he met my mother—her father was a physician. The travel suited him. The profession, less so. Marrying my mother gave him the income he needed to quit his position and speculate instead.”

“Dr. Gray mentioned that your father invested in private cemeteries.”

“That and burial clubs and the business of undertaking in general. While it is not the most prestigious of work, it is very profitable, particularly if one has the knack for selling people on funerals far grander than they can afford.”

“That doesn’t sound like your brother.”

She smiles fondly. “It is not at all my brother, but the business is prosperous enough—and the investments are profitable enough—that Duncan doesn’t need to model himself after our father, much to his relief and mine.”

I put the box back on the desk. “Yet he keeps your father’s treasures on his desk.”

She waggles a finger at me. “You are prying again.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Or a very fine excuse. Our mother gave Duncan that box, comprised of all the items she found amongst our father’s things when he passed. Items that could have a connection to his mother.”

“His birth mother. Who died.”

“Presumably. We have questioned that. Mama feared Father might have taken the child from his mother. He wouldn’t speak of the matter. Wouldn’t speak of Duncan’s mother either. Not a name. Not a single fact about her. We suspect she would have, at least originally, been a native of India, but that is pure speculation. Our father would say nothing.”

“He erased her.”

Isla looks over, her eyes meeting mine as she nods. “That is it, exactly. Erased. As if, whether by birth or background, she did not matter. That upset Mama most of all. More than the infidelity. More than expecting her to raise his illegitimate child. The erasure.”