Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
Gray replies, his tone as even as ever. “We are investigating the death of a young woman. A housemaid.”
“Who the police believe drowned at her own hand.”
Shit. Okay, we’ve crossed a line.
“They do,” Gray says, slowly. “However, the maid’s employer is a longtime patron of mine, and my sister knew the girl, so I feel obligated to confirm the official findings, which is no insult or offense to the police—”
“Unimportant. What matters is the truth, which seems to be that this child was murdered.”
I resist the urge to look at Gray again. This woman—who is almost certainly Queen Victoria—is concerned about the death of a Scottish housemaid?
There’s more to it.
Does she know Nellie somehow? I can’t imagine their paths would ever cross. The only way …
I remember the neighbor saying no one knew who Nellie’s father was. Could he have been royal? I know Prince “Bertie” has lots of illegitimate offspring. The guy really can’t keep it in his pants—or put anything on it to keep from adding to the population.
“You believe this housemaid was murdered,” the woman’s voice comes even stronger now, impatient.
“Yes,” Gray says finally.
“Based on the autopsy you performed.”
He hesitates, and then says, slowly, “Dr. Addington was kind enough to let me perform one, as I am out of practice.”
“Out of practice? You have never practiced. Not medicine, at least. Nor surgery.”
“I misspoke,” Gray says, with enviable calm, as sweat trickles down my temple. “I meant that I had not performed one since my days in medical school.”
“Where you graduated second in your class, with dual degrees, and yet you were prevented from practicing.”
“It is … complicated.”
“No, it is outrageous,” she snaps. “It is clear from the chronicles of your cases that you are a brilliant scientist, whose future in medicine was cut short by what I can only presume was prejudice.”
“Not … entirely.”
She goes on, as if not hearing him, “A dear friend says that medicine’s loss is science’s gain, and perhaps he is right, but I am still outraged. I expect better from Edinburgh.”
Wait. She mentioned the chronicles. Is that why we’re here? It can’t be. This is the ruler of the British Empire, she has far better things to do with her time than read true-crime stories.
Unless that queen—in self-imposed exile while still mourning her husband—is spending her summer at her Scottish estate and … getting bored?
She continues, “Whoever is writing your stories is very circumspect when it comes to Dr. Addington, but I can read between the lines and I have done some investigating of my own. He is incompetent. Raised up by birth, not merit. Edinburgh deserves better.”
Gray doesn’t reply. What can he say? She’s right, but he’ll sure as hell never risk insulting Addington, not even to a receptive audience.
“You shall have his position,” she says. “It is decided.”
Gray’s head jerks up. “Wha— I mean, I beg your pardon?”
“Police surgeon of Edinburgh. That will be you. By royal decree.”
“I … I already have a position, your—” He clears his throat. “My family business.”
“Undertaking. You do not like it.”
“I do not mind—”
“You inherited a business you have little talent for. It runs smoothly enough, but you are disinterested in it. Your interest—and your talent—lies with medicine. Specifically science as it relates to murder.”
Now Gray is sweating, too. One drop trickles down his cheek even as his expression remains unreadable. “I am exceptionally flattered.”
“It is not flattery. It is moving the correct people into the correct positions for the benefit of the people. You are exceedingly competent. Dr. Addington is exceedingly incompetent. You should have his position, and you will. Hire someone else to oversee your family business.” A pause. “I have spoken.”
That single drop becomes a steady trickle of sweat.
“Miss Mitchell,” she says sharply. “You are bursting with something to say.”
I glance at Gray.
“Speak, girl. Your opinion is being asked. Always take advantage of that.”
I inhale and then say, as carefully as I can, “Your solution is the obvious one, and I would love to see it myself. No one is a bigger champion of Dr. Gray than me. However, I also understand that he needs to work within the system if he is to have any chance of, as you say, benefiting the people.”
“Explain.”
I continue slowly, choosing each word, “Dr. Addington is well connected. He was appointed to his position by the accepted process, and we might find fault with that process, but it was done legally. To remove him in favor of Dr. Gray would be … problematic.”
“Continue.”
“There would be tensions and political ramifications, and Dr. Gray is not a politician. He is a scientist. He wants the freedom to do his work. If people believe he stole Dr. Addington’s post, his efforts would be hampered.”
“So you would suggest…”
I swallow. “I would suggest that Dr. Gray be allowed to continue supporting Dr. Addington.”
“Propping him up, you mean.”
“For now.”
Silence. She’s thinking it through. Also thinking through the meaning of my “for now.” Oh, I know what I’m doing. Protecting Gray, yes, but also leaving that window cracked open.
“This new case,” she says. “My people cannot find the installments. They say there are none.”
The change of topic sets me back. I glance at Gray, but he’s clearly decided that if he can excuse himself from this entire conversation, he will. He reaches for a tiny éclair and makes sure he can’t answer by biting into it.
I resist the urge to glare at him. Most times, I’m happy to let him bow out of conversations, but this is the freaking Queen.
“The case is very new,” I say. “We have not decided whether it will be chronicled.”
“It will be.”
Okay, then.
I try again. “We do not wish to insult the police by insinuating they have made a mistake.”
“‘Insinuating.’ You have an astonishing vocabulary for a former housemaid.”
“I read. A great deal.”
“So you do not wish to insult the police? Or Detective McCreadie?”
“The police,” I say firmly. “Any decision was not made by Detective McCreadie. However, we also do not wish to cause any trouble for him, as he is a dear friend. Therefore, until the killer is found, we have asked our writer not to tell the story.”
“Except to me.”
“Er … naturally.”
“So tell it, then.” A rustle, as if she’s getting comfortable.
“As a report? Or a story?”
A soft snort. “A story, of course. I can obtain a report anytime. Entertain me.”