A Rip Through Time(94)

“Also, yes, this would not be a shop frequented by servants.” She lowers her lips to my ear. “And you do not want that cream. It is overpriced and almost certainly adulterated goods. Let me concoct something for you at home.”

“Can I concoct it myself? With supervision?”

“You most certainly may,” she says with a smile. “I am as delighted to share my work as my brother is, though I suspect you shall find mine far less interesting. If you like the smell of that cream, though, then our work here is finished. We have a gift for the landlady.”

She takes the jar to the clerk, who wraps it in the most exquisite packaging. Isla murmurs something, and the woman smiles and stamps the packaging with the store’s intricate logo. Then we are off.

On the way, I ask Isla about Catriona. That’s a dead end. She knows nothing about the girl except that she seems to have come from a middle-class family. Catriona would say no more about it, not to Isla and not to McCreadie. I’ll need to hope Davina has more.

We arrive at the rooming house and slip around to the back entrance, which Isla believes will lead to the landlady’s kitchen and personal quarters.

Before we knock, Isla rummages in her small handbag for a tin and holds it out. “Peppermint?”

I peer in at the tiny lozenges. They’re the size of Tic Tacs but look more like painkillers.

“Yes. They are only peppermints,” she says. “I make them myself.”

I take one. It’s an interesting consistency, midway between a hard candy and a quick-dissolving mint. Strong but well flavored.

Isla pops two and then knocks.

She chose her gift wisely. The moment Mrs. Trowbridge sees the store stamp, she can’t invite us in fast enough. I explain that I feel terrible about the disturbance the other day and the broken table and wanted to bring her a little something. I don’t think she needs the excuse. Hell, I’m not even sure she hears it before she’s bustling us in.

Within two minutes, I’m searching Evans’s room while Isla keeps the landlady occupied. Isla had noticed Mrs. Trowbridge was growing dill, rosemary, and feverfew, which are apparently all treatments for arthritis, and that gave Isla a conversational “in.” She explained that her young friend—me—was hoping to see “the poor dead lad’s” room and pay respects, and between getting a gift and finding someone to talk herbalism with, the landlady was too happy to question the odd request. She assured me the boys were in class, and I would not be disturbed.

Evans had a room of his own, though it’s even smaller than mine. Within twenty minutes, I’ve completed a thorough search. There are textbooks, all shoved in a dusty corner, suggesting he was a recent graduate. One pornographic novel, tucked away where the landlady won’t find it. One hash pipe, well used and also recently used. The residue inside suggests opium.

That pipe nudges a thought, but I push it aside for now. I rummage through his clothing and toiletries, but find nothing hidden there. In a place of prominence lies a scrapbook of his newspaper articles. I thumb through it and then slip it into the bag I brought for our alleged shopping trip. Yes, I feel a twinge of discomfort taking a memento his family would want, but I don’t have time to read it here and I doubt I can hunt through old newspapers at the library … if there is a public library. Also, it’s been a week since Evans’s death, and it doesn’t look as if any family has either come to collect his things or asked for them to be packed away.

It’s only at the end of my search that I find something truly relevant. I’m checking Evan’s jackets when I catch the rustle of paper. I try all the pockets. Empty, save for the lint-shrouded remains of a humbug and one lonely penny.

I pat the jacket again. Definitely a rustle. I spread it out on the bed and check the seams until I find a small tear. I rip it open a little more and wriggle my fingers inside to find a folded piece of paper.

I open the paper. It’s a jotted list of five addresses. The top two have been crossed off. Beside the next one is a date—several days ago—with a question mark.

I’m folding the note when I see writing on the back, too. I smooth it out. It’s written in an entirely different penmanship, and when I see what’s there, I blink and have to reread.

Catriona Mitchell.

Born 1850, Edinburgh. Family name probably false. Ignore any criminal record under Mitchell, dating back to 1865. I have that. I want something I can use to repay the wench for her backstabbing.



I’m rereading the note, processing it, when boots clomp on the stairs. I shove the paper into my bodice. Then I grab a notebook from the bedside, check for handwriting, and shove it into my bag.

I’m out the door when one of Evans’s roommates crests the stairs. It’s the one who’d been studying the other day, the one who’d tried to rein in the others.

He blinks at me in the dim lighting. “What the bloody hell are you doing—” He stops and jabs at the stairs. “Go. Out the back. Thomas is in the front room.”

I nod and squeeze past him. Then I clamber down the stairs and wheel into the kitchen, where Isla is having tea with Mrs. Trowbridge.

Isla starts to smile at me, and then rises with a clatter. “My dear girl. You look a fright.” She strides over to pat my back reassuringly. “That must have been so difficult for you. I know you were terribly fond of young Archie.”