Page 115 of Disturbing the Dead
“Seems we should speak to Sir Alastair’s secretary,” I say.
THIRTY-FIVE
Yes, the constable’s story is correct. Sir Alastair’s key disappeared a couple of weeks before his death. He’d been trying to remember where he put it, and in the meantime, he’d left the backup key with his secretary so he wouldn’t misplace it, too.
After we finish speaking to the secretary, we tuck into a side hall.
“I thought the key we found might be for a different office,” I say. “But it seems it was for Sir Alastair’s. Florence nicked it and was hiding it under her mattress.”
“To what purpose?” Gray muses.
“Well, we know Sir Alastair was leading the charge against the Edinburgh Seven. Maybe she was searching for his plan of action. Who he was trying to win to his cause. Who might have sent letters of support. Information Miss Jex-Blake could use to prepare for the fight ahead.”
“Or information to stop the fight ahead.”
“Ah. Digging for blackmail fodder to end Sir Alastair’s campaign against the Seven. If that were the case, and Florence found something and confronted Sir Alastair with it… Looks like we might not be able to rule out Mrs. King that easily. Time to pay her a visit?”
“Indeed.”
We’d had a hard time pinning down Florence after the murder, but she’s home today, though she’s preparing to leave for a study session.
We’d asked McCreadie to meet us at the apartment, to lend an official air to the interview. It’s the right move, but I can see that it also sets Florence back, having the three of us descend on her tiny apartment.
“Is there something else you need?” she says. “I have told you all that I know. If you are having trouble verifying my whereabouts after Sir Alastair’s death, I have thought of other people I encountered on my walks.”
“No, we confirmed with the witnesses you provided,” McCreadie says. “A well-dressed young woman out alone was memorable enough.”
Her chin lifts. “It should not be, and the fact that it is demonstrates how far we need to go, when people look askance at respectable women without escorts.”
“Agreed,” I say. “However, that’s not the problem we’re currently trying to solve. Your whereabouts were verified, which is only marginally helpful.”
She’ll already know why. Confirming her alibi for the period after Sir Alastair died doesn’t clear her in his death.
“I am sorry to interrupt,” Mr. King says, hovering behind his wife. “Might I offer tea?”
“Thank you, but no,” McCreadie says. “We hope this interview will be brief. You may be aware that your premises were briefly searched the other day, in accordance with proper procedure during a murder investigation.”
“What?” Florence says. “When?”
McCreadie pushes past the part where I snuck into their bedroom while he was questioning her husband.
“We removed two items from your home,” he says.
“Is that legal?” Florence says, and while it’s a very inconvenient question, I give her credit for asking.
“It is a murder investigation,” McCreadie says. “The items were located under your mattress.”
She stops. While her attention fixes on McCreadie, mine can fix on her. When he says that, her expression is pure bafflement.
“The mattress? On our bed?”
“Yes, we found a key and note written in a cipher.”
“A cipher? Is this some sort of joke?” She goes still again, her face now filling with dread. “Did someone place a coded message there? Trying to frame me for the murder of Sir Alastair?”
“No, the note was for studying.”
Her face screws up. “Studying? Why would that be in a cipher?” A moment of thought and then her eyes flash. “If you are accusing me of cheating, let me assure you that we are not permitted to take anything into the examination room. A note—even in cipher—would be useless.”
