Chapter Fourteen
FOURTEEN
It’s time to go fetch Addington. Gray has decided to do this himself, rather than send Simon.
He could just send me but … Well, when it comes to Addington, I have my uses, and conveying messages isn’t one of them, not if we want him to actually hear what I’m saying rather than just stare at my chest. Admittedly, there are times when I do want that.
Like when I’m telling him that Gray would like to amend Addington’s findings, and it’s helpful if Addington is too distracted to really hear what I’m saying.
Today, Gray wants to convey the message to Addington himself, and I’m not entirely comfortable with that. I don’t appreciate the way Addington treats Gray, and having Gray personally run messages to him doesn’t help. But if Gray doesn’t mind, then all I can do is accompany him.
Addington doesn’t own his lodgings. I could take malicious pride in that.
Gray has a town house. Except, well, Gray inherited it, and if he hadn’t, he probably wouldn’t own his lodgings either.
Bachelors don’t need a full house and having one means having staff, which might feel like still being at home, with responsibilities to tell people when you’re leaving and when you’ll be back.
Like McCreadie, Addington has an apartment. Apartment, not flat—I made the mistake of calling McCreadie’s place a “flat” once and got such a blank look. Eventually the right word will be “flat” but for now, it’s still the same as the modern North American term.
For both McCreadie and Addington, their apartment is a fancy step up from a lodging house, where they have a whole floor to themselves but there’s a landlady who does the cleaning and cooking.
McCreadie comes from money. I knew that from the fact that he went to school with Gray.
What I didn’t know until recently was how much money he came from—and the fact that blue blood runs through his veins.
Definitely not the usual police background, which is part of the reason he’s estranged from his family.
He has money from an inheritance, and his apartment is very nice.
Addington’s is nicer, proving his family is equally illustrious and he’s not estranged from it.
McCreadie has that nice New Town apartment only because he has family money—he’ll never make that kind of income from his job.
Addington won’t make it from his job as a police surgeon either.
Again, it’s the kind of issue I saw in my own world, where the pool of elected and appointed officials is often confined, ironically, to those who can afford to take the job because otherwise it doesn’t necessarily pay the bills.
It’s eight in the morning when we reach Addington’s place.
We knock on the ground-level door, the landlady answers, and we tell the housekeeper we’re here for Addington.
In that, she’s also taking on the duty of butler by providing controlled access for the inhabitants.
In this case, she has three residents, each with their own floor.
Addington lives on the second level, which would be the most expensive.
I’ve never actually seen inside his place.
We only ever get this far—the foyer outside the landlady’s quarters.
And that’s as far as we’re getting today.
In fact, after we’ve waited for thirty minutes, I begin to suspect we aren’t going to see Addington at all.
The landlady pops her head out twice to reassure us that he’ll be down.
She also offers apologies, which we assure her aren’t necessary.
I’d brought her a care package of breakfast goodies from Mrs. Wallace, which she always seems to appreciate.
Or maybe she just appreciates the recognition that she deserves a reward for dealing with Addington.
It’s nearly forty minutes before he comes tromping down the stairs. Addington is a year younger than Gray, but he walks with the languid pace of a man twice his age, one who never has anyplace important to be.
“Gray, Gray, Gray,” he says as he makes a show of checking his watch. “You do realize it is not even nine.”
“We have a body,” Gray says. “A young—”
“Yes, yes, I read the note you sent up.” Addington yawns. “Another girl drowned in Puddocky Burn. You were away for the first one. That was dreadfully inconvenient, you know. I had to conduct the autopsy in the police dead room.” He shudders.
“We had given the staff the week off,” Gray says, “or I would have invited you to use the laboratory in my absence.”
“You are much too lenient with your staff. Mrs. Wallace should have been working. Not only did I miss the use of your laboratory but I did not have her excellent baking.”
I could think he’s joking. I could hope he’s joking. I know he is not joking.
“Mrs. Wallace baked bannock this morning,” I say.
He turns toward me, slowly, as if hearing the distant call of a siren. “Miss Mitchell. How lovely to see you.” And by “you,” he means my boobs, because that’s what he’s looking at.
I give a half curtsy. “Lovely to see you, too, Doctor. I asked Mrs. Wallace to make extra bannock, just for you.”
“I appreciate that. Please have your groom run them over. I breakfast at ten.”
Again, I could hope he’s joking, and again, I know he isn’t.
Still, I affix my best look of confusion. “Are you not coming to perform the autopsy?”
“No need. The lass drowned. As for the bannock, I also like that blackberry jam your housekeeper makes.”
“We’re out,” I say, far too cheerfully. “Now, about the autopsy—”
“I am sorry, Miss Mitchell, but I fear your employer has brought you here for nothing. As I said, the lass drowned.”
“Which you know because…?”
Gray gives me a warning glance for my tone, but Addington doesn’t notice.
“Because the first girl drowned, and this is the second.” He lifts his hands.
“There was no question in the first death. It was drowning. She took laudanum, which was missing from her mother’s drawer, and she left a note.
The note will be with the police, along with the notes from my autopsy.
