Chapter Nine
NINE
“I’m sorry you need to deal with that,” I murmur to McCreadie once we’re out of earshot.
“I would say that I am sorry you need to deal with that, too, but I have the sense you rather enjoy it.”
I grin at him. “Immensely. Insults work best if the recipient secretly fears they might be true. Men like Crichton aim too low for the jabs to properly land.”
Gray says, “They pierce the ground at Mallory’s feet … and she delights in stomping on them.” He looks at McCreadie. “I can see that he has taken to mocking you, which is unacceptable. For you, but also for the investigation.”
“It is the investigation that concerns me,” McCreadie says. “He knows the current search is futile, and yet he would rather waste time on it than admit I was right. It is vexing.”
We head over to the other side. While there’s a new iron bridge farther down, this spot still uses stepping stones, and we make our way over them.
“Do we know what time the body was seen last night?” I ask.
“It was actually very early this morning. The frog-catcher was out before dawn when he noticed her…” McCreadie points. “There, where I have placed a marker.”
I see the spot on the shore where we arrived.
“The fellow had his lantern in one hand, and he dropped it into the water before he fled. We recovered that.”
From here, I can see marks in the mud, where something seems to have been dragged, and McCreadie stops us from going farther.
“There are boot prints,” he says. “I do not wish to disturb them, in hopes one of you might be able to get something useful.”
We ease around the side and approach two deep boot prints. As soon as I see them, I know why McCreadie hoped for our help. They’re about an inch deep and filled with water. Even the edges are distorted.
“We can siphon off the water and look for a tread,” I say, “but I suspect it’ll have washed away. Otherwise, all we can say is that the current size of the print is the maximum size of the boot.” I glance at Gray. “Am I missing anything?”
“This is your area of expertise more than mine. I believe the prints are most valuable as evidence that Nellie’s body was pulled from the water.”
I turn to McCreadie. “How certain are we that the body was Nellie?”
“The frog-catcher lifted her by the shoulder, so he saw her face, and he claimed to have a good impression of it—because of the fright. She was fifteen or sixteen, with dark reddish hair and blue eyes. Her skin was either tanned or naturally light brown. He could not tell height but believed she was small. He thought she might be a girl until he noticed…” He clears his throat. “Womanly features.”
“Boobs.”
“She had no birds attached to her chest.”
I shake my head. “Those are boobies, as you well know, which is another term for breasts, if an immature one.”
“Less immature than…” Another throat clearing. “What you said?”
“Boobs, breasts, tits, boobies, mounds of—”
“Enough, Mallory,” Gray says. “Stop making poor Hugh blush.”
“But it is so much fun,” I say. “Though, now that I think about it, with both boobies and tits also referring to birds, I really need to know the connection between breasts and avians. So, the frog-catcher realized the body was that of a young woman, but his temporary mistake suggests she was small of stature, which Nellie is.”
“She was also of average girth. She wore a simple brown dress and seemed to be tangled in a brown shawl. I would like to speak to him for more details. At this point, I believe there is a high probability it is Nellie, but of course, we need a body to confirm that.”
“I can also get more details regarding her clothing,” I say. “Otherwise, the description does match what we were provided.”
“Yet I will stop referring to the body as ‘Nellie,’” Gray says. “To avoid theoretical bias.”
I examine the marks near the shore. They certainly do seem to indicate dragging of a corpse-sized object. The marks end once the body would have been out of the water, and then they change to …
“Cart wheels,” I say.
McCreadie’s grunt says he’d already noted this and was just waiting for us to confirm.
I follow the tracks up a small embankment to a road.
A narrow road, the ground dry and hard. I’m able to see the direction the cart traveled, because the wheels had passed through the softer ground near the bog and left marks, but those soon dry into oblivion.
I stand on the roadside peering south. Away from the city. Into the countryside.
“My suggestion,” McCreadie says as he comes up beside me, “is that you two continue down this road searching for signs of where the cart might have left it. I’ll finish up with Detective Crichton and join you.”
We agree, and McCreadie leaves. Gray and I turn to start down the road. It’s empty, save for a man heading in our direction on foot. He might just be out for a stroll, but he’s moving fast, with purpose. I step aside. Gray does not because he’s a man and so is the person coming toward us.
