Page 76 of Disturbing the Dead
“Yep,” I say. “Soft-core porn, Victorian style.”
Isla’s eyes dance. “May I presume the existence of the term ‘soft-core’ implies there is a hard-core?”
“Definitely.”
“What exactly would constitute—?”
Gray clears his throat, loudly.
Isla looks at me. “Men might say they avoid such conversation so as not to scandalize women, but as you can see, that is but an excuse. The ones we must truly fear scandalizing are the men themselves.”
“If you are finished,” Gray says, “might we return to reading these…?” He struggles for words.
Isla grins. “Mysterious adventures of the very foreign doctor and his lovely assistant’s lovely body parts?”
I sputter a laugh. “All right. We’ve registered our shock and disapproval. Now let’s read and see if we can figure out who is writing this trash.”
“So I may challenge them to a duel?” Gray says.
“So we may tell them to—in the name of all that is holy—stop writing. Or it may be their murder we’re investigating next.”
Gray smiles, a little too broadly, and I pick up another pamphlet to read.
“So we agree it’s complete and utter trash,” I say as I put down the last pamphlet.
“As well as ‘soft-core porn,’” Isla says with a smirk my way.
I roll my eyes. I have to admit I’m almost impressed at the way the writer wove those bits in, using every excuse to have my bosom aflutter or my ass in the air, even if that’s not physically possible while wearing a corset. In one part, I’d even, for a brief moment, been kneeling in front of Gray. All in the most innocent of contexts, of course.
The stories might allegedly be for children, but someone was making sure they didn’t ignore the male market. I can’t even grumble, having seen too many detective dramas where the camera lingers a little too lovingly on naked young female corpses. Hey, at least I’m alive in these stories. And fully dressed.
What actually pisses me off about my portrayal is that I seem to be the equivalent of a magician’s assistant, there to look pretty and hold things for her genius boss. That role is also a time-honored one in detective fiction—the wide-eyed ingénue who asks endless questions that give the protagonist a chance to pontificate and look like the genius he is. I’m a foil—Gray’s Dr. Watson.
So I’m not truly pissed off about the portrayal of myself. It just tells me that the writer either doesn’t know me or is intentionally tweaking me.
When I say that, Gray makes a noise deep in his throat.
“Yes, I realize that isn’t as helpful as we’d like,” I say. “It doesn’t answer the question of whether it could be Jack or not.”
“Given these descriptions of you,” Isla says, “I must presume the writer has developed something of an infatuation. I did not get that impression from Jack.”
“She finds me interesting, but not that way.”
“And her preferences in general…?” Isla says, circumspectly. “Do we have any indication of that?”
“She likes men,” I say. “She’s made comments to that effect.” Admiring McCreadie, though I won’t say so in front of Isla. “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t also like women, but…” I leaf through the pages. “Presuming Jack is ‘Edinburgh’s Foremost Reporter of Criminal Activities’ this writing is shit compared with hers. It’s possible Jack isn’t writing those broadsheets but tried her hand at these without any writing experience, which would explain the terrible prose, but that feels like too many ifs for me. Jack slipped up the other day. She started to say she covered crimes before switching to saying her writerly friend covers them.”
“You caught that, too,” Gray murmurs.
“Oh, I caught it. I just wasn’t going to call her out on it. My gut says this isn’t Jack. It’s not just the bad writing or the weird obsession with my body parts. It’s not even the racism, which doesn’t sound like Jack either. This is ninety percent fiction. There are things Jack knows, especially about the poisoning case, that she would have included for a better story. This is written by someone who knows nothing more than they’d glean from the papers.”
“And someone who has met you and formed an unhealthy attachment,” Gray says.
I wrinkle my nose. “Have they, though? Or is that just marketing?”
“I believe someone disinterested in women could pen this,” Gray says. “But my sense is that the writer does find you attractive. I even speculated briefly whether it could be Dr. Addington. He would certainly pen those bits. But the portrayal of him is dismissive, and he could not bring himself to do that, even to hide his identity.”
“Let’s look at that, then,” Isla says. “You are the clear star of these stories, Duncan. The writer exoticizes you in an uncomfortable way, but not an overtly negative one. They have nothing but praise for your abilities. They fail to realize Mallory’s contributions, but she plays a significant and equally positive role. As for Hugh, it is clear that the writer considers his detecting skills far inferior to Duncan’s. Dr. Addington is written as equally superfluous. They are bit players in your drama, Duncan. I am completely absent from the pages as anything other than ‘Dr. Gray’s widowed sister.’”
