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“Is this pudding?” I say.
I need to say it twice before Gray startles from his thoughts enough to nod.
“It is.”
“What’s the chance they’d have had two, and this is the wrong one?”
“This is a sweet pudding, and Hugh said that is what made Mr. Burns ill.”
“Right.” I open the icebox again and frown. “What goes into making such a pudding?”
His brows rise, as if I’m asking what goes into one of Isla’s alchemical concoctions.
I say, “Would that not require cream? I suppose she could have used it all.”
“Or she may have lied about making it herself.” He takes paper from a jacket pocket. “I will note the ingredients in the icebox, and we shall check with Mrs. Wallace.”
I’m removing a slice of the pudding when I realize I brought nothing for carrying evidence. That’s complicated in a world without plastic. No baggies or Tupperware. Gray hands me a section of waxed brown paper from his pocket, along with twine. I start to wrap the pudding, and he sighs and waves me aside and then does it himself, creating a waterproof, leakproof packet.
“You are going to need to teach me that,” I say.
He’s about to respond when a voice sounds at the door. I pop my head out to see McCreadie. He comes in, and I tell him about the pudding and the icebox. Then it’s on to searching the rest of the apartment.
We don’t find anything particularly noteworthy. But as we’re finishing up, I take in the whole of the place and ask, “What did Burns do for a living again?”
“He was a salesman,” McCreadie says.
“Selling what?”
“Land, mostly.”
“Real estate? I’m surprised he still lived in the Old Town.”
“I did not say he was agoodsalesman.”
“Ah.”
“He seems to have been less than reputable in his dealings,” McCreadie continues as he surveys the contents of a dresser drawer. “He was sued—unsuccessfully—on several occasions. The last case was three years ago. Since then, there have been no obvious complaints, but I also struggle to find any recentsalestransactions.”
“Suggesting he’s selling something else, something illegal?”
“Possibly.”
“Which could have gotten him killed.”
“Yes. As could his dealings with his former wife or former mistresses or clients he cheated. With Mr. Burns, there is an endless list of possibilities.”
I pace around the small bedroom. Then I bend beside a throw rug. Like the icebox, it’s new. I lift the sheets on the bed. The mattress is coarse and rough, probably stuffed with straw, but it’s in excellent condition.
“Lots of new furnishings,” I say. “How long have they lived here?”
“About six months. Their former apartment was a third the size and on the fourth floor.”
“You’re right about them seeming to live above their means. Could they have come into some money?”
“His former landlord says Burns quit the place halfway through the month, telling her she could keep the rest of the rent. Burns said a wealthy uncle had passed, and he’d come into an inheritance. I can find no record of such an uncle.”
I turn to Gray, who is examining the bed. “Dr. Gray? How old would you say the icebox is?”
