Page 50 of Disturbing the Dead
He dips his chin. “Good morning, Miss Mallory.” His gaze cuts to Gray. “Good morning, sir. Come to fetch news of the mummy’s curse yourself?”
So much for thinking mummy curses weren’t a thing yet.
“If you are referring to Sir Alastair’s demise,” I say, “we will take the papers on that, if you please.”
While it’s barely noon, there will already be stories on that. News distribution here is remarkably efficient. Broadsheets will have been hastily written and hastily printed—and newspapers that missed the print deadline will have included an oversheet with as many details as they could get.
I skim the first broadsheet and sigh as I murmur to Gray, “Well, we know where Dr. Addington got his story.”
Apparently, Addington has a habit of checking the news sources before conducting an autopsy. I say “apparently” only because I’m still hoping it’s a joke, even though he claimed to do so right in front of me.
How else would I know what killed the chap?
The fact that I only sigh over it now suggests I might never be able to go back to being a modern-day detective. Stuffing evidence in pockets? Letting people pay to access crime scenes? Checking the papers for cause of death before conducting the autopsy? Shrug. These things happen.
To keep from completely abandoning all faith in the system, I will acknowledge that Addington is a decent surgeon who can usually tell dead people from the living. It’s the cause of that death that eludes him, that’s all. He just needs a little help. From the press.
Okay, fine, I’m going to tell myself that he checks that early news to help him understand the situation, and that even if he does occasionally—often—mess up the cause of death, the legal system has a fail-safe in Dr. Duncan Gray. They really should pay him for it, but Gray has enough money and he considers this a public service, and I can’t fault him for that.
From this broadsheet, with its lurid sketch of a mummy in the throes of—well, I’m going to guess it’s death and not passion, though the sketch really is sketchy—Addington must have gotten the idea that Sir Alastair suffocated in the bandages. That’s exactly what it says here, complete with lovingly rendered detail of the baronet’s corpse when it was opened, a nondescript male face with grotesquely contorted features and bulging eyes.
Really, I do hand it to Victorian writers. When your readers don’t have TV and movies, you get a lot of creative license, and writers use it to full potential, creating the most vivid images in pictures and words. Victorians might grumble at the sight of bare ankles, but give them splattered innards, and they’re a happy bunch.
Gray takes the rest of the papers and broadsheets as he tells Tommy to add them to his account.
“Do you have any tips for me?” Tommy says. “I know your friend is with the police.”
“He is and…” I lean down to whisper, “… we were the ones who unwrapped poor Sir Alastair’s corpse.”
Tommy stares at me. Then his eyes narrow, sensing a joke at his expense.
“Miss Mitchell is correct,” Gray says.
“As for a tip,” I say, “you may tell people that I thought we saw the body move.”
“Did you?” Tommy asks, his eyes round.
“No, but it’s a good story,” I say with a wink. “I did think, for a second, that I saw a tremor, as if Sir Alastair was struggling to sit up… but it must have been a trick of the light.”
Gray sighs. Deeply. Yes, this is unprofessional of me, but compared with Sir Alastair being mummified alive, it’s a safe enough tidbit for Tommy to pass on, one that will help his sales. As for admitting we were the ones who unwrapped the mummy, if that’s not already public knowledge, it will be soon. Especially since Gray seems to be garnering a bit of ink himself. Which reminds me why we really stopped here.
“Tommy,” I say. “I have it on good authority that someone is writing accounts of Dr. Gray’s exploits with the police.”
Tommy’s face screws up. “They are?”
“That is what I heard. From two reliable sources. It seems quite a recent development. Someone is penning broadsheets or pamphlets detailing his past cases.”
“Then I will need to find them, miss. I’ve not seen anything like that, but I only sell the news. If they’re telling stories of what he’s done in the past, that would be a very different thing.”
“Do you know where I’d find those?”
“I’ll find them for you, miss, and have them sent to the house.”
While that’s very kind, he’s also protecting his position as our primary news vendor. I don’t argue. We thank him and then move on toward the Old Town and Halton House.
We have arrived at Halton House, and to my surprise, Elspeth is already at her place behind the desk. She seems to be busy with paperwork. I suppose that makes sense. They don’t open until late evening, but if she’s the manager—or even the owner—she’ll have work to do during the day and being at the desk helps maintain the fiction that it’s a boardinghouse.
The front desk does look like it belongs in an inn. A decent inn, too, for this neighborhood. Yes, the NO VACANCY sign is dusty and pages in the sign-in book are yellowed, but it certainly doesn’t look like a fight club. You’d never know it was one at this hour, not unless you’re Gray, who—on his first visit—picked up the faint smell of blood and sawdust from the basement.
