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“She found out your father was leaving the business to Lachlan. Despite the fact Lachlan had no interest in it. Annis was the oldest child and, being Scottish, shecouldactually inherit it.”
“Yes. I will not bore you with the drama, but a drama it was. Annis went away with Sarah for two years, and when she returned, she had set her sights on a wealthy husband and decided we all stood in the way of that goal, especially Duncan. That is inexcusable. Punish my father, yes. But not us, and certainly not Duncan.”
“Is it worse now that Dr. Gray inherited the business she wanted?”
“I would need more than passing contact with Annis to answer that.”
I flip through a few more client files. “Does Dr. Gray know Annis wanted the business?”
“He knows that she initially wanted it. When our father died, Lachlandidattempt to give it to her, at our mother’s urging, both because Annis wanted it and because Duncan—like Lachlan—did not. Annis had noidea what we were talking about. Running a funerary parlor? Why on earth would she want to do that?” Isla takes out more client file pouches. “I am certain Lord Leslie is still involved in such businesses, at least as a speculator, and that seems a potential link.”
“Though not necessarily one that clears Annis of suspicion.”
Isla is about to answer when voices waft up from below.
“You do not understand,” a man is saying. “Mr. Ware is representing me in a very urgent matter.”
“Mr. Ware is not representing anyone in anything,” one of the officers says. “He is dead.”
“I know, which is why I must obtain my papers. They are due today. I realize that seems ghoulish—the poor man is scarcely cold—but it truly is urgent. If I do not deliver the papers by the end of the day, I shall lose my business before it can begin.”
Isla walks to the stairs and calls down. “Let him up, please. We shall supervise him.”
A moment later, a man crests the stairs. He’s in his late twenties, with sideburns to rival McCreadie’s, though that is the only fashionable thing about him. His dark hair is unkempt and his suit looks like a secondhand one that has been tailored—badly—to fit his lean frame.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says to Isla, panting slightly. “I do apologize for this. I am most frantic.”
“Yes, we heard.”
His gaze cuts to me, and he dips his head. “My apologies to you as well, miss. I will not interrupt your work. I only wish to retrieve my papers.”
“Yes, of—” Isla begins.
I clear my throat to cut her off. “I am afraid that will not be as easy as it seems. All Mr. Ware’s papers are part of his estate. They will be held until the lawyers have cleared them.”
The poor man’s eyes bug. “What?”
“But as your matter is urgent, I can find the papers you require, though you may not take yourentireclient pouch at this time.”
He exhales. “Thank you. Those specific pages are fine.”
“Your name?”
“Morris. Cyrus Morris.”
I start to ask for ID, and then remember that’s not a thing in this world.Isla had been quite horrified by the idea that, in the future, people must carry proof of their identity.
I find the file, which is on the desk. “I do not mean to be rude…”
“It is I who am being rude, miss, interrupting your work in light of such a tragedy.”
“You have cause. However, I am going to need to ask you the nature of your business, to ascertain that I am providing the pages to the correct person.”
“Of course. The pages I am looking for are an agreement to rent an office. I am a clocksmith, setting out on my own after a lengthy apprenticeship, and I have finally found office space I can afford.” He rattles off the address of the property, and I take the agreement from his files and hand it to him.
“Thank you,” he says, bobbing his head and wiping his damp brow. “Again, I am sorry. Mr. Ware was a fine gentleman. Very fine indeed. May I ask what happened to him?”
“Something he ate,” I say.
