Chapter Eleven

We find nothing in the shed. As Michael said, it's a small and ruined building in a private garden. I remember coming to Edinburgh's New Town in my time, seeing gardens on the map and going to one for a pleasant walk, only to find gates barring my way. Locked gates. The gardens are owned by a private collective, and you can apply for membership and get a key. I'd been baffled by the idea that huge gardens in a downtown core were not open to the public.

This is a small version of that. The shed would have been for the gardener retained by the collective. But there's another shed in a more convenient location near the entrance, and this one has been left as an ivy-covered ruin.

The old shed is kept locked, but Michael—and Selim—have keys, the children having located two in a drawer of old keys after they first found the tunnel.

After a look around, we leave and make it back to the house without neighbors shrieking about the two vagrants wearing fancy clothing they clearly stole from corpses. I could say the lack of attention proves I don't look as bad as I think I do, but I suspect it has something to do with it being three in the morning. Also, might I point out that it's very cold at three A.M. in late November when you're dressed only in party attire.

We ask Selim about his attacker's hands. He hadn't thought of that, but looking back, he remembers what was either dark skin or dark gloves. He didn't see well enough to be sure.

Next we examine the exhibit room. McCreadie joins us, but really, both the detective and I would admit that the person best suited to this task is Gray.

Gray says that I'm better at figuring out people—seeing clues and connections in their speech and mannerisms and expressions. Maybe that's true, but it feels like he's tossing me a bone to make up for the fact that the actual detective is worse than him at, well, detecting. Gray has an eye for detail that I can't match. It's not quite on Sherlock Holmes's level, but sometimes it feels that way.

I find Gray crouched over a clod of dirt, examining it with the end of a pencil.

"Let me guess," I say. "That comes from the tiny village of Cearc, where they only have that specific composition of soil."

"Hardly. Everyone knows the soil in Cearc is largely composed of nitrogen and potassium, given that the land is apparently inhabited by chickens." He glances at me. "I applaud your commitment to studying Gaelic, Mallory, but you might not want to use it just yet."

"Hey, Chicken is a perfectly valid town name. There's one in Alaska. It was supposed to be called Ptarmigan, but the founders couldn't spell that."

He looks up to see if I'm joking. Then he shakes his head and turns back to the soil. "This might not be from the fine village of Cearc, but I do believe we will be able to confirm or reject it as coming from the tunnel. The soil there was somewhat different from what we see outside, possibly owing to the age or depth. We will take this and compare it."

McCreadie walks over. "Because if it does come from the tunnel, that suggests our killer not only fled that way but entered that way." He glances at me. "Do I even want to know what that discussion of chickens was about?"

"Just Dr. Gray questioning my knowledge of geographic etymologies."

"He is terrible for that, isn't he? And while I do hate to interrupt such an important discussion, I believe I have located the murder weapon."

We move so fast we bash into each other. Gray waves for me to go first, which is the proper gentlemanly behavior, though as always, he hesitates before gesturing, as if it takes effort to relinquish the lead.

McCreadie steers us to a rear corner. "I have left it in situ."

A length of rope lies in the gap between a desk and the wall. It hasn't been hidden as much as discarded. Oh, I'm sure the killer wouldn't have left it lying in the middle of the room. That would raise suspicions that might have ruined the fun of having us open a mummy to reveal their victim. Still, there's no need to truly hide the murder weapon, in a world that isn't examining fibers or blood yet. Taking the weapon increases the chances of being caught with it.

"May I borrow your pencil?" I ask Gray.

"If you intend to use it for fishing that rope from in there, I believe we have already established your poor manual dexterity." He moves in front of me and bends. "May I get a light?"

McCreadie fetches a lantern, and Gray shines it into the narrow space.

"Is there anything other than hair that I could be in danger of dislodging?" he asks me.

I shake my head. "I doubt we could even get fingerprints off it. Mostly, we'd be looking for hair, but if it's the murder weapon, any hair would likely belong to Sir Alastair."

He nods and still takes great care extracting the rope before lifting it with the pencil and gingerly putting it onto the desk as if it's a venomous snake.

Using the lantern, Gray examines it. "That looks like blood. There was an abrasion on Sir Alastair's neck where the rope dug in deep. I can check whether the burns seem to match this particular length of rope. I would presume it does."

"Yep, in this time, there'd be no point in planting a fake murder weapon. Well, not really much point in my time either, given the science for matching weapons to wounds, but that doesn't keep people from trying it."

"So the police get smarter and the criminals do not?" McCreadie says. When I glance his way, he says, "Humor me, Mallory. Tell me that something gets easier."

"The police absolutely get smarter," I say. "And, if anything, the criminals get dumber. That's why they let women on the force, you know. The job gets so easy, even women can do it."

I get a smile from McCreadie for that one.

"What would you be able to test for on this rope?" McCreadie asks.

"The fabled DNA, yes?" Gray says. "From the blood, and also the skin shed by the victim and possibly even shed by the culprit. Unless they wear gloves."

