Chapter Twenty-Four
TWENTY-FOUR
“I sent a note to Hugh this morning,” Gray says as the coach turns from the mews onto the street. “I wrote it last night and left instructions for Mrs. Wallace to have it delivered first thing.”
Normally Simon would take it, but he’d been up late fetching us from the Adlers’ home. Mrs. Wallace would have had Alice run it to McCreadie’s apartment before he left for work.
“Hugh sent back a response with a message boy,” Gray says. “He agrees that the police are unlikely to take the abduction attempt on Rose seriously. No harm was done.”
I make a noise deep in my throat.
He glances at me. “Yes, harm was done. That girl was terrorized. But you understand my meaning—to the police, no harm was done. She was not injured or interfered with. However, if we determine that MacNiven abducted Rose, then Hugh can arrest him. That is why we are taking the coach. So that Simon may bring Hugh if required.”
“And if we can have MacNiven arrested for kidnapping Rose, that might give Hugh an opportunity to question him about Nellie.”
“Yes. The cases are linked, and so Hugh says he would be free to conduct a full interrogation, including questions on Nellie.”
I lean back in my seat. “Excellent. Now, according to my notes, MacNiven shouldn’t be at school yet. He doesn’t teach until later in the morning, giving his students time to do their farm chores.” I glance at Gray. “Which is why you were eager to be off today.”
“I was not eager. At least, not in the sense that I would have disturbed your sleep. I slept unexpectedly soundly, but I forgot to shut my curtains. The light woke me. It will be better, though, to catch MacNiven at home. I gave Simon his address, and we should be there shortly.”
As if on cue, the coach slows. I look out the window to see we’re just outside the city. We haven’t reached the spot yet, but Simon has slowed for the rougher road. We continue along it and stop in front of a tidy farmhouse.
Being outside the city means a shortage of lodgings, so the current schoolmaster will stay wherever his predecessor did. He might be paying for room and board here, or it might be included in his employment package.
There’s a woman in the yard, feeding free-range chickens. She squints at the coach as we step out. Then she looks left and right, as if wondering where else we might be heading.
“We are looking for the schoolmaster,” I call. “Mr. MacNiven?”
“Aye. He is taking his breakfast.” She lowers her voice. “Might want to speak softly. Seems his head is a wee bit sore this morning.”
She cackles knowingly, and Gray and I exchange a look. She’s implying MacNiven had been drinking and has a hangover. Drinking after he returned from his botched spy mission? Or using the excuse of drinking to explain a late night?
“Go on in,” she says when we hesitate. “Kettle’s on if you’d like tea. Should be some bread, too. The lad will have no stomach for it today.”
Allowing us in their home can be awkward for some people.
Our clothing puts us in a certain social station.
That station makes people of significantly lower stations anxious, and they’ll often hesitate to invite us inside, as if we’ll judge them for their poverty.
But, as always, it depends on the person, and this woman clearly has no qualms about it.
Once we’re inside, I can see why—the house is remarkably well-appointed for someone with chickens in the front yard.
It’s sparkling clean and beautifully decorated, and I suspect she’s proud of that.
“Mr. MacNiven?” I call. “It is Mallory Mitchell and Dr. Gray.”
The scrape of a chair, and a moment later, he appears at an inner doorway.
There’s a wet cloth clutched in his hand, and he looks …
Well, he looks like a guy with a serious hangover.
Or maybe a guy who had a very, very bad night and has spent the last seven hours obsessing over it.
His eyes are bleary and bloodshot, his face wan.
“My apologies,” he says. “You are not finding me at my best. The children have no school this morning, and I fear I took advantage of that last night.”
I smile. “I can see that. Do you mind a few questions?”
“Can you speak softly?” His lips twist wryly. “I jest, of course. Come in. Have some tea.”
We take seats at the kitchen table as he makes the tea. I ask Gray for his professional hangover remedies, and he seems surprised by that but then realizes what I’m doing—acting as if I’m not questioning what’s wrong with Grantham MacNiven.
“I do not know whether I have found anything that truly helps besides rest,” Gray says. “Though you can always find someone willing to sell you an expensive tonic that will do nothing.”
“If it’s made of water, it’ll help,” I say. “A hangover is partly dehydration.”
MacNiven turns slowly. “Dehydration?”
“A lack of water in the body,” I say. “Alcohol dehydrates.”
Gray’s expression says this isn’t something he was aware of.
“Anyway,” I say, “when you drink alcohol, always get lots of water at the same time. It won’t fix the problem but it’ll help.” I wait for him to pour the tea before I ask, casually, “What were you drinking?”
“God knows,” he mutters. “They called it whisky, but homemade alcohol of some variety.”
“You must be careful with that,” Gray says. “It is very easy to brew poison instead of poteen.”
“I know.” MacNiven slumps into his chair, looking mournful. “One of these days, I am going to die of hospitality. Eat the wrong food. Drink the wrong liquor. All because I am desperate to be accepted by the locals.”
He glances at us. “My mentor taught me that is one key to being a good teacher. Ensure the community likes you, and they will happily send their children to you for learning. One cannot teach if one has no pupils.”
