Chapter Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
It seems Isla and McCreadie had lingered downstairs to give us time to talk. Gray and I have just decided our course of action when they arrive in time for tea. Over that, we discuss it further.
Having McCreadie stay out of the investigation is tricky when he’s dating Isla, but he’ll be more circumspect, picking her up for outings rather than hanging out at the town house.
Of course, he wants to keep apprised of our progress and is happy to brainstorm, but he can’t risk getting us any information.
He doesn’t actually say that—we say it for him.
We’re taking a risk of pissing off Edinburgh law enforcement, and we won’t drag him into it.
As for the case, we have an excuse for investigating.
An excuse that isn’t extending a middle finger to the procurator fiscal.
We aren’t saying Gray’s assessment is the correct one.
We aren’t saying Nellie was murdered. But we have a literary machine to feed.
A public eager for a new story, especially since our Highland case wasn’t one we’d let Jack document.
This case is perfect for our audience—ghosts, séances, tragic poems, dead girls …
Okay, I really hate that last part. The deaths of young women are exploited enough, in my time and this one.
The public loves a pretty dead girl. But if it means having an excuse to investigate, I’ll grit my teeth and toss that in.
This case is perfect entertainment fodder—yep, I hate that too, but it works for our purposes.
We can admit in the chronicles that we don’t know whether Nellie was definitely murdered.
We only know that it’s possible, given the evidence, and if the police complain, we’ll tell them that our chronicler is champing at the bit for this story, which she actually is.
We will investigate, and if the conclusion is that poor Nellie died by suicide, following her friend’s example, well, that is a story, too.
McCreadie thinks this will work. He’ll even warn his superiors.
Gray is investigating for a new literary installment, but McCreadie won’t help him.
Also, he’ll promise that the writer won’t mention anything about the police.
That means Jack won’t say the police ruled it a suicide, which also covers their asses in case it turns out to be murder.
I seethe at the thought of giving them an “out,” but I also know this is for the best. Dragging the police and legal system through the mud won’t help us in the long run.
One thing we’re stuck on, especially without McCreadie’s help, is tracking down Kate, the surviving member of the friend group. That seems to warrant at least a wellness check, which isn’t part of policing yet. McCreadie will do what he can, if he can. Otherwise, it’s up to us.
“I did bring you a present,” McCreadie says as we finish lunch. He takes papers from his coat’s inside pocket. “The autopsy findings for Mary.”
I reach for it and then hesitate. “Can you get in trouble for that?”
He smiles. “No, because I told the superintendent that I wanted Duncan to see them, as a gentle way of suggesting Duncan might be wrong about Nellie.”
“Ah.”
He shoots a sidelong look Gray’s way. “Sorry.”
Gray waves that off, and I take the papers. Addington didn’t write them. He never does. Addington gives a verbal report to an officer, who writes it down. Then Addington is available to speak in court when a suspect is tried. What I have here is what the attending officer—Iain—wrote down.
I pull my chair over by Gray so we can read it together. Gray reads it and then ticks his finger down the list of findings.
“Well,” he says. “He actually did conduct a proper autopsy, which makes me wonder whether I am acting as a crutch he does not need.”
“That he can do his job but doesn’t bother when you’re there to double-check his work?” I shake my head. “This is a simple autopsy, with the findings almost a foregone conclusion. All he did was confirm them. But it seems correct?”
“He found all the signs that Mary drowned while under the influence of laudanum, and none of the signs that it was anything else. He checked for and noted no evidence of struggle or bruising.”
“Iain was present and confirmed Addington’s work,” McCreadie says. “On the next page, you will find the suicide note.”
Gray sets the report aside. Below is a piece of paper with cramped but legible handwriting. As he reads that, I go to get the samples we took from Mary’s mother.
I return as Isla is reading the note aloud.
Dearest Mama and Papa,
I cannot go on any longer. It is all too much. This hard life has broken me, and I seek the embrace of our Heavenly Father. I have seen the ghost of Clara Moore, floating so peacefully on the water, and I go to join her. I am sorry, Mama, for taking your medicine.
All my love, always,
Mary
“Clara Moore was the girl in the poem,” I say.
“Mary’s life wasn’t easy, but from everything I can tell, it was very ordinary, even good for a village girl.
Saying she was broken by a hard life seems very dramatic, but it’s also typical enough for an adolescent.
And if she were emulating that poem, it was melodramatic.
All that talk of escaping a cruel world. ”
Isla lowers the letter. “Did she intend to end her life, though? She sounds like a girl playing at a game.”
“Role-playing. It does happen. I know Victorians consider young people that age to be adults, but there’s a reason why we have a separate age group for them in my time.
Because up here?” I tap my temple. “Their brains are still developing, and they can make spectacularly bad decisions. I swear every time I had to speak to parents about their teens committing some petty crime they said the same thing to their kid. What were you thinking? They weren’t. Not really.”
“That poor girl,” Isla murmurs. “I know we do not wish to blame the schoolmaster but…”
“Yeah,” I say. “Letting the kids get so engrossed in the poem was a mistake, but it’s an understandable one. He wasn’t taught developmental psychology. Teachers aren’t often taught that in my time either, though they’re somehow expected to know it.”
I take Mary’s note from Isla and set it down beside the samples. Then I use a magnifying glass to peer at telltale indicators, like the spacing between words, the connection between letters, the descenders and ascenders.
Handwriting analysis is far from an exact science.
Hell, most of forensics is not nearly as precise as people think, and I can see that with Gray’s work.
He is so careful in his wording, never claiming that anything is absolutely definitive.
I think of all the innocent people who’ve been wrongly convicted on forensic evidence, and I wonder how many of Gray’s colleagues felt the way he did—and how many leaped on the conclusion that their results were indisputable.
