Chapter Eleven #2
He shakes his head. “Mallory, Mallory, Mallory. Did I not just say you are not speaking as yourself? Not an officer of the law or a citizen with an unhealthy and reckless degree of curiosity?”
“Curiosity is never unhealthy. Reckless, sure, but not unhealthy.”
“Not even if it gets you killed?”
“Technically, I think the word for that is ‘unsafe,’ not ‘unhealthy.’”
“Anything that kills you is unhealthy. Duncan? As a doctor—”
“I am staying out of this as well,” Gray says. “However, I do see your point. About the farmer, that is.”
I look from one to the other. And then I close my eyes and shake my head.
“Right. Okay. In my defense, it’s been a while since I was a beat cop.
Seeing the cart with the foot, the farmer’s curiosity was aroused, possibly along with his sense of moral duty.
Someone is injured, possibly dead, so he followed.
But before the cart driver dropped off his cargo, the farmer had time to think.
He decided he hadn’t seen a foot. Maybe it was a pale stick.
Or, if it was a foot, it was just someone who’d had too much to drink and the cart driver was kindly taking him home. ”
“Very kind, indeed.”
“Because otherwise, he was duty-bound to report it to the authorities, and who knows where that could lead. At the very least, it’d cost him a day of farm work. At worst, he could be accused of murder. Or targeted by the killer themself.”
“See nothing, hear nothing, say nothing. Easier all around. Especially when your wife tells you the police were asking about a cart. He was probably patting himself on the back for keeping his mouth shut. Except, being a decent fellow, once he was relaxing with a pint tonight he was beset by pesky pangs of guilt, poking at his conscience. So he walked all the way into the city to tell us what he had seen.”
“Better late than never.” I glance at McCreadie. “Though I hope no one complained to him. It never helps to give reluctant witnesses crap when they finally come forward.”
“I was not there to take his statement, but I will speak to him tomorrow to be sure he knows we appreciate his efforts and I will not say a word about how long it took him to speak up.”
“Such a good officer. You’ll go far, m’boy. You’ll go far.”
When he rolls his eyes, I say, “Speaking of which, what does Crichton say about this lead?”
“I have no idea.” McCreadie turns a slow smile on me. “We are under strict orders not to disturb him after ten at night.”
“Work-life balance is very important.”
“It is. However, in the interest of full disclosure, I did have a constable run to Detective Crichton’s house and slip a note under the door, so he cannot say I did not try to tell him.”
“Very sensible. Not your fault if he won’t see it until morning.”
“Not at all.”
McCreadie glances out the window. I look over at Gray, seated beside him, silent.
“Everything all right?” I ask.
“I am concerned.”
“About…?”
“We seem to have found our missing body, removed from the bog and taken to an unknown location in the countryside.” He pauses. “Perhaps ‘concerned’ is not the right word. I am mystified. And I do not like it.”
“Well, personally, I’m concerned. I’m afraid to ask what someone wants with a decomposing body.” I settle more into my seat. “The seemingly obvious answer is that the killer took it. Except…”
“That is highly unlikely.”
“Right. You don’t kill someone, dump them in a bog, and then come back for the body. It wasn’t stashed. It was dumped.”
“It could be someone not right in the head,” McCreadie says. “This fellow the farmer saw was very ragged and quite aged. He may have been walking along the bog, saw the body, and took it for reasons a sound mind could not fathom. I am only glad that he seems to have put it somewhere and then left.”
“Mmm, yeah,” I say. “Hopefully left and didn’t come back for it before now.”
The coach slows. We’ve already reached our destination.
I’m finally growing accustomed to how quickly we can get from the heart of Edinburgh into the countryside.
In the modern era, it would hardly be worth taking a taxi to travel the couple of miles.
Of course, in the modern era, we’d still be inside the city limits right now.
The cab traveled along the dirt road where the cart traveled, but the driver entered from the other end, and we’ve only gone about a quarter mile along it. McCreadie swings out to talk to the man while we slowly descend into the night.
