SEVENTEEN
For my efforts, I am rewarded with a piping-hot drink. Not a hot toddy, sadly. Okay, I don’t actually know what’s in a hot toddy, but it always sounds delightful. Catriona doesn’t get that. She doesn’t even get a toasty little pub to warm her bones. She gets a formal tearoom, which is supposed to be a treat, but damn it, I want my boozy drink and roaring fire.
Also, may I point out that the person who most enjoys my treat is the one who suggests it? Gray is practically vibrating as he surveys the pastries in the window. Ignoring the tiny sandwiches and currant-studded scones on our tray, he goes straight for his cakes and tarts and then starts eyeing everyone else’s.
Findlay hands his over quickly, as if Gray’s sidelong look is an order from on high. McCreadie sighs and gives him one of his tarts. I pretend not to notice Gray eyeing the petits fours that McCreadie bought me separately in appreciation of my “fine efforts.” Those are mine, damn it, and I’m eating every crumb if I need to choke them down.
As for the investigation, it seems when McCreadie called the young men radicals, it wasn’t because he misunderstood the nature of their campaign. To him, a radical is anyone trying to cause trouble, for both worthy and despicable causes. The positive ones fight for things like sanitation. The negative ones fight against things like immigration.
“I fully support immigration,” Findlay says, his first words since we sat down. “It broadens and strengthens our country.”
“I agree that it does,” Gray murmurs. “Though I have no idea why you are looking at me as you say that.”
The poor young man’s gaze drops. “I—I didn’t mean—That is to say, if I implied anything, it was not intended as an insult. You are a man of means, both educated and respected.”
“Best quit while you can, lad,” McCreadie says. “Dr. Gray is as Scottish as I am. He was born here.”
“Whatever these young men believe,” I say, “the important thing is whether it is connected to the murder.”
“How could it not be?” McCreadie says. “If the young man was tortured—and I’m beginning to believe Duncan was right about that—then it must be connected to the murder. That is the information he had. Something to do with these radicals.”
“Does that explain the bird staging, though?” Gray says. “Are we to presume it is what detective novels call a false clue? Something to distract us from the killer’s true intent?”
“Stool pigeon,” Findlay murmurs.
McCreadie looks up, raised teacup in hand. Gray glances over.
Findlay lowers his gaze again. “I-I could be mistaken, sir, but I thought perhaps the pigeon could signify a stool pigeon. An informer.”
McCreadie smiles. “That is brilliant, my boy.Excellentinsight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Gray nods. “Hugh is right. That is an excellent theory. If that were the case…”
The discussion continues. I cut one of my petits fours in two and pass half to Gray, who lights up so much I have to smile. Then I settle in to join the conversation, feeling happy and at home for the first time since I arrived.
I spend the rest of the day catching up on my chores, working straight through dinner and into the evening. Alice tries to help me refill the coal. I tell her no. Mrs. Wallace says the silver doesn’t need to be polished yet. I insisted on doing it. This is my job, and I will show I can do itwhilehelping Dr. Gray, at least until I’ve proven myself enough for Isla to decide her brother needs me more than Mrs. Wallace does.
What really drives me that evening is Isla herself. Oh, she isn’t watching me. Isn’t judging me. She’s not even home, and that’s the problem. She’s been gone all day, and I sense trouble. Mrs. Wallace expected her back for dinner, and Isla sent a note that she was dining out, which seemed to surprise Mrs. Wallace. When the door opens after eight, I tense, every muscle held tight as I will Isla to continue on upstairs for the night.
Instead, her footsteps tap into the dining room, where I’m polishing the silver. “Catriona?”
I turn to see her in the doorway.
“I’d like to speak with you in the library, please,” she says. “You may put away your polishing cloth. You are done for the evening.”
I reluctantly return the cloth to its place and try not to trudge into the library like a prisoner awaiting sentencing.
“Close the door, please, Catriona.”
I do, and when I turn, I find her seated behind the desk, the huge wooden barrier between us.
I eye an overstuffed armchair that I’ve dreamed of curling up in with a book. I look at it now, tear my gaze away, and take a hard-backed chair near the desk.
“Have you had any luck locating my locket, Catriona?”
Inwardly, I wince. Outwardly, I look as mournful as I can. “No, ma’am. I have not, but I have scarce had time to search. I was thinking it may have fallen—”