Page 66 of Disturbing the Dead
“That was checked right away,” I say. “It’s the obvious motive for murder—Sir Alastair caught a thief in the act. But the staff said everything was there.”
“They did. And now they say it is not, and Lord Muir believes he knows who took them. He’s waiting for us at the house now.”
“Then I guess we really are dropping everything and leaving.”
Before we walk to the Christie house, Gray dispatches Simon with the coach to track down McCreadie and bring him, if he’s not already on his way. While the note was addressed to Gray, that might only mean Muir doubled his chances of a response by messaging both men.
We arrive to a very quiet house. Black crepe wraps the outside pillars, and a black ribbon wreath at the door warns visitors that this is a house in mourning.
Inside, more crepe is hung over the doorways. Clocks have been stopped at the rough hour of Sir Alastair’s death and the mirrors have been covered.
I remember Nan saying that the mirror-covering is from an old superstition that sees mirrors as portals to the next world. If they’re left uncovered, the soul of the dead could be trapped in there. Is Lady Christie really worried about that? No, I suspect the staff did it, and even then, it was just a custom, the meaning probably long lost.
The thought, though, reminds me of my grandmother. I’d come to Edinburgh to sit at her deathbed, and I’d been flung here before she passed. Did she die thinking I’d vanished? That I’d died? And what about my parents? What do they think happened to their only—
I cut off the thought. I’ve gotten better about compartmentalizing my grief and worry. Someday I’ll get home and explain everything. That has been my mantra since I left, and if it has faded, that’s only because I know my goal and don’t need to keep repeating it and reminding myself that I have no damn way of achieving it. It’s not that I’ve become comfortable here. It’s not that I’m no longer sure I want to go home. I’ve just set the whole thing aside. That’s all.
The butler leads us wordlessly through a house that seems empty, but I’ve been in service long enough now to hear the swish of skirts and tap of soft indoor boots as the maids retreat. The butler opens the door to the artifact room and inclines his head and—again without a word—seems about to withdraw when I clear my throat.
Gray takes the hint. “I am sorry,” he murmurs, “but I must ask, for the investigation, if we might speak to Mr. Awad afterwards. I promise we will keep the conversation brief.”
“Mr. Awad is not here, sir.”
“When do you expect him back?”
The butler’s gaze cuts farther inside the room, and I realize Lord Muir is there, within earshot.
“I do not know, sir, but on his return, I will tell him you need to speak to him.”
“Thank you,” Gray says.
The butler closes the door behind us as Muir walks over.
“You came,” he says.
“We did, Lord Muir,” Gray says. “I have also taken the liberty of notifying Detective McCreadie. I am certain you had done the same, but he will be out of the police office today and my man might stand a better chance of finding him.”
“I do not much care whether he comes or not. You are the one I messaged. He is merely a criminal officer. Lady Christie needs a detective.”
“Hugh McCreadie is a detective,” Gray says. “That is his rank. He investigates crimes, such as murder.”
“Yes, yes, but he is a mere police detective.”
“Who has brought several murderers to justice.”
“With your help. My daughter reads all about your adventures, Dr. Gray, and it is very clear who is the brains behind this operation.”
“Not at all. Hugh McCreadie is—”
“A fine policeman, which is an admirable achievement for someone from the lower classes.”
Gray opens his mouth, and then stops, and I can read his thought process there. He’d been about to protest that McCreadie didn’t come from the lower classes… and then realized that would sound as if that meant McCreadie shouldn’t be lumped in with “common” police officers.
Muir continues, “My daughter loves detective fiction, and she says that the police detective is never the one who solves the mystery. He is the one bumbling about until someone such as you steps in to guide him in the right direction.”
I wince. Apparently, this was a problem even before Doyle penned his famous amateur sleuth. I do love Sherlock Holmes stories, but I’ll admit I didn’t much appreciate the portrayal of the police, one that continues to prevail in detective fiction. The cops are buffoons who need the clever private detective to guide them from the fog of their own ineptitude. While I can grumble, I know that, for fiction, it makes sense to downplay the police if your protagonist is an amateur sleuth. It just has the unfortunate effect of making real-life police detectives seem like the amateurs.
“That is not true in this case,” Gray says firmly. “While I have not read these stories, from what I have heard, they give me far too much credit. They have been fictionalized to conform to public tastes for a single central figure rather than a collaborative group.”
