Chapter Sixteen

To find Jack, we need to go to Halton House. That sounds very proper, as if we're visiting a lovely manor for tea. Halton House is a fight club. Oh, it's supposed to be a rooming house, but management doesn't make more than a token effort to pretend. Just enough, really, that the police can claim they had no idea what's going on there, and they certainly aren't being paid to look the other way.

Isla and I discovered the truth of Halton House on our own, in search of a mysterious young woman with connections to a broadsheet writer known only as "Edinburgh's Foremost Reporter of Criminal Activities." The young woman is Jack. I also suspect she's the person writing those broadsheets and these accounts of our adventures.

As for Halton House, McCreadie already knew about it because, yes, it's one of law enforcement's worst-kept secrets, secrets that are kept through payoffs. I don't begrudge the police that money. They're poorly paid, and they'd already be expected to turn a blind eye to fight clubs for the upper classes. It's a time-honored system for dealing with so-called victimless crimes.

Gray and I set off on foot. While I doubt we'll find anyone at Halton House so early, it'll be an excuse to convince Gray that we really should pay Selim Awad a visit, propriety be damned.

We reach Princes Street. As in my time, it's a major thoroughfare, and probably just as wide, which makes it practically a superhighway for coaches. On this side, it's mostly shops, with colorful awnings to attract customers and tourists. There's a streetlight-lined sidewalk wide enough to walk four abreast, and it's actually—by Victorian standards—clean… because it's a major shopping avenue for the wealthy New Town and those aforementioned tourists.

We continue across the street and down to where a boy sells newspapers.

"Good morning, Tommy," I say as we walk up.

He dips his chin. "Good morning, Miss Mallory." His gaze cuts to Gray. "Good morning, sir. Come to fetch news of the mummy's curse yourself?"

So much for thinking mummy curses weren't a thing yet.

"If you are referring to Sir Alastair's demise," I say, "we will take the papers on that, if you please."

While it's barely noon, there will already be stories on that. News distribution here is remarkably efficient. Broadsheets will have been hastily written and hastily printed—and newspapers that missed the print deadline will have included an oversheet with as many details as they could get.

I skim the first broadsheet and sigh as I murmur to Gray, "Well, we know where Dr. Addington got his story."

Apparently, Addington has a habit of checking the news sources before conducting an autopsy. I say "apparently" only because I'm still hoping it's a joke, even though he claimed to do so right in front of me.

How else would I know what killed the chap?

The fact that I only sigh over it now suggests I might never be able to go back to being a modern-day detective. Stuffing evidence in pockets? Letting people pay to access crime scenes? Checking the papers for cause of death before conducting the autopsy? Shrug. These things happen.

To keep from completely abandoning all faith in the system, I will acknowledge that Addington is a decent surgeon who can usually tell dead people from the living. It's the cause of that death that eludes him, that's all. He just needs a little help. From the press.

Okay, fine, I'm going to tell myself that he checks that early news to help him understand the situation, and that even if he does occasionally—often—mess up the cause of death, the legal system has a fail-safe in Dr. Duncan Gray. They really should pay him for it, but Gray has enough money and he considers this a public service, and I can't fault him for that.

From this broadsheet, with its lurid sketch of a mummy in the throes of—well, I'm going to guess it's death and not passion, though the sketch really is sketchy—Addington must have gotten the idea that Sir Alastair suffocated in the bandages. That's exactly what it says here, complete with lovingly rendered detail of the baronet's corpse when it was opened, a nondescript male face with grotesquely contorted features and bulging eyes.

Really, I do hand it to Victorian writers. When your readers don't have TV and movies, you get a lot of creative license, and writers use it to full potential, creating the most vivid images in pictures and words. Victorians might grumble at the sight of bare ankles, but give them splattered innards, and they're a happy bunch.

Gray takes the rest of the papers and broadsheets as he tells Tommy to add them to his account.

"Do you have any tips for me?" Tommy says. "I know your friend is with the police."

"He is and…" I lean down to whisper, "… we were the ones who unwrapped poor Sir Alastair's corpse."

Tommy stares at me. Then his eyes narrow, sensing a joke at his expense.

