Page 43 of Disturbing the Dead
“One can be both,” McCreadie murmurs, and I glare at him.
“As for Mrs. King,” Jex-Blake says, “she confessed to protesting against the mummy unwrapping, which occurred before the murder.” She pauses. “No, I suppose it occurred before the discovery of the murder, but Sir Alastair must have already been dead, if his killer wrapped him as a mummy. That would take some time. Rather fitting, though.” Her gaze rises to McCreadie. “Is it against the law to say that about a member of the so-called nobility?”
“Not yet.”
“Mrs. King confessed to being at the house and to being recognized by Mrs. Ballantyne, which she realized could cause problems for us. She intended to tell me about that when we next met. Instead, she heard of the murder and came straight to me.”
“What time would that have been?” McCreadie asks.
Jex-Blake sighs. “This is going to be a proper interview, isn’t it? Then you might as well come in. The longer I have the police at our door, the more people will be certain we are all—finally—about to be arrested.”
We enter and find ourselves in a foyer with a wood floor as worn as the faded yellow wallpaper.
“Miss Mitchell?” she says. “As I have decided to cooperate, I will do so fully. You may check for signs that I have lied about Mrs. King being here while I speak to Detective McCreadie. I would prefer you did it, as one of our group is currently sleeping in the back and would be quite alarmed to wake to Detective McCreadie in the room.” Her lips twitch. “Or perhaps not so much alarmed as disappointed to learn he is only there for Mrs. King. Come, Detective. I just put a kettle on the stove for tea.”
FOURTEEN
It’s a quick enough search. Oh, if I thought I’d find evidence connected to the crime, I’d have taken full advantage of being left alone. But there’s a reason Jex-Blake let me go off unaccompanied. Even if Mrs. King was guilty, there’d be no evidence of that guilt here. I would like to poke about, to satisfy personal interest in such a fascinating part of history unfolding before me. But that would be a violation of privacy.
As Miss Jex-Blake said, the only other person in residence is the young woman who’d fallen asleep while studying. I don’t ask her name. Again, that’d be prying. I can tell she isn’t Mrs. King and so I move on with a quick apology for the disturbance.
When I return to the sitting room, Jex-Blake rises to meet me.
“So,” she says, “are we harboring murderers under the floorboards?”
“No, but there’s enough food lying around to attract rats from under the floorboards.”
“I know,” she sighs. “We really do need a maid. I do not suppose you would volunteer your services?”
“Sorry, I’ve moved from crumbs to corpses.”
She tilts her head. “Does this mean you are considering a career in medicine, Miss Mitchell?”
“No. I enjoy the science mostly for solving crimes. I would make a terrible doctor. I have no bedside manner.”
“Oddly, I have heard the same said about myself. Well, if you change your mind, we can always use more young women joining our cause.”
“I’m happy to join the cause of improving opportunities for women in any way I can… as long as it doesn’t involve studying medical texts myself.”
She gives me a genuine smile then. “I appreciate your candor and your support. Please give my regards to Mrs. Ballantyne. And tell Dr. Gray we would very much appreciate it—presuming he supports his sister’s right to a career—if he might lend his support to our cause.”
“While I hate to speak on Duncan’s behalf,” McCreadie says softly, “I can say that he does support you, but he fears his open endorsement would do more harm than good. He is a divisive figure within the medical community.”
“Have him speak to me. I will convince him otherwise. Until then, good day to you both.”
Jex-Blake has given McCreadie an address where Mrs. King lives, apparently with her husband. Yes, the use of “missus” implies she’s married, but that’s not always the case. While I don’t think our housekeeper is a widow, no one would call her “Miss.” In this case, there is indeed a Mr. King, a fellow medical student, in fact.
We arrive at the address. It’s in the Old Town, but a decent part of it. The apartment, though, is located on the top floor, up five flights of very suspect stairs. In other words, the couple can’t really afford this neighborhood, but it’s safer than most for a couple of young students.
I rap at the door this time, with McCreadie behind me. We aren’t going to pretend to be anything other than police, but seeing a woman’s face first might help.
The door opens to a young man, maybe twenty-four, slender and dark-haired. I suspect he’d be quite handsome if he got some sleep. The textbook in his hands and the ink staining his fingers suggests it isn’t late nights at the pub keeping him up. Seeing us, he straightens and runs a hand through his hair, smearing ink on his forehead.
“Oh, you must be here for the Ryans,” he says. “They are the next door over.” He lowers his voice. “They really do appreciate the baskets, even if Mr. Ryan grumbles. It is a kind thing you do, bringing them food while Mrs. Ryan is ill. We have offered what little help we can—my wife and I are both medical students—but they see even that as charity.”
“We are not here for the Ryans, I fear,” McCreadie says. He tips his head. “Detective McCreadie of the Edinburgh police. If you are Mr. King, I met your wife last night, outside Sir Alastair’s home.”
The young man’s face spasms. “Detec—My wife? Outside Sir—whose home? I fear you have the wrong person. My wife was here with me all night. Yes, all night. And evening.” He lifts the book, his hand trembling slightly. “We were studying together.”
