Chapter Eight #2
“Because now it seems Madame Paix was right? But neither of us believes in ghosts, which raises the question of how she knew Nellie is dead?”
A faint smile. “You read my mind.”
“Nah, I just know how that mind works. If Lady Adler held the séance to find Nellie, it’d be a very different thing.”
“Because then, Madame Paix would have simply been guessing. Playing the odds, betting that even if Nellie were alive, Lady Adler would likely never see her again.”
“Yep, so that would be the correct card to play. Also, given Madame Paix’s profession, it’d be oddly disappointing if she said, nope, can’t find Nellie, so she must be okay. As for why she’d say Nellie called you in…”
“I have become a known entity,” he says. “At least in the sense that it would not take much for Madame Paix to realize Lady Adler knows me and that I investigate murders.”
“Except all that doesn’t work because Madame Paix wasn’t holding a séance for Nellie. Supposedly, Nellie showed up on her own. Which complicates matters.”
“The simplistic explanation being that Madame Paix murdered Nellie, and therefore knew she was dead.” He pauses. “Let us hope Constable Ross has not joined the Edinburgh police or that would certainly be his pronouncement.”
I laugh softly. Ross had been in charge of our last murder case, and he’d been the perfect stereotype of the incompetent village cop … except his incompetence had nothing to do with being from the country, and everything to do with being far too young and inexperienced for his position.
“Well, obviously Madame Paix would be a suspect,” I say.
“But at least if Hugh gets the case, she won’t be the only suspect.
” I peer out the window. “Can Hugh get it, though? We’re leaving the city.
This isn’t his jurisdiction.” I look at Gray.
“And on that note, any chance of getting more details before we reach the scene?”
He frowns and then curses under his breath. “You have very politely asked for that several times, and I have ignored you.”
“We got distracted.”
“Yes, well, there isn’t much to tell, I fear. It seems the body was spotted last night, floating in the Water of Leith, in a region where it is known locally as Puddocky Burn.”
“That’s a shallow part outside the city, right? Puddock being Scots for frog.”
He nods. “A local fellow was out catching frogs. He mistook the body for a log, and he went to see whether it harbored any frogs and…”
“Got a fright?”
“It seems so. Poor fellow said it nearly stopped his heart. He headed into town, but he is quite old and it was slow going. He could not find anyone to report it to—there is no local constabulary at that hour. There is a watchman, who said he would alert the proper authorities … which he did when his shift ended this morning.”
“They left the body in the bog?”
“Yes, and I do not know what exactly happened next, only that the regional constable, thankfully, recognized that it was a case better handled by the city.” Gray gives a quick smile. “Or, most likely, he decided it could be handled by the city.”
“Yep. He decided the body likely originated in Edinburgh, which makes a fine excuse for passing the buck.”
“Interpreting that phrase in context, yes, he likely passed the buck, but either way, it ensures it will be handled correctly. Hugh did grumble about the fact that no one has retrieved the body, but it has the advantage of providing a pristine crime scene, which I know you like.”
“I do. Yeah, I would have liked them to get her out of there, but it has its advantages.”
As the coach slows, Gray looks out the window. “It appears we have arrived.”
We’re north of Canonmills, which in my time will be a district of Edinburgh.
It’s north of the New Town, and in this period it has enough homes to be its own village.
The last of the actual mills has been gone for a few years.
Gone, too, is the loch, filled in over stages, completed a few years ago.
I can already see how the city will swallow the region, but for now it still feels like its own place.
A place that is supposed to have a body.
Constables in borrowed galoshes and canvas over trousers trudge through the water, peering into its murky depths as McCreadie stands on the shore, his arms crossed, his affable face as stony as I’ve ever seen it.
When we approach, he turns sharply, as if ready to snap at someone, only to see who it is.
His arms uncross. “She is gone.”
“So we have heard,” Gray says mildly, nodding toward McCreadie’s constable, Iain, who is marshaling the scene nearby. Gray lowers his voice. “I do not wish to tell you your business, Hugh, but if the body was found floating, it will not have sunk.”
“I do actually read the articles you send me,” McCreadie says, only to rub a hand over his face. “I am sorry. That was uncalled for. I am frustrated and peevish, and this is one of the reasons why. I know that a floating body will stay afloat. I said as much. However, I am not in charge today.”
He nods to a bull-chested and gray-haired man. Detective Crichton, who is technically McCreadie’s superior. I say “technically” because McCreadie’s clearance rate means that he’s now being given his own cases, even high-profile ones.
Crichton is the kind of cop who prefers to let the younger men do the actual legwork while he swoops in for the credit, but that’s been getting harder to do when McCreadie is the police detective featured in Gray’s chronicles.
I’ve only seen the senior officer a few times, usually at public or press appearances.
But here he is, overseeing the constables searching the water.
“Is it his case?” I ask.
McCreadie only grumbles and then rubs his face again.
