Chapter Twenty-Six #2
“Are there people in the room I could exclude, you mean? Because they were farther or closer than the noise? No. Knocking is a very interesting phenomenon, Miss Michell. I would suggest, as scientists, you and Dr. Gray test it out, since you did not get a proper demonstration last night. Turn down the lights. Let the room fall silent. Focus your attention on listening. And see if you can tell exactly where the knocks come from. I suspect you will be surprised.”
“We might do that.”
“You should.”
“But the knocks definitely came from the table.”
“Ah.” He purses his lips, as if thinking. “That is an interesting question. Is it possible they came from someone not at the table? From the window? From the room above? Even below, knocking on the floor? I do not know.”
“But we could test it,” Gray says. “Preferably with access to that room.”
Parsons smiles. “An excellent idea. I would even participate, if you like. This is the sort of investigation I appreciate. Logical.”
“We might take you up on that,” I say.
“Please do. I would find it most interesting.”
The interview with Stella doesn’t take long. While she’s very willing to talk to us, there isn’t a lot she can add. Between her brother and husband, we have a good picture of what happened that night and also how “Madame Paix” operates.
I ask questions to double-check what they said, giving her a chance to contradict their answers. Where she differs is only when it comes to Freddie’s account of her powers, and that’s mostly in tone.
“I … I will admit,” she says, her voice soft, uncertain, “that I don’t fully understand it myself.
It’s obvious that I have Sight and that it runs in my family but it feels…
” Her hands clench in her lap and then she smooths her skirts, as if that’s all she was doing.
“It is like waking up to discover any hitherto unknown talent, I suppose. I still cannot quite believe it.”
She looks up quickly. “However, I do believe it. I must, having seen evidence of it. I only mean that even after years, I keep expecting to wake and find it gone.” A smile. “Freddie says I shouldn’t talk like that.”
“And what does your husband say?” I ask gently.
Her smile softens, the glow rising to her eyes. “My husband reminds me that I am not my gift. That it is not the sum total of me. And if I were to lose it, I would still be me, would still do good in the world.”
She meets my eyes. “That is what I want. To do good. My gift eases grieving hearts. At least, that is what it usually does. This is … very different. What happened with Nellie.” She shifts in her seat.
“But it is still good, is it not? If it might have helped her be found? If it brought you both to her case, to find her killer?”
“Anything that will find a killer is good,” I say.
She nods as if to herself. “Thank you. That does help.”
We continue talking for a while, but she has nothing new to add.
We leave the hotel and start the walk back to Robert Street. We turn onto it to see a carriage blocking the road ahead.
“Now that’s a fancy coach,” I say. “Puts even Annis’s to shame.”
Gray doesn’t reply, and I presume he’s caught up in his thoughts. We haven’t spoken much since leaving the hotel.
“Is it just going to sit there?” I say. “No one can drive past it.”
Gray clears his throat, and I wonder whether he’s gently asking me not to prattle while he thinks. But he says, his voice oddly soft, though we’re the only ones on the sidewalk, “Is that in front of our town house?”
I squint. “Damn, I think it is. Someone seeking your undertaking services?”
“No,” he says, the word drawn out. “That is a very specific coach, and it would not come to me for that.”
I adjust my bonnet to better shade the sun. “Does that explain why your neighbors happen to be at their open windows?” I survey the street. “Everyone is at their windows. But they’re not coming outside for a better look.”
The coach is gleaming black with ornate trim. “Are those four horses drawing it? And a footman plus the driver? Wait, is that two footmen? Who the hell…?”
That’s when I see the crest on the side, and my heart stutters. “Duncan? Is that…?”
Before I can finish, Alice bolts from the town house and comes racing up the street. She stops in front of us, glances over her shoulder, and curtsies.
“You have a visitor, sir,” she says.
“I see that.”
She leans in. “It is not her. Only her coach. Come for you.” Her gaze flicks to me. “You and Mallory.”
“I see.”
I want to kick Gray for that very calm nonresponse.
Alice lowers her voice more. “Mrs. Wallace says she is not in town.”
“No, she is not.”
“Then who is summoning you in that?” Another look back at the coach.
“I believe we will need to find out. Thank you, Alice.”
Alice bobs her head and races back to the town house as Gray and I continue toward the waiting coach.
“She really isn’t in Edinburgh, right?” I whisper.
“Not as far as anyone knows.” At my worried look, he adds, “That isn’t her personal coach, which is even grander.”
I don’t know what else to ask. Oh, I have plenty of questions. But none Gray could answer, except maybe one.
“Has anyone, er, from there ever … summoned you before?”
A low, strained chuckle. “Certainly not.”
We’re almost at the coach now. The coach bearing Queen Victoria’s royal crest.
After Prince Albert died in 1861, Victoria largely withdrew from public life.
Will she ever return to it? I don’t remember that piece of history.
All I know is that we’re still in the grieving period when she’s very reclusive, a royal wraith flitting between three homes: Windsor Castle, Osborne House on the Isle of Wight … and Balmoral Castle in Scotland.
When the Queen visits Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh, the whole city knows it. But they’re not always aware of when she’s at Balmoral.
As we near the coach, a footman hops down and then approaches, his back ramrod straight. “Dr. Duncan Gray,” he says.
“Yes,” Gray replies.
“And Miss Mallory Mitchell.”
My “yes” sounds a bit like a squeak. All I can think is What does someone from the palace want with Gray?
Is this about him pursuing a case the police dropped? Is Addington offended and his father reached all the way to the top of his social ladder to lodge a complaint? Not to the Queen herself, of course, but to the palace.
Is that possible? I know little of monarchies, and I don’t really understand how this one functions in Victorian Scotland. In modern Canada, we’re part of the Commonwealth, but the British monarch—via the governor general—can’t get involved in politics or law enforcement. At least, not officially.
Sweat beads on my forehead. Has Gray inadvertently stepped on some very sensitive toes?
I almost miss what the footman says next, something about coming with him to the palace.
“Please forgive my rudeness,” Gray says. “I must ask why I am being summoned, so I understand whether Miss Mitchell and I are properly attired.” He looks down. “We have been walking, and we are dusty. We are also not dressed for any meeting of importance.”
“The Queen is not at Holyrood.”
Am I imagining it or do the footman’s words ring out loud, as if making sure every eavesdropping ear catches them?
He continues, “Your attire is acceptable, given that your presence at the palace is required immediately, with no advance notice provided.” He lifts his voice again. “Your expertise is being sought, and I assure you, neither you or Miss Mitchell is being summoned for any censorious purpose.”
My whole body flutters with relief. Then I realize he’s said this loudly, and I silently thank him for that.
Gray’s neighbors often don’t seem to know what to make of him, and few are what I’d call neighborly.
The last thing he needs is people whispering that he was unceremoniously “seized” on the street by a royal coach.
Gray dips his head in acknowledgment. “We are at your disposal, then.”
The footman bows his head abruptly and opens the coach door. Gray nods for me to go first, and then follows, taking the seat opposite me, and the door clacks shut.