Chapter Thirty-One
THIRTY-ONE
Back at the town house, we talk to Simon, whose story matches the butler’s. He gave the note to the man, who took it and returned with “Her Ladyship says one o’clock is acceptable.”
“Is that suspicious?” I say to Gray as we settle into the library. “Lady Adler agrees, and then she doesn’t tell anyone to expect us and she’s conveniently gone when we arrive.”
“She can be scattered,” he says. “I recall once arriving at her home to find she had forgotten our appointment. She blamed her maid for not making note of it.”
“Right. Lady Adler doesn’t have a secretary. Her lady’s maid keeps her schedule, and Sully was gone. But wouldn’t Lady Adler need to inform the staff immediately? Even if she forgot you were coming, you can’t tell someone they can use your parlor and not inform the housekeeper.”
“Again, that might be something her lady’s maid would do.”
“So it’s not suspicious?”
“I never said that. It is not highly suspicious, but it is concerning.” He glances sidelong at me. “I notice you are pursuing this instead of talking about how Miss Sullivan acted, which is highly suspicious.”
“I can multitask. Lady Adler’s behavior should be noted, but it’s not an obvious cause for concern. Sully on the other hand … She’s a piece of work.”
“If that means she seems very unpleasant, then I agree.”
“I can see why she’d clash with Nellie. Everything I’ve heard about Nellie paints the portrait of an affable young woman, easy to get along with and well liked. Which I suspect Miss Sullivan is not.”
He stretches his long legs, one foot touching mine as he glances toward the hall, making sure we’re alone. Yes, even a subtle touch from a few feet away would be considered improper. It’s nice, though, a brief moment to acknowledge the situation between us has changed.
“What did you think of her reaction?” he says.
“Well, she wasn’t surprised to hear something had occurred, something that involved Nellie and had Lady Adler hiring a detective. Nor did she seem alarmed, which suggests she knew it wasn’t about the blade in the boot.”
“Sadly, even an employer as kindly as Lady Adler is never going to hire a detective to solve the mystery of an injured housemaid.”
“True. So then the question is: What did she think we meant? And I don’t believe the answer is Nellie’s death. She seemed shocked to hear that. Of course, one can always feign—”
Jack’s boots clomp up the stairs.
“That was a short visit,” I say.
“My friend was not at home,” she grumbles, “and so I lost the chance to dawdle. I returned just in time to take a message for you, Dr. Gray. It’s from Detective McCreadie. About the case.”
Jack pauses. “Well, allegedly it is a note from the detective to Mrs. Ballantyne, but when the message boy handed it to me, he said to tell Dr. Gray it is not for him, as he cannot help with your case.” Jack rolls her eyes. “Detective McCreadie isn’t nearly subtle enough for a policeman.”
Gray takes the note and opens it. Inside there is only an address.
“Oooh,” I say. “A mystery.” I look at Jack. “Are we sure Hugh wasn’t really saying it’s not for Duncan? This looks more like he’s asking Isla to meet him. If it was for Duncan, it’d be in their secret code.”
“Secret code?” Jack says.
“We had a secret code as boys,” Gray corrects.
I lean in and whisper, “They still use it.”
“Please tell me I can include that in the chronicles. It is too adorable. Children will love it and ladies will swoon.”
“Swoon?” Gray says. “Over grown men using a boyhood code?”
“Because it’s sweet,” she says. “And while we may like our men to be strong and forbidding, we also like them to be sweet. Women are complicated creatures. As for the note, there was another message. I am to tell Mrs. Ballantyne that Kate seems to be doing well.”
“Kate? Who…” I curse under my breath. “Kate. The missing friend.” I take the note. “Nellie and Mary’s friend from the village. The one we had been hoping to speak to.”
“And now—with this address—presumably we can,” Gray says. He looks at Jack. “Which does not go in the chronicles. We cannot in any way suggest that Hugh passed us information.”
“I like Detective McCreadie far too much for that. He’s a thoroughly decent police officer, and we cannot afford to lose any of those. Also, if I did anything to hurt him, Mrs. Ballantyne would have my head.”
“She really would,” I say.
“In the story, it will be an anonymous message. Everyone likes those. But I am also definitely finding a way to work in the secret boyhood code. Now if Dr. Gray could just rescue a small child, we would be set.”
