Chapter Two

A funeral parlor in the nineteenth century bears little resemblance to what we'd find in the modern era. While Gray is called an undertaker, his job better fits the modern title of funeral director.

This isn't a place to hold a funeral or a visitation. The only bodies that ever find their way to the Gray funerary parlor are those undergoing autopsy in Gray's laboratory. He has degrees in both surgery and medicine but has never practiced. Part of that is because his father died, and despite being the youngest child—and, technically, illegitimate—he inherited the business. Also, he's not allowed to practice due to a small matter of grave robbing. In his defense, he was only trying to prove that a man died of murder when no one would listen to him. But still, the offense was enough to mean he can't practice either medicine or surgery.

So he's an undertaker, and in that capacity, he doesn't interact with actual corpses. His job is directing the funeral arrangements. The "funerary parlor"—situated on the ground floor of his family's town house—is for making those arrangements. There's a very comfortable reception room for meeting the grieving families and discussing details. Then there's Gray's office and then, finally, the room no mourner will ever enter: the laboratory.

Gray is not a coroner. He can't be, because, again, he's not allowed to practice medicine. In Victorian Edinburgh, one elected official plays the role of coroner for all suspicious deaths and homicide. That's the police surgeon, a role currently held by an incompetent ass named Dr. Addington.

Being a privileged brat who got the job through family connections, Addington does not actually want to deal with the dead. Ew, gross. Also, he doesn't want to conduct autopsies in the police dead rooms. Again, gross. Gray magnanimously allows Addington to work in his own laboratory, and Addington magnanimously allows Gray to examine the bodies once he's done.

Gray's true passion is forensics. He's a pioneer in the field. This arrangement with Addington works out well for everyone, particularly the people of Edinburgh, who get a qualified medical professional following up on—and correcting—their police surgeon's work.

"Did you say you got me a present?" I say as we step into the funerary parlor.

He closes the hall door behind us. "I did."

"Hiring a new maid is a present."

"Only if she works out," he murmurs.

"You don't think she will."

"I remain optimistic. But I have brought a proper present."

"A pony? Tell me it's a pony." I head into his office and lower myself onto the chair. "As a kid, I asked for a pony every year, and every year, I suffered vast disappointment."

He frowns. "Your parents did not buy you a pony? They were quite well off, were they not?"

"We lived in the city. With a yard smaller than yours. And no stable."

"That is no excuse. If a girl wishes for a pony, and her parents can afford one, she should have one. It is only right."

I shake my head. I can't tell whether he's joking.

When I first arrived here, waking up in Catriona's body, I'd found Duncan Gray dour, stiff, and forbidding. It was a long time before I suspected he might be capable of smiling, and even then, I wasn't sure. Now I've seen him smile and heard him laugh, but I've also learned to interpret the barest of lip twitches and glints in his dark eyes. Right now, though, he was already relaxed and in a fine mood, which means it's impossible to tell whether he's kidding.

He might not be. Gray grew up in a world where girls—and boys—of the upper middle class do indeed get ponies. I can tell him stories of the twenty-first century, including the lack of horses, but he can't quite picture it. It's like me, having come here after seeing the Victorian era portrayed many times and still feeling as if I'd walked into an alternate version, where little was as I expected.

Gray lifts a wrapped package and places it on his office desk. "Not a pony, I fear."

"Part of a pony?"

His lips twitch. "That would be wrong. One should not give parts of anything as gifts. Or so I am told." A definite glint in his eyes now.

I look down at the package. It's wrapped in brown paper, as so many things are in a world without plastic or other wrappings. I envy Gray's ability to wrap packages. I know how odd that sounds, but when we've been on crime scenes, I'm at a loss, looking about for some way to transport evidence, and I'll still be looking after he's wrapped it in a waterproof parcel so pretty it makes bloodstained-knife evidence look like a Christmas present.

Of course, if the knife doesn't have blood on it, he and McCreadie are just as likely to stuff it in their pocket. Chain of custody for evidence isn't really a thing when courts don't yet admit fingerprint evidence.

"It's too pretty to open," I say as he watches with obvious impatience. "I think I'll just put it beside my bed." I pick up the parcel. "Yes, that seems like a fine idea. I will display this beautifully wrapped package by my bed, never to unwrap it."

"I realize you are teasing me, but I would die of shock if you managed to leave it there, without peeking, for more than a day. Also, I would not suggest storing it by your bed, given the… nature of the contents."

I look at him and arch a brow. "Interesting. So it is perishable? Can I eat it?"

That lip twitch, stronger now. "I believe there are laws against such a thing."

I eye the package. "Curiouser and curiouser."

He reaches to take it away. "If you do not want it—"

I snatch it from his hands. Then I take a knife from his desk and cut the twine. It's not just brown paper. It's waxed brown paper, suggesting the contents are indeed perishable.

I keep unwrapping it and—

I clap my hands to my mouth with a squeak of girlish delight. "Oh, Dr. Gray! You have brought me a body part!" I wag my finger at him. "Such a tease. You said parts aren't proper gifts, and so I barely dared hope. But no, you have brought me…"

I reach and pick up the pickled appendage. "A third hand. This will make cleaning the chamber pots so much easier. I no longer have to use my own hands. I can use this one." I let out a deep sigh of happiness.

"You no longer need to clean chamber pots at all," he says. "We have a maid. Not that I expected you to clean them before that, as you well know."

I don't rise to the bait. That has been an ongoing issue since Isla and Gray realized my real identity. I'm an educated professional woman from the future. I should not be cleaning their chamber pots. That's their opinion. Mine is that chamber pots needed cleaning, and it was hardly their fault the universe threw me into the body of their housemaid.

"I know you are making light," he says, "but I realize it is hardly a normal gift. I only thought…" He clears his throat. "I thought it was an intriguing specimen, one we might examine together to determine why it is in such condition."

I smile up at him. "I might have wanted a pony when I was five, but at my age, nothing is better than a puzzle." I set the hand down. "It is interesting."

"It is, isn't it?"

He leans over the hand, close enough that I can smell the beeswax and almond oil of his hair pomade. Annis might tease me about her brother but if my heart gives a little patter when he's that close, it's mostly because I'm seeing a secret side of Duncan Gray, one I've earned, damn it. Not just the relaxed version, but the enthusiastic one, so eager to dive into this mystery that he forgets to keep a proper degree of physical space between us.

"I found it in a shop," he says. "They were selling it, which is quite illegal, obviously, but they were claiming it was not an actual hand. With it being so shriveled, I understand why it would seem fake, so I will not accuse them of knowingly trafficking in human parts. On closer inspection, I do not think it is as old as it appears. It seems to have been…"

"Pickled?"

"Precisely. Pickled and then dried, so that it might be handled. Then there is something dripped on it, which appears to be—"

"Wax!" I say. "I know what it is. A Hand of Glory."

"A hand of…?"

"Glory. Don't ask me why it's called that." I lift the hand. "If this is a proper one, it was harvested from a hanged man, preferably a murderer who committed the crime with this particular hand. It's chopped off, pickled and dried and then used to hold a candle between the fingers."

Gray's expression says he's insulted that I can't even attempt to devise a more credible story.

I continue, "The hand—with the candle—is then used by thieves."

"Thieves…"

"Now, if I'm remembering correctly, there are various explanations for what it's supposed to do. Some say