Chapter Seventeen

We head to the pub, which is up on the High Street, along the Royal Mile. The pub's name—World's End—comes from the fact that the pub's walls were once part of the Flodden Wall, meaning the pub marked the edge of Edinburgh. The end of the world, at least for those living within it in centuries past.

As Gray and I make our way through the narrow pub, I look around. We settle at the farthest table, and I say, "Wow. This place hasn't changed much."

His brows arch. "I do not believe it ever changes. When were you last here?"

"Mmm. Two years ago, I think. I came to Edinburgh to visit my nan, and one of her friends insisted I meet her grandson in this pub. I thought it was just a meet-up. Turns out to have been a blind date. Guy spent the entire time snarking about how touristy this place is… and he's the one who picked it. The bar was the only interesting part of that evening."

Gray's brows go higher. "You meant that the public house hasn't changed much between now and your time. Where it still exists."

"Most of the buildings here exist, but this one is a pub with the same name, though I seem to recall it's been a few other things along the way."

I twist around. "In my time, that's the kitchen behind us. Also…" I nod to the next table, where two working-class men drink pints. "The glasses are much cleaner."

Gray sighs. The state of drinkware in this world is an ongoing issue with me, at least in these Old Town pubs, where I suspect it's been weeks since the glasses met soap.

Jack arrives, tipping her hat to the bartender as she slips past to our table.

"It's been a while," she says as she slides in. "I will not mention that you ignored my request for an interview after the incident at the Leith docks."

"There was nothing to be interviewed about," I say. "It was a minor adventure."

"You set a boat on fire. With some sort of incendiary device."

"It was an old boat, infested with human traffickers. Once they get in, you need to burn the whole thing down or you never get rid of them."

"Human traf…?" She trails off and then shakes her head, as if she figured out the term in context. "You ignored my request because you were still angry with me for running out on you at a bad time. But now I suppose I have been forgiven, because you need something."

"We don't need anything. We would like an audience with Queen Mab. We know where to find her, but showing up doesn't seem the polite way to handle this, so we're asking you to act as intermediary again."

"And in return my friend gets exclusive information on the Christie case?"

"That depends. Are we going to keep pretending you're not ‘Edinburgh's Foremost Reporter of Criminal Activities'?"

Her brows shot up. "You think I write those? I can barely scratch out my own name."

"Whatever. I don't actually care. I just don't want you negotiating to pass messages between us when I'm pretty damn sure you're the one getting those messages. Sweet setup, though, making people pay you a fee for access to yourself."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Again, whatever. I don't care. But speaking of your writerly friend, let's discuss those accounts of Dr. Gray's adventures."

Her gaze shoots to Gray, who has been quietly sipping his pint. "Accounts?"

"It has come to our attention that someone has been writing about Dr. Gray's adventures. Not as news articles, but as stories. Recounting his past cases and selling them."

"What?"

"If it's you—or your writerly friend—tell me now, because if you deny it, and I later find out that it's you…"

"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about, Mallory. I cover—" She coughs. "I help my writerly friend cover the crimes you have been involved in, but we do not center the stories on Dr. Gray. If someone is doing that, then I… Well, had I heard of it, I would have presumed you had entered into an agreement with the scribbler who pens them, and I would have been put out that you did not ask my writerly friend to do it."

"So you really haven't even heard of these fictionalized versions?"

"No."

"Isla loves true-crime broadsheets. Yet she had no idea these existed. Neither did our local newsboy. Neither did you. How is that even possible? Who's writing them, and who are they being marketed to?"

"They are being sold at the market?"

I wave a hand. "The ‘market' meaning the people who will buy them. The consumers."

"You have such an odd way with words."

Gray sets down his glass. "Yes, she does, but her meaning is clear. My sister is a prime consumer of such stories, yet she has never heard of them. Even if they are apparently new, I would presume someone would have mentioned it to me." He pauses. "Which is what occurred, I suppose, but I am surprised it did not happen sooner. So who are these stories being sold to? Through what venues?"

"Who told you about them?"

Gray and I glance at each other. Then I say, with care, "So, you might have heard we were at the Christie party last night."

"Why do you think I ran to catch up with you? I heard Dr. Gray here unwrapped the mummy, and you assisted."

"Someone there had read the stories. A woman whom I would not consider the primary market for such things, although I do not know her well. She had read them with her children."

"There!" Jack smacks the table. "Now that makes sense."

"It does?"

"You said they are being written as stories, and that this wellborn lady reads them with her children. That is the market, then, as you call it."

"Children? For stories of murder?"

"No, for stories of detection." Jack's lips curve in a smile. "It's like the Bloody Register."

"The Bloody Register?"

She sips her beer. "You're too young to remember those."

"How old are you?" I say.

"About your age, which means I was also too young for them, but my ma had them from when she was young, and I read her copies."

I glance at Gray, who only shrugs.

"The Bloody Register?" Jack says. "The Newgate Calendar?"

"Oh," I say. "I know what that is. I've never heard it called the Bloody Register, though."

"That was the subtitle. The Malefactors' Bloody Register."

