“That’s not her name.”
Doyle perked up. “David Manners, the love interest in the 1932 production ofThe Mummy, was gay.”
“You sound like an ex of mine,” Millett stated.
“That’s never a positive comparison,” Doyle muttered, looking down at the dirty and deteriorated evidence in his hand.
Millett said, “Anyway, it turns out this fabric might have some relevancy to your case, beyond that it could have been used to strangle her. The lab says it’s old.”
“Old is subjective,” Larkin replied.
“Okay, old as in, presynthetic fiber and color,” Millett corrected. “They said there’s traces of tannin in the dye. The fabric is something called—”
“Crape,” Doyle interrupted.
Larkin glanced from Millett to Doyle. “What is crape.”
“It’s a textile that was heavily utilized throughout the Victorian era—specifically for mourning.”
Millett did a sort of jazz-hand gesture. “Death masks? Postmortem photography? Like I said—relevant.”
Doyle said to Larkin, “Companies like Courtaulds in England saw their capital rise from forty thousand to half a million pounds during the height of society’s obsession with mourning etiquette.”
“Which was when,” Larkin asked.
“Hmm… 1850 to 1885.”
“That’s a fuckton of money,” Millett stated.
Doyle continued. “Crape has been around since the 1600s and it’s been used for mourning just as long. It’s a labor-intensive process that produces this gauzy, semitransparent silk and its crimp-like texture. But here’s the thing about the etiquette of the time: women were expected to adhere to a very strict set of rules regarding attire, in accordance towhothey were in mourning for. For example, wives mourned their husbands for up to three years, and the first year they were required to wear nothing but bombazine and crape with a dull, matte finish. So the manufacturers of crape had to literally strip the sheen from the fabric after dying it in valonia for the black coloring, which—” Doyle motioned to Millett. “—would be the source of the tannins the lab found.”
Ira Doyle was a charismatic flirt who laughed easily and who no one took seriously. He kept to the sidelines, enough to be seen but enough to be forgotten. And his work, his labor, hissacrifices, none of it gave reprieve when he was but a middleman to the rest of the department.
Except for the last seventy-three days, Larkin had gotten closer than anyone had been allowed inside—or perhaps more aptly, had ever cared to be. And he’d seen beyond the veil to that of a man who smiled because he didn’t want to be sad anymore. He saw a man who overthought and yearned and struggled just like he did. Larkin saw a man who was so much smarter, so much more talented than literally everyone—even himself—had given credit to.
Ira Doyle was an artist.
A historian.
A scholar of loss for the living.
He was flawed and so full of life. Like a flower that’d gone a little wilted.
Imperfect though it might be, it was still beautiful and still breathing.
“I bet the private sector is mad as hell you left for a city paycheck,” Millett said to Doyle wryly.
Doyle’s brows rose and his cheeks colored.
Larkin, still studying Doyle, said with absolute confidence, “The Gilded Age Home’s loss is our gain.”
Doyle’s expression was an amalgamation of self-consciousness and humility and pride all rolled into one. He raised the evidence bag and said, “They don’t even make crape anymore—not like this. The last production runs were just after the second World War.”
“What do you believe the fabric’s intended use was,” Larkin asked.
“Could be a shawl… but more likely a woman’s veil.” He met Larkin’s eyes.
“Shit,” Larkin drew out, and then they both started up the stairs without another word between them.
