Page 132 of Disturbing the Dead
When we realized we would be looking for Florence and Emmett, we’d found an extra pair of shoes for each of them. Florence’s were smaller than mine, Emmett’s longer than Gray’s.
“I know people don’t always wear the right size shoes here,” I say. “They get what they can afford. Is it possible Emmett’s feet are actually smaller than the shoes we found?”
Gray shakes his head. “I checked for unusual wear patterns on both and found none.” Gray puts his own booted foot beside a print. This one is a size or two smaller.
“Unless now he’s wearing boots too small for him,” I say. “Damn it.”
“Look at the print,” he says. “These are new boots, but the wearer has a slight limp. I would expect to see…”
He takes a few steps and then points. “There.”
He’s indicating a divot in the snow. It’s so small that, unlike the prints, it’s almost filled in.
“A walking stick,” I say. “A man with newish boots, a size or two smaller than yours, who used a cane.” I follow the two sets of prints as they head, side by side, across the bridge. “Someone Florence would go with willingly.”
“Or, at least, someone she would follow without fear of harm.”
“Because even if she doesn’t like him, he’s an old man with a cane.” I look over at Gray through the fog of our breath. “Lord Muir.”
FORTY-ONE
Mere footprints can’t prove this absolutely is Muir, but it sure as hell seems to be. Either he followed Florence or he knows she came down here. He approaches from the opposite direction. He “bumps” into her, which would be annoying, but she needs to be civil.
Wasn’t that what she’d said in one of our first meetings? That she can’t help thinking if those opposing the Seven got to know them, they would see that they were earnest and intelligent young women, no threat to them? It’s a nice thought, and I can’t count how many times I’ve had the same one. The hope that someone prejudiced against you would change their mind if they got to know you. I’ve won over older cops, either resistant to women on the force or resistant to working with “a millennial.” That didn’t mean they changed their minds about women or millennials. I was just different. An anomaly.
These women cops, expecting us to change things to suit them, can’t even joke around on the job anymore. Oh, I don’t mean you, Atkinson. You’re different.
These millennials, don’t know the meaning of hard work, blowing all their money on avocado toast. Oh, I don’t mean you, Atkinson. You’re different.
Lord Muir allegedly bumps into Florence. Maybe he says he’s made a wrong turn. Maybe he’s a bit anxious, being down here alone. He asks her to accompany him. Or she offers, because that’s the young woman she is.
So what would be his plan? Why waylay Florence King? Does he still think she killed Sir Alastair? Is this more amateur sleuthing? Or something more sinister?
Once the footprints cross the bridge, they veer off the path onto a bare strip leading to…
“A tunnel?” I whisper to Gray.
He doesn’t answer, which means he isn’t sure either. All I can tell for sure is that the footprints lead to a gate under a building. A metal gate. And right at the edge of it, the footprints change, no longer two sets but a flurry of scuffs and drags that dig down into the dirt.
This is the spot where Florence realized something was wrong and tried to get the hell out of there. The arched metal entrance is shut but not locked, though a padlock hangs there.
I pocket the lock. Gray starts to lift his brows and then stops, remembering I’ve done the same thing before. Leaving an unclasped padlock behind is practically an invitation to trap me inside.
We slip through into darkness. Complete darkness, and I have to resist the urge to light a match. Wherever we are, it smells of damp earth, and when I scuff my boot, that’s what I feel under it.
Gray eases the gate shut behind us. Once it’s closed, I can make out the tiniest glow ahead. I get two steps before a voice sounds. Gray grabs my arm to hold me back, as if I might break into a run. I shake my head and focus on the voice, trying to make it out while an odd echo distorts it.
It’s Muir. Undoubtedly Lord Muir. When another voice answers, I mentally curse.
Emmett King.
We ease forward, taking each step with care.
“I want you to fix this,” Emmett is saying. “You promised you would fix any problems.”
“Which is what I am doing, boy.”
“You said you would talk to her. That if she figured out anything, I ought to tell you immediately, and you would speak to her.”
