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“Dr. Gray?” I say.
“Hmm?”
“Who knows you were in the Old Town last night investigating the poisoning deaths?”
He frowns and gives another “Hmm?”
I repeat the question, and his expression doesn’t change, so I read the paragraph aloud.
“That… that is not possible,” he says. “Simon took us to the Old Town, but he knew not the purpose and would never speak to a reporter about it. Hugh knew, obviously, but even when he passes along his findings, he does not mention me.”
“You stayed in hiding while Detective McCreadie and I were in the pub,” I say. “The only people who might have suspected you were chasing the poisoner were the men who attacked us. Yet they didn’t know who you were.”
“The young woman did,” he says. “The one who calls herself Jack.”
I wave the broadsheet. “She sold that story to this reporter. But as much as that pisses me off, it’s also an opportunity for us. This reporter seems to know more than most. I want to speak to them, and Jack—having rewarded your kindness with betrayal—owes you a favor.”
“Is that not…?” Isla takes the broadsheet from my hands. She reads the byline and says, “No one knows who that is. It is one of the city’s great mysteries, at least for those of us who follow the crime broadsheets.”
“Well, Jack knows. And she’s going to tell us.”
Isla wants to immediately set off into the Old Town to confront Jack. Just the two of us on an adventure together. I love the sound of that. I really do. But this isn’t an adventure—it’s an investigation, and I need to prioritize.
Jack isn’t going anywhere—we know to ask for her at “Halton House.” The more pressing avenue of investigation is the homes of the two victims and suspects. The police have already gone through them, and any remaining evidence is slipping away. Mrs. Young’s apartment is still occupied by the elderly relatives, who are caring for the children, and I can picture evidence literally being thrown in the rubbish bin as they tidy their overcrowded lodgings. I mention this to Gray, but he points out that’s not how Victorians handle unwanted items. We aren’t in the world of cheap manufacturing and landfill sites. Whatever they don’t want will be given away or sold to someone else. Still, the concern remains—they will discard what they can’t use. Also, the Burnses’ apartment might be unoccupied now, but McCreadie worries the landlord won’t wait for month’s end before finding new tenants.
The answer is clear then. I must postpone my adventure with Isla and go with McCreadie. I tell myself that’s fine. It’s investigative work… even if it’s not as interesting as chasing down Jack.
“I will inform Hugh,” Gray says, “and ask him to meet us at the Burns residence.”
“You’re coming?” I say.
There is a shift in his features, one I’m beginning to recognize as the subtle closing of a portcullis. “I believe I ought to, as you are imparting lessons on future police work, and I should take mental notes for Hugh. Is that a problem?”
I want to tell him to stop being so damn prickly. Also to stop making excuses—if he wants to help because he enjoys investigating, then he should say so.
“I’m not sure how much ‘training’ I’ll be doing,” I say. “I’m just going along as an extra set of eyes and hands, and if you can do the same, I’m sure Detective McCreadie will appreciate it.”
I think I’ve phrased it well, but his mouth tightens, just a little.
“Duncan?” Isla says, which tells me I didn’t imagine that show of annoyance.
Gray rises. “I will send Simon to convey the message to Hugh. You will want your walking boots, Mallory. We shall depart on the hour.”
SIXTEEN
If you rank the Old Town neighborhoods on a ten-point scale—from “should be condemned” to “relatively livable”—this one ranks about a six, which is lower than I’d expect, given that McCreadie suggested that the Burnses seemed to be living above their means. I realize my mistake soon enough. It’s not the neighborhood; it’s the apartment.
It’s on what North Americans call the second floor, but here is considered the first floor—my “first” floor being called the ground floor—and I’m trying to adopt that terminology. The first floor—the second level—is where people with money live. The ground level is too open to the streets. The higher floors are tricky to access, with increased fire risk. The Burnses’ apartment also has multiple rooms and is twice the size of my Vancouver condo. Around here, that’s positively palatial, especially for only two people. I don’t want to see where his first wife and kids are living.
There’s a police constable posted at the door. McCreadie won’t have had a chance to arrive yet, so I expect we’ll need to wait.
We do not wait. Gray walks up to the front door, nods to the officer on duty, and walks inside.
“Ah,” I murmur once the door has closed behind us. “He knows you.”
“Never seen him before in my life.”
That gives me pause… until I look at Gray, in his fine suit and top hat. The officer didn’t stop him because, as a gentleman, Gray is clearly allowed to enter.
