But is it truly proper for me to eat with my boss when his sister isn’t there? Oh, there are others in the house. Mrs. Wallace is in the kitchen, and Alice helps Jack serve the meal. Still, Victorian society has very strict rules of conduct for unmarried men and women, far more than earlier generations, and I suspect this oversteps.
So what happens when McCreadie and Isla marry? Because they will marry. Probably soon.
We don’t speak of that, but sometimes it feels like a specter looming over us whenever we indulge in something as innocent as a shared meal . . . knowing the world would not consider it innocent at all.
After dinner, we retire to the library with brandy, for a change of pace. At least it’s not port. Gray knows better than that. “Retiring with port” is one of those things that novels make sound so alluring. It’s not. Give me a smoky scotch or fruity brandy over sweet wine any day.
We’ve barely settled when Jack traipses in and collapses into a chair with, “So, did I hear something about a new case?”
I envy Jack her ability to “collapse” into chairs. She can do it because she’s changed out of her maid’s dress into trousers, while I’m stuck in a corset. Okay, I’m not “stuck.” I have trousers. Gray and Isla insisted I get a pair after witnessing my sartorial envy. But I don’t actually wear them unless I’m in my room for the evening with everyone else away. Changing into them is a pain, and I don’t like the risk of someone stopping by and me needing to hide. Also, I’ve grown accustomed to corsets and skirts, and I don’t mind them as much as I used to.
When Jack took over writing our stories, she offered to join the staff as maid, partly to make that easier. The first time we met her, she presented as a young man. She still often does that in public, but it seems mostly for convenience. The world is much wider to her as a young man than as a young woman. I suspect there’s also a level of gender fluidity there, given the ease with which she inhabits either role.
So while even as a maid, I never flopped down beside my employer and reached for the brandy bottle, Jack is never going to be a “proper” housemaid, and no one expects her to be.
“So this new case?” she prods as she pours herself a drink.
“It’s not the sort for your chronicles,” I say. “No one has died.”
“Yet.”
I shake my head. “If there is a death, it’s likely that of a dog, which no one wants to hear about.”
Her brows shoot up. “Are you kidding? Everyone wants to hear about dead dogs. Well, dead dogs who perished in some sentimental way. Please tell me he will have died saving his young master.”
In my time, no one wants the dog to die. Kill a dozen humans if you must, but if the movie pooch croaks, it better be followed by John Wick levels of vengeance. Victorians don’t share the same outrage at the death of a dog, but they adore a tragically sentimental ending, be it human or beast.
“It’s Greyfriars Bobby,” I say.
Jack goggles at me. “Greyfriars Bobby is dead?”
“We’re trying to find that out. For now, he’s missing.”
Her mouth drops open, and she gives her head a sharp shake. “You and Dr. Gray are investigating the disappearance of Greyfriars Bobby . . . and you don’t think that’s newsworthy?”
She looks at Gray. “Did she hit her head again?”
“Apparently, it is newsworthy,” he whispers my way.
“You are both . . .” She doesn’t bother to finish that, just shakes her head. “Your audience is women and children. Of course they like a good murder. And don’t give me that look, Mallory. Yes, they like a good murder. But they also like dog stories, and this is our city’s most famous dog. Missing. Stolen. Possibly murdered.”
“No one is going to murder Greyfriars Bobby.”
At a noise from Gray, I amend that. “Fine. Dr. Gray and I discussed this on the way home. We have one potential suspect who might have wanted to do the dog harm, though I would hope that only meant transporting him somewhere else. The day watchman is not a Bobby fan.”
“A what?”
“A Bobby . . . enthusiast.”
“Ah.” She walks to the desk and takes a pen and paper, as if the library belongs to her. “All right. So the top suspect is the day watchman?—”
I lift my hands. “I’m not saying we want this to be part of our chronicles. Let’s see where it goes first. But if it is, I promised the day watchman he’d be reported favorably.”
I expect her to ask why, but she says, “That’s how you got him to talk.”
Right. She’s a journalist. She’ll know all the tricks, especially that one.
“Yes. So unless he lied to us—or is responsible for the dognapping—we should be kind to him.”