“I am in a mood. Apologies to both of you. There was a situation last week, one I did not mention, as I was not in the mood to complain. Detective Crichton botched a case, and I was asked to repair the damage with an offended member of the peerage. I did so. A small thing. Public relations, as Mallory would call it.”
“You’re good at that,” I say.
“Yes, and normally Crichton would leave me to it, but it seems the rivalry between us has been building—at least in his mind. He took offense. Words were said. Now he has demanded this case purely because I asked for it.”
Gray leans toward me and says, “We were at the office when the report came in. We overheard the description of the victim and realized it seemed to be Nellie.”
“So I offered to take it,” McCreadie says. “Normally, Crichton would have happily let me, but he seems to be feeling…”
“Territorial.”
“Hmm.”
I get it, of course. From both sides. McCreadie has earned the right to work without another detective’s supervision.
Under normal circumstances, I’m sure Crichton would happily hand over the investigation.
The death of a housemaid isn’t exactly a high-profile case.
And yet, if McCreadie indicates that he wants it, that has Crichton’s radar going.
Could this be a bigger case than it seems?
If so, he wants in, because he’s feeling like an old dog being shouldered aside by a young pup.
If the young pup wants a certain bone, the old dog is going to snatch it, whether it seems tasty or not.
McCreadie continues, “I told him, deferentially and in private, that if the body was floating last night, it will still be floating this morning.”
“He ignored you?” I say.
McCreadie’s mouth tightens. There’s more to this than there seems, and I’m debating whether to push when Crichton himself comes barreling over.
“What’s this?” Crichton says, his gaze fixed on Gray. “No civilians on a scene. Is that not your rule, McCreadie? You and your newfangled ‘crime-scene protocols.’”
McCreadie stiffens, and I feel a lash of guilt.
Those “newfangled crime-scene protocols” come from me, the modern police detective horrified by the way Victorian police just trample over evidence.
McCreadie teases me about that—those protocols aren’t as necessary when we predate most crime-scene analysis—but he’s obviously instituted some rules himself.
And, as so often happens when the young pup brings in new tricks, the old dog is offended.
Weren’t the old ways good enough? What’s this new nonsense?
Science is for scientists, not law enforcement.
“Dr. Gray is an exception,” McCreadie says, his voice mild. “He was at the police office when the report came in, and the superintendent invited him to attend the body retrieval.”
“And he had to fetch his tart first?”
“I am quite certain Dr. Gray would have loved to fetch a tart,” I say before McCreadie or Gray can respond. “He is very fond of them. Blackberry in particular. But he had to fetch me instead. His assistant.”
Crichton smirks and looks around, as if seeking someone to share the joke with, but there’s no one within a dozen paces.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” I say to him. “I am very new at all this, so I may ask silly questions. But why are the men searching for a body in such shallow water? Even if she sank beneath the surface, they would spot her, would they not?”
Crichton’s eyes narrow.
“Also,” I continue, “if the poor lass was floating last night, she would still be floating. Once the body has begun to decompose, it will rise and continue to float until scavenging birds reduce it to bones, which will sink.”
I turn to Gray. “Is that not correct, sir?”
“It is, Miss Mitchell.”
“So what am I not understanding? I know I am but a woman, with a woman’s mind, and so I must be misunderstanding.”
Gray’s look tells me I’m overselling it, but honestly, sometimes I think Gray underestimates the male capacity for female humility.
“Well done,” Crichton says to Gray. “You have trained a very pretty bird to parrot your theories.”
McCreadie looks ready to jump in, but I cut him off with, “Those theories are not Dr. Gray’s per se, though he has done work in the science of decomposition. I have assisted in a few of his experiments.”
“Yes, it does seem unlikely the body is under the water,” McCreadie says. “But we are considering all possibilities.”
“May I look for where she might have been dragged away?” I ask. “Presuming she did not walk out on her own?”
At McCreadie’s look, I add, sweetly, “Though that would be a very happy ending to the tale.”
“I have looked,” McCreadie says. “I believe the water is too shallow here for her to have floated beyond this bog. There are marks on the other side”—he points—“where she might have been pulled out, and that will, of course, be further investigated if the men do not find her.”
Crichton eyes McCreadie, and I know he’s trying to find some excuse to take offense, but McCreadie is too careful. As the designated tart, though, I don’t have to be.
“Might we look over there, Dr. Gray?” I say. “I do so appreciate a field lesson. Detective McCreadie? Would it be too much to ask for you to join us?” I beam at Crichton. “I just find police work so fascinating. I await the day when women might assist detectives as well as scientists.”
He snorts. “You will be waiting forever. Police work is not for ladies.”
“Perhaps you are right,” I murmur. “Or, perhaps, one day women will not merely assist, but be constables themselves. Even detectives. Imagine it!”
His look of horror is all the reward I need. I smile and curtsy, and then let Gray lead me off for my lesson.