Kirkyards & Kindness (A Rip Through Time)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

After two weeks of clouds, Edinburgh finally has sun, and I’m drinking it in . . . to the confusion and amusement of the two women who’ve just walked into the courtyard and found me stretched out precariously across two garden chairs.

Forty-year-old Lady Annis Leslie’s not-so-dearly departed husband died just over a year ago, which means she’s still in deep mourning .

. . fashion-wise, at least. Even in this weather, she’s dressed in a gown of unrelieved black bombazine.

Her younger sister—Isla Ballantyne—is also a widow, but she’s mostly reverted to normal Victorian wear, in a gorgeously rich beige day dress that glitters golden in the sunlight.

“What the devil are you doing?” Annis asks as they walk over.

“Browning her skin, apparently,” Isla says.

Annis stares at me. “On purpose?”

“I’m sunbathing,” I say.

“I know you suffered a serious head injury last year, Mallory, but you are supposed to bathe in water.” Annis pauses. “Please tell me you have been doing that.”

Isla and I exchange a look. While I did hit my head last year, the problem is a wee bit bigger than that. I’m currently in 1870 Edinburgh . . . and I was born in 1989 Vancouver.

A year ago, while visiting my dying grandmother, I was attacked on the same spot where nineteen-year-old housemaid Catriona Mitchell was attacked exactly a hundred and fifty years earlier. For reasons I may never figure out, Fate saw fit to send me careening through time into her body.

I’m now the assistant to Catriona’s former boss, Annis and Isla’s younger brother, Dr. Duncan Gray, who’s doing work in early forensic science. It’s an incredible opportunity for a modern police detective . . . even if I’m pretty sure I’m going to die of something easily curable in my time.

Isla knows my story, as does Gray. Annis does not, thankfully. To her, I’m just the former housemaid whose head trauma makes her act—and talk—oddly.

I shade my eyes against the sun and peer up at Isla. “You’re a chemist. You need to invent a cream that protects our faces against the dangerous rays of the sun.”

“We have that,” Isla says dryly. “It’s called a hat.”

“Also, we do not intentionally expose ourselves to the sun’s rays,” Annis says.

I check my pocket watch. “Five more minutes.”

“And then what?” Annis says. “We turn you over and bake your backside?”

I ignore her. I’m not trying to get a tan. Obviously, the Victorians were right to be wary of the sun. But it finally feels like summer, and I want to enjoy a few minutes of sunshine while my boss is out.

“We are having tea in a few minutes, Mallory,” Isla says. “Annis would like you to join us.”

I consider shooting them a thumbs-up, but that goes too far in front of Annis. Their boots clack across the stones. Then the gate squeaks, and a shadow falls over me. I open my eyes to see a tall man with a severe face, curling dark hair, and brown skin.

“It’s my half day,” I say to my boss. “I have another hour off.”

“You also have a visitor,” Gray says.

I sit up, which takes some work. Even summer attire means a petticoat and a corset under my dress. Rising from a semi-prone position requires careful and deliberate movements.

“A visitor?” I say.

“Yes,” Annis calls from the back door. “I meant to mention that. There is a creature lurking about. We presumed it is for you.”

“A creature? Oooh. Cat? Puppy? Unicorn?”

“Unicorn?” Gray says.

“Scotland’s national creature. I’ve never seen one, though. You must be hiding them.”

His lips twitch.

Annis heads inside, calling back, “Take care, Duncan. The sun seems to have addled Mallory’s brains more than usual.”

I wait until the door closes behind Annis and Isla. Then I stand. “By ‘creature,’ I presume Annis means a person. One she considers beneath her notice.”

A soft sigh. “Yes. It is a woman who seems . . . likely to have been a former compatriot of Catriona’s. That is who she asked to speak to.”

I make a face. “That’s never good.”

“It is not, which is why I am going to accompany you.”

“It’s broad daylight, Duncan. I think I can handle this.”

He ignores that—as usual—and steers me into the mews, where a woman has found the one scrap of shadow and tucked herself into it. She’s in her late twenties, with dark hair and a scarred cheek. My steps slow.

“You know her,” Gray says under his breath.

