Chapter Thirteen

We are taking breakfast in the library, which is not entirely proper. Food is to be consumed in dining rooms. Even if you wished to read while eating, you wouldn't eat in here… nor would you take the book to the dining room.

As long as Isla is asleep, the men have the excuse of, well, being men. It's not even so much that they are above the rules as that they can't be expected to know them. That's the job of the "angel of the house."

I once teased Isla with that moniker, and her response was shockingly—and delightfully—profane. The angel of the household is one of those Victorian concepts wrapped in bows and sparkles to hide the rotten core inside. It's supposed to honor women and raise them on a pedestal to be cherished as something good and pure in a filthy world. Instead, it's a gilded cage that traps them both physically and psychologically, forcing them to be those good and pure beacons of light.

The angel of the household is expected to be sweet and mild, her life given over to one purpose: keeping the house pleasant and ordered for her man. Look at the stereotypical fifties housewife and you can see how the concept crept through time. Her man has been hard at work all day, and he deserves to come home to a peaceful and tidy house, and a primped and pretty wife with a tumbler of whisky in her hand.

The problem with peaceful and tidy, sweet and mild, pleasant and ordered? It's boring as hell. So middle-class Victorian men don't come home after work. They go to their pubs and their sports clubs and enjoy themselves before they must return home, sit on a spindly chair, and read the paper while their wife does needlepoint and the children are kept out of sight and out of mind.

Isla is not the "angel of the household" here. No one wants her to be. But she's still the lady of the house, and things run a little differently in her presence. Without her, we can have breakfast in the library, and Mrs. Wallace will only roll her eyes with affectionate exasperation.

Well, it's affectionate for the guys. I just get exasperation—with a generous dose of suspicion. Winning over Alice was like conquering the bunny hill. Mrs. Wallace is my Everest.

I'm on my second cup of coffee, the best defense against yawning and having Gray suggest I take a nap. Yes, coffee is a thing in Victorian Scotland, much to my surprise. I won't say it's good coffee, but it exists. I long to experiment with the brewing methods and with foaming milk to make myself something resembling a proper cappuccino. To do that, though, I need access to the kitchen. To get that access, I need to convince Mrs. Wallace that I'm not evil Catriona, who may have spent the last six months ingratiating herself with the bosses only to poison them.

For now, I drink what's available and enjoy the underrated pleasure of fresh warm bread dripping with butter. I'll add jam soon. I'll also avail myself of the ham and eggs. But for now, it's coffee and carbs.

We're deep into conversation on the case when a tap comes at the closed door.

I'm closest, so I open it. Lorna half curtsies in the opening. "I was told not to open closed doors when Doctor Gray is investigating a case."

I nod and smile. "That is correct. Thank you."

"There is a guest for the master. A Lord Muir. Shall I show him into the drawing room?"

"Please. I'll bring the coffee tray."

"Thank you, miss," she says, and scurries off.

We're still walking down the hall, coffee cups in hand, when Lord Muir comes barreling toward us, Lorna at his heels, squeaking, "The drawing room is in there, sir," as she points.

Muir's face is red with exertion as his cane clicks along at top speed.

"You!" he says, homing in on McCreadie. "You are the criminal officer in charge of Alastair's murder, are you not?"

"I am, sir." McCreadie moves his coffee to his left hand and extends his right. "My sincere condolences on the loss—"

The man ignores McCreadie's outstretched hand. "I am so glad to see the murder of a baronet has not put you off your breakfast, Detective. One might think you would be a bit busy—catching a crazed killer—but apparently that is not a priority."

McCreadie's voice is mild. "I have been on the scene all night, Lord Muir. I am here to discuss the case with Dr. Gray and await the police surgeon's report. While I do that, I am eating, so I will be fully prepared to continue the investigation."

"You can eat all you like once you have the killer in custody, and I am astounded that you haven't arrested her already."

"Her?" I say.

"That…" He flutters his hand. "Girl."

"You will need to be more specific," McCreadie says. "If you are accusing one of the maids—"

"No, that King girl."

Neither McCreadie nor Gray answers. They are racking their brains. So am I, and it hits me first.

"The young woman protesting outside the party last night?" I say.

"Of course." Muir wheels on McCreadie. "Tell me you have her in custody."

"I know she was upset about the unwrapping demonstration," McCreadie says. "She was stopping people as they came in."

"Upset about the demonstration?" Muir snorts. "She does not give a fig for the demonstration. It was an excuse to embarrass Alastair. Or that is what I thought at first. But now I realize it was a ruse to divert attention in case she was spotted at the scene of the murder. Also, being outside allowed her to hear the commotion caused by her foul deed."

"I believe I am missing something," McCreadie says. "You thought Miss King wanted to embarrass Sir Alastair because…?"

"Because of what he did. To her and the others. And what he was continuing to do."