"Miss Mitchell is correct," Gray says.

"As for a tip," I say, "you may tell people that I thought we saw the body move."

"Did you?" Tommy asks, his eyes round.

"No, but it's a good story," I say with a wink. "I did think, for a second, that I saw a tremor, as if Sir Alastair was struggling to sit up… but it must have been a trick of the light."

Gray sighs. Deeply. Yes, this is unprofessional of me, but compared with Sir Alastair being mummified alive, it's a safe enough tidbit for Tommy to pass on, one that will help his sales. As for admitting we were the ones who unwrapped the mummy, if that's not already public knowledge, it will be soon. Especially since Gray seems to be garnering a bit of ink himself. Which reminds me why we really stopped here.

"Tommy," I say. "I have it on good authority that someone is writing accounts of Dr. Gray's exploits with the police."

Tommy's face screws up. "They are?"

"That is what I heard. From two reliable sources. It seems quite a recent development. Someone is penning broadsheets or pamphlets detailing his past cases."

"Then I will need to find them, miss. I've not seen anything like that, but I only sell the news. If they're telling stories of what he's done in the past, that would be a very different thing."

"Do you know where I'd find those?"

"I'll find them for you, miss, and have them sent to the house."

While that's very kind, he's also protecting his position as our primary news vendor. I don't argue. We thank him and then move on toward the Old Town and Halton House.

We have arrived at Halton House, and to my surprise, Elspeth is already at her place behind the desk. She seems to be busy with paperwork. I suppose that makes sense. They don't open until late evening, but if she's the manager—or even the owner—she'll have work to do during the day and being at the desk helps maintain the fiction that it's a boardinghouse.

The front desk does look like it belongs in an inn. A decent inn, too, for this neighborhood. Yes, the NO VACANCY sign is dusty and pages in the sign-in book are yellowed, but it certainly doesn't look like a fight club. You'd never know it was one at this hour, not unless you're Gray, who—on his first visit—picked up the faint smell of blood and sawdust from the basement.

The woman behind the desk is maybe forty, with gray streaks in her dark hair. She's stout and bespectacled and dressed in a simple brown plaid dress and bonnet.

"Come to take me up on that offer, lass?" Elspeth says without glancing up from her account book. "Ready to go a few rounds in the ring?"

"Five months after you asked?"

"Took you some time to make the right decision." Her gaze lifts then as she sets the pen down. "Good morning, Dr. Gray. You look well."

I cross my arms. "Better than he looked the last time you saw him, after your goons tried to kill him?"

She sighs. "They did no such thing, lass."

"They knocked him out and then threw him down the stairs."

"I have had a talk with them. They should have either knocked him unconscious or thrown him down the stairs. It's the combination that's a danger. The problem with fighting men is that they aren't terribly good at foreseeing consequences. I would say they're dumb brutes, but I would hate to insult the present company." She looks at Gray. "I have heard you know how to throw a punch or two, Doctor."

"He can," I say. "When he's not caught unawares by brutes you set on him."

Gray lifts a hand. His look says he appreciates my defense, but I can take it down a notch. After all, we're here for Elspeth's help. I know that. I just can't help still being furious about what happened. He really could have been killed.

"I don't suppose you came here to try the ring yourself, Dr. Gray," she says.

"Hardly. I do not resort to pugilism unless absolutely necessary. I find it distasteful."

Wow. He can even say that with a straight face. It's the accent that sells it, that snooty upper-crust one, combined with a lofty look down his nose.

"We're looking for Jack," I say. "I haven't seen her in a while, presumably because we didn't have any interesting cases for her. Now that's changed, so I'm sure she'll be happy to speak to us. On her writerly friend's behalf, of course."

"You mean that baronet's murder? The one who was wrapped in mummy bandages? What will people think of next." While her expression mimes shock, her tone is pure wonder, tinged with admiration.

"We need to speak to Jack," I repeat.

"I can pass along the message. It isn't free, though." She smiles. "Nothing is free."

Gray turns on his heel and heads for the door. Oh, he isn't averse to offering bribes. He's actually very quick with them. But there's a difference between a freely offered bribe—a little something for your time—and extortion.