That young fellow—Detective McCreadie’s constable—insisted on writing it up and having me look them over. ”
“Yes,” I say. “We have heard that the first victim clearly died of suicide by drowning. But this is an entirely different girl—”
“Found in the same place. A second young woman floating dead in Puddocky Burn. Speak to the schoolmaster. There is some romantic poem they are emulating.”
“But this isn’t a schoolgirl,” I say. “She was a housemaid—”
“—who read the poem. Clearly.” He looks from me to Gray and sighs deeply. “Are you going to tell me she died another way? Head chopped off? Chest rent open?”
“No,” Gray says slowly. “The cause of death appears to be drowning. However—”
“Then why are you here? I said it was drowning. It is drowning.”
“The question,” Gray says, “is whether she drowned herself or was drowned. I believe it was the latter.”
Addington shrugs. “She still drowned.”
“Death by murder and death by suicide are two very different things.” Gray’s own tone is even sharper than mine, and you don’t see me giving him warning looks.
Addington only shrugs. “Maybe so, but that is a matter for the police.”
“For the police surgeon.” Gray seems to be having trouble opening his mouth to grit out the words. “Who works for the police. Whose job it is to determine—”
“Cause of death. Which I just did.”
“Cause includes determining whether a death is natural, accidental, suicide, or murder.”
Addington waves a hand. “That is your job.”
“My job?”
Another wave. “You like that sort of thing. Detective work and whatnot. I read one of those stories about you. Adorable. The undertaker sleuth. I don’t have time for such things. You can do them.”
“I can…?”
“Determine whether it is murder or suicide. Conduct the autopsy. You remember how, yes? I know you failed to obtain your medical license.”
“Yes, I know how to autopsy a body,” Gray grinds out. “Are you telling me that you refuse to do it?”
“‘Refuse’ is a strong word. I decline the invitation.”
“It is your—”
I clear my throat. “Are you assigning it to Dr. Gray? Would you be willing to sign something to clarify that you have done so? I would not want the procurator fiscal to think Dr. Gray acted unilaterally.”
“Unilaterally?” Addington’s brows shoot up and then he looks at Gray. “What have you been teaching this lovely girl?”
“A note would help—” I begin.
“Yes, yes.” He strides to a guest book in the hall, rips out a page, writes something, signs it, and hands it over. “It is now your job, Gray.”
“My job.”
Addington peers at him. “Please do not tell me you expect to be paid. It is your passion. You should do it for free. Concern for financial compensation is…” He makes a face. “Unseemly.”
“I am not concerned about financial compensation.” Gray can barely get the words out now.
“But he should be,” I say. “Just because you love something doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be properly compensated for it.”
Addington stares as if I’m speaking another language.
“You’re paid to conduct the autopsies,” I say.
“Not enough.”
“Still, you are paid.”
“But I do not like the work. Therefore, it is right that I should be compensated.”
“That’s not how—” I clamp my mouth shut and turn to Gray. “My apologies, sir. Obviously the choice is yours.”
“The choice,” Gray says, “seems to be that I do it or no one does.”
“Exactly,” Addington says. “I grant you the right to make that choice.”
“To see justice done for this young woman … or not.”
“Precisely.” He claps Gray on the shoulder. “I know you will make the right decision, old chap. Now, if you will excuse me, I have tea waiting. Please send the bannock—”
“No bannock,” I say.
He looks at me, brow furrowed.
“I fear I was mistaken, sir,” I say. “We have no bannock for you.”
“There is no bannock?”
“Oh, there is. But it is a very fragile thing and cannot be removed from the house. No autopsy. No bannock. Perhaps next time.” I turn to Gray. “May we go, sir?”
An abrupt nod, and he leads me to the door.
It’s about a mile back to Robert Street, and we walked to Addington’s, rather than bother Simon after he already came out in the wee hours of the morning. Gray is moving fast, and I’m struggling to keep up with his long strides, but I don’t want to ask him to slow down.
“I need to consult with Hugh,” he says.
“Yes.”
He glances over.
“I know that wasn’t a question,” I say, “but yes, you absolutely need to consult with him, and he’s going to need to consult with his higher-ups, maybe even the procurator fiscal’s office. At some stage, they may insist Addington perform the autopsy, but I’m hoping they won’t.”
“Because if he is forced to conduct it, he will do a poor job.”
“Yes.”
“So I need Hugh to be very clear that I am willing and able to do this, even if it is not my job.”
“I’m sorry.”
He exhales. “I do not care whether I am paid. I care that it is Addington’s job and he is shirking it, and I am enabling that.”
“You’re enabling it because you care about justice. But no one should be rewarded for doing a shitty job, and that’s what’s happening here. If Addington gets a pass, it’ll be because he’s incompetent. That’s not fair.”
“But to make it fair means giving up this case. Letting Nellie’s death be ruled a suicide, which not only allows her killer to go free but means she cannot be buried in a kirkyard.”
“I’m sorry.”
He manages a wan smile. “I know you are, and you have nothing to be sorry for. It is an untenable situation, and I believe all we can do is focus on Nellie.”
“See this as justice for her, and forget that Addington is getting away with something. Forget Addington altogether, if we can.”
“Yes.” Gray slows his pace and offers me his arm. “Hugh will already be at the house for breakfast. We will put this to him, and then await a response.”