THIRTY-FIVE
I’ve been in the house for an hour and haven’t spoken to Mrs. Wallace yet. First, I told myself I needed to come up with subtle questions. Then, I decided I should do some housework, so she won’t grumble about me shirking my duties. The truth is that I want time to think, because I don’t like this solution to the puzzle.
It fits. I know my twenty-first-century killer inhabits the body of Catriona’s nineteenth-century one. I know he tortured Archie Evans for something, and I could be wrong aboutwhat,but I am not wrong that Evans was investigating Catriona on behalf of someone who might have been angry enough to kill her.
Is it possible that the note in Evans’s pocket isn’t from the killer? Catriona certainly had multiple enemies. But that would mean the killer randomly grabbed and tortured the friend of someoneelseCatriona had wronged. Yeah, that’d be one hell of a coincidence and, like Isla, I don’t like them.
Simon fits. He’s friends with Catriona. She’s still up to her criminal ways. She gets him involved in something, and it goes sideways—or Catriona yanks it sideways—and he tries to kill her.
The problem with that scenario? Simon wasn’t a thief, wasn’t a pickpocket, wasn’t any sort of criminal. He was a gay kid who dressed up as a girl to flirt with men and find himself a sugar daddy.
That fits with what I know of Simon, better than I first thought. I’dinterpreted flirting, but I can’t say it was more than me jumping to stereotypical conclusions about a close relationship between a handsome young man and a pretty young woman. Simon had no problem with her relationship with Constable Findlay. He even gave her shit for playing Findlay wrong. He also gave her shit for not giving up her thieving ways. As for me seeing a different side of him than Isla did, does that mean he’s a different guy… or just different with a friend versus an employer?
The opium link still bothers me. Seeing him today in the tenements definitely bothers me. I know I saw him. I know he retreated when he spotted me.
I’m almost done dusting the library when a possible explanation thuds into my brain. Dusting rag in hand, I march downstairs to the funeral parlor. I walk in to find Gray deep in paperwork. He looks up as I close the door behind me.
“Didn’t you have a funeral this afternoon?” I say.
He blinks, and I realize I’ve been hanging out with Isla too long today. I need to code-switch before I talk to anyone else in this world.
I half curtsy. “Apologies, sir. I came to clean, expecting to find the offices empty, as Mrs. Ballantyne said there was a funeral today.”
“Tomorrow. She has confused her days.”
“Then, if I may be so bold, sir, may I ask whether you gave Simon a half day off? Or perhaps dispatched him on an errand into the Old Town?”
He hesitates.
“I saw Simon in the Old Town, sir, and he seemed to be following Mrs. Ballantyne, which is concerning… unless you sent him to do so.”
He slowly sets down his pen, exhales through his teeth, and then runs a hand through his hair, streaking ink up his forehead.
“May I be blunt, Catriona?”
I plunk into the chair in front of him—as much as one can “plunk” wearing multiple layers of skirts.
He speaks slowly, as if picking through his word choices. “I understand my sister has forgiven you for her locket, and I know you were attacked by this killer we seek. I do not wish to seem mistrusting.”
“But Mrs. Ballantyne is your sister, and I have not yet proven myself, and so you were concerned for her safety. You overheard us going out, and you asked Simon to follow us to be certain she was in no danger from me.”
“Yes.” He straightens. “I am sorry if you are offended—”
“Not offended.” I pause. “Also apologizing for cutting you off, sir. You have reason for your mistrust. I spotted Simon and was concerned when he seemed to be following Mrs. Ballantyne.”
“You were concerned aboutSimon?”
I shrug. “I am a suspicious person, and it was suspicious behavior. I am glad that we cleared that up.” I rise. “Will I see you at tea?”
“Yes, and thank you for understanding my caution, Catriona.”
I’m barely in the hall when the back door flies open and Isla zips in, shutting it behind her. She doesn’t see me until she turns to find me standing there with my arms crossed.
The one thing about gas lighting? It doesn’t exactly illuminate things well, things such as the glower on my face, and she hurries over and whispers, “It is not Simon. I mean, the person who appears to be Simon is actually Simon.”
“You searched his room?” My voice rises.
“Of course not. I am hardly a detective. I spoke to him.”