Page 117 of Disturbing the Dead
Emmett turns to us. “That is all I have then, sirs and madam. I am sorry I made you chase down the clue of the cipher and the key for nothing. It was simply a young man behaving foolishly.”
I wouldn’t say it was for nothing. While Florence is right that stealing mummia hardly seems motive for murder, it might not be a coincidence that someone was pestering Sir Alastair for mummified remains shortly before those remains were stolen.
It reminds me of something else, too. I’d gone to the goblin market for a lead on mummia buyers. Time to talk to Gray and McCreadie about how vital that lead may be.
Gray and McCreadie are divided on this subject, in a split that I could have predicted. Gray sees no harm in asking Isla to help our black-market Miss Havisham. McCreadie is far less willing to let Isla commit herself to this “woman of criminal enterprise” for a lead that might prove pointless.
In the end, I realize that the choice really isn’t theirs, and it was wrong of me to lay it there. Isla already suffers from an affliction too common in middle- and upper-class Victorian women. The affliction of having spent her life with men making decisions for her. First her father, then her husband, and now her brother. Her younger brother, no less. Legally, Scottish women have more rights than English ones, but in practice, even as a widow, Isla is under Gray’s informal guardianship.
Isla may be less sheltered than most women of her class, but that only means she pursues her own interests, travels alone and such. Compared with me and most women of my time, she is still sheltered and sometimes naive. That makes it easy to take decisions away from her.
For her own good. Just looking after her interests.
That’s infantilizing, and she’d be rightfully upset with Gray for doing it and even more upset with me, who should know better.
I tell Gray and McCreadie that we need to put the question to Isla, with the data she needs to make an informed decision. Back at the town house, we do exactly that. Not surprisingly, Isla would like to accept the deal. She does, however, want to be very clear on what services she will and will not provide and how they will be provided, with a layer of privacy for her. In other words, she makes the calculated choice.
Gray sends Simon to convey a letter to Queen Mab.
We are finishing lunch when a message arrives. My first thought is “that was fast.” But it turns out to be Bob, Elspeth’s errand boy, delivering a package from Jack.
“Oh, look,” I say, waving the pamphlet. “It’s the latest installment in The Mysterious Adventures of the Gray Doctor.” I lift it to show the cover, with a poorly done sketch of what I presume is me, frozen in terror at a mummy rising from an examination table. “Seems someone has a head start on the latest case. Think they can provide any clues?”
Isla takes the pamphlet from me. “Oh, this might actually prove useful. Listen. ‘As Edinburgh’s finest citizens crowded around the table, dear Miss Mitchell unspooled a strip of cloth to reveal the face of poor Sir Alastair, twisted in a horrifying grimace. She leaped back into the arms of our gallant Gray Doctor, who calmed her, while her alabaster chest heaved and she panted most prettily.’”
“‘Panted most prettily’?” I imitate a dog’s panting. “Like this?”
“You need to work on your panting,” Isla says. “If you do not, Duncan will never wish to calm you. Remember that. A young woman must carefully craft her moments of hysteria, if she wishes to attract the right sort of attention from a man. Fainting is fine, as is pretty panting. But if you dissolve into panicked shrieks, you will never find a husband.”
I roll my eyes. “At least we can rule out the writer as anyone who was actually at the party.”
“Mmm. Do not be so quick with that assumption, Detective Mitchell,” Isla says. “The writer describes your dress to a tee. Either they were at the party or they spoke to someone who was.”
“How bad is the rest—?” I begin, only to be stopped by a knock at the door.
“I apologize for interrupting again,” Lorna says when Gray calls her in. “But another message has arrived. This one is addressed to Dr. Gray.”
She holds out an envelope. Gray takes it and excuses her. Once she’s gone, he opens and reads it. Then he passes it to McCreadie, who scans it and curses.
“I surrender,” McCreadie says, throwing the letter aside. “I am sorry, Isla, but it seems I have no choice but to move into your guest room, as people seem to be under the impression that this is my residence. Or, at least, I am going to tell myself that, as it is a far easier blow to my ego than admitting that people have declared Duncan to be the superior detective.”
“Yet another reason to find whoever is writing those”—I point at the pamphlet—“and shut them down. I’m guessing that letter is another summons.”
McCreadie is already getting to his feet, Gray doing the same.
“The writer claims to know where we might find Selim Awad,” McCreadie says. “Which would be far more exciting if I didn’t fear it was a false lead.”
“Or a trap,” Isla says.
“Yes,” McCreadie says. “Considering who it was addressed to, someone might simply hope to lure Duncan and Mallory out to see them in action.”
“May we accompany you?” Gray says. “In case whoever sent the note really does expect to see us?”
McCreadie’s smile warms. “That makes a fine excuse for an adventure. Yes, come along. I will send word to the office for backup, but I should proceed there directly and could use the support.”
According to the note, a young man matching the description of Selim Awad was seen outside a “land”—or apartment building—in the Leith Wynd district of the Old Town. That area is known for prostitution, and from the careful language in the letter, we presume the building is a brothel. Or maybe “brothel” isn’t the right word. That implies an organized business run by a madam. These buildings are mostly inhabited by sex workers, who seem to operate either independently or under the supervision of a “fancy man”—a lover who is usually also their pimp. According to McCreadie, there are three of these buildings triangulated in that area, locally known as the Happy Land, the Holy Land, and the Just Land. I really need the explanation for those names, but McCreadie is withholding it to tease me.
I find all this fascinating. I’ve been through this part of the Old Town, both in this time period and my own, but I wasn’t aware of the stories behind the walls. I guess to know that, I’d need to be a prospective patron.
