I hesitate. I want to do this myself, and part of that is because it is gross and filthy. Take on the dirty jobs so I’m not mistaken for a “lady” who can’t handle it. But also so I’m not asking others to do it for me. Yet I need to do more than stick my head in the doorway, and I can’t do that while wearing a gown—not without smearing it in guano because I can’t maneuver at a crouch.
“Would you?” I say. “I hate to ask.”
Gray meets my eyes. “You did not ask. I offered.” He pauses and then lowers his voice, “But you can always ask.”
My cheeks flame until I’m probably as red as McCreadie had been moments ago. I want to kick myself for that. He said he’d help, that’s all. But the way he said it felt like something bigger.
You can always ask.
You can always count on me.
I’m right here.
Damn it, I blame the sun. I’m overdressed for it, and a momentary wave of heatstroke fried my brain.
“There’s a boot print,” I say. “I can’t get a good look at it.”
“Allow me.”
He waves for me to move aside. Then, he crouch-walks in and lights a match. A moment later, he withdraws, rises, and pats his pockets. I hand him my notebook and pencil. He sketches, goes back in, comes out, and finishes. Then another pop inside, as if to check something, and more scribbling.
When he hands me back my notes, I find a sketch of a partial print along with measurements.
“Smaller than yours,” he says, “though not by much. Walking boots. The soles well worn. It seems wide enough to be a man’s, but it would be a very small man or . . .”
“A boy?”
He tilts his head. “A child.”
I walk back to the hatch and eyeball it, reassessing. Then I finger that nail sticking up. There’s no telltale bit of thread hanging from it, but there is a small bit of what looks like skin, as if whoever went in scraped against it.
“Do you know the culprit?” Gray bends a little to whisper it at my ear.
I look over sharply, because in his words, I hear something. Sure enough, a small smile plays on his lips.
“You figured it out first, didn’t you,” I say.
“Not until I saw the print. You have it too, I presume?”
I say a name, and he nods.
We know who took Bobby. The mystery hasn’t been overly mysterious. A straight line leading from crime to culprit . . . to second culprit. The only question is how we handle it. Gray and I discuss that with McCreadie. We also run our theory past him, with all the evidence, and he agrees with our conclusion.
“We also need you to do one last thing,” I say. “Join Isla for dinner.”
McCreadie lifts his brows.
“And, er, tell Mrs. Wallace we’ll be late.”
“Ah.” He gives a slight bow. “I will keep the lovely lady company if needed, and otherwise, I will see you later for dinner.”
We need to make a few inquiries to find our missing dog. The person we ask doesn’t particularly want to tell us what we need to know but, eventually, agrees that the situation must be resolved.
We follow the directions, which take us down several streets and through a gate, into a courtyard garden. It’s a vegetable garden, lovingly tended and in full bloom. An elderly woman harvests beans, and she tenses at our approach.
