A Rip Through Time(76)

I want to insist on getting a coat, in hopes of stalling, but Gray is holding the coach door, and his expression warns that a two-minute delay will only annoy him more.

I climb in. Gray rattles off an address to Simon, and we’re gone.

As we move from Princes Street into the narrower lanes of the Old Town, I glance anxiously at Gray.

“May I ask where you are taking me, sir?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even seem to hear. He’s gazing outside, frowning. Then he calls to Simon, telling him where to let us out.

“Dr. Gray?” I say.

He turns sharply to me. “Describe the man who attacked you, please.”

“Wh-what?” I stammer.

His brows knit with impatience. “The attack the other night. Or do you think it could have been the same person who attacked you the first time?”

I hesitate. Yes, it’s the same attacker—in a way—but I’ve already said that I didn’t see my attacker the first time. I want to tell him it’s the same guy, so they’ll know the crimes are connected. But what if he’s testing me? Seeing whether I’ll change my story about not seeing my initial assailant?

I answer slowly. “If I saw the person the first time, I do not recall it.”

He leans forward. “Could it be the same man?”

“I … would not rule out the possibility, sir. I was attacked in an alley and strangled. This man attempted to do the same, with a rope. If it was the same killer, he may have realized that was more effective than manual strangulation.”

He thumps back in his seat and into his thoughts. At least two minutes pass before he says, as abruptly as if we’d never stopped talking, “Describe the recent attacker.”

“He was dressed entirely in black, including a mask of some sort.”

“Like a theater mask?”

I shake my head. “It was black fabric with holes for eyes and presumably for his mouth, though the lane was too dark for me to make out that. Also too dark for me to see eye color. He wore a black mask, a coat like a cape, a black shirt and trousers. Male. Between five foot eight and five foot nine. Eleven or twelve stone.”

“That is very specific.”

Damn. Less cop; more housemaid.

I take a deep breath before plowing on with, “I am certain it is the man you seek. The raven killer.”

I expect him to grumble at that, to pull back and even dismiss the rest of my description, clearly influenced by my presumption. I won’t retract that, though. I would rather damage my reputation with Gray than damage the investigation.

He does not pull back. Does not dismiss me. Just grunts, and then the carriage stops, and he ushers me out. A few words to Simon, and the coach leaves us on the roadside.

I look around. It’s a busy street, with the castle rising over the craggy hill in the background. To my left I see a sign that makes me do a double take, seeing my own surname. It’s for a James Atkinson, joiner, advertising his services in both cabinetmaking and undertaking. The rough stone building seems half collapsed, with a newer roof patched on. Advertising flyers cover one wall.

I’m still gazing at my surroundings when I realize I’ve lost my boss. He’s moving fast along the narrow road, and I scamper to catch up. I’ve just reached him when he speaks as if never noticing I’d disappeared.

“Describe the feather.”

“The…?”

“The peacock feather,” he says impatiently.

“Right. It looked like—” I stop myself before saying it looked like a peacock feather. “It was cut short. To fit inside his jacket, I presume. Less than a foot of quill. It was mostly the eye, and it was kind of ragged. But the colors were really bright.”

“Describe.”

“The colors?” I pull up an image from my mind. “Green and blue with an orange eye. It looked unnaturally colorful. Garish.”

“Peacock feathers usually are.”

“Yes, but this was unusually so. It may have been dyed.”

“And what happened to it?”

Gray turns a corner before I can answer, and I kick up my pace to reach him.

“The feather fell out as we fought,” I say. “Afterward, he stayed in the shadows. The men never even realized he was wearing a mask. Their attention was on me. He reached down, and I thought he was picking up my knife, so I shouted a warning. But one of my so-called rescuers had my knife, and when my attacker left, the feather was gone.”

He grunts.

I take a deep breath. “There was also a piece of paper with my name on it.”

He wheels so fast I fall back before steadying myself.

“I decided not to mention it because you obviously did not believe me about the feather.”

I tell him how I was lured in and how I found my name on that paper, presumably to startle me while he attacked.

“I believe,” I say, “that I was made a target because I am your housemaid, possibly even your temporary assistant. If the killer is following the investigation, he may have known I assisted Detective McCreadie at the rooming house. It seems a departure from the first murder, though, and I am not certain what to make of it.” I pause. “Unless he planned to torture me for information on the investigation. Strangle me to unconsciousness, take me somewhere, and torture me.”