Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Roy doesn’t answer. He throws himself at McCreadie, clearly deciding he’s the lesser threat.
McCreadie grabs him by the lapels, but Roy takes advantage of his oversized jacket and wriggles free, ducking and running .
. . straight into the constable. It’s Iain, who is McCreadie’s unofficial protégé.
The big Highlander catches Roy and holds him easily while saying, “Sir?” to McCreadie.
“Take him aside,” McCreadie says. Then he scoops up the hat with the money.
“I realize you were all cheated of this, and you may ask for your money back, of course, but I would also ask that you consider leaving it as a donation for the good citizen who helped us catch this man. A citizen who has fallen on hard times. If you wish your money returned, simply ask Miss Mitchell.”
He hands me the hat, and I arch my brows, but I get it.
People might grumble at having to ask a cop for their money back.
But they’ll also be less likely to take it back from me and risk proving themselves uncharitable in front of a pretty girl.
Only a few take their money. I notice the country woman hesitating, and I walk over to her and press a few shillings in her hand.
“For your help,” I say. “I am sorry the little ones did not get to see the real Bobby.”
“Will you find him?” the boy asks.
“We will try,” I say solemnly.
Once they’re gone, I take the rest of the money to the old man who’d helped, doing so as discreetly as I can so it’s not obvious he was our informant. When I return, Gray is standing aside, watching McCreadie interrogate Roy.
“The tumor,” I whisper to Gray. “That’s how you know it wasn’t Bobby.”
He nods. “The tumor was the deciding factor, though this dog is obviously more elderly than Bobby.”
“Your cousin’s dear pup.”
His lips twitch.
“You are far too good at that,” I say. “But it was nicely done.”
“Theatrically done,” he says. “Hugh’s idea.” He glances over to where the woman and her two children watch us from the sidewalk, and he sighs. “I did not expect to be recognized.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I must get used to it.”
I could argue that he doesn’t need to get used to it. Say the word, and we’d stop Jack’s chronicling with a generous one-time payment. Except that wouldn’t stop Gray’s adventures from finding their way into print, which is why we agreed to the arrangement with Jack.
Another journalist had started the stories, and they’d found an audience. If Jack doesn’t write it, someone else will. This way, we have control over the narrative.
I just wish we’d had creative control from the start so it could have been fictionalized.
People recognize Gray because his skin color is not singular but still distinct.
That was established—overly established—in the early chronicles, and all we can do now is use sketches that look a little less like us.
Yet it’s a losing battle, especially when our real names are already attached to the “characters.”
We leave McCreadie to his interrogation. At the very least, with the woman and her children as witnesses, it clarifies that Hugh McCreadie is an actual and competent detective and not the hapless guy in need of his friend’s help, as the early installments depicted him.
McCreadie would say it doesn’t matter, but I know it does. The new versions shine a positive light on McCreadie, and while some of his superiors don’t appreciate the added attention to the force, most of them are thrilled. They certainly don’t want their criminal officer looking inept.
McCreadie walks to us as Iain stays with Roy.
“He admits he had the dog,” McCreadie says. “Of course, he claims Bobby came with him willingly, and he only wanted to help an ailing creature, but I am not challenging him on that right now.”
“So where’s Bobby?”
“Stolen.” McCreadie catches my look. “Yes, the irony is not lost on me. His stolen dog was stolen from him.”
“Could Bobby have escaped the coop?”
“No, Roy says he tied Bobby inside, and when he came out this morning, the collar was still there. It had been tight around the dog’s neck, and Roy had locked the coop. The thief seemed to have entered through the window.”
“There’s a window?”
McCreadie shrugs. “He says there is. I have agreed not to charge him at this time as long as he cooperates. He will take us to the coop and show us how it was done.”
“I want Bobby back when you find him,” Roy says as we head into the courtyard behind his apartment building. “He is mine.” He glares at Gray. “And do not listen to this fellow. I did not steal him. You cannot steal a stray dog.”
“He has a license, as you pointed out,” Gray says. “That means he is not a stray. He belongs to whoever owns that license, which I believe is William Chambers.”
Roy sets his jaw. “I found the dog. I cared for him. He is mine. I expect my property returned.”
Gray wisely decides to drop this. I note that Roy hasn’t said anything about the poor elderly dog he’d tried to pass off as Bobby. Iain took that one with him when he left, saying he’d look after it until they determined whether it had also been stolen.
Roy leads us to the coop. The rope and collar won’t be in it—he’d used those on the ringer Bobby.
But he shows McCreadie where the rope was tied inside the coop.
He also shows the window. I think I could fit through it myself.
I want to try, but Gray points out the rusty nail.
Yes, Mrs. Wallace would not be happy if I ruined my clothing either.
“I could fit, though,” I say as Roy stands off to the side.
“I . . .” McCreadie trails off. “How do I say this politely, Mallory?”
I look down at myself. “Oh. Right. My boobs.”
McCreadie goes the most adorable shade of red, which means I must add. “And my ass,” which only has his face going brighter red.
