Chapter 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."

"One of our companions identified your wife," McCreadie says, not unkindly. "Mrs. King did not dispute the identification, and she later told Miss Jex-Blake that she met me."

King's mouth works. Then he slumps. "I am sorry, Detective. I asked Florence not to go there last night. I said it could cause trouble, but she was determined. I presume you have come to arrest her for disturbing the party."

"No, I need to question her about something far graver."

King goes still. "Did she break a window or such? If so, it was an accident."

"May we come in and speak to her?"

King hesitates.

McCreadie says, "It will be better for all if we do not have this conversation in the corridor."

The young man motions for us to come in and shuts the door. "She is not here. You may search if you like, but as you can see…" He waves at the room with a rueful smile. "There is little to search. We have only been wed two months and are still furnishing."

McCreadie nods to me, and I enter ahead of him.

"Miss Mitchell will look about," McCreadie says. "She works for a consultant with the police."

There really isn't much to search. The single room is a couple of hundred feet square, with two privacy screens. I check behind each as McCreadie questions King.

"When did you last see your wife?" McCreadie asks.

"Perhaps an hour or so ago? She came in briefly to tell me she would be out for the day. I protested—we were supposed to walk in the park—but she promised we could go tomorrow. I had the sense something had come up."

"Did she say what?"

King shakes his head. "I presumed it was to do with Miss Jex-Blake and the others. Sometimes it is best if I do not know what they are up to." He quickly adds, "I believe my wife has as much right to study medicine as I do—and to become a doctor. That is how we met. This past spring Miss Jex-Blake held a talk for the male students who wished to know more about their cause. I was…" He makes a face. "I regret to say I was one of the few who attended. If I am not privy to all their plans, that is because my wife thinks it best. She fears it could jeopardize my own career. I say that does not matter, but she insists one of us needs a job." A wry smile. "Florence is a very practical woman, which I appreciate, because I am not a very practical man."

I've checked behind both dividers. Now I glance over at King, but he has his back to me. I slip into the bedroom section of the room.

McCreadie continues, "You mentioned her act of protest at Sir Alastair's party last night. I presume your wife did tell you about that?"

I don't catch the answer. I've struggled down to the floor to look under the bed, which smells of slightly moldy straw. It's tidy, though, the sheets pulled up, and there isn't so much as a dust bunny under it.

I glance over my shoulder. The men are still talking. Good.

The only other piece of furniture in the tiny space is a makeshift nightstand stacked high with books. It has a single drawer. I slide it open soundlessly. Inside are what I recognize as the current version of condoms, the cheaper ones made from some kind of animal skin. King wins a point for that one. He might say he supports his wife's studies, but this proves it. A baby would be a convenient excuse to convince Florence King to give up her dreams and be a "proper" wife.

There's nothing else in the drawer. I slide it all the way out and check in behind. Nope, still nothing. I look around and my gaze goes to the bed.

With a sigh of resignation, I lift the mattress. Sure enough, there are two opened envelopes under it. That's the thing about a world that predates crime shows. People pick the most obvious places to hide things. It's almost disappointing.

I make sure the men are still talking. Then I tug out the contents of the envelopes. One holds a key. The other has several sheets of paper with tiny feminine handwriting. No way am I going to be able to read it before King realizes I'm gone. And if his wife knows the police were here, she'll hide anything.

Well, this is one good thing about doing detective work before proper crime-scene containment and chain of evidence. With a silent apology to the patron saint of law enforcement, I tuck the envelopes into my pocket.

I slip back out just as King seems to remember I'm there.

"There is no sign of Mrs. King, sir," I say to McCreadie.

"And you have no idea where she might be?" McCreadie says to her husband.

The young man shakes his head. "I would try the rooms Miss Jex-Blake keeps. I can provide you with the address."

"We have it, and your wife is not there."

King wipes his brow. "I am sorry then. I truly do not know." He quickly adds, "But that is not unusual behavior. When she is troubled, she often takes long walks, usually along the Water of Leith or up on Calton Hill. She did say not to expect her for lunch, but that she will return for tea."

"All right. Tell her it was Detective McCreadie again. I need to speak to her urgently, and if she does not present herself at my police office by nightfall, I will be forced to send men here to bring her to the office, which will be most embarrassing."

"Y-yes, sir. At the police office by sundown. Where is that?"

McCreadie gives directions. Then we leave.

We're barely outside when a young constable runs up.

"Sir," he says. "Detective Crichton is looking for you."

In a time before cell phones—or even police radios—the communication system in the police force is rather astounding. It helps that Edinburgh is, in this time, not an overly large city. If someone needs McCreadie, the word will go out, along with what neighborhood he might be in. Officers will keep an eye out while doing their regular duties, and if they spot him, they'll pass on the message.

When the constable leaves, I tell McCreadie about the envelopes and pull them out.

"Now you're stuffing evidence in your pockets?" he teases.

"You and Dr. Gray are terrible influences. Should I have left them there?"

"No, you are correct in taking them. If the envelopes are important, the Kings would have moved them in case we returned to make a more thorough search. At worst, we can put them back later."

I try not to cringe at that. Then I ask his thoughts on Florence King as we walk.

"Before Lord Muir insisted, I did not consider her a viable suspect," he says. "I am still not convinced she is. However, I do not like this running-off business. Even if it is her custom, it is suspicious."

"Particularly as she does it when she is troubled."

"Hmm."

"Do you want these?" I ask, holding out the envelopes.

"No, take them to Duncan. Examine them there, and I will come around when I am able."