Page 14 of Disturbing the Dead
Gray stiffens, almost imperceptibly, and I do, too, fearing what she has heard.
“Oh! Where are my manners?” she says. “I am supposed to be the evening’s hostess, however little I might feel it. I am Miriam Christie. My husband is Sir Alastair. These are our children—my son, Michael, by my first husband, and my husband’s daughter, Phoebe, by his first wife.”
Anyone else looking at Gray in that moment would see only a very polite nod preceding his gracious greeting. But I know him well enough to see that flicker of confusion, and I suspect he did not know the first Lady Christie was dead… or that Sir Alastair had remarried.
“You are Dr. Duncan Gray?” Phoebe says.
“Er, yes.” His tone says he’s dreading what stories she might associate with that name. “And this is my assistant, Miss Mallory Mit—”
“Mitchell?” Phoebe says, her eyes rounding. She elbows her stepbrother and whispers, “It is Miss Mitchell.”
“Yes,” Michael says dryly. “That is what Dr. Gray was saying. You have excellent hearing when you choose to listen, Phoebe.”
I’m opening my mouth to say they have clearly mistaken me for another Miss Mitchell, when Lady Christie beams and says, “We have been following your cases most ardently, Dr. Gray and Miss Mitchell.”
“There is too much about Dr. Gray in them,” Phoebe interjects. “And not enough about Miss Mitchell. You must speak to the writer.”
“Writer?” That’s the only word I can manage.
“I fear I do not know his name,” Lady Christie says. “He publishes anonymously, and he has only just begun chronicling your adventures, working through your past cases.”
“This is… news,” Gray says when I cannot find words. “How… flattering.”
“To you,” Phoebe says tartly. “Not to Miss Mallory, who is described only as your flaxen-haired assistant. I presume she is there to do more than look pretty, which does not seem a very useful skill in a detective.”
“Oh, you would be surprised,” I say.
“Miss Mallory does far more than look pretty,” Gray says. “I must take a look at these stories and correct any misunderstanding.”
“Miss Mallory was telling us a story,” Phoebe says. “About a curse on a pharaoh’s tomb.”
“A made-up story,” Michael corrects. “And she was telling Dr. Gray. You interrupted and demanded she continue.”
“Because it was a good story. It was about men who are cursed for breaking into the tomb and stealing the artifacts under the pretense of doing it for science. I think people should be cursed for such things.” She looks at Lady Christie. “Would you not agree, Mimi?”
“Oh dear,” Lady Christie says, her cheeks darkening in a flush. “I am so sorry, Dr. Gray and Miss Mitchell. My daughter has… very strong opinions. Ones that are…” She glances at Phoebe sternly. “Not appropriate at such a gathering.”
“Why? Because I am saying that my father should be cursed for unwrapping a mummy as entertainment? He should. Nothing fatal, of course. Boils would do.”
“Oh dear,” Lady Christie repeats.
I smile at Phoebe. “I think a nonfatal case of boils would not be an inappropriate punishment in some cases.” I lower my voice. “But please don’t tell your father I said that.”
“Please don’t,” Gray murmurs. “Sir Alastair already has a poor opinion of me.”
Lady Christie frowns. “Why ever would he—? Oh!” Her eyes round. “You are that Duncan Gray. The one his sister—” Her hand flies to her mouth.
“Oh dear,” I murmur, and I think it’s too low for anyone to hear but Phoebe snickers.
“I am sorry,” Lady Christie says. “I failed to make the connection. Not that it is anything of consequence. You were young, and his sister was a widow and…” Her gaze shoots to me and she clears her throat. “Nothing wrong with it at all.”
Huh. Seems Gray left out part of the story.
“You are most welcome here, Dr. Gray,” Lady Christie says firmly. “If my husband says otherwise, I will correct him. I am certain he is over it. Not that he had any right to be offended, as it did not concern him and…” She clears her throat again. “Enough of that. Did someone mention a story about a cursed pharaoh?”
Yep, nothing like a curse story to break an awkward moment.
“Shall I continue?” I say. “Or start from the beginning?”
