TWENTY-EIGHT
And so I am back in Gray’s good graces. He doesn’t say so. Doesn’t join McCreadie in apologizing for questioning my attack story, either. His apology comes in action, and from the moment he heard about the feather, the mistrust began to ebb, and I am once again his assistant.
He examines the body while taking time now to explain what he’s doing and also keeping an eye on his pocket watch. At the last possible moment, the victim is loaded onto a cart.
And that’s when the victim’s sister shows up.
The timing is not accidental. While McCreadie seemed to be completely focused on Gray’s examination, he was multitasking, having already gotten a preliminary ID on the body and sent officers to track down next of kin. They found the sister and brought her to the scene, and I… I will say little about that except that I truly hope the killer is not in the crowd to feed off her grief.
Obviously, I’m horrified at the thought of bringing next of kin to the actual crime scene, but McCreadie is following procedure, where efficiency is the key—get the body identified as quickly as possible. To his credit, when he realizes the sister has arrived, he hurries to the cart and covers the body himself, exposing only her face. I cringe at possible trace contamination from the blanket, but his heart is in the rightplace, and trace transfer is hardly a concern in a world that doesn’t test for trace yet.
As for me, I help in the only way I can—by staying far from the cart and leaving the poor woman to her grief.
I’m bent examining the peacock feather when Gray strides over to scoop it up, making me wince. Again, I remind myself that without fingerprint or DNA testing, there’s no concern with handling evidence, but I still inwardly squirm.
“It is the same, yes?”
“If not the exact one, then its exact match,” I say. “There’s something on the bottom of the quill, where it’s been cut off. Hacked off, it looks like. A black staining, like ink.”
“Because itisink,” he says.
“Ah, right. Hard to find peacock feathers just lying about, so he made do with a peacock-feather pen. Would the dyeing make it cheap or expensive?”
“Cheap,” he says. “A substandard feather, dyed.”
“Also ragged,” I say. “Probably not a new pen, then. Where would one purchase a used peacock-quill pen?”
His lips twitch. “Now you wish to take poor Findlay’s job, too? Shall I lose you to Hugh?”
“I was speculating,” I say. “But if you are not interested in theorizing…”
An unmistakable glitter lights his eyes. “I am far too interested in theorizing, as Hugh would tell you. Not that he complains about me playing detective. He’s happy enough for my deductions, though it doesn’t keep him from grumbling about them.”
“Tell him you are a consulting detective.”
One brow arches.
“Sherlock Holmes?” I say.
His expression tells me that, once again, I am ahead of my time. Or behind it. I’ve lost track.
“Hugh!” Gray calls, waving the feather as McCreadie returns from the cart. “May we take this for examination?”
I open my mouth to protest, but McCreadie shrugs. “If you like.”
Gray pockets the evidence as I suppress a whimper.
“There’s also a raven feather,” McCreadie says. “It was under her body. Would you like that, too?”
“Please.” Gray turns to me. “Shall we wash up before we return home?”
“Yes, sir, if we may.”
“Let’s do that then, and we’ll find ourselves a cab. Hugh? Will you join us for lunch?”
“I will not turn down Mrs. Wallace’s cooking.”
We’re having lunch while Addington conducts the autopsy with his assistant, who turns out to be an old guy looking a lot like I’d expected of Addington himself. I delivered their tray and endured Addington’s ogling, and then I hurried back to serve lunch. We are settling in to a midday repast of hot soup and cold roast goose when Isla returns.