The guy is young, maybe in his midtwenties. He’s dark-haired, tall and very slender, dressed in a white shirt, trousers, jacket, and bowler hat. Not a laborer, but also not upper-class. A professional of some sort. He has a few books under his arm, so maybe a clerk?
I’m playing a game with myself. Guess the occupation. It’s part of being a new Victorian, where I’m trying to take in all the clues and assess correctly because if you get it wrong, you’re going to offend someone. Not that it matters for some guy just walking past but—
He veers into our path and stops, a little out of breath. “I heard there was another girl.”
“Excuse me?” Gray says.
The young man takes a deep breath. “Apologies, sir. I am Grantham MacNiven, the local schoolteacher.”
Schoolteacher. Damn it, yes. Up close, I can see the ink on his bare hands, though that’d work for a clerk, too.
“I heard another girl was pulled from the bog, and someone said they had seen a man … er, matching your description with the police. Dr. Gray, yes? Dr. Duncan Gray? And Miss Mitchell.” He bows slightly my way.
“I am a great admirer of your chronicles. In fact, I have started teaching them in my class.”
“Teaching them?” I say.
He takes off his hat, wild curls spilling out as if grateful to be free. “Yes, ma’am. Er, miss. You are unmarried, yes?”
“Yes.”
Gray makes a little noise at that, but when I look over, he seems to be examining the roadside.
“As for teaching your chronicles, I am a village schoolmaster,” he says with a wry smile. “I use whatever will catch my pupils’ interest. Murder mysteries do.”
“Ah. I can see that.”
“Not the initial version, of course. Those were … unsuitable. But the new ones are much more appropriate for young people. Also much better written. I must congratulate your chronicler.”
“I will let her know.”
“Her?” His eyes light up. “My pupils would be delighted to hear that a woman writes such tales. May I tell them?”
“Of course,” I say, and catch Gray’s impatient look. “You mentioned that you heard there was another girl?”
“Oh! Yes. I am so sorry. Yes, I heard another girl has drowned.”
“Another?”
He nods. “One of my pupils drowned here a month ago. A suicide. Because of the poem.”
“The … poem?”
He takes a deep breath. “I am not usually this scattered. I was in a hurry to get here because no one knew who had drowned, and I feared it was another of my pupils. That poem.” Deep breath.
“I was teaching a poem. I had a few older girls who stayed in classes awhile longer and helped with the younger children. One of them brought it in, and it was a cheap piece of romantic doggerel, but they all loved it and so…” He throws up his free hand. “I do what I can.”
“Romantic doggerel?”
He waves the hand. “A sentimental old tale. You know the sort. Where tragedy is mistaken for romance.”
“Mmm, actually, yes, I know what you mean. Like Romeo and Juliet.”
That gets a sudden laugh from him, and his eyes glitter. “Yes, like that exactly.”
Another noise from Gray, but he’s still looking elsewhere, obviously bored by this conversation.
MacNiven continues, “In this case, it is the story of a pretty maiden done wrong by her lover, who drowns herself in the Puddocky Burn and then returns to haunt it evermore.”
“It is about … a ghost?”
“It is.”
That gets Gray’s attention and he looks over, eyes narrowing, as if to say that it has nothing to do with our case, and he won’t let it, not if it involves the G-word.
I clear my throat. “You said one of your pupils died by suicide here. Because of the poem?”
He shifts from one foot to the other. “I fear so. I have stopped teaching it, of course. I underestimated the way young minds can seize on a notion. My pupil was found in the same spot, floating on her stomach, wearing a pretty dress, with a posy floating nearby.”
“And the police were certain that she drowned herself?”
“Yes, there was no question of it. The local constable even called in the Edinburgh police to be sure. The constable is her uncle, and so he very much hoped it was not a suicide and she could receive a proper burial service. But it was.” MacNiven swallows and glances toward the bog.
“And this girl? Please tell me it was not the same situation. After Mary died, I tried to speak to them all and impress upon them what she had done, the complete un-romance of it.”
“We do not know everything,” I say. “But it seemed to be a girl from the city.”
“Not one of my pupils, then. I should be glad of that but it is still…”
“A tragedy, yes. May I ask where we can find you, Mr. MacNiven? In case we have more questions?”
“Of course.”
