“An autonomic Mrs. Wallace?”
I smile. “Something like that, except made of metal. If you were to dress up as a robot, you’d wear silver. Oh, there’s a book coming around the turn of the century with a tin man. That might have been the start of it. Anyway, people do these little performances to make money. I’ve seen them on High Street in my day, and I’ve even noticed a few here with musical instruments and exotic animals.”
“So this Roy would pretend to be a cowboy and act the part in hopes of payment. A performance for a small group.”
“Exactly. The question is, what would it have to do with Bobby?”
“A dog for his show?”
I consider but then shake my head. “You could get a stray dog anywhere. This might end up being a false lead. Not that the children made up a story, but that they saw an oddly dressed man interacting with Bobby and blamed him when the dog went missing. At least, if we find Roy, he might have more information.”
Tommy told us where Roy lives, but we don’t get far with that lead. Roy shares an apartment with two other men, and it’s on the third floor of a tenement that I suspect won’t last much longer. It’s exactly the sort of building that the city is pulling down as part of their public health slum renovation plan. And by “slum renovation,” I don’t mean they demolish a decrepit and infested structure and build a new one for the former residents. I mean the same thing that I’d mean in my own world. They’ve been tearing them down, yes. Building better, safer, and cleaner apartments, yes. And then renting them to the working class, evicting the former tenants along with the rats.
There’s no way we can check Roy’s apartment for a dog. Oh, we have ideas, if it comes to that. We can pull out our usual Old Town routine—buy a couple loaves of bread, knock on the door, and pretend to be from a charitable society. That would give us a look inside. However, if Roy is there, it also gives him a look at us, which we don’t want. Not yet.
We head to the next-best place to find him: the area where he does his performance art. Tommy has no idea when that happens, so all we can do is head up to High Street and have a wander through the small crowds near the castle and then walk the mile down to the palace.
In my day, this is the Royal Mile, stretching between Edinburgh Castle and Holyrood Palace. It’s not called that yet. The castle is partly open to the public—with ticketed entry, of course—and while it’s not thronged with tourists, it’s one of the busiest spots in the city. The palace at the other end is where Queen Victoria stays while she’s on official business in Edinburgh, and apparently, she’s been slowly kicking out various nobles who had lodgings there, as she takes over more of the palace.
While we see tourists outside the palace, and we see homeless people hoping for charity, we don’t spot anyone doing what I’d call performance art. Finally, Gray surveys the selection of the homeless and, with a decisive grunt, strides toward an elderly man with a missing leg, the stump on full display, just in case anyone suspected him of faking it.
Seeing a gentleman bearing down on him, the man stiffens. Then he breaks into a near-toothless grin.
“Dr. Gray,” he says. He reaches for his crutch to rise, but Gray motions for him to stay where he is and crouches.
The old man peers up at me. “Found yourself a lass finally, doctor?” he crows. “And a right pretty one at that. Good for you.”
“This is my assistant, Miss Mitchell.”
The man doesn’t blink. Doesn’t give Gray a sly look. He only beams up at me. “I heard there were girls in the medical school. Good for you, miss.”
I open my mouth to correct him, but he continues, “It’s a fine school, it is. Took my leg off proper, quick as can be, and none of the sepsis. That was Dr. Gray’s doing. He’d been reading about the sepsis, and he had some ideas, and his teacher humored him, and there was no sepsis. How clever is that? And him just a student doctor, too.”
“Dr. Gray is very clever,” I say. “I am glad your leg is well, sir.”
“Sir? What pretty manners for a pretty girl. Yes, the leg gives me no trouble, and Dr. Gray still comes by to check on me now and then, make sure I’m doing well. I am. No complaints today.” He jiggles his pocket of coins.
“Good,” Gray says. “While I do want to check on you, I have another purpose as well. I am looking for information.”
The old man’s brown eyes glint with a crafty look. “For your detective friend?” He looks at me. “A fine fellow he is, too. Checks on me. Makes sure I am staying out of trouble and trouble is not finding me in spite of it.” A broad smile. “He pays well for information, too.” He quickly adds, “Not that I expect you to pay, Dr. Gray. You have given me enough.”
“I will happily?—”
The old man raises a withered hand. “You always sneak coins into my pockets, and this time, you shall not. Ask your questions.”
Gray looks to me.
I say, “We are looking for a man who performs for the tourists.”
The old man makes a face. “Tricksters, most of them. While they perform, their companions pick pockets. It is a foul way to make a living, and yet they dare call us leeches, because we do nothing for our coin. I do something. I am polite and I am grateful, and I include them in my prayers.”
Gray says, “I am sorry if the performers have given you trouble.”
The old man waves a hand. “They’re young and full of themselves, and some are very kind and do a proper show for their coin. So who are you looking for?”
“His name is Roy,” I say. “He sometimes dresses as an American cowboy, with the hat and a bandanna.”
