Page 130 of Disturbing the Dead
“Presumably Mr. King against his wife.”
I nod. “Statistically, yes. She’s just over my height, and the marks are consistent with that, but I need more. I want to speak to the neighbor on the other side of that wall.”
When McCreadie and I first visited the Kings, Emmett had said their neighbors were the Ryans, the wife ill. Fortunately, that isn’t the neighbor we need. The person living on the other side of the kitchen wall is an elderly widower. He’s slow to open his door, but when I say that I’m concerned about Mrs. King, he readily invites us inside. It doesn’t take much to get him talking. He’s fond of Florence… and not nearly as fond of Emmett.
“He should be an actor, that one,” the old man says. “Not a doctor. An actor. Has everyone in this building fooled except me. They all think he’s such a nice young man, so charming and polite, while they think his wife a haughty little miss. She’s a somber lass, serious and sometimes outspoken. But she is the one always running errands for me and bringing me a bowl of stew and letting me complain about my feet. She would make a good doctor. I wouldn’t let him treat a stubbed toe. He’d likely want to take the toe clean off. He might seem friendly, but he has no time for anyone but himself and his lads.”
“His lads?”
The old man waves a hand. “His friends from the college. If he’s not out drinking with them, leaving her all alone, he’s bringing them home to drink and driving the poor lass out.”
I remember thinking Emmett’s exhaustion meant he was up late studying. Guess not.
“He drives her out of the apartment with his behavior when he’s drunk?” I ask.
“No, no. When the boy is in his cups, he’s sweet as can be. But the girl has no peace with all that noise. She goes to study with her friends or slips out on one of her walks, and when she comes back, he’s sober, and that’s when he’s a right tyrant.”
“You hear them arguing?”
“Oh, he’s careful. Never shouts. Barely raises his voice. He’s too clever to let others hear him. Instead, he throws things about. Dishes and such, as if they can afford to buy more. Just tonight he smashed something against my wall. The poor lass left with blood under her nose. She tried to clean it, but I saw blood. I tell you, if I were twenty years younger, I’d thrash that boy. If I were thirty years younger, I’d whisk that girl out from under his nose. She deserves better.”
“Could you tell what they were arguing about?”
He shakes his head. “My hearing isn’t what it used to be, and the boy is careful. I only heard his voice, angry, and then something smashed. She came out not ten minutes after, and I asked if she was all right, and she said yes and that she was going for a walk. I stayed by the door to make sure he didn’t follow. He never does, though. He lets her go off at all hours.”
“So Mrs. King left, and her husband did not follow. He is gone, though. They both are.”
“Oh, he left. He just did not follow her. He went out about twenty minutes later, wearing his good coat and hat. Heading out for a pint with his lads, as if nothing were wrong.”
“His good coat?”
“Like yours there, sir.” The man nods at Gray, who has been silent. “A long black coat and a black cap. He only ever wears it when he’s going out on the town with his lads. He must think he looks dapper, but it does not suit him at all.”
So the Kings had a fight. Emmett whipped a cup at Florence, and it hit the wall. He also struck her. She quickly cleans her bloody nose and leaves him to his foul mood. He lets her get a head start and then goes out himself, at night, dressed in a long black coat and black hat, invisible in the dark night.
I can hope Emmett really did go out for a pint, but I don’t think he did. I really don’t.
FORTY
We stop by the lodgings on Buccleuch Place, to make sure Florence didn’t go there to study with the others. The young woman who answers the door says she hasn’t seen Florence all day. We should look for her down along the Water of Leith. That’s where she likes to walk… and that’s also where we planned to go next.
From our earlier talks, when Florence had been establishing her post-murder timeline, I know the route she takes. She heads to Dean Bridge and then follows along the Water of Leith to Stockbridge, before she exits and heads home.
Just a few days ago, I’d walked along the Water of Leith with my mom, the Stockbridge entrance being near our rented flat on Royal Circus. It’s a pleasant stroll down along the river, a place where, if there’s no one else around, you can listen to the burbling water and enjoy the old architecture and imagine yourself living… well, around now.
However, that’s during the day, and I’m not sure I’d walk along the river at this hour, and certainly not by myself. I definitely wouldn’t in this time period. The Water of Leith may meander through the New Town, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe on a winter’s eve as the clock nears midnight.
As we cross Dean Bridge, I spot a sex worker, keeping warm in a doorway. Yes, again, it’s the New Town, but there are still parts like this, where you’ll find the underground world thriving. You can put up pretty town houses and pretty private gardens across a mound dividing your world from the slums, but poverty isn’t going to stay on the other side of that mound forever.
This sex worker wears a wool dress with extra petticoats for warmth. Her dress isn’t scandalous by any stretch of the imagination, but her unbound hair and her makeup betray her occupation, as does the fact that she’s tucked into that shadow, alone, at this hour.
“How much would it cost to buy her favors for an hour?” I ask under my breath as we pause at a street corner.
Gray looks startled. “How would I know?”
“I’m not asking for your personal experience, Gray. Just a rough figure.”
He sputters and protests, and finally allows that he may have heard that for a woman on the street, it would be a few shillings for a well-dressed man.
