NINETEEN
Once I realize Davina isn’t hurrying out, I slip over to where Catriona had been attacked. The scene of the crime. I search, but any evidence is long gone. I focus instead on trying to recall what I heard and saw that night. Being in the spot could nudge additional details from my memory. It doesn’t.
When Catriona first cried out, it sounded like a yelp followed by a playful shriek. I’d thought that meant she knew her attacker, but it could also have been a defense mechanism. A stranger steps out from the shadows, and she tries to pretend she’s only startled, not frightened.
There’d been the muffled whispers of conversation next. Angry? Annoyed? Calm? Hell if I know—I can’t even be sure it’d been a two-way conversation.
I’d seen her being throttled, but the figure doing the throttling remained in shadow. And that’s it. That’s all I’ve got, which is no more than I already had.
I return to my spot outside the dive bar. Soon a distant bell tower chimes ten thirty, and I’m still waiting to speak to Davina. By now, I’ve realized that whoever answered the door never actually said she was inside. I’ve also realized that even if I do get a pawnshop name, it’ll be closed by the time I arrive, if it’s not already.
Forget Davina. I’m sure the pawnshop is in this neighborhood. I canreturn tomorrow and check them all. Yes, Isla gave me a deadline, and yes, I’ll need to cut out on work, but I don’t know what else to do.
I need to figureoutwhat else to do if it goes to hell. I have Catriona’s money. I trust Isla will pay my back wages when I leave. I also have Catriona’s face, which should get me a position somewhere.
I will survive. I repeat that mantra so much I start humming the disco tune. It’s all I can do. That and keep from attracting attention. At first, I pace the street, only to be reminded there’s a reason sex workers are also known as streetwalkers. I move on a little farther and attempt to install myself at the mouth of an alley, but every time I look away from it, the hairs on my neck prickle, as if a would-be attacker is creeping up behind me. There’s no one there, and yet I cannot shake the feeling, so I move out into the light again.
I have now reached for my phone at least a dozen times. I want to look busy, and that’s always the answer. Pull out my phone and play a few rounds of solitaire or surf the news. Without that, I’m not sure how to seem busy. Then I find one of those pamphlets tucked into the pocket of Catriona’s coat. It’s an old one, telling the story of a horrific murder from four years ago, when a serving girl was attacked in her workplace, her throat slit and her body trampled by her killer.
My detective brain pounces on this. If Catriona kept the pamphlet, there must be a link between her and the crime. Clearly, she’s related to the poor woman in the tale, and she’s vowed revenge on the killer and keeps this in her pocket to remind her of her eternal quest.
Yeah, that would make a whole lot more sense if the pamphlet doesn’t say that the guy had been caught right away and later executed. While there’s a chance it’s significant, I have a feeling Catriona used it for exactly the same purpose I do: distraction.
I stand in the moonlight and pretend to read the paper, over and over, until I’ve memorized the damn thing.
If I get any insight from that pamphlet, it’s into the sort of story Victorians are willing to shell out a penny to read. The horrific broad-daylight murder of a young woman, killed because she dared criticize a man. According to the pamphlet, on hearing the news of the girl’s death, her mother went mad and had to be committed to an asylum.
“You’d best not have pulled me from my tea for nothing, kitty-cat.”
I glance up to see Davina bearing down on me.
“I had the best seat in the house, and I’ll have lost it now.” She puts out a hand. “Make it worth my while, or I’m nipping back inside.”
I hold up a sovereign, and her eyes gleam.
“Well, well, found your purse, did you?”
“I found this. It’s all I’ve got, and it will buy me twenty minutes of your time, right?”
“Depends on what you’re looking for. I don’t come cheap.”
“All I need is answers.” I glance up and down the dim, narrow road. “May we go somewhere else to talk?”
Her laugh rings out, echoing off the stonework. “Do you think me daft, kitty-cat? No, we’ll talk right here, and every minute you delay is a minute off your time.”
I hand over the coin.
She pulls out a tarnished pocket watch. “You have fifteen minutes left.”
“What? I paid for—”
“Every second you annoy me costs you a minute. You’re down to fourteen.”
“I need to know where I pawn my wares. I sold something I ought not to have taken, and my mistress demands its return.”
She lets out a cackle. “The kitty got caught stealing the cream, did she?” She holds up the gold coin, flipping it between her fingers. “Perhaps I did sell myself too cheap.”
I should have known better than to admit vulnerability. No honor among thieves. How often had I relied on that to turn one suspect against another?