The distant cacophony of frogs confirms we aren’t far from Puddocky Burn.
In the city at this hour, there’d still be people about, but this is the countryside, where life starts at dawn and ends at nightfall.
This time of year, when total dark doesn’t come until nearly midnight, it probably ends well before that.
By now, everyone except the frogs is asleep.
Or maybe not everyone …
As I turn slowly, Gray murmurs, “You hear that, too?”
“I do.”
To my right, I can hear McCreadie speaking to the driver, their voices low but clear in the near silence. To my left, though, I distinctly heard an exchange, one that sounded like two men talking.
The voices go silent, and by the time McCreadie joins us, Gray and I are both off the road, looking and listening in that direction.
“We heard someone in the distance,” I say to McCreadie. “Is there a pub around here?”
He shakes his head and hooks a thumb behind us. “Closest one would be that way.”
Gray holds up a small pad of paper, where he’s apparently written something while we were talking.
If we can hear them, they can hear us.
I make a face and nod. Good point.
McCreadie takes the paper and pencil and writes:
I told the driver to stay put. Should he leave?
We all consider the question. How close were those voices and how likely is it that they’ll hear the horse stamping or snorting as it waits? Less likely, I think, than the chance they’ll hear the horse and coach leaving.
In the end, I leave the decision to Gray, who motions that the driver should stay, and we’ll swing out to approach from farther down. At least then, if whoever is out there spots the coach, they won’t expect us from another direction.
We walk through the grass until we’re a few hundred meters to the right of where we’d been dropped off. Then we head inward.
It’s very dark. Sure, it’s nighttime, which usually does mean darkness. But there’s no moon or stars, and there’s also little light pollution to lift the relentless black.
McCreadie did bring a lantern, but he left it in the coach because it’s not exactly pocket-sized. Admittedly, given how dark it is, we probably wouldn’t use pocket flashlights even if they’d been invented yet.
The alternative is a very slow progression, and I blink rapidly, as if that’ll help my eyes adjust. I think I’m doing a great job …
until I trip on a vine and nearly sprawl face-first to the ground.
Gray catches me. Then, as I’m getting my bearings, his hand wraps around mine, and I have to resist the urge to jump.
In fact, I take great pains to resist the urge, because if I do jump, that grip on my hand will disappear.
Normally, I wouldn’t be startled by a friend taking my hand on treacherous terrain, but this is Victorian Britain, and my friend is male.
Moreover, neither of us is wearing gloves, and that skin-to-skin contact is so rare that it’s as startling as a hug.
For a few seconds, all I can feel is the warmth of Gray’s hand on mine.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I blink them back. Damn it, I’m trying so hard to adapt to this world. I can joke about missing clean glassware and a proper cup of coffee, but here is what I really miss: touch.
The longer I’m here, the more of it I get, and I appreciate that, especially when I know how un-Victorian it is, but it still feels like being doled out breadcrumbs when I’m ravenous. I’ve heard of being touch-starved, and I never really knew what it meant until I came here.
I get the occasional hug from Isla or pat on the back from McCreadie. From Gray, I get more—his elbow to hold while we walk, a tap on my arm, or, even, in our quiet moments, a chance to lean against him. But it’s not skin-to-skin, and I grieve for that in a way I never thought possible.
Even once I’m done with my misty-eyed moment, and I can refocus, I don’t want to.
I want to stay here, in this bubble, where all I can feel is the reassurance of his touch.
And then I decide to hell with it. I’m going to be selfish.
I’m going to free-fall into this moment.
I don’t need to pay attention to where we’re going. I trust Gray to lead me.
Even when Gray stops moving, he doesn’t release my hand. He’s looking out—I can dimly see his face—and his thumb rubs my fingers, as if absently, caught up in whatever he’s looking for. Or looking at. I really can’t see anything besides shadows and—
A murmured voice sounds.
My head jerks up. The voice comes from much closer now. It’s muffled, as if there’s something between us and it, and it’s calm, speaking slowly.
I squeeze my eyes shut to focus on it.
“—position the knife—”