We’ve already used handwriting analysis in a few cases.
It’s not something I studied, partly because it’s now considered so imprecise but also because, well, people no longer write most things by hand.
I’m learning about Victorian handwriting analysis, and as long as I understand it’s never going to “prove” anything, it’s a helpful tool.
What I’m doing is comparing elements. Some are ones that any copycat will notice and reproduce. But others are subtler, and this is what I look at. Then I pass it to Gray, who does the same.
“A match?” I say. “At least in the sense that it replicates Mary’s handwriting?”
“Yes.” He pushes the samples away. “If someone copied her hand, they did an excellent job.”
“Which means we can be reasonably sure she wrote this, and no one forced her to take the laudanum, drowned her, and wrote the note.”
“So Mary drowns herself,” Isla says. “And her dear friend, Nellie—who studied the same poem—is murdered in the same way. Please do not take offense, Duncan. I am not doubting the results of your autopsy. But I can see why the procurator fiscal was reluctant to rule it a murder.”
“I know,” Gray says. “I am insulted and offended, but I must remember that he is not a doctor. Nor is the superintendent. Their police surgeon gave them the obvious answer, and they do not wish to waste resources pursuing another. It is possible Nellie drowned herself. I just consider it exceptionally unlikely.”
Isla rises. “Well, let me take those tissue samples for analysis. That might help.”
“It will. Thank you.”
“Oh,” I say. “Before you go, Isla, did you get a chance to talk to Lady Adler about the séance?”
She hesitates.
“No worries if you didn’t,” I say. “Duncan and I will need to tell her we’re investigating anyway.”
“I did speak to her,” Isla says. “I only hesitate because…”
She exhales and looks McCreadie’s way, shunting the question to him.
He clears his throat. “She wants to conduct another séance. Tonight.”
“What?”
McCreadie sighs and looks at me. “Lady Adler believes the ghost of Nellie Carmichael reached out two nights ago, and the fact that her body was subsequently discovered—when no one thought her disappearance was suspicious—is proof of Madame Paix’s skill.
She now wants the medium to contact Nellie again and ask who killed her. ”
“If Nellie could tell us who killed her, wouldn’t she have done that in the first place?
Instead of asking for Duncan?” I pause and then glance at Gray.
“I know you’re going to hate this idea, but I think we should go through with the séance.
If we insist that everyone who was there returns, I have all my prime suspects in one room.
” I quickly add, “Not that you need to be there yourself.”
“I will take Duncan’s place,” Isla says.
“No one will take my place,” Gray says. “I am perfectly capable of sitting through this nonsense.”
“Are you?” I say. “Sitting through it and giving away nothing? Not one hint of disapproval?”
He meets my gaze. “Yes. Also, I believe Nellie asked for me by name, did she not?”
I gape at him. Then I turn to Isla and McCreadie. “Please note this for posterity. Dr. Duncan Gray has admitted to believing in ghosts.”
“I did not say that,” Gray says.
“Totally said it. You said Nellie asked for you—”
“I mean that I was the one requested by someone acting as Nellie. I am the one Lady Adler hired. Therefore I must attend or I risk giving offense to a very important patron.”
“Oooh, nicely done. You just want to see a séance, don’t you.”
He sputters. “I do not—”
“You can just say so, you know. No need to make excuses.”
“I am not—”
“You totally are.”
McCreadie rises. “And this is my cue to leave. I will speak to my superiors and let them know you are pursuing the case without me.”
“That means you miss the séance,” I say.
He pauses. “I might actually be disappointed by that.”
“Because you believe in ghosts.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait, only saying, “Because I believe in possibilities.”
“You could go disguised as Duncan.”
“Somehow, I do not think that would work. Also, if I attempted to take his place at your side for a minute more than necessary, he would be most … what do you call it? Cranky.” He looks at Gray.
“It is your case. I cede all rights to you.” He pauses.
“Officially that is. Unofficially, it belongs to the actual detective.” He nods my way.
I curtsy. “Thank you, sir. Now, we have a séance to arrange.”
We don’t actually have a séance to arrange. We only need to launch one, with Simon bearing a message to Lady Adler, telling her that Dr. Gray has agreed with her suggestion, and if she needs any assistance, please contact him. We receive back six words.
Splendid! We shall convene at nine.
That means McCreadie has plenty of time to speak to his superiors and race back waving a red flag if they forbid the investigation. Instead, at dinner, we receive a note saying
All is well. Proceed as planned.
“In other words,” I grumble, “thanks for the free labor. First, an autopsy. Now an investigation.”
Isla reaches over to pat my hand. “In the end, it will not be free, because Jack will report on it, and we receive a share.”
“Still not happy.”
“I know.”
I sigh and pick at my sponge cake. “The séance should at least be interesting. I’m going to suggest we hold off on interviewing anyone until afterward. Let Madame Paix do her thing without worrying that she’s a suspect.”
“Reasonable,” Isla says.
I tap my fork against the plate. “Is there a dress code for séances? I feel like I should wear black, but that’s for mourning, and outwardly mourning Nellie would be wrong, yes?”
“Correct,” Isla says. “While mourning can seem like a burden, it is also a right reserved for close family. I do not know that there is any specific attire for séances. I would say something somber. I will wear my lilac dress. You might wear your dark blue one.”
“And Duncan gets to wear whatever he likes because he’s a guy.”
“No, because ‘guys’ only have one real choice. A suit that is appropriate for the event.”
I look at Gray. “You’re quiet.”
“Reflecting.”
“If you really don’t want to go, we can make your excuses.”
He puts his fork down with a click. “I will overcome my discomfort and see this as an opportunity. I strongly suspect Nellie’s killer will be at that table, and this is our opportunity to out them.”