“Theft.” Her smirk grows. “Your specialty.” Her gaze shoots to Gray, looking for a reaction. He gives none. He knows exactly what Catriona was, and the more Davina talks, the more he understands the position I’m in here.
“What sort of theft?” I say.
“I’ll show you.” She waves for me to follow her into the mews.
I lock my knees even as Gray puts a restraining hand on my elbow, as if I might trot along after her into some deep dark close where she can knife me.
Fine, I can be reckless. But even I know better than that.
“Tell me where we’re going,” I say. “And I’ll meet you there.”
“We’ll meet you,” Gray says. “Catriona is my assistant, and it is still a workday.”
“I thought I overheard something about it being her half day,” Davina says, her hazel eyes glittering with speculation as her gaze moves between us.
“Where are we meeting?” I ask.
“Greyfriars,” she says.
My brows rise. “The cem— kirkyard?”
She smiles, showing off a lifetime without dental care. “Afraid of ghosts, kitty-cat?”
“Greyfriars in an hour,” I say, and head back to the town house.
Chapter Two
In the modern day, Greyfriars is Edinburgh’s most famous cemetery. When I’d visit my nan, we’d often zip through on our way from the Grassmarket to the museum, and it’s always thronged with tourists.
It’s not a whole lot different in 1870. Tourism in Scotland is booming, thanks to Queen Victoria’s fascination with the country. During the clearances, style markers of highland culture were banned, but they’re back in fashion now, and Scotland has become a prime tourism spot.
Greyfriars Kirk started life as a friary, as the name might suggest. The friars left centuries ago, and the building was used for “this and that”—according to Gray, who’s as bad with history as I am. At some point, the city was storing gunpowder in the tower, a choice that never fails to end with a very large kaboom. The kirk underwent both reconstruction and a fire earlier this century, and it’s only recently been re-re-constructed.
The kirkyard is bounded by Grassmarket on the north and Candlemaker Row on the east. To the west, the wall is part of the old Flodden Wall, which once marked the boundary of Edinburgh.
To reach the cemetery, we need to cross the Mound marking the New Town and Old Town boundary. Then it’s up to High Street and down Upper Bow to the Grassmarket.
Gray and I enter Greyfriars through the north gate and head up the hill. I spot Davina right away. She’s standing beside what might be the most famous Greyfriars grave, both in this time and mine. Famous not for its occupant—a night watchman who worked for the police—but for the mop of fur lying in front of the stone. A small brown terrier, whose likeness will one day grace a thousand souvenir coffee mugs and postcards.
Greyfriars Bobby. Of course, I know the story. In my day, if you visit Greyfriars, you can’t miss the plaques and statue and the nearby pub bearing his name. According to the legend, he belonged to the man buried here, and after his owner’s death, Bobby guarded the grave until his death, which is . . . well, probably soon.
My knowledge of this time period is mostly informed by my father, an English lit prof. That means I arrived with a vague idea of Victorian life, but it was a muddled mess of sixty-odd years all condensed in my head. I had no idea when Greyfriars Bobby lived, and I’d been delighted when I first saw him here. He’s an old dog now, which is why I suspect he doesn’t have many years left before he passes into legend . . . and becomes a souvenir goldmine.
The question has never been whether Bobby existed. He obviously did—the Victorian era isn’t that long ago. But did he belong to the man in that grave? Or was he just a stray dog who’d found a nice place to hang out, and then people started petting him and feeding him, so he stayed?
As we approach the grave, I notice the name on it. I’d never paid that much attention to it before. The fact he worked for the police interested me, but his name did not.
Now I slow as I read it.
John Gray.
I stop and turn to Gray walking alongside me. His gaze is fixed on Davina, and he gets a few steps before realizing he left me behind and circling back.
“John Gray,” I say. “Any relation?”
His dark brows rise. “It is a very popular Scottish name, Mallory.”
“So no?”
