I adjust my grip on the pie box. “Yes, I fear poor Archie did always talk too much, and it has doubtless been the death of him. I wonder, though—”
A string of curses has me turning to see Thomas peering out the front window. “There’s a police constable out there.”
“What?” Henry strides over to look. He adds to the curses. “Does he think we will not recognize him without his uniform? It’s a wonder we didn’t smell the stench from here.”
I stroll over until I can see Findlay across the street. Yes, he’s not inuniform, but his bearing gives him away, spine ramrod straight, gaze scanning the street as if he’s on patrol.
“That lad is a police constable?” I say. “He looks terribly young.”
Thomas wheels, advancing on me so fast that I do step back this time. “You brought him here.”
“Wh-what?”
“We should have seen it straightaway. Just look at her yellow hair.” He grabs a lock before I can get out of reach. “She’s German. Maybe Russian.” Thomas sneers. “Russian, I wager.”
“Do I sound Russian?”
I see the slap coming. His expression telegraphs it, but my brain still doesn’t react fast enough. It would in the modern day, but this is Victorian times, and I am a fair maiden on a condolence call. Surely, he will not strike me.
He does exactly that. Or he tries, because while I may inwardly curse my delay, I still manage to duck the slap. He doesn’t expectthat,and his face goes bright red, and when he spins on me, it’s not a mere slap he telegraphs. It’s a right hook.
With no room to escape, I block instead, my arm flying up to stop his, the pies falling to the floor as someone gasps. I think they’re gasping because this guy is attacking me. Or maybe even because I dropped the damn pies. But then I see faces turned my way, the shock on them, and I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in a glass cabinet door, and I seeme.Mallory. Oh, it’s Catriona’s body, but the expression is my own, a cold rage that stuns everyone except the guy attacking me.
Thomas sees that look, and he sees me blocking his blow, and he tries to stomach punch me. I almost make the mistake of kicking him away. A mistake because I’m wearing four layers of skirts. My knee rises, and it registers the confining fabric just in time. I grab and twist his arm instead, spinning him around. Then I shove him. He smacks into a dainty side table, toppling it with a crash.
A door flies open, and a white-haired woman appears. While Henry might have made a snide crack about Mrs. Trowbridge “hiding,” when she barrels through that door, Thomas scrambles up, brushing off his shirtfront.
I rush toward her, my eyes wide with feigned terror. She puts up a hand to stop me and then sets her hands on her hips.
“What’s this all about, lass?”
“I-I-I pushed him into the table, ma’am. I am so terribly sorry. I came to pay my respects for poor Archie. This young man accused me of being a foreigner and tried to slap me, and I dropped the pies, and then he tried to hit me again, so I pushed him.”
“Foreigner?” she says, as if this is the most important part of my recitation. She glares at Thomas. “Are you daft? How does this poor lass look like aforeigner?”
His mouth works, nothing coming out.
“Even if she were—which she is not—there is no call to slap her. I won’t have that nonsense in my house. You will apologize, and you will pay her for the pies.”
“Pay her?” he squeaks.
“Apologize and pay herdoublefor the pies, or you can pack your bags and go. The lass came to pay her respects, which is more than any of you have done. Poor Archie has been murdered, and you carry on as if nothing happened. When the school term is done, I want the lot of you gone.”
There’s satisfaction in her voice, as if she’s wanted them gone for a while and is happy for an excuse. They haven’t seemed too torn up over Evans, and her words prove they aren’t. Together with Thomas’s comments about Evans not knowing when to keep his mouth shut, I have a reasonable theory about why Evans was tortured. Someone identified him as the weak link in this group, the one most likely to talk.
I’m not getting anything else from Evans’s roommates. Mrs. Trowbridge might be another matter. For now, she’s a potential asset to stick in my back pocket.
Thomas’s apology is half-assed. He does pay, though, and I try to give the coins to Mrs. Trowbridge for the table. That wins me brownie points I can use later, as her gaze softens and she pats my hand and tells me I’m a good girl but no, the young lads will pay for the table.
By the time she escorts me to the door, Findlay has made himself scarce. I thank Mrs. Trowbridge and head out into the street to go find him.