A Rip Through Time(84)

“Well, now I really do want to know what you were doing out there,” McCreadie says.

I explain. As I do, both men’s moods shift, sparks of outrage from McCreadie and a descending thundercloud of anger from Gray.

“Your locket?” McCreadie says. “She stole your grandmother’s locket?”

Isla raises her hands. “The old Catriona stole it. The one sitting with us does not recall that and, on realizing what she had done, she took the necessary steps to retrieve the necklace. Dangerous steps that nearly cost Catriona her life.”

McCreadie continues to grumble, but his anger will pass quickly. Quick to temper and quicker to laughter, as my nan would say. It’s Gray I watch. It’s the weight of his anger that I feel. His is deeper. His will linger.

“Is there anything else we should know about, Catriona?” he asks finally, that cool gaze turning on me.

Isla tries to cut in, but I beat her to it. “I honestly do not know, sir. Mrs. Ballantyne mentioned the locket, and knowing I have stolen things in the past, I feared I had taken it. I presumed if I had, it would be at the pawnbroker. Fortunately, it was. There may be other things I took before my accident. There may be things I said or did before my accident. Nothing since.”

“So you have been forthright with us on all subjects since the accident?”

“Duncan,” Isla says. “That is an entirely unfair question. Let me rephrase that with respect to her right to a private life. Catriona? Have you stolen anything since your accident? From us or from anyone else?”

“Only a cup of coffee.” At her look, I say, “It was from Dr. Gray’s breakfast tray. He didn’t finish his morning pot, and so I had a cup.”

Isla struggles to suppress a smile, and says gravely, “We shall see that you are allowed your own coffee.”

“Thank you.”

“Since your accident, have you lied about anything related to your employment or your position as a member of this household?”

“Not to the best of my knowledge. It is possible that I said something that was not true because I don’t remember the truth, but I have not intentionally lied.”

“Since your accident, have you done anything that could harm any member in this household?”

“No.”

Isla glances at her brother as McCreadie jokes about her taking a job as a barrister. His anger has already passed. Gray stays quiet. He’s not going to say that he accepts my words at face value—I’m not exactly hooked up to a polygraph. But he isn’t challenging me further, and that’s the best I can hope for.

I continue with my story. McCreadie is impressed by how I fought back and teases that Isla should have a knife of her own, to which she heartily agrees, and he realizes that was a dangerous joke to make. There’s a little back-and-forth there, with him trying to talk her out of it and her making plans to purchase one “posthaste.”

Gray pushes to his feet. “You’ve put the idea into her head, Hugh, and there will be no getting it out. The best you can do is teach her how to use it.”

“Use a knife?” he sputters.

“Would you prefer a revolver?” Isla says. “Although, now that you mention it—”

“I did not mention it. You did.”

“I should like a revolver. One of those tiny ones that American ladies carry in their handbags.”

“They do not carry pistols in their handbags, Isla. You have been reading too many of those novels of yours.”

“But one would fit in a handbag, would it not? That is an excellent idea, Hugh. Thank you for suggesting it.”

“I did not suggest it.”

Gray clears his throat. “Please do continue this lively discussion without me. I have a body to attend to.”

He rises and gets to the door before looking at me. When his brows knit, I almost exhale in relief. Okay, so he might not have forgiven me for the locket yet, but he isn’t angry enough to bar me from the examination room.

I nod and hurry after him.





TWENTY-NINE


Addington is gone, and Gray is furious about that. The dark cloud of anger hovering over locket-stealing Catriona shifts over a new target. Addington was supposed to come upstairs and speak to McCreadie before he left. That’s apparently the real reason McCreadie was having lunch here. He was waiting for Addington’s report. Addington and his assistant finished the autopsy and left notes jotted in a nearly indecipherable scrawl.

“He will file a report, won’t he?” I ask as Gray glowers at the brief notes.

“Report?” he says without looking up.

“The, uh…” I search for a word. “Coroner” isn’t used here. “Pathologist” is too much for Catriona. “The report that police surgeons make after an autopsy. There is one, is there not?”

Please tell me there is one.

“He will sign the death certificate stating cause of death,” Gray says. “Otherwise, he will make notes to present at court. Detective McCreadie will receive an oral report, but he’s going to need to chase Addington down to get it. That is inexcusable.”

“Is it possible…?” I clear my throat. “I know you are not licensed to practice medicine—”

His shoulders tense.

I hurry on. “I do not mean any insult, sir. I was only going to say—”