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Gray pulls himself straight, his gaze fixed on the shadows behind us.
“May I help you?” he says, his tone clipped and confident with an undercurrent of annoyance.
Silence.
Gray sighs, the sound fluttering along the silent close. “I see you, lad. I am looking directly at you.”
A young man steps out. He’s about Catriona’s age, average height and whip thin, his slight stature only accentuated by an outdated style of men’s clothing still worn by some of the poor—oversized jackets and baggy trousers. The most crucial part of his appearance, though? What he holds in his hand.
A truncheon.
I tense, but Gray only drops his gaze to the baton, and the young man slides it down to his side, like a schoolboy caught with a pocketknife.
“May I help you?” Gray says again.
The young man hesitates. To be fair, he’s half a head shorter than Gray and maybe fifty pounds lighter, but it’s not just the size difference that gives him pause. It’s Gray’s complete lack of concern as he fixes the young man with a level stare.
“I will ask one last time—”
“I thought you might be lost, sir,” the boy says, in the thick Scottish brogue that I’ve learned to smooth out mentally. “I was going to offer directions.”
“I know precisely where I am going, though I appreciate the concern. In lieu of directions…” Gray holds up a coin. “Would you be so good as to ensure no one else delays my passage? I am in a bit of a hurry.”
The young man’s gaze goes from me to Gray. “I know a place you can get a few minutes of privacy, sir.”
Gray’s brows knit. “Privacy?” He follows the young man’s gaze to me. “Certainly not. I am a doctor, attending to a patient, suffering from a—” He clears his throat. “—private ailment. Now, if you have the time and inclination?” He flashes the coin again. “If you are otherwise occupied, I will bid you good evening.”
“I’ll watch your back for you, sir.”
“Most appreciated.”
Gray deftly flips the coin. The boy catches it, and we carry on.
Now, as a cop who walked a lot of beats, I know there’s a fifty percent chance the kid willstilltry to mug us… and a twenty-five percent chance he’ll take the money and run. Yet Gray knows that, too, judging by the way he stays on alert as the young man falls in behind us.
We continue on for a quarter mile, approaching a better neighborhood, more working class. There, I spot a figure leaning against a shadowy wall, with his arms crossed. I slow until I recognize him. It’s the sideburns that give it away. Detective Hugh McCreadie may be dressed as a workingman—a far cry from his usual sartorial flair—but one look at those luxuriant sideburns and he is instantly recognizable.
“Have a care, Duncan,” McCreadie murmurs as we draw near. “You are being followed.”
“Yes, I know.” Gray turns and calls into the darkness. “Thank you for your services, lad.”
The young man steps out and tips his cap. “Pleasure, sir.” He eyes McCreadie. “This is your patient? I am sorry for your plight, mister. It’s a terrible thing.”
Gray flips the young man another coin, and he disappears into the night.
“My plight?” McCreadie says.
“I told him I was meeting a patient with a ‘private ailment.’ Do not worry. I have brought your mercury pills.”
McCreadie sputters.
“Mercury?” I say. “Please tell me that you realize mercury isn’t a medically sound treatment foranything.”
“Yes, it will eventually kill Hugh, but so will the pox, and he’d likely prefer the poison.” Gray looks at McCreadie and deadpans. “The pox is a terrible thing.”
“Which I donothave,” McCreadie says.
“Of course.” Gray adjusts his glove. “To contract it, one cannot live as a monk, pining for—”
