“Was it cabinetmaking?” I say. “I know that is how many undertakers begin.”
The faintest hint of a smile. “It is, but no. I cannot imagine my father as a cabinetmaker. He invested in private cemeteries and friendly societies, and he proved a successful speculator, and so he decided to commit himself more thoroughly to the business of the dead.” He looks down at Evans. “As you are not squeamish, perhaps you could help me for an hour or so?”
I make a show of biting my lip, and then meekly murmur, “It’s my half day off, sir.”
“Yes, yes, I know. I promise I shan’t take up more than an hour of your time, and I’ll send you along with two shillings for your troubles.”
His tone somehow manages to be both imperious and considerate. He’s dismissive of Catriona’s day off—she is a servant, after all. Yet he understands he’s asking for extra work and offers compensation. Does that make him a good employer for his time? I could better answer that if I had any idea how much a shilling was worth.
I suppose I should be grateful he doesn’t order me to stay all afternoon for no extra compensation. I suspect the Scottish equivalent of WorkSafeBC is still a hundred years from being available to hear employment-standards complaints.
When I don’t jump at the offer, he sighs. “It truly will only be an hour, Catriona. I have someplace to be after that. Detective McCreadie wants me…” He waves off the rest of the explanation. Being a mere maid, I don’t need it. “One hour. Two shillings.”
“I’d rather take the time in lieu.”
“In lieu?”
“Instead of. It’s a local phrase. From where I was born.”
His brow furrows. “My sister said you are from Edinburgh.”
“May I bank the extra hour, sir?”
“Bank…” he murmurs. “That is a clever use of the word, Catriona. To put the extra hour into the bank of your time off, yes? You appear to have picked up many odd phrasings and pronunciations.” He’s barely paying attention now, having walked across the room to fetch a notebook. “It must be the injury to your head. I’ve heard of such a thing. A form of aphasia.”
“Mmm, yes, that’s it. Aphasia. Whatever that means.”
Is that another ghost of a smile? “I will not bore you with the explanation, but combined with personality shifts, it is very intriguing. I might ask you to speak to a fellow of mine from the Royal College. He studies the brain. Not really my thing. It is intriguing, though.”
He’s still only half paying attention. Lucky for Catriona, her boss isn’t all that interested in her “personality shifts” and “odd phrasings and pronunciations.” He’s dismissed them as a sign of mental trauma and moved on to things that do interest him. Including, apparently, this corpse.
“All right,” he says as he opens the notebook. “You may bank two hours for giving me one. Now, this will be tricky, but I’m going to ask you to move the cadaver and assist me in observations while I write them down. Begin by holding out the hand with the fingers splayed.”
I do as he says, which isn’t right, and then I try again, and it’s still not right. After the third round of vague instructions and random gestures followed by a snap of frustration, I say, “Fine, here. You do this, and I’ll take notes.”
He stops. Looks at me. Then he turns his notebook around. “Read the top line.”
“The deceased displays pete—pete—I don’t know what the rest of that says,” I lie. “But if you spell the words I don’t know, I can write them.”
He’s staring at me as if I’m the one lying on the examination table. “My sister told me you were illiterate.”
I mentally smack my forehead. Gray wasn’t suggesting I lacked the education to spell “petechial.” He was questioning my ability to read and write. I am a nineteenth-century housemaid, after all.
I send up a silent apology to Catriona and straighten. “I may have misrepresented my abilities to obtain the position, sir. I didn’t want Mrs.Wallace thinking I was putting on airs. I had some lessons in my youth, and I can read and write adequately.”
Of all the excuses I’ve made, this one seems one of the most reasonable, yet this is the one that has him scrutinizing me as if I’m a five-year-old who has told the most outrageous fib.
“It was my sister who hired you.”
Really? That’s where he’s drawing the line? Forget the fact that his nineteen-year-old housemaid didn’t blink at a grotesquely staged corpse or at handling said corpse, he’s suspicious because she misremembered who hired her?
“Yes,” I say. “All the more reason for me not to want to look as if I’m getting above my station. The lady of the house might not wish to hire an educated girl.”
Now he’s truly staring at me, as if I’ve sprouted a second head. Then he thrusts out the pen.
“Take notes, then. I will spell what I need.”
I hold the pen over the page… and a blob of ink falls onto it.