Gray only took over the business because his older brother refused, and so the house—and the responsibility for supporting his mother and sisters—went to Gray. He is wholly unsuited to the profession, though. He can be efficient, but only when the subject is interesting, and repetitive tasks are not, so his mind tends to wander.
He is empathetic, in his way. He’s certainly more concerned about the plight of the poor than most. But outward displays of sympathy aren’t his thing. So he has his undertaker mode, which is an active-listening face while his mind goes elsewhere. That’s what he does with the guard, and like most people, the guard doesn’t notice that Gray isn’t actually there.
Once I’ve doled out the requisite amount of understanding, I ease back to the case of the missing dog.
“I know it will be easier for you if Bobby never returns,” I say. “But I fear, sir . . .” I nibble my lip and fix him with my most sweet-faced big-eyed Catriona look. “I fear that if people blame you for picked pockets, and a dog you did not want here disappears . . .”
“I had nothing to do with it,” he says. “I’ve been a watchman all my life. That’s what he was, you know. The fellow whose grave Bobby guards. John Gray. A night watchman.”
“I did not know that,” I lie.
“It’s the truth.” His voice lowers to a grumble. “I don’t even think that is his dog. Not that I knew the man personally, but those that did say . . .” He trails off. “Enough of that. The point is that I would never harm a beast.”
“Of course not,” I say. “I only fear how it will look. My employer here . . .” I glance at Gray. “He is a doctor, and he says the dog seemed to have a tumor.”
“Aye. That he did. On his jaw.”
“So it is likely Bobby went off to die. But those who hired us want to know for sure, and I think it is best for all if we can answer the question.”
The watchman considers that, peering out at the kirkyard in a way that makes me wonder how good his eyesight is. “He is probably dead.”
“And if we discover that, then no one can accuse anyone of harming him.”
“That is true.”
“People will want to know what happened to Greyfriars Bobby,” I continue. “When we have the answer, I am certain the newspapers will report on it, and we will say we could not have solved the mystery without the help of the watchman.”
“Day watchman,” he says. “Not the night watch. He’s a drunken old sod.”
“Day watchman.” I take out my notebook. “What is your name, sir?”
He gives it, and I have him spell it, and he takes great care with that, checking to be sure I have it right.
“Thank you,” I say. “Can you tell me when you first realized Bobby was missing?”
After we finish that interview, we head home. It’ll be dinner soon, and having already skipped tea, Gray will not dare miss another meal. Housekeepers are staff, but they are also responsible for one’s comfort and peace at home, and you don’t dare cross them with something like missing two meals in a row.
The watchman didn’t give us much. He says Bobby was gone when he arrived at work three days ago. The dog does wander, so he didn’t give it much thought until the next day when the night watchman—who seems fonder of Bobby—asked how long he’d been missing.
When Bobby wanders, it can be for hours, but the last time he’d been gone a full day, he’d been a much younger dog, given to being tempted away from his spot for a weekend fling. That hasn’t happened in years.
What this does, mostly, is confirm Davina’s account and add a few extra details. The dog seems to have vanished three nights ago in the early morning hours, around when the watchmen changed shifts. That part might be notable. If Bobby didn’t leave on his own, then someone knew the best time to take him. The night watchman cared about Bobby, but he wouldn’t think it odd if the dog was gone for the last hour of his shift. The day watchman wouldn’t be concerned about the dog missing at all.
As for the ringer Davina found, the poor dog follows us so closely that it bumps into our legs whenever we stop. We rescued it, and we haven’t shooed it away. It’s not leaving.
We know better than to take the dog in the house. Mrs. Wallace is still touchy about the cat—now named Freya—and the fact she tolerates it proves her devotion to Alice. But a three-legged wild kitten is one thing. A dog from the streets, dirty and likely flea ridden, is not going to be allowed in her house, even if her darling Gray himself requests it.
“I will take the dog to Simon,” Gray says as we come in the mews way. “You may tell Mrs. Wallace that we have returned.”
I shake my head. “Best for you to tell Mrs. Wallace. I’ll take the dog and speak to Simon.”
After being “in service” as a maid, I understand how awkward it is when your employer asks a favor. Having my sergeant ask me for a favor was awkward enough, but it’s different as a Victorian servant. People still use the terms “master” and “mistress” here, and while Gray and Isla do not, the words have meaning. There is a power dynamic worse than any I experienced in the modern world. Simon doesn’t just work for Gray. He lives above his stable, eats his food, and most of all, knows he doesn’t need to worry that he’ll be fired if his employer “discovers” he’s gay. Everyone in the town house knows, and they don’t care.
When I first arrived, I’d been horrified by the work environment. Long days of hard labor for what seemed like trivial pay, with only two half days off each week. I soon discovered that working for Isla and Gray is a dream job. They pay above standard, and they give double the standard time off. In the Gray household, a workday ends after dinner—it doesn’t stretch until you drop, exhausted, into bed at midnight, only to wake again at dawn. Gray and Isla are kind, considerate, and never demanding.
Just as we are in the early days of food safety, we are also in the early days of labor laws. Children can no longer work in factories or mines. Well, not if they’re under ten. After that, you can’t make them work more than nine hours a day. Well, unless they’re thirteen to eighteen, and then they can work up to twelve hours. But all children must get two hours of school a day, which is somehow squeezed into their working day. As for adults, all bets are off. We are nowhere near forty-hour work weeks and overtime pay and statutory holidays and vacation, let alone safe workplaces.