“It is not connected to our case,” Gray says when MacNiven is gone.
I take out my pocket watch. “Wow. It took less than five seconds for you to make a very firm investigative decision. What you mean, Duncan, is that you hope it isn’t because of the ghost connection.”
He grumbles and shoots his cuffs. “Also, he was flirting with you.”
“Who?” I look at MacNiven, now about twenty paces away. “The schoolteacher?”
“No, the other man you were speaking to a few minutes ago.”
“Hugh? That’d be awkward.”
I get a long, slow stare for that.
I throw up my hands. “What? If that’s Victorian flirting, I am never going to catch on.”
“Which is why I mentioned it. So you are aware that the young man was blatantly flirting with you.”
“Blatantly. Damn Victorians. I am so out of my league. I once had a guy at a bar tell me how good my shoes made my legs look, and I spent five minutes tracking down the brand in case he wanted to buy a pair for his girlfriend. Or himself—I don’t judge.
I have no game when it comes to less-than-blatant flirting.
” I pause. “Was I accidentally flirting back?”
“No.”
“Whew. With Victorians, I could do something like admire a rosebush and have twenty men lining up because I’m sniffing the floral symbol for lust.”
“There is no floral symbol for lust.”
“But there should be.” I look up at him. “Thank you for letting me know. Seriously. I really am obtuse, and I wouldn’t want to lead a guy on by accident. If we do need to speak to him again, you can take charge.”
“We will not need to, as the cases are not connected.”
“Just because you don’t want them to be connected doesn’t mean they aren’t.”
“Fine. But if there is a connection, it is not because of … that.”
“Because of what?”
“You know.”
“Can’t even say the word. Here, let me help.” I lift my arms and waggle my fingers. “Whooooo.”
“What is that?”
“A ghost. Obviously.”
“You look as if you are having a fit. And you sound as if it is painful.”
I lift my middle finger.
“I still do not know what that means.”
I roll my eyes. “If the cases are connected, the ghost part is a coincidence.”
“Thank you.”
“Or that’s my initial interpretation. But if we find out that ghosts are real?” I shrug. “I’ll reassess.”
“Not real.”
“Are you sure? Maybe I’m a ghost.”
“Do not be ridiculous.”
“I’m a non-corporeal entity possessing the body of a corporeal human. Either I’m a ghost or a demon.”
“If those are the options, the answer is obvious. After all, you did steal my cream tart this morning. I am certain my soul is next.”
“I didn’t steal your cream tart. Jack very clearly put the plate between us and there were two cream tarts and you took one so I took the—”
“Please tell me you are solving my case,” McCreadie says as he comes up the embankment behind us. “And not arguing over pastries.”
“Duncan called me a demon.”
McCreadie’s brows shoot up. “That seems a little harsh.”
“I did not call—” Gray says. “Ignore her. She is in a mood.”
“Me?” I look at McCreadie. “We were just speaking to the schoolmaster, and Duncan’s cranky because the fellow mentioned ghosts. Also, apparently, he was flirting with me, and I failed to see it.”
“Flirting with you? That is a capital offense. Where is the man?” McCreadie looks around, shading his eyes.
“Stop,” Gray says.
“Do not worry, dear friend, I shall arrest him and haul him before the magistrate posthaste. Flirting with Mallory? It is not allowed. Not at all.”
I shake my head. “The flirting was just an excuse. Duncan’s actually just cranky about the ghosts.”
“I am certain he is.”
I tell McCreadie what the teacher said. As I do, he goes grave.
“Yes, I remember the case. It was ruled a drowning by suicide. It happened while we were in the Highlands, or Duncan would have examined the body. However, Iain was there, along with another detective, and they could verify Dr. Addington’s findings.
There was no sign that the girl had been held under.
She had taken laudanum from her mother’s cabinet.
It was not my case, obviously, as I was with you, but just now, Iain mentioned it and said something about a poem. ”
“Which tracks with what Grantham MacNiven said.”
“It is concerning, though,” McCreadie says. “That is why Iain mentioned it. Two young women, about the same age, drowning in the same bog, a month apart.”
“Is there any connection between Nellie and this area?” I ask.
“That is what we need to find out.” He looks at us. “Once we locate the body and confirm that it is, indeed, Nellie Carmichael.”