Before I can look around, Gray steers me into the first room. I glance at the sparse gathering and whisper, “Are we early?”
He checks his pocket watch and shakes his head. “Scarcely on time. It will begin any moment.”
I frown at the half-dozen reporters surrounding us. Only three even have notepads at the ready. Wouldn’t a case like this garner more attention? Maybe people in Victorian Scotland weren’t all that interested in murder.
As I look around, I get looks back. Looks of confusion, paired with frowns. I realize I’m the only woman there and edge closer to Gray, in explanation.
Why, yes, I am here with this distinguished gentleman. A pretty bauble for his arm. Pay me no heed, good sir.
When Gray murmurs something to me, I glance to see a gray-haired man stride through the door. He’s joined by a florid-faced man of perhaps forty, who lifts his chin with a pompous semi-smirk. Both ascend the rough platform.
“Where is Detective McCreadie?” I ask, rising on my toes to scan the front of the crowd.
Gray only makes a noise deep in his throat. A near growl of discontent. Before I can ask what’s wrong, the older man begins. He’s a lousy public speaker—a senior officer who’s been handed this position for his seniority rather than his leadership skill. He stumbles through opening remarks and then introduces the criminal officer in charge of the case—the guy standing beside him.
I rise on my toes, and Gray bends to let me whisper in his ear.
“Has Detective McCreadie been removed from the investigation?”
“No,” he murmurs in my ear. “He is only being deprived of the recognition for it.”
When I frown, he says, “They have put a more senior officer in charge. Detective McCreadie will answer to him. But Detective McCreadie will do the work.”
Huh. Some things don’t change, apparently.
The two men on the podium do a bang-up job of making a fascinating case seem dull as dishwater, so I focus my attention on someone a little more interesting: Gray. I watch his reactions as the men speak. His tight face as he listens. His cheek tic of annoyance when the other criminal officer boasts that he’ll find the killer. His full-body stiffening when that officer brags about all the information he personally gleaned from the body—all the information Gray and McCreadie provided.
Otherwise, it’s a routine press conference. The criminal officer and his superior talk about the case. The reporters ask questions.
We’re walking out when someone taps Gray’s shoulder, and we both turn to see McCreadie, as nattily dressed as he’d been last night, smiling with an ease only barely betrayed by a tension in his eyes.
“I had hoped to see you up there,” Gray says.
McCreadie shrugs. “Someday.”
“That man is an incompetent boor. He solved one case twenty years ago, and he’s skated on his reputation ever since.”
“It wasn’tonecase, Duncan,” McCreadie says as he steers his friend to the side.
“Yes, it was. Three consecutive murders but only a single investigation. That makes it one case.”
“A serial killing?” I say.
Gray frowns at me. “Serial… Yes, I suppose that’s what one would call it.”
“Catriona?” McCreadie says as if just seeing me there. “What ever are you doing here? And what are you wearing?”
“A fine gentleman’s jacket,” I say. “Is it not stylish?”
I twirl, and one corner of his mouth rises. “It was… about five years ago. But I daresay it looks better on you than it did on young James. It’s a bold fashion statement. I approve.”
I half curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir.”
His look is half amused, half bewildered. Apparently, I’m not acting like the Catriona he knows.
He gives his head a shake and says, “As for the original question, what are you doing here with Duncan?”
“She was helping with my laboratory observations,” Gray says. “I daresay she did a sight better than James. Perhaps it’s not only his coat she shall take over.”