AllFreeNovel
Share Us
McCreadie clears his throat.
“I have brought Mallory for you,” Gray says.
“But not to end your monkish state,” I say. “Sorry.”
McCreadie sputters again.
Gray shakes his head. “Be careful. Mallory is in a playful mood.”
“You make me sound like a kitten,” I say.
“More like a small tigress that is temporarily feeling playful, but is also likely at any moment to show her fangs and claws, should we mistake her gamboling for more than a temporary whim.”
“Smalltigress?”
His brows rise. “That is the part to which you object?”
McCreadie clears his throat. “I see you arebothin a playful mood. Might that have something to do with the prospect of adventure?”
“Yes, I am happy to be here, even if I feel a bit like…” I drop in a deep curtsy and look up at them. “Please sir, may I have a bit of respite from my daily cares, if you would be so kind.”
“She’s been feeling neglected,” Gray says. “I have told her that there have not been any serious crimes in which we might enlist her assistance.”
“Only common thefts and batteries,” McCreadie says. “If you are interested in helping with those—”
“Yes! Oh, yes, please.”
A passing woman glances over and then quickly looks away, seeing me half bent in front of two men, uttering exclamations of excitement.
McCreadie gives a soft laugh. As usual, Gray notices nothing and continues, “That is my oversight. I did not wish to bother you with minor crimes. I know better now.”
Didn’t wish to “bother” me? Or just wasn’t ready to work with me after what happened last month?
McCreadie puts out his arm. “Come, my bonny lass. A stout pint awaits us.”
I put my arm through his, and we proceed back to the road, leaving Gray in the shadows to wait.
THREE
The public house is, like most things in Victorian Edinburgh, both what I expect and not what I expect. My visual renderings of scenes like this all come from Hollywood, where I’m going to guess that—unless it’s a mega-budget movie—there’s a standard-issue “Victorian pub” on a soundstage somewhere. Or, at least, the blueprint for such a place exists, and the set designer makes a few adjustments. How much research did the original set designers do? Also, how readily can one even research such a thing? And what is more important for the audience: an authentic Victorian pub or what they expect from one?
If they’re set in neighborhoods like this, they’re usually dark and dingy, and that is accurate enough. The darkness comes from the inadequacy of the lighting—gas lighting is still too new for a working-class public house. It’s all lanterns and candles, which lend both a wavering illumination and a miasma of smoke. The smoke does help cover the smell, which isn’t the body odor and bad breath I’d have expected, but lemon and rose and what I’ve learned is bergamot.
In the modern world, we get the sense that our ancestors didn’t notice bodily smells. The truth—at least in this time period—is that they sure as hell noticed and, worse, they recognized it as the smell of the so-called great unwashed. The obvious solution would be soap. That’s less obvious in a time when soap is expensive, and hot—or even clean—water isn’t easy to come by. While Victorians are much cleaner than I expected, theyalso use a lot of cover-up scent, and that’s what I smell here, with only an undercurrent of actual body odor.
It’s a mixed group of patrons. Based on whatever impression has formed in my brain, I expect only a few women, most of whom would be situational sex workers. As Isla has pointed out, the number of full-time sex workers in a neighborhood like this is low. Most are just women willing to do that if it means having money for a doss-house bed… or money to feed an addiction… or money to feed their children.
While I spot a few women who’d fall into that category, there are overall more women than I expect, and most are just enjoying a drink, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. Isla could never do that in our neighborhood. Here, the tight corset strings of Victorian morality are relaxed, and women can simply be out for a drink, same as I might at home. There are also children. Some are waiting for their parents, while others just seem to be hanging out, possibly hoping for a job—or hoping to pick the pocket of a patron too drunk to notice.
The place is crowded, I’ll give it that much. The crush of humanity would exceed any modern fire code. We only get a table because someone’s leaving, and McCreadie shoulders past a man who’d been waiting to snag it.
We settle in and play our roles by flirting. Luckily, McCreadie is very flirt-worthy. Handsome, bright and ambitious, with the progressive attitude that comes from a kind heart and an open mind. If Hugh McCreadie were a fellow detective at a training seminar, I’d have flirted with him for real. This is different.
The fact that I’m comfortable with McCreadie, though, means I have no trouble fake-flirting with him. Plenty of eye contact and smiles and giggles as we talk, but if anyone could hear our conversation, they’d get a very different impression.
“The second victim frequented the present establishment,” McCreadie says as he leans forward, his hand on mine.
I pull back and rap his knuckles, and he grins for any audience that’s watching.