“Mallory . . .” Gray says.
“Yes, yes. Do not torture the poor Victorian gentlemen with mentions of feminine body parts. Or if I must refer to them, use proper language.” I clear my throat.
“Dear sirs, I fear you are correct. I could not pass through that window on account of my ample bosom and posterior.” I examine the window.
“So it’d either be a small man or a less rounded woman. ”
I pop my head through the window, instantly regretting it as the smell hits. Right. Forgot that. Withdraw. Use my handkerchief. Try again.
I peer around inside from this angle, even as my eyes water from the smell. Then I spot it—a partial print on the floor. When I start crouching near the hatch again, Gray bends to say, “May I help?”
I hesitate. I want to do this myself, and part of that is because it is gross and filthy.
Take on the dirty jobs so I’m not mistaken for a “lady” who can’t handle it.
But also so I’m not asking others to do it for me.
Yet I need to do more than stick my head in the doorway, and I can’t do that while wearing a gown—not without smearing it in guano because I can’t maneuver at a crouch.
“Would you?” I say. “I hate to ask.”
Gray meets my eyes. “You did not ask. I offered.” He pauses and then lowers his voice, “But you can always ask.”
My cheeks flame until I’m probably as red as McCreadie had been moments ago. I want to kick myself for that. He said he’d help, that’s all. But the way he said it felt like something bigger.
You can always ask.
You can always count on me.
I’m right here.
Damn it, I blame the sun. I’m overdressed for it, and a momentary wave of heatstroke fried my brain.
“There’s a boot print,” I say. “I can’t get a good look at it.”
“Allow me.”
He waves for me to move aside. Then, he crouch-walks in and lights a match. A moment later, he withdraws, rises, and pats his pockets. I hand him my notebook and pencil. He sketches, goes back in, comes out, and finishes. Then another pop inside, as if to check something, and more scribbling.
When he hands me back my notes, I find a sketch of a partial print along with measurements.
“Smaller than yours,” he says, “though not by much. Walking boots. The soles well worn. It seems wide enough to be a man’s, but it would be a very small man or . . .”
“A boy?”
He tilts his head. “A child.”
I walk back to the hatch and eyeball it, reassessing. Then I finger that nail sticking up. There’s no telltale bit of thread hanging from it, but there is a small bit of what looks like skin, as if whoever went in scraped against it.
“Do you know the culprit?” Gray bends a little to whisper it at my ear.
I look over sharply, because in his words, I hear something. Sure enough, a small smile plays on his lips.
“You figured it out first, didn’t you,” I say.
“Not until I saw the print. You have it too, I presume?”
I say a name, and he nods.
We know who took Bobby. The mystery hasn’t been overly mysterious.
A straight line leading from crime to culprit .
. . to second culprit. The only question is how we handle it.
Gray and I discuss that with McCreadie. We also run our theory past him, with all the evidence, and he agrees with our conclusion.
“We also need you to do one last thing,” I say. “Join Isla for dinner.”
McCreadie lifts his brows.
“And, er, tell Mrs. Wallace we’ll be late.”
“Ah.” He gives a slight bow. “I will keep the lovely lady company if needed, and otherwise, I will see you later for dinner.”
We need to make a few inquiries to find our missing dog. The person we ask doesn’t particularly want to tell us what we need to know but, eventually, agrees that the situation must be resolved.
We follow the directions, which take us down several streets and through a gate, into a courtyard garden. It’s a vegetable garden, lovingly tended and in full bloom. An elderly woman harvests beans, and she tenses at our approach.
“This is private property, sir,” she says. Her gaze goes to me. “And miss.”
She straightens, bowl of beans hugged tight, as if we might grab them.
“I am sorry to bother you, ma’am,” I say. “We were told a Mrs. Martha Morrison tends this garden.”
The woman’s anxiety falls away in a smile. “She does, but she is not here. It is my home.” She waves at the ground floor apartment on a tiny building. “I rent the garden, and Martha tends it for me.”
“And the dog?”
She follows my gaze to where a brown terrier suns himself near the garden.
“He belongs to Martha’s daughter. She found him last night and asked me to keep an eye on him today. I worried he’d dig up the garden, but he’s just a sleepy little old man.” Her expression shifts, going wary. “If you’re from the city, wanting to see his license, she only just found him.”
“And asked you to keep him here until she tells her mother?”
I smile as I say it, but the woman still looks wary. “Aye.”
“We are not here about the license,” I say. “He has one, though it seems he lost his collar.”
Her face stays tight. “You’re claiming him?”
“Not until we speak to the little one,” I say. “We want to reward her for finding him, and for taking such good care of him.”
“You’ll not take him until after you’ve spoken to Dorrit?”
“We will not. You have our word. I suppose you expect her to come around soon.”
“Soon, yes. She’ll need to be home for dinner after her mother is done with work.”
As we talk, the gate starts to open. I pause, glancing over. Dorrit takes one step inside, sees us . . . and turns to run, the gate banging shut behind her.