Page 118 of Disturbing the Dead
Even knowing what I do, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Sure, it’s only early afternoon, but McCreadie says that even at night, you wouldn’t see scantily clad women lounging outside the buildings. There’s no need for advertising. If you want to engage a sex worker, you know where to find them, or you’ll be directed here by someone who does.
The women I do spot seem ordinary enough, though many are bleary eyed, as if they’ve just woken. Seeing McCreadie, a couple stiffen, seeming ready to slink back into the shadows, but he only tips his hat, as if they are ladies in the New Town. One perks up, hopeful, until she spots me, and then casts me an envious look before continuing on her errand. A few glance at Gray, but it’s mostly with curiosity. McCreadie is the one catching their attention, which means they likely realize he’s a cop.
We don’t stop at any of the three buildings. The note said that Selim was spotted outside one “conversing with a young lady” but that he was “unsteady on his feet” and she helped him into a neighboring building.
Helping him? Or taking advantage of his drunkenness?
Of course, we don’t know this is actually Selim Awad. There’s a good chance they just saw a brown-skinned young man. We’re also aware that this isn’t a random tip. Whoever sent it knows the police are looking for Selim, and the fact that the letter came to Gray means they realize why the police are looking for him. That’s not normally divulged, though in this era, we can’t be sure one of the constables wasn’t going around saying Selim is wanted in the murder of Sir Alastair.
The writer was very specific about the building Selim was “helped” into and also the apartment entered, which they’d noted because a light appeared after Selim and the woman went inside.
The building we need is actually the one beside the brothel lands, and we get inside easily enough. No controlled-access condos in this part of Edinburgh. The smell hits me first, and that’s saying something, considering how the street had smelled. The stench of poverty is enough to have me wishing I carried a handkerchief. When something taps my hand, I jump, only to see Gray pushing a spare handkerchief into my pocket. I take it with thanks, although then I’m aware of the figure I must cut—the girl in a decent dress, daintily picking her way through the rubbish with a cloth over her nose.
This isn’t the worst part of town, but this building must be the worst of it. The stink of unwashed bodies and unemptied chamber pots is so thick I understand the logic—however faulty—behind the miasma theory of disease.
When we reach a man half sprawled in an open doorway, I inhale sharply, which is a mistake. Gray and McCreadie calmly each take one of the man’s shoulders and heave him into the room, which I presume means he’s alive.
Gray flips a coin near the man’s outstretched hand.
“You know he’ll only use that for poteen,” McCreadie says.
“Yes.”
McCreadie sighs and drops his own coin beside the man before retreating and shutting the door. Yep, that money will probably go toward cheap alcohol, but that isn’t something Gray and McCreadie can control, and probably not something the man can control either. At least waking to find the coins will be a bright moment in a dark day.
We take the stairs. The building must have been a private residence once, with its indoor staircase and makeshift rooms. We go up three levels and then McCreadie pauses, as if figuring out which apartment would be the one seen from the road. He starts forward, only to hesitate. There are three doors along this wall, and the middle one seems to be a closet, but the letter writer specified the second apartment from the left, which would seem to be that door.
McCreadie steps forward and raps on it. The door beside it opens, and an older woman scowls out.
“What’s all that racket?” she says. “It’s two o’clock.”
“In the afternoon, ma’am,” McCreadie says evenly.
“That’s even worse.” Her gaze travels across us and then narrows, her eyes glittering. “Are you from the society? I—” She hacks into her hand. “—have a terrible cough and cannot afford medicine.”
“I am a doctor,” Gray says. “If you can tell me your symptoms, I will make sure you get the proper medicine.”
The glint leaves those narrowed eyes.
“Unless you would prefer to get it yourself,” he says, holding out a coin.
She reaches for it, but he pulls it back.
“A few questions, first. This door here. Is it an apartment or a closet?”
Her look calls him daft. “An apartment, of course. No one’s living there, though. Well, no one’s paying rent. There’s a fellow inside, drunk as can be. His friends dragged him in there last night. Haven’t heard a peep from him since. Might be dead by now.”
Gray hands her the coin as McCreadie grabs the knob on the narrow door. It’s locked, and I hurry over to pick the lock.
Before the woman can retreat, Gray says, “May we knock if we have more questions?”
“That depends. Do you have more coins?”
“Naturally.”
“Then knock. I’m awake now, thanks to you.”
She retreats just as McCreadie decides to skip my lock picking and break the flimsy door down. He throws his shoulder into it, and the wood cracks.
