Page 44 of Disturbing the Dead
“One of our companions identified your wife,” McCreadie says, not unkindly. “Mrs. King did not dispute the identification, and she later told Miss Jex-Blake that she met me.”
King’s mouth works. Then he slumps. “I am sorry, Detective. I asked Florence not to go there last night. I said it could cause trouble, but she was determined. I presume you have come to arrest her for disturbing the party.”
“No, I need to question her about something far graver.”
King goes still. “Did she break a window or such? If so, it was an accident.”
“May we come in and speak to her?”
King hesitates.
McCreadie says, “It will be better for all if we do not have this conversation in the corridor.”
The young man motions for us to come in and shuts the door. “She is not here. You may search if you like, but as you can see…” He waves at the room with a rueful smile. “There is little to search. We have only been wed two months and are still furnishing.”
McCreadie nods to me, and I enter ahead of him.
“Miss Mitchell will look about,” McCreadie says. “She works for a consultant with the police.”
There really isn’t much to search. The single room is a couple of hundred feet square, with two privacy screens. I check behind each as McCreadie questions King.
“When did you last see your wife?” McCreadie asks.
“Perhaps an hour or so ago? She came in briefly to tell me she would be out for the day. I protested—we were supposed to walk in the park—but she promised we could go tomorrow. I had the sense something had come up.”
“Did she say what?”
King shakes his head. “I presumed it was to do with Miss Jex-Blake and the others. Sometimes it is best if I do not know what they are up to.” He quickly adds, “I believe my wife has as much right to study medicine as I do—and to become a doctor. That is how we met. This past spring Miss Jex-Blake held a talk for the male students who wished to know more about their cause. I was…” He makes a face. “I regret to say I was one of the few who attended. If I am not privy to all their plans, that is because my wife thinks it best. She fears it could jeopardize my own career. I say that does not matter, but she insists one of us needs a job.” A wry smile. “Florence is a very practical woman, which I appreciate, because I am not a very practical man.”
I’ve checked behind both dividers. Now I glance over at King, but he has his back to me. I slip into the bedroom section of the room.
McCreadie continues, “You mentioned her act of protest at Sir Alastair’s party last night. I presume your wife did tell you about that?”
I don’t catch the answer. I’ve struggled down to the floor to look under the bed, which smells of slightly moldy straw. It’s tidy, though, the sheets pulled up, and there isn’t so much as a dust bunny under it.
I glance over my shoulder. The men are still talking. Good.
The only other piece of furniture in the tiny space is a makeshift nightstand stacked high with books. It has a single drawer. I slide it open soundlessly. Inside are what I recognize as the current version of condoms, the cheaper ones made from some kind of animal skin. King wins a point for that one. He might say he supports his wife’s studies, but this proves it. A baby would be a convenient excuse to convince Florence King to give up her dreams and be a “proper” wife.
There’s nothing else in the drawer. I slide it all the way out and check in behind. Nope, still nothing. I look around and my gaze goes to the bed.
With a sigh of resignation, I lift the mattress. Sure enough, there are two opened envelopes under it. That’s the thing about a world that predates crime shows. People pick the most obvious places to hide things. It’s almost disappointing.
I make sure the men are still talking. Then I tug out the contents of the envelopes. One holds a key. The other has several sheets of paper with tiny feminine handwriting. No way am I going to be able to read it before King realizes I’m gone. And if his wife knows the police were here, she’ll hide anything.
Well, this is one good thing about doing detective work before proper crime-scene containment and chain of evidence. With a silent apology to the patron saint of law enforcement, I tuck the envelopes into my pocket.
I slip back out just as King seems to remember I’m there.
“There is no sign of Mrs. King, sir,” I say to McCreadie.
“And you have no idea where she might be?” McCreadie says to her husband.
The young man shakes his head. “I would try the rooms Miss Jex-Blake keeps. I can provide you with the address.”
“We have it, and your wife is not there.”
King wipes his brow. “I am sorry then. I truly do not know.” He quickly adds, “But that is not unusual behavior. When she is troubled, she often takes long walks, usually along the Water of Leith or up on Calton Hill. She did say not to expect her for lunch, but that she will return for tea.”
