“I’m fine. It’s been a year, with only one encounter that I couldn’t have avoided even with a list of enemies.” I look up at him. “Let’s drop this. You’ve given her a sovereign for the dog. Good enough.”
His jaw works in that way that tells me we are not dropping this.
“You would rest easier knowing who Catriona was,” he says. “Whether anyone is wondering what happened to her.”
“As far as we can tell, she cut all ties.”
“Which doesn’t mean there isn’t someone. We always suspected she visited family on some of her half days. She would return out of sorts.”
I don’t answer. Of course I want to solve this mystery. I’ve made a few attempts, but I suspect Catriona Mitchell isn’t even her real name. I also suspect she came from the middle class, which is unusual for a girl who ended up on the street.
Or not so unusual, depending on what happened at home.
“Do you want to find Bobby?” he says.
I look up sharply. “What?”
“The dog. Forget paying Davina. Forget Davina at all. Do you want to find Greyfriars Bobby?”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s low.”
“Is it?” One brow lifts. “I refused Davina because I knew you would not wish to work for her. But I suspected, once we got away from here, that your detective brain would begin to churn, and before I knew it, I would be out looking for a missing terrier.”
“I wouldn’t drag you along.”
He only gives me a hard look that says no “dragging” is involved. If I investigated, he would too. The undertaking business has its established clientele, and it’s mostly a matter of waiting for one of those illustrious families to send a message that they require Gray’s services. McCreadie hasn’t had a case needing our help since we returned from the highlands . . . and his spare time is spent wooing Isla, so he’s not exactly taking on extra investigations.
In short, we have time. In short, too, we’re bored.
“Unfortunately,” I say, “the poor dog probably went off somewhere to die. I don’t know the exact time—or cause—of his death. But I’ve seen him. He’s old. And you noticed a tumor.”
“I did. However, it would not hurt to ask a few questions. Assess the likelihood that he has simply gone off to die. Or been taken in by someone who recognized that he was dying.”
I look down at the dog at my feet. “And if we don’t answer the question of what happened to him, Davina will just keep finding new Bobbies.”
“I believe so.”
“If we discover he’s dead, Jack can make sure that’s reported in the papers, which stops Davina from finding replacements. So should we just do it on our own? Not involve Davina?”
“If you would prefer that,” he says slowly. “But she may have information on the dog’s disappearance. And she seems to have information on Catriona, which she is offering for your assistance.”
“Take her up on it?”
“If you are comfortable with that.”
I’m not comfortable allying with Davina, but I’m even less comfortable making an enemy of her.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s find a missing pup.”
“We will look for Bobby,” I say to Davina. “We will not look for a replacement. If you find a replacement, it needs to be a dog who doesn’t have to be tied to a gravestone.”
She grumbles but agrees.
“It’s very likely that we will not find him alive,” I say. “He’s old. He’s sick. We have no control over what has already happened, and if we discover he has died, our job is done.”
More grumbling. More grudging agreement.
