Page 16 of Disturbing the Dead
“Not to children. That would be wrong.”
“You should never have been arrested,” Phoebe says. “It was obvious you did not do it. You had no motive. You had your own money, and no need to kill your husband. The police were fools.”
“I like this child,” Annis says.
“Also,” Michael says, “when Phoebe says the police were fools, she does not mean you, Detective McCreadie.”
“Good to know,” McCreadie murmurs.
“What’s this about stories?” Isla asks, turning to me.
I say, “It seems someone has been chronicling and publishing our adventures.”
“What? How did I not know this?”
“It appears to be a recent development, and we have been busy.”
“Do you think it is…” Isla lowers her voice. “Jack?”
“If it is, I’m having a word with her.”
McCreadie clears his throat. “I hate to interrupt, but we were seeking you for a purpose. The demonstration is about to begin. Perhaps the children should… retire?”
Phoebe huffs at him, and Michael looks disappointed, as if the fine detective just dropped in his estimation.
“Or not?” McCreadie says. “I do not know what your parents wish.”
“Does it matter?” Phoebe says.
“As we are your parents’ guests,” Isla says gently, “it does matter. Disobeying their wishes would be rude.”
“So? I would rather be honestly rude than falsely polite.”
“I do like this child,” Annis says. “If I could have been guaranteed of having one like this, I would have done so.”
“All things considered,” I say, “you were pretty much guaranteed to have a child like this.”
“Nonsense,” Annis says. “I had a fifty percent chance of that, and a fifty percent chance of having a mealymouthed brat, who fashions herself as such to spite me. Children do love to rebel against their parents, flouting all their influences.”
“Ah,” I say. “That is your excuse then. Rebellion.”
Her eyes narrow, but she only shakes her head.
“We can take the children with us,” I say. “We will be standing near the front, to properly hear the demonstration, and so if their parents do not wish them there, they will say so.”
“We are expected to attend,” Michael says. “Mother believes we ought to learn as much as we can, and Sir Alastair…?” He shrugs.
“My father does not care what we do,” Phoebe says. “As long as we do not do it near enough to disturb him.”
“Then you shall need to be quiet, Phoebe,” Michael says. “Can you manage it?”
She makes what I presume is a rude gesture, and Michael smiles at her before they lead us to the demonstration room.
I am going to die of heatstroke. That will be my epitaph. Traveled back in time to Victorian Scotland. Survived all the unsanitary horrors of the time, only to die at a fancy party because she was wearing too many layers of dress, stuffed into a room with others wearing too many layers of dress, and no one would open a damn window.
It would help if there were windows. We’re in an interior room that would comfortably host a dozen people and holds three times that, and as Gray warned, no one is paying the least bit of attention to the fact that there is an actual mummy on the table.
Okay, that’s not true. Two boys tried to make a game out of daring one another to touch it, until the stone-faced butler shooed them off. And by “boys” I mean they were in their early twenties. The actual children have been chatting with us, far more politely than the grown-ups in the room, who keep raising their voices to be heard over the din, which of course only adds to the din. We’ve settled for taking a corner and trying to converse, while sweat drips down our faces.
