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A sharp laugh. “Oh, no. Not naïve at all. I said sweet and gentle, not gullible. She is a good woman, who wants nothing but to see her family cared for, a family that includes both me and my mother’s parents. My father did not provide for us, and so she did, and that is how I know she did not poison him.”
When I don’t answer, she looks over. “You are wondering how those two things are connected. Am I saying that she is a good provider and therefore could not have murdered her useless husband? No. That would be part of providing, would it not? Particularly if he stole her money and boughtdrink with it?” She shakes her head. “I ought not to say that, or it might put ideas in your head.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Nettie couldn’t have poisoned him because she was not at home. She was earning a living, in a way that she will not wish to tell the police, and so I am doing it for her, because no shame is worth dying for.”
“She sold her favors.”
“You do put things prettily.”
“Oh, I can put them far less prettily, but I have found that people do not appreciate me asking whether someone was in the sex trade. They turn quite red and begin to stammer.”
A sharp laugh. “Then you are speaking to too many people in the New Town. It is different here. Whether Nettie is in the ‘sex trade’ depends on how you define such a thing. She poses for artists. Without her clothing.”
“Pornography?”
Miss Young bristles. “Certainly not. Or, if it is, that is not what she was told. It is for art.”
“Ah, she’s a nude model.” I momentarily wonder why that is so scandalous that she wouldn’t use it to save her from the gallows. Then I remember that any sort of nudity would be a scandal.
“And that proves she wasn’t the killer because…?” I prompt.
“Because she was in Glasgow, where they had offered her a princely sum. By the time she returned, my father was abed, ill, and he died the next day.”
“Do you have any idea how he was poisoned? Is there something in the house he eats that no one else does?”
“Eats, no. Drinks, yes. He has a bottle hidden under a board beneath their bed.”
“We found that. Did anyone gift him that bottle?”
“If they did, I know nothing of it. I can give you names of some of his friends, but if they had the money for a bottle, they would keep it themselves.”
“Is the bottle we found his usual choice?”
“His usual choice is whatever he can find, including poteen. That is the first time I have seen a bottle of real alcohol there.”
“Did he seem to come into any money lately?”
“If he did, we saw none of it. That’s why Nettie took the job in Glasgow.”
“May I ask more questions?”
“If you’re going to ask why Nettie took the money from the friendly society and did not fetch his body, that was my idea. I…” She crosses her arms again. “I told her that his body should go to the doctors so that they might discover what makes drink take such hold of a man. I told her they might be able to find a cure.”
“Ah.”
“It was not a lie. They might, mightn’t they? But yes, I was thinking more of the money and that it ought to go to his family, not into the pockets of those who’d bury him. He’s dead and gone. Not like he’ll care. Not like he’ll know.”
And on that, I must admit that I agree.
An hour later, I’m in a coffee shop, and no, I didn’t magically transport to my own time. If I’d read the words “coffee shop” in a Victorian story, I’d have thought the writer didn’t do their research. Which only proves how little I understood this world.
Gray had wanted a tea shop—for the pastries, obviously—and I jokingly asked about a coffee shop… and they took me to one.
It’s also not quite what I had in mind. Yes, there’s coffee, and no, I didn’t expect mochas and lattes, but I expected a more… bohemian vibe. I realized my mistake once I discovered that my “coffee shop” was in a stately New Town hotel. At least that meant Isla could walk over and join us.
The shop does serve coffee, and it’s halfway decent. It also serves baked goods, which are not quite decadent enough for Gray—he eats his slowly and never once eyes my share or McCreadie’s. I have oatcakes, which I’m very fond of, and here’s where I’ll grant Victorian coffee shops a point—they do know how to make a proper oatcake.