“If the poteen was a gift from a family,” I say, “you should let Dr. Gray examine it, to be sure you have not indeed been poisoned.”
I’m asking because I want to see the bottle. I want to see proof that he’s hungover. Of course, he could have gotten that way after returning last night, but if I can poke holes in his story, it’ll help.
“I do not have it,” he says, and I tense, ready to ask to see the empty bottle. For science. But he continues with, “He tried to give me some to take home, and I claimed my landlady would object.”
“Take home?”
“After the evening concluded.”
“You were not here?”
He looks startled and then laughs. “You thought I was drinking alone? There are times I am sorely tempted, after a particularly bad day with the children, but no. If I had been gifted a bottle, I would have politely accepted … and then dumped it out back. But being at their home, I could not refuse.”
He leans back in his chair. “Some of the local men have a monthly night of cards. It was my first time being invited, and I could not refuse. Not the invitation nor the poteen.” He pauses.
“The games went well enough, and I will go again if invited, though perhaps I shall splurge and bring a bottle of proper whisky for my host.”
“You were out all evening?” I ask, and at his puzzled expression, I say, “I ask because you were allegedly seen in the city. That is why we are here.”
A moment more of confusion, and then a sly smile.
“Ah, you truly are a detective, Miss Mitchell. You were asking about the bottle to test my … what do they call it? An alibi? Nicely done. No, I was not in the city. I haven’t been there in nearly a fortnight.
I will give you the address of the house where I was last night and the names of all there.
I arrived around nine, and stayed until nearly two.
I made some noise coming in, waking my poor landlady.
She can confirm the time, as she noted that it was past two. ”
He glances toward the door. “She is an excellent landlady, and most tolerant, but I shall need to buy her a little gift to make up for this.”
He looks back at me. “Does that provide the alibi, miss?” he says, his eyes twinkling.
“I believe it does. I will need to ask for those names, though.”
“Certainly.”
After consulting with MacNiven’s landlady and his host last night, I need to conclude that he did not grab Rose outside the séance.
He just happens to fit the general description she gave, and since he was connected to Nellie and the “drowned girl” poem, it was an obvious conclusion to draw.
Did I consider MacNiven a suspect in Nellie’s death?
Yes, as one of a large number of suspects.
This doesn’t change that. It only means he didn’t grab Rose.
“Someone was spying on that séance,” I say, when we’re back in the coach.
“Hmm.”
I glance over. “You don’t think that’s the answer.”
“I only said hmm, Mallory.”
I peer at him.
“Am I not allowed to say hmm?” he says.
“It means you have doubts.”
“No, it means I am thinking.”
I nibble my lower lip. If he had something in mind, he’d say it, so he doesn’t, but the fact that he made that noise now has me thinking. And questioning my assumption—
“Shit!” I say.
“Where?” He looks down at his boots. “I thought I stepped in something.”
“Ha-ha. You know what I mean. I’ve had a thought.”
“Which is shit?”
I ignore him. “Why else would someone lurk around a séance if they weren’t eavesdropping? Because they were helping.”
He nods sagely. “That is exactly what I thought.”
I peer at him. “If it was, you’d have said so.
Now, the thing about séances is that they usually require assistance.
Everyone’s eyes are on the medium, so if Madame Paix manipulates anything, it’ll be noticed.
The task, then, goes to the assistant, who knocks or whatever.
I presumed her brother or husband did that.
Maybe they switch out, depending on where everyone’s attention is.
But the more help you have, the more ‘real’ you’ll seem. ”
Gray looks thoughtful, considering. “The ghostly responses come from different sources, making them seem unlikely to be connected to a single participant.”
“And if Madame Paix knows a detective is going to be there, she’ll have to be even more careful.”
“Such as having an associate outside. Tapping at windows. Rapping on window frames.”
“It’d be tougher to pull off,” I say. “But it’s a huge coup for her reputation—contacting the ghost of a girl no one knew was dead. She may have been desperate, trying to come up with a way to successfully ‘contact’ the dead while a detective is in the room, watching her and her associates.”
“And it failed,” Gray says. “Whatever the person outside was doing, we could not hear it.”
“Remember how her brother pushed her to keep going? Told her to be patient? And her husband snapped at him?”
“The outside assistance fails,” Gray says. “The brother is overly eager, hoping it will eventually work. Madame Paix and her husband realize it will not and want to end the charade as quickly as possible.”
“And that’s when Rose appears. She startles their assistant. He panics and grabs her, gets her out of the yard.” I glance at Gray. “No offense to Rose, but I think he let her go. He’d taken her in a panic and realized he had no idea what to do next.”
“So did he pursue her? She seems to have heard footsteps, but she did not mention actual pursuit.”
“Because there was none. But she thinks she’s in mortal danger so she runs and hides, and then we’re out there searching, and that’s what she hears.
” I take out my notepad and jot a few things down before I say, “This doesn’t absolve her attacker.
He still hurt her.” I look up from my notes.
“And this is just a theory, of course. It could also have been someone curious about the séance. Or it could have been Nellie’s killer, worried that her ghost would give them away.
For now, though, I think it’s finally time to interview our main suspects. ”
His brows rise.
“Madame Paix and her associates—her brother and her husband.”