"Tell Jack we tried to speak to her," I say to Elspeth as I follow Gray. "And if that costs money, too, then don't bother. We can get what we need without her, and it saves us offering information for her broadsheets."

"For her broadsheets?"

I turn and give Elspeth a look. She's an old friend of Jack's, and if Jack is "Edinburgh's Foremost Reporter of Criminal Activities," Elspeth knows it.

We leave Halton House. I don't expect Elspeth to chase us into the streets. That would be undignified. But I did think she'd call a resigned "Wait" before we got out the door.

"Did we overplay our hand?" Gray asks as we head down the busy street.

I shake my head. "Elspeth nearly had you killed because she thought we'd kidnapped Jack. She's as protective as a mother hen. A really vicious mother hen. She'll also be protective of Jack's business interests, since that's what puts food on Jack's table. She was just testing our boundaries."

"Seeing whether I will pay a bribe?"

"Elspeth is the sort who takes her pounds and her pence wherever she can get them, because even if she doesn't need them now, she did need them once, and after you've needed them once, you're never certain you won't need them again."

"The calluses on her fingers. They suggest years working in a mill. That is not an easy occupation." He glances over. "Excellent deductive work."

"I never saw the calluses. My deduction comes from the way her eyes light up at the thought of adding a few extra coins to her penny jar. Also, the fact that she let us walk out—hoping to call our bluff—means she's not giving up a payday so easily, even though her clothing suggests she's not in dire need of the half crown you might offer."

"Then our combined observations suggest we did not overplay our hand. She is simply more than averagely hopeful of a bribe. You expect she will make contact with Jack—once she is certain no bribe is forthcoming. I agree. I could have hurried the process with that bribe, but my sense is that it would set a dangerous precedent."

"Yep. If she can get a half crown out of you so easily, there's no point giving you anything for free." I glance over. "I'd like to speak to Selim Awad. I understand that Isla wants us to wait, and that's probably the proper thing to do, but in my world, we don't stall on a lead out of respect for the grieving, whatever their status. We understand it's an imposition, but we have a murder to solve and the longer we wait, the colder the trail becomes."

"I would agree, particularly as it is the victim's brother-in-law we need to speak to, and not his wife or children. We will do so while intruding as little as possible on the family's grief. I would suggest we catch a hansom to the Christie house, as it will look more proper than walking up in dusty boots."

"Catch a hansom to Sir Alastair's house?" a voice says behind us. "Mind if I tag along? I would love to see the inside of that place."

We turn to see what appears to be a young man, average height and very slender, dressed in the typical garb of a working-class youth—second-hand trousers, an ill-fitting jacket, and a shirt with sweat stains. It's Jack. From what I can gather, she doesn't present as male because she identifies as male. It's just a useful disguise. She still goes by "she"… at least to those who know she isn't actually a teenage boy.

I turn to her. "Since you're here, we aren't going to Sir Alastair's. Do you want to talk at a public house? Or in your quarters at Halton House?"

Her brows lift. "What makes you think I live there?"

"Uh, the fact that it took you…" I consult my pocket watch. "Six and a half minutes to catch up to us. That's just enough time for Elspeth to decide she's not getting a bribe and walk upstairs to fetch you. Also, your red cheeks suggest you ran, as much as you're trying to modulate your breathing." I glance at Gray. "How'd I do?"

"Excellent. Also, her cap is askew. You might want to adjust that, Jack, before your hair falls and gives you away."

She makes a face but still tucks her curls up under the newsboy cap. "Just because I came from Halton House does not mean I live there."

"You have obviously pulled on your trousers over several layers of undergarments," Gray says. "Also, you are wearing women's boots."

Jack looks down and lets out a curse.

I laugh. "Nice. I missed that. You were in a hurry and grabbed whatever was at hand. The fact you grabbed the wrong boots means you were in the place where you keep all your clothing. In other words, it's where you live."

She adjusts her trouser cuffs to hide more of the women's boots, which no one would notice without a close look.

"World's End," she says. "Meet me there in ten minutes."