A Rip Through Time(80)

“I heard about your attack Wednesday night,” he says. “I know Detective McCreadie doubted you at first, but he said the feather proves it. I wanted to say that I am sorry, and I hope you are all right.”

“I am, thank you.” I look at the crowd and then back at him. “I am sorry for how I treated you. You’re a good police officer.”

He goes still, and I realize he might think I’m mocking him.

I grimace. “That sounded patronizing. I apologize. I mean it honestly. You’re a good officer, and I endangered that, and I’m sorry. If anything ever comes of what I did, I will take the blame. I’ll tell Detective McCreadie I stole your notes and that’s how I came by the information.”

His gaze moves away as he says, gruffly, “It was my mistake.”

“No, I will fix it, if need be. I mean that, and I am not saying so in hopes of renewing our attachment.” Dear God, no. “I am only trying to make amends.”

I scan the crowd again. “If I may pass on a bit of advice, take note of faces in the crowd. The killer could be here.”

He considers that, again watching me intently. “You have a gift for this. Perhaps more than I.”

Is that jealousy? It doesn’t sound like it. Just an observation.

I shrug. “I have traveled in the circles of criminals. I know their minds. It’s just another way to do detective work. It seems to me that the killer wishes to call attention to himself, first with a bizarre murder and now a horrific one. If that is the case, might he not be here to see his handiwork admired?”

When he doesn’t answer, I say, “It was only a suggestion. After all, I am but a housemaid.”

McCreadie walks over with Gray.

“I thought of taking note of the crowd,” Findlay says to McCreadie. “Being such a gruesome murder, is it possible the killer might be here, watching our horror?”

McCreadie smiles. “That is a capital idea, Colin. Yes, please do that.”

Findlay nods his thanks to me and moves into the crowd.

A coach drawn by two horses clatters down the lane, and as we look up, McCreadie grumbles. “Trust Addington to insist on bringing his coach where it obviously cannot fit.”

It does fit, but only by driving all the foot traffic into side streets and alleyways, the displaced shaking their fists at the passing driver.

“Even if his driver can get in,” I say, “how is he going to get out again?”

“Easy,” McCreadie says. “Addington will expect us to move the body and clear away the crime scene so that he may continue down the lane.”

I try not to blink in horror. A crime scene is about to be destroyed so the coroner can visit in his personal coach.

As I stare, a prickle on the back of my neck has me scanning the crowd. I meet eyes. Male eyes, many angry, as if affronted at my presence here, front and center. That would include most of the other officers, unfortunately.

Get used to it, boys. The women at your crime scenes won’t always be lying on the ground with their throats slit.

The driver gets as far as he can, then hops down to open the door, as if for royalty. I’m surprised the poor guy isn’t expected to bow.

A man climbs out of the coach. The doctor’s assistant or intern. He’s in his late twenties, lanky and red-haired. He pulls out his boss’s black medical bag. Then he shuts the door and strides toward us.

“McCreadie,” he calls in a voice far too deep and hearty for his youth.

“Dr. Addington.”

I squint against the sun, thinking I must be wrong about his age, but my first impression doesn’t change as he grows closer. He’s ruddy-cheeked, with an unlined face that says he probably hasn’t passed his thirtieth birthday.

“Gray!” he calls. “What ever are you doing here?”

There’s no malice in his tone. No sarcasm either. His voice warms with the genuine affection of a man greeting an esteemed colleague.

“I heard of the death and thought it a rare opportunity to observe a murder victim in situ.”

“Excellent idea.” He claps Gray on the arm, and here a touch of condescension tinges Addington’s voice. “Now my question, McCreadie, is why someone didn’t come to tell me Dr. Gray was on the scene, so I didn’t need to come.”

“As you are the city’s police surgeon, sir, I am required to summon you. Also, I thought, like Duncan, you might wish to see the body, as he says, in situ.”

“What ever for?” Addington peers over at the woman’s body. “If you would like my opinion, Detective, the poor lady is quite dead.” He laughs at his own joke. “Dr. Gray may never have practiced medicine, but even he can tell you that.”

Gray stiffens. And there it is. The reason for Addington’s mild condescension. He is a “proper” doctor, and Gray is not.

“You still ought to have sent someone to tell me Dr. Gray is here,” Addington chides McCreadie. “I was in the midst of seeing a patient when your messenger arrived. How much more convenient for me to finish that up and have a cup of tea before strolling down to Dr. Gray’s house to conduct the examination.”

“Your convenience is my utmost concern, Dr. Addington,” McCreadie says.

Addington slaps him on the arm. “There’s a good chap. Now let’s see if you can clear this mess away so my coach may pass through, and with any luck, I can flee this wretched place before the stench ruins this suit forever.”