He sighs and tears his gaze from Davina, clearly annoyed that I’ve stopped him from bearing down on his prey.
“Second cousin,” he says. “Or third, perhaps.”
“Wait. So the guy buried here was related to you?”
“I did not know him well.”
“Did he have a dog?”
A pause. Then, “Yes.”
I peer at him, that pause having not gone unnoticed. “Did the dog look like Greyfriars Bobby?”
“I decline to answer.”
“On the grounds that you know I love a good story, and you don’t want to spoil this one for me?”
“I decline to answer,” he repeats.
I curse under my breath. So John Gray had a dog, and it did not look like Greyfriars Bobby.
“As I said,” Gray says. “I did not know him well. He may have had multiple dogs.”
“Nice try,” I mutter.
“All right, Davina,” I say as we approach her. “What’s this theft you want us to . . .”
I slow as I get a closer look at the dog curled up in front of the grave. Bobby is an elderly Skye terrier—or some similar breed. This is a young white terrierish dog that seems to have been dusted with dirt to make it look brown.
Also, this dog is tied to the gravestone.
“That’s not Greyfriars Bobby,” I say.
“Of course it is.” Davina crosses her arms. “Look at him, all curled up on his master’s grave.”
“Tied to it.”
“For safety.”
I glare at her. “That is not Greyfriars Bobby.”
She peers at me. “Are you sure, kitty-cat?”
“Yes.”
“I believe we know what was stolen,” Gray murmurs beside me.
I turn to Davina. “Where’s Bobby?”
“If I knew, I would hardly be hiring the likes of you, would I?”
I bend to untie the dog. When Davina squawks, Gray presses a pound coin into her palm.
“For your assistance,” he says. “Thank you for alerting us to the mistreatment of this poor beast.”
She continues squawking, but I ignore her as I untie the rope from the dog’s neck and pat its matted fur.
“You can go now,” I whisper as I straighten and step away. The dog edges closer.