"What he did…?"

"With those women. He was hell-bent on stopping them."

"Miss King is one of the Seven," I murmur. Then I turn to Muir. "Is that what you mean? The seven women who are studying to become doctors."

"Studying medicine. They will not become doctors."

"All right," I say. "The seven women permitted to study medicine. You're saying Sir Alastair tried to stop them?"

"He lobbied for the university court to reject Miss Jex-Blake's application," says a voice behind Lord Muir. Isla appears, wearing a receiving wrapper, having apparently been warned we have a visitor. "Last night, when we met Miss King, I recalled some connection between the Seven and Sir Alastair. It took a while to remember specifics. He was one of those responsible for the university court rejecting Miss Jex-Blake. Now that she has gathered the other six and been admitted, he continues to lobby for them to be removed or be placed under further restrictions."

She meets Lord Muir's gaze. "Because apparently it is not enough to refuse them access to lectures and force Miss Jex-Blake to teach them herself. We cannot have women studying with the men. How will they concentrate with all those…" She flaps her hand. "Feminine body parts in the room."

Lord Muir chokes. "It is a distraction."

"That is odd," she continues. "I certainly am not above noticing handsome men, but I have never found myself so distracted by them that I cannot focus on my studies. And if I did, then the problem would be mine to overcome. I would have expected better of young men bright enough to be admitted to medical school."

I expect Muir to bluster, but he backs down with a nod. "You make a fair point, ma'am. Please forgive me. I am upset over my friend's murder."

"Understandable," Isla says. "I presume you are suggesting that Miss King murdered Sir Alastair to remove a vocal opponent to her studies. That seems rather extreme, but as she was on the property and has an issue with the deceased—" She stops short, gaze cutting to McCreadie as if realizing she's treading on his turf.

"Miss King will be investigated," McCreadie says.

"Immediately," Muir says.

I bristle, and I wait for McCreadie to push back. When he doesn't, I see my mistake. I can say that it's the fault of this world and how they treat the nobility, but if I were working a case back home, I'd be expected to give the same deference to any powerful person. They have loud voices and deep pockets, and we might say the law treats everyone the same, but it doesn't.

"I will speak to Miss King myself," McCreadie says. "Dr. Gray will stay to obtain Dr. Addington's report once the autopsy is complete."

"You will speak to her?" Muir says. "Or arrest her?"

"Speak to her and then convey my findings to those who can make any arrest decision." To his superiors and the procurator fiscal. McCreadie doesn't say that. He's not giving Muir a list of targets to harass.

"Acceptable," Muir says. "I will expect a full report this afternoon."

McCreadie's jaw twitches at that, as if chewing over words he'd like to say, but he only murmurs, "I will convey your request to the appropriate parties. Good day, Lord Muir."

Here is where the line between my new life and my old one blurs. Technically, I am Gray's employee, first as his housemaid and now as his assistant. But if McCreadie needs my help with a case, that takes precedence, which I appreciate. Oh, there are times when duty requires me to help McCreadie when something more interesting is happening with Gray, but even if I'm no longer a public servant, I still feel the obligation of that old life.

Today, McCreadie wants me to accompany him to speak to Miss King. There are many situations where being a handsome police officer helps when the interviewee is a woman. But our guts tell us that Miss King will not be susceptible to McCreadie's easy charm.

There are also many situations where being in the body of a young woman helps me with female interview subjects. I put them at ease, looking as little as possible like an officer of the law. Again, I don't think Miss King is going to respond to that.

What she might respond to is an odd and outspoken doctor's female assistant. Isla would be even better equipped to impress Miss King, but I'm the one with the interview experience. So Gray promises he will not examine Sir Alastair post-autopsy until I return, and I'm off with McCreadie.

Isla does help us here, with her more complete knowledge of the Seven. She tells us that they have a home base, so to speak, and where to find it. She's been there herself, offering support and baked goods. Despite what Miss King implied, Isla has been supportive in all the ways she can be, and I know it frustrates her to put her own career concerns above the cause of women's education, but I think she's struck the right balance.

I suggest she join us, but she doesn't think it will help enough. Her time is better spent analyzing the dirt and other samples retrieved from the scene. McCreadie agrees, and we take our leave.

The Seven's base is a unit on Buccleuch Place where their leader—Sophia Jex-Blake—has taken up residence, along with another of their group. According to Isla, the women use it as a study hall of sorts. That's where McCreadie and I head, with a cab dropping us off nearby.

"Nice party until the murder," I say as we walk.

McCreadie laughs. "That does tend to put a damper on the festivities."

"Was Isla enjoying it? I know she was upset after our run-in with Miss King."

"She came out of it soon enough." He smiles fondly. "Isla cannot resist a good party."

I look over at him, surprised. I'm about to say I haven't known her to attend any. Then I realize why that might be.

"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."

"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."