“We rescued a dog last time,” I say. “Two of them, in fact. That sells even better than saving children.”
“I would still like you to rescue a child. See to it, please. I will leave you with the message you never got, and I will await your return from interviewing the elusive Kate.”
Kate was never actually missing. That’s an important distinction to make.
In the modern world, the “missing” third friend would be the subject of a massive search, as either the main suspect or a potential victim.
But this is a world where you can disappear without trying, and finding a witness like Kate takes actual legwork, not an hour at a computer.
Kate is alive and well, and definitely not hiding. The address takes us to a bakery, where she’s working the shop front, explaining to a customer that bread made that morning is not “day old” until tomorrow and therefore not subject to a discount.
I’ll point out, too, that this particular bakery is in the New Town, and the prim housekeeper buying the bread absolutely does not look as if she needs that discount.
In the housekeeper’s defense, I know this isn’t as simple as it seems. She’ll have been given a budget, and whether that budget is adequate depends on the lady of the house.
Also, if she does get the bread cheaper, she might be able to pocket the extra, which is never a bad thing with Victorian wages.
Or, really, most domestic-service wages.
Once the housekeeper is finally gone, having wrangled a modest discount, we approach the pretty young redhead that the delivery boy out front identified as Kate.
“Kate?” I say.
She turns, smile on her lips. “Yes, miss…” She trails off. Her gaze goes from me to Gray, and she hesitates, that smile faltering. Then she seems to shake it off, and the smile returns full force. “How may I help you today?”
“We need to speak to you,” I say. “It’s about Nellie Carmichael.”
“Nellie?” She wipes her hands on her apron. “I would ask whether she has done anything wrong, but if she has, she would not be our Nellie. Please tell me you are solicitors looking to tell her she has inherited a great deal of money.”
“Miss Carmichael is dead,” Gray says.
Gray is right not to beat around the bush, but I still flinch at Kate’s reaction. A moment of stillness, as she replays his words.
“Dead?” she croaks. “Nellie?”
“I’m afraid so,” I say.
Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh. Oh!”
“We need to speak to you,” I say, “about Nellie and Mary.”
“Mary.” Kate swallows. “She drowned. A suicide. Are you telling me that Nellie…?”
“Drowned,” Gray says. “The cause of death has yet to be fully determined.”
Kate takes deep breaths. Then she straightens and brushes a hand over eyes brimming with tears. “Let me … I need to speak to…” She waves toward the door at the rear.
“Go ahead,” I say. “We’ll wait here. It should only take a few minutes of your time, and if you’ll get in any trouble, we can return at the end of your shift.”
She nods dumbly, not seeming to fully hear me. Then she wobbles toward the back.
When she’s gone, I whisper to Gray, “I probably should have asked when she’ll be off work and just come back then. I need to remember I’m not a police detective.”
“But if you were, showing up at her work would have only gotten her in more trouble,” he says.
“Her employer should understand, and if they do not, I will have a word. This shop is relatively new, and they would not wish to anger potential customers. Particularly not when the disruption was news of a death.”
“Hmm.”
I still fret about it. As we wait for Kate to return, we browse the tiny shop.
At this time of day, there isn’t much left, but I pick up a loaf of bread to buy, half goodwill gesture to Kate’s employer and half goodwill gesture to Mrs. Wallace …
who will probably tell me it’s entirely the wrong sort even if it looks like what we eat every day.
With the loaf in hand, I count out money, ignoring the coin that appears over my shoulder.
I have plenty, and I eye the sweet buns before selecting a few.
The bell over the door rings, another customer coming in.
She goes straight to the counter and rings a second bell there, not even giving Kate time to respond to the door alert.
I continue adding sweet rolls to the box Gray helpfully holds out. The woman rings the bell again, more urgently now. A medical emergency, apparently, her carb reserves running low.
Finally the door in the back opens, and I turn to motion to Kate that we’re happy to wait. But it’s an older woman, face dusted with flour.
“Oh dear,” she says as she bustles out. “I am so sorry. Kate?” The baker looks around the tiny shop, as if she might be hiding there. “Kate?”
“She went into the back to speak to her employer,” Gray says.
“To me? I haven’t seen her.”
I glance at Gray, who visibly winces.
Kate has bolted.