Page 23 of Disturbing the Dead
I recall Phoebe saying something to the same effect—that she could do as she liked as long as she didn’t get in her father’s way. In the way of his studies and occupations and interests, I presume.
“I realize it paints my husband in a poor light, to say that we were not surprised he had made himself scarce this evening, but Alastair was, as I say, brilliant, and with brilliance comes eccentricity.”
Yeah, that’s not eccentricity. I live with two brilliant people, and neither Gray nor Isla would leave their friends and loved ones scrambling to cover for them because they were pissy that an obligation interfered with their work. But sometimes brilliance and selfishness go hand in hand. Sir Alastair didn’t want to do the demonstration, and because he’s a singular sort of fellow—baronet, surgeon, and Egyptologist—he shouldn’t have to, even if he would humiliate his wife and sponsor by not showing up.
Except he hadn’t skipped out, had he? His personality was simply such that no one questioned it when he seemed to be doing exactly that.
“When did you last see him?” I ask.
She fidgets, her gaze dropping. “I… That is to say… My husband and I lead very separate lives, Miss Mitchell. When he and his first wife lived in Cairo, I was the…” She clears her throat. “I was the governess. Penelope—the first Lady Christie—and I went to school together in London. We were friends. That was how she met Sir Alastair—she came to visit me in Cairo.” A soft smile lightens her grief. “Penelope was a wonderful woman, so very much like Phoebe. She was my dearest friend and…” She blinks up in mild horror. “And that has nothing to do with this. I am rambling, and I apologize.”
“Not at all. It helps me understand.”
It helps me understand a great deal. The first Lady Christie dies, and who does Sir Alastair choose for his second wife? His wife’s best friend and his daughter’s governess. Saved him the bother of trying to figure out who would care for Phoebe. Just give the governess a promotion.
Oh, I know that’s not necessarily the case, but it’s a possibility that gives me some insight into this marriage.
Lady Christie continues, “When my husband was wrapped up in his work, it was not uncommon for me to go all day without seeing him. He took his meals at the excavation or in his offices, and would often return after the children and I had gone to bed. Now that we are back in Edinburgh, he has been busy cataloguing his finds and meeting with museum officials. All of which is an explanation—an excuse even—for what I am about to admit: that I have not seen him since early this morning. We ate breakfast together, and then I took the children for a walk while he worked. When I returned, Alastair was gone. After that, I was busy making ready for the party. I did not think it odd that Alastair did not come home for lunch or tea—that was the usual way of things, much to our cook’s frustration. As for dinner, it was a haphazard affair, as we all had to get ready for the party.”
“You did not see him get ready?”
A long pause. Then, her voice gentle, “We do not share bedchambers or dressing rooms, Miss Mallory.”
Right. This is an era where the wealthy have their own rooms. The middle class often try to emulate that, separating themselves from the poor, who must—shudder—share a bed with their spouse.
“Of course,” I say, with a small smile. “In a house like this, you could easily go the day and not see each other.”
“You truly can. My husband had his own chambers, and when he left, he preferred to walk to his destination—he often complained at how sedentary life is here, compared with the excavation site. The staff were endlessly despairing that they never knew whether he was in or out. I tried to explain that it would help if he told them when he was leaving, but that can be difficult for people to understand if they have not been in service themselves. I believe you were a housemaid, yes?”
“Yes, and you are correct. It helps the staff to know whether their employers are at home. So you didn’t see Sir Alastair all day, and then when you realized he wasn’t simply late to the party, you went looking.”
“Lord Muir and I did. We asked the staff, and no one had seen Alastair since morning. Still, we presumed he’d come in and slipped past unnoticed. It was not until after I saw you and Dr. Gray that I realized there was an easy way to determine whether he was at the party—had he dressed yet? He insists on wearing even party attire that does not require assistance, as he does not like his valet to dress him, so I checked whether the clothing his valet laid out was still there. It was. Which meant he was not at home. That was when Lord Muir suggested we say Alastair was indisposed.”
She twists her handkerchief. “I hated the deception, but Lord Muir pointed out—rightly—that the alternative would be humiliating to my husband. We could not admit that Alastair was behaving…”
She doesn’t fill in the rest. I can. Behaving like a petulant child.
She continues quickly, as if reading my mind, “I thought it could easily have been a mistake. We did not even discuss the party at breakfast. I knew it made him ill-tempered. He could have left and forgotten all about it.” She stops, her face twisting with grief. “Or that was what I had hoped, and now it seems…” She looks at me. “Is it possible he never left? That we have spent the day presuming he is at work, and he was right here, being… being…”
She breaks off in a sob, and maybe I should feel terrible for coldly analyzing that sob, but that’s my job. I look for signs of actual tears. I look for signs of actual grief. I look for any hint that she’s putting on a show. I liked what I’ve seen of Miriam Christie—and I certainly like her children. But I’ve met too many killers who—on first and even second and third meeting—I liked very well.
Her grief seems genuine, but even that isn’t proof she couldn’t have killed her husband. Not everyone who commits murder is a cold-blooded sociopath. An argument. A shove and an accidental death, and then the ligature marks and the mummy trappings to disguise it as murder by persons unknown.
If I must remain impartial, though, that helps me wait out the sob and then push on with my questions.
“Do you know when the mummy was placed on the table?” I ask.
“When the…? Oh!” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh!”
I give her a moment to work through the horror of that, while Isla pats her arm in the sympathy I can’t show. Yes, Lady Christie has just realized that her husband’s dead body had been on display for God knows how long, but knowing exactly how long that was will be vital for the investigation.
“Is there someone else I can get that information from?” I say finally. “Whoever was in charge of the mummy?”
“That was supposed to be Selim,” she says. “My younger brother, who has not yet arrived. The plan was for the mummy to be in place this afternoon. Selim was going to arrange it and ensure it was guarded until the demonstration. During the party, he intended to be there, along with Michael and Phoebe, to answer questions but…”
She throws up her hands. “He telegraphed yesterday that his ship was delayed, but he was still supposed to be here by noon, and we spent the afternoon expecting him. When the party started and there was still no sign of him, I had two of the men carry the mummy into the demonstration room. We then kept the door closed, so that no one…”
Her gaze shoots to mine. “Selim.” She inhales sharply. “Alastair was missing, and now he is dead, and Selim has not arrived and… Oh!”