"But you said they're old, and the calendar is still being published."

"That version doesn't count."

From Isla, I know that The Newgate Calendar started out as a simple bulletin, published by the Newgate Prison, listing executions. The title was co-opted by others who churned out chapbooks on the lives of famous criminals, and those are what Jack's mother would have been reading.

The "Newgate Calendar" went through several iterations, finally becoming a penny dreadful that ended a few years ago, according to Isla. The Calendars, though, also sparked a literary movement of "Newgate novels." This part I know from my English prof dad.

Dickens's Oliver Twist was considered a Newgate novel in its time, meant as a compliment by crime readers and an insult by authors like Thackeray. On that note, let me just say that I devoured the work of Dickens and have never been able to finish a Thackeray, and if that makes my tastes decidedly lowbrow, so be it. My father didn't raise a literary snob.

"So how does this relate to these stories about Dr. Gray?" I ask.

"Because The Newgate Calendar was a way for people to read about horrible crimes and tell themselves it was their duty, as good Christian folk."

I remember that part. The Newgate Calendar was considered acceptable for children because the stories were framed as cautionary tales. Of course, that's not why anyone was reading stories about things like child killers—both those who murdered children, and murderers who were children themselves.

"Okay," I say. "I get it now. If the stories about Dr. Gray are marketed as detective fiction, suitable for women and children, then they provide a way to read about murder while pretending it is not a prurient and unsuitable interest in violence."

"Yes."

"I don't think an interest in violence is particularly unsuitable unless one is looking for a how-to guide on committing it. Even then, since detective fiction ends with the killer always being caught, if that's one's interest, it's more of a cautionary tale."

Jack stretches her leg under the table, her boot knocking mine as she does. "Like the Newgate Calendars."

"So would the main market for this be women? Possibly under the guise of reading adventurous tales to their children?"

"From what I hear, yes."

That isn't surprising. Women are the primary consumer of true crime in the modern day. It's not prurient interest as much as self-preservation. They aren't looking for ways to commit murder. They're looking for ways to avoid becoming a victim of it.

"Most of it is fiction, though," Jack says. "The accounts of real detectives are quite a rare thing, although there were the McLevy books, a few years ago."

When I raise a brow, Gray is the one who answers. "James McLevy was the first Edinburgh criminal officer. He published a couple of popular books on his past cases."

Jack nods. "Which is why my writerly friend would be put out by the thought of someone else writing up your cases. They may have a small audience now, but in the right hands, they could be just as popular as McLevy's adventures. And even more lucrative. Which is why you should let my friend write the authorized accounts. They'd give you… Oh, ten percent of the earnings."

"I would like to hire you to find the writer of these tales," Gray says. "I will pay you a stipend for the investigation, with a reward if you find them."

"Uh…" I look at Gray. "She's already charging people—including us—for introducing them to herself."

Jack sighs. "You are convinced I am a writer. It is most flattering. I wish I were."

I note that she doesn't say she isn't. I'm not pursuing this. There's little point in it… yet.

I look at Gray. "What's to stop her from taking your stipend to not find herself?"

"I am not the writer of these new accounts," she says, and I note she doesn't say her friend isn't that writer.

"That is why it is a stipend," he says. "With the proper payment coming when Jack finds the culprit. That payment being that I will grant her friend exclusive information on my future cases—for their crime broadsheets. The stipend is that she will have exclusive information on this case. For her writerly friend."

"You do know how to deal, Dr. Gray," Jack says. "If I find this writer, my friend gets to take over? Authorized purveyor of your fine tales of derring-do?"

Gray gives a slight eye roll. "There is less derring-do than one might hope. But no, I am only granting exclusive information for current news articles. The rest can be discussed at a later time, with the understanding that I much prefer to stay in the background of stories that properly highlight the work of the Edinburgh police."

"I understand. You'd rather read tales of the great Dr. Addington."

Gray can't suppress a flinch, making Jack grin.

"Oh, everyone in the business knows about Dr. Addington, sir. I am needling you. Fine then. I find this fellow in return for access to this case and others, with the rest to be discussed later."

"And one more thing," I say. "We need access to Queen Mab."

"Right. You did say that." Jack glances between us and lowers her voice. "Is there a problem?"

"Problem?" Gray looks perplexed.

"She thinks I'm pregnant," I say. "And that you have something to do with that."

Gray's eyes go so wide I have to stifle a laugh.

"Absolutely not. That would be…" He struggles for words and settles on. "Improper." He hurries on. "For me, of course, to take advantage in that way. Not improper for Miss Mitchell to engage in…" He struggles again. "In whatever she might wish to engage in. Improper for me. As her employer. That is what I meant."

Now Jack looks as if she's the one stifling a laugh.

"We need to speak to Queen Mab about the case," I say.

Jack sobers, her brows knitting. "Was someone involved pregnant? Or trying not to become pregnant?"

"Is that all Queen Mab does?"

"Well, no. It is only what she is most known for."

"We have need of her expertise in a matter unrelated to being or becoming pregnant. And if you wish a hint about what that could be…? We'll need that introduction first."