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“Which are now mine. They’re part of the estate. Do you not have some method of conveyance? A police wagon?”
“I hardly think Lord Leslie’s remains should be conveyed in a common police wagon.”
“Then you have a hearse carriage, do you not? Send for that.” Mrs. Bannerman rises. “I am going to bed. I will have a long day tomorrow. Annis? Have Dolly and Dot attend to me at breakfast. I wish to interview the staff tomorrow and determine who will be staying on.”
And that’s it. No one has the slightest concern about Leslie’s body spending the night at the house of his alleged murderer’s brother. In fact, he can be taken there in Gray’s own hearse.
I have no words. Strike that. I have plenty of words, but I’m sure as hell not going to speak them. This is in Annis’s best interests, and so it’s in Gray’s best interests. It is also, because I fully trust Gray and McCreadie, in the best interests of the justice system.
TEN
Fine, I don’t keep quiet. That’s fundamentally impossible for me, as has been pointed out on many occasions, by many people. My parents raised me to be an independent thinker unafraid to speak her mind, and I love them for that, but it does get me into situations where I really wish I’d been able to keep quiet.
Once we’re outside, I make my case to McCreadie and Gray. That “case” is that I am afraid if the procurator fiscal finds out that Gray had possession of his brother-in-law’s body, pre-autopsy, he’ll use it against Annis. Alternately, if someone else is charged, the defense could use it in their client’s favor, alleging Gray covered up evidence that his sister murdered her husband.
They are both momentarily confused as to what Gray could cover up. A valid point, when there’s not much the courts will accept as legitimate forensic evidence. As both men have explained, the evidence Gray finds is mostly used by McCreadie to obtain confessions from suspects frightened by his uncanny knowledge of their crimes.
Still, Gray and McCreadiedosee my point. It helps that I’m not just throwing out problems for them to handle; I’m also offering a solution, in this case that McCreadie bring in a police constable to escort the body and stand guard over it until Addington arrives. That way, no one can accuse Gray of tampering.
As for Annis, while the lawyer has arrived—finally—and Mrs. Bannerman has called for him to have Annis arrested, that doesn’t happen. It’s all showmanship, and even Mrs. Bannerman doesn’t seem to expect an arrest. Annis isn’t some common housemaid. It’s going to take more than even her husband’s dying accusation to get her dragged to a police office.
Simon drives Gray and me back to the town house. Then he returns with the hearse for Lord Leslie’s body, McCreadie, and the constable. Gray and McCreadie may not be sure what kind of tampering I fear, but now that I’ve raised the possibility, they aren’t leaving the body alone in the Leslie house either. McCreadie escorts it to the funeral parlor, where he helps the officer bring it into the laboratory.
Gray and I wait upstairs in the sitting room, kept awake by biscuits alone, our solemn munching the only sound. The clock has rung four, and neither of us has suggested retiring for the night. With everything that’s happened, we haven’t even had time to tell McCreadie about earlier this evening, our failed chase and our encounter with mysterious Jack.
When McCreadie comes up to the drawing room, he doesn’t suggest going home either. He slumps into a chair, and I offer to make tea while opining that the sound of the kettle might wake Mrs. Wallace—sleeping beside the kitchen—and so perhaps we should have a drink instead? They declare that a fine idea. Terribly pragmatic of me. I break out the scotch—whisky,I remind myself—and more biscuits, and we settle in.
Gray allows me to tell our side of the night’s earlier adventures. I’d be more flattered if he didn’t just want first choice of the newly added biscuits.
When I finish, McCreadie tells us abouthisevening, which seems even less productive. My guess is that the young woman we followed was the one who’d told the other about “Queen Mab.” That means McCreadie followed the one who’d been told, but while she’d gotten directions, she only headed home, obviously planning to use them another day, if she decided to attempt an abortion at all.
I say “attempt” because I have no idea whether thatcanbe done by chemical form. I show great restraint by not jumping in to ask. I’ve learned that certain subjects make the men very uncomfortable, and while that can be fun, I’m feeling respectful tonight.
As it turns out, I’ve misjudged. I hedge around the question, and theytell me to speak to Isla, not because they won’t discuss it but because they can’t. Ultimately, whether “Queen Mab” can provide some kind of abortion powder is hardly the point. What matters is that she is the person others believe is behind any poison ring, which means she is both someone we need to interview and someone we need to warn. Jack will handle the second part. The first? That may be trickier.
We’re trying to stay awake until Addington arrives, but once we’ve hashed out the Queen Mab lead, the cookies and the booze settle in, and I know I have questions—so many questions—but I can’t remember any of them. McCreadie falls asleep first, and I glance at Gray, expecting him to suggest I head to my quarters, but he only lifts his empty glass.
“More?” he says. “Or are you ready to retire for the evening?”
In answer, I rise and take the whisky decanter to him.
“I wasn’t asking you to fill my glass,” Gray says while not making any move to get up. He’s reclined on the sofa, his jacket off, cuffs unbuttoned, feet propped on an ottoman. Dark curls have escaped from their hold, spilling over his forehead and making him look very young and very relaxed.
As I add a shot or two to his raised glass, his knuckles brush mine, and I suppress a shiver. That’s one thing about this world: the lack of touch. To greet someone with a hug is rare and reserved for close relationships. Casual touches are avoided, especially between men and women, and the accidental brush of Gray’s knuckles feels as intimate as if he ran his fingers up my arm.
When I finish pouring and step back, he catches my hand lightly. I look down at him, still relaxed and unguarded after the first glass of whisky.
“I am sorry for the end of the evening,” he says. “It was going quite well before Annis arrived.”
I sputter a quiet laugh, careful not to wake McCreadie. “You werestabbed.”
One shoulder lifts in a shrug. “A scratch.”
“That required stitches. How is it?”
“Quite fine. You make an excellent seamstress of human flesh.”
I choke back a louder laugh. “If you ever need to write a recommendation for me, please don’t put that on it.”
