Page 42 of Disturbing the Dead
“Does she not attend because she is still, strictly speaking, in mourning?”
McCreadie takes a few steps as if considering his answer. “Perhaps, in the first year or so. Now I fear she is… less comfortable than she was once. Isla used to adore parties. We’d go together. Well, with others, of course. Duncan was never one for parties, and so she kindly accompanied me. Then Lawrence came along…” He shakes his head sharply. “Much changed after Lawrence came along, including Isla herself.”
Another couple of steps before he quickly adds, “I do not mean that as an insult. She is still herself in most ways. Just… more cautious. Less open. She is coming around, though. Being more her old self, with her old confidence. You help with that a great deal. She sees your confidence, and it buoys her own.”
“Maybe, but sometimes I worry I might set… not the best example. Like the friend who has lots of money and spends it freely, and you try to keep up with them only to realize you aren’t in the same position. I can afford to be odd. This isn’t my world. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here. But then, when I worry about that, it feels patronizing.”
“You need to let Isla make her own choices,” he says softly. “She is not a child.”
My cheeks heat. “I know.”
“I need to do the same. Do I love the thought of her rushing into danger with you? No. But if I laugh at Duncan for doing it and fret about Isla, that is wrong.”
“Yes, you really should worry more about Duncan.”
He laughs softly as we cross the road. “True.”
“I know what you mean, though,” I say. “You do a good job of not hovering over her.”
“Then I am an excellent actor, because that is exactly what I wish to do. It is what I have wished to do…” He takes a deep breath. “Enough of that. We are here.”
I look to see we’re across the road from the Buccleuch Place residence, a narrow door between two others.
“Now here is the awkward part,” McCreadie says. “The police are never popular with those who espouse strong political beliefs. We are seen as the enemy, sometimes rightly so.”
“Yep. I remember what happened the last time.” I’d suggested speaking to some young men with very strong anti-immigration views, and things got ugly when they spotted McCreadie’s constable outside. “In this case, you aren’t able to send me in alone, because it’s a proper police investigation and I am not proper police. However, if you’re thinking we should play some role to get them to open the front door, it’s already too late. They’ve spotted us.”
His gaze lifts to a window, where the curtain has been pulled back, the pale oval of a face pointed in our direction. McCreadie curses under his breath.
“If I thought we should trick them,” I say, “I wouldn’t be standing here. These are young women accustomed to being treated like children. I’d suggest we don’t do that.”
He dips his chin. “Of course. I did not think of that.”
We cross the road. McCreadie knocks on the door. When no one answers, he calls, “Detective McCreadie of the Edinburgh police. I am sorry to disturb you ladies, but I fear I must ask a few questions of Miss King.”
He’s raising his hand to knock again when the door jerks open. There stands the one member of the Seven I can both name and recognize. The leader, Sophia Jex-Blake. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe style and her small mouth seems to be in a permanent moue of distaste, but her eyes are gentle, if wary.
“Mrs. King is not here,” she says, holding the door, barring entry.
“My apologies, ma’am. Mrs. King then. I need to speak to her most urgently and I was told she might reside here.”
“She does not. While she is often here in the evenings, she rarely spends the night. We did not see her last evening, but I presume you know why and that is the reason you are here.”
“Er, yes, I fear she was outside a home where—”
“A murder took place. Yes, she has spoken to me about the events of last evening.”
“Already?” I say.
Jex-Blake turns a cool look on me. “What she does on her own time ought to be her own business, but she recognizes that it could affect all if it draws attention to one. Murder does tend to draw attention. You are Miss Mitchell, I presume?”
I must look surprised, because she says, “It behooves me to know who I am dealing with. Mrs. King mentioned she had an encounter with a detective—Mr. McCreadie here—and that he was accompanied by Dr. Gray, his two sisters, and his young female assistant. You would be the assistant, as I recognize from the accounts of Dr. Gray’s adventures, which wax most poetic on your golden curls and cerulean eyes.”
I turn to McCreadie. “Remind me to hunt down that writer as soon as we’ve solved this case.”
Do I imagine a twitch to Jex-Blake’s lips?
“Please do,” she says. “It paints a most vexing portrait of you, if you are indeed Dr. Gray’s assistant, and not a pretty face to light his days.”
