“Is it not hers?” I say. “It looks like it. She makes her own, and it’s rather distinctive.”
“It is hers,” he mutters. “A legacy from her damnable husband. He told her once that she suffered from foul breath. It was not her breath. It was her chemicals. But she got it into her head…”
Got it into her head that she had halitosis and developed a habit of popping peppermints. A nervous habit.
I spot another and break into a jog. I bend, but it is only a white stone. Then I see another mint, a few feet away.
“A trail of bread crumbs,” I say.
Gray doesn’t answer. He’s processing this, what it means. That his sister has been kidnapped by a killer.
Except he doesn’t know that. He knows Findlay throttled Catriona, but that does not necessarily make him a murderer. I’ve mentioned nothing about Findlay being the raven killer, and I am glad of that now. One look at his face, taut with fear and anger, tells me this is enough. He is afraid for her and yet clearheaded, the panic kept at bay.
“Why would he take her?” he says.
I jump. “Wh-what?”
“If Findlay caught her breaking into his apartment, he would be angry, and we know he is a man of murderous temper. But if he only caught her across the road? My sister is exceptionally clever. She would have an excuse at the ready, should anyone ask why she was loitering about.”
I continue on, searching the ground.
“Catriona?”
I bend to what I know is a pebble, picking it up and then discarding it. When I straighten, his hand falls on my shoulder, gripping and turning me to face him.
“What are you not telling me?” he says. Before I can say a word, his face darkens. “Findlay was involved with Evans. You were not investigating him as the man who attacked you. That may be what you found, but it is not what you suspected. We already established that.”
“We established nothing, sir, except that your sister is leaving a trail, which indicates she was abducted and in danger.”
“You!” he shouts, loud enough to make me jump.
He strides past me, and I spin to see an elderly man talking to someone through a window. The man turns, and even from here, I can see him squinting at this tall, broad-shouldered man marching across the road. He doesn’t pull back or flinch. Just squints as if not sure of what he’s seeing.
I grab my skirts and race across.
“Good evening, sir,” I call before Gray can say more. “I apologize for the abruptness of my master’s greeting. We are looking for someone, and he is quite concerned for her safety.”
Gray shoots a glare over his shoulder, one that says he doesn’t appreciate me running interference. I meet that glare with a hard look. He’s worried about Isla and angry with me for—rightly—thinking I’m holding out on him. He’s about to unleash that anger on a potential witness, and I’m not letting him do that.
“Ah,” the man says, nodding. “I presume you are looking for your wife? A red-haired lady in mourning attire?”
“Yes,” I say before Gray can correct him. “That is my mistress.”
“Your mistress needs to be kept home,” says a voice from the window. It’s a woman’s voice, though I can’t see her through the glazed glass. “She is drunk.”
“She isunwell,” the man says. “I would not speculate on the cause, and as she was dressed for mourning, I would say if it were inebriation, she has reason, poor woman.”
“What makes you say she seemed unwell?” I ask.
“She could not walk,” the woman inside snaps. “Needed a kind young constable to help her along.”
Gray stiffens. “What?”
“My master means to ask whether you might please tell us more?” I say. “She was being aided by a young man in a constable’s uniform?”
“He was not in uniform, but I know him,” the woman says. “He lives five houses down. Helped me with my door once, when it was sticking. Such a nice young man.”
“Would you tell us which way they went?” I ask. Gray has already left, striding across the road.
A hand extends from the window, waving languidly.
“Please,” I say to the elderly man. “If it is the young man we think—average height, about my age, with dark hair—our mistress may be in danger.”
The woman snorts and mutters under her breath, but the man’s brows knit.
“They went around the corner, lass,” he says. “To the end and then turned right. I did think it odd that he seemed in such a hurry, but I thought he was being considerate of the poor lady’s privacy.”
I’m already walking away, calling my thanks as I go.