"Which they will not," McCreadie says. "Because criminals are all much less intelligent in the future. Mallory has promised it, and I believe it."

"Then ask her to tell you about the town called Chicken because no one could spell ‘ptarmigan.' At least someone will believe that tall tale."

"Hey, can you spell ‘ptarmigan'?" I say.

"I do not even know what a ptarmigan is, and I am quite certain you are making up that, too."

"Actually, she's not," McCreadie says. "It's a type of grouse found in very cold regions. Do not ask me to spell it, though I am pleased to know something you do not, Duncan."

"You know much that I do not. Most of it useless trivia, but occasionally your repertoire includes bits of practical information."

McCreadie makes a rude gesture, paired with a smile. They've been friends since they were children, and I envy them that. I have plenty of college friends and colleague friends, but I lost track of ones from my childhood, as we so often do in our world, where being Facebook friends seems enough.

I move to look closer at the rope. Then I start circling the room.

"Uh-oh," McCreadie says. "Mallory is prowling. While we are making light, she is making connections."

"Maybe, maybe not," I say.

I spot a couple of crates under a table. Packing crates. I'd briefly noted them earlier, but I hadn't paid much attention because they weren't big enough to hold the mummy, and that's what I'd been looking for. Now, gloves on, I bend to tug one out… and yep, still wearing an evening-gown-laced corset. McCreadie gallantly comes over to pull one out for me.

"Packing materials," I say. "For transporting artifacts. Including…" I point at a length of hemp.

"Rope," McCreadie says. "It looks like the same type, though Duncan will need to examine it. If it is, that suggests a crime of opportunity rather than intent. The killer did not bring rope with them. They used what was at hand."

"So they were in here and either found the rope or a length was lying out in plain view," I say. "Have we located the actual crime scene? Any blood on the floor?"

"There was not enough blood lost for that," Gray says. "It really was little more than an abrasion. I do think I see another crime scene though, now that we are over here."

He walks a few feet and bends.

"Ah," McCreadie says. "I believe I may know what that is." He takes the mummified finger from his pocket.

"Is that… a finger?" Gray says.

"A finger joint."

"And Mallory accuses me of stuffing evidence in my pockets. At least I do not do that with body parts. I am surprised you are not worried about the stink it might leave."

"I wrapped it in my handkerchief," McCreadie says. "I brought it out because I believe it explains what you are looking at."

I look where Gray is bending. There are bits of dark material that seem to be like ash or coal dust from here. Except there isn't a fireplace in this room. I find a bit far enough away, and I try to bend, only to have the usual fashion issue. Gray rises and hands me the lantern.

I angle it as best I can while I squint down at the floor. I could fit several of the tiny bits on my nail, which means they are nearly impossible to see on the carpet.

"Do you have any—?" I begin, only to see Gray holding out a piece of paper.

"Thank you."

He uses the paper to get a speck onto it and brings it up for me. I peer at it under the lantern light. McCreadie has evidently given Gray the finger, literally, and Gray silently holds it out. The skin is the same color. It's leathery, but rough at the edges, where it looks almost exactly like this.

"So this is probably where the killer broke up the mummified body," I say.

"I would say yes," McCreadie calls over. "Considering what I see under this."

I glance to see him bending by a display case. I shine the light under it and see a small brown object.

"Is that…?" I begin.

"Another finger? I believe it is."

With some effort, I rise. "So the killer decides to break the body into smaller pieces. That isn't easy. It's desiccated, not carbonized. A finger flies under there. Another falls off in the tunnel. Helluva way to treat a dead body."

"I have seen worse," Gray says mildly.

"Same," I say. "I'm just more offended because of how old it is. Someone dies over a thousand years ago, and their mortal remains are carted around like a sideshow exhibit and then broken like a stack of kindling. Of course, considering what the killer did to Sir Alastair, I suppose I can't expect them to respect the dead."

A rap at the door. I'm closest and push it open to see Isla, trying for a smile through obvious exhaustion.

"I know you are busy," she says. "Miriam is with her brother now, and the children are with them, so there is little need for Annis or me to stay. She is going to drop me off at the house. Then she will send the coach back after it takes her home. Is there anything I can return with the coach? Tools you might need?"

I look at Gray, who shakes his head.

"Whatever we need to analyze, we can bring home with us," he says. "Tell Annis not to bother with the coach. We will walk."

Isla's gaze slides up and down both of us.

"No, you will not," McCreadie says. "You will accept Annis's offer and hope she does not get a look at you before she leaves, or she might rescind it and make you walk."

"Yes, yes. Mallory looks a fright. I was being polite and not mentioning it."

"Me?" I say. "Would you like a mirror, sir?"

Isla waves us off. "Go back to your work. Expect the coach in an hour. I will ask Mrs. Wallace to prepare an early breakfast, which will be ready whenever you return."

"Breakfast?" Gray takes out his pocket watch. "Ah."

"Yes, breakfast," she says. "I will endeavor to get a little sleep myself, but I shall rise by nine so that we might discuss the case."