“Mmm. We had a couple of run-ins after I arrived.”

At one time, Davina had apparently been partners-in-crime with Catriona. Then she betrayed her, selling her out to the guy who strangled her in that alley.

Catriona Mitchell was not a good person. She was a thief and blackmailer and probably a sociopath. But she hadn’t deserved that betrayal from someone she obviously considered a friend.

The last time I saw Davina, she’d promised me information on Catriona, for a price, since “Catriona” had lost her memory. I’d fully intended to take her up on that offer . . . until I learned what she’d done. I haven’t seen her since.

“Hello, Davina,” I say.

“There’s my little kitty-cat,” she says. “With her fancy man tagging along behind.”

My eyes narrow. “Fancy man” might seem like a reference to Gray’s upper-middle-class status, but it’s also local slang for a pimp. When I check Gray, he’s as expressionless as ever. If he knows the slang, he’s ignoring it.

“May I help you?” I say.

“Oooh, such pretty manners. The kitty-cat has found herself a cozy little den, hasn’t she? Where she can play lady of the manor with her fancy man.”

I ignore the digs. From what I understand, Catriona never talked like someone from the Old Town slums. But she hadn’t spoken like an educated New Town lady either.

I do have her voice, which makes sense. I also have her accent, which makes less sense, but I’m grateful for it.

That accent, socially, puts me somewhere between Davina and Gray.

At home, here in Gray’s town house, I don’t mask the peculiarities of my modern speech.

Out in the world, I’m more careful, leaning into educated speech—more formal, few contractions, bigger words.

I also lean into the Scots dialect, though my brain insists on mentally translating each “ken” and “dinna” that I hear to “know” and “did not.” With Davina, I don’t care how I talk.

She can needle me for sounding posh, and she can needle me for sounding street, and it doesn’t matter to me.

“If you need something, Davina—”

“I saw this.” She holds up a chapbook and makes a show of flipping through it. “The Mysterious Adventures of the Curious Undertaker. You and your doctor here are famous. Solving murders and such.”

Last year, someone started writing semi-fictional accounts of the work Gray does for his childhood friend, Detective Hugh McCreadie. Victorians love true crime at least as much as anyone in the modern day—the gorier and more sensational the better.

The chronicles have a new writer—our housemaid, who is also an experienced crime journalist. The stories are much better for the change, especially since we have editorial control and the power of veto. But their growing popularity thrusts Gray into a limelight he’d always hoped to avoid.

Is this what brought Davina to my door? She’s realized exactly how good “Catriona” has it now and how much she might pay Davina to keep her secrets?

“What do you want, Davina?” I say again.

“I have a case for you to solve,” she says.

I eye her carefully, waiting for the punchline. She only stands there, a smug look on her thin face.

“Mall— Catriona is not a detective for hire,” Gray says. “She is my assistant, which means I require her for my own work.”

“Oh, I’m certain she will not mind helping me.” Davina smirks at me. “Will you, kitty-cat?”

I glance at Gray, warning him that I need to handle this—and that I’ll explain later.

“What kind of case is it?” I ask cautiously.

“Theft.” Her smirk grows. “Your specialty.” Her gaze shoots to Gray, looking for a reaction. He gives none. He knows exactly what Catriona was, and the more Davina talks, the more he understands the position I’m in here.

“What sort of theft?” I say.

“I’ll show you.” She waves for me to follow her into the mews.

I lock my knees even as Gray puts a restraining hand on my elbow, as if I might trot along after her into some deep dark close where she can knife me.

Fine, I can be reckless. But even I know better than that.

“Tell me where we’re going,” I say. “And I’ll meet you there.”

“We’ll meet you,” Gray says. “Catriona is my assistant, and it is still a workday.”

“I thought I overheard something about it being her half day,” Davina says, her hazel eyes glittering with speculation as her gaze moves between us.

“Where are we meeting?” I ask.

“Greyfriars,” she says.

My brows rise. “The cem— kirkyard?”

She smiles, showing off a lifetime without dental care. “Afraid of ghosts, kitty-cat?”

“Greyfriars in an hour,” I say, and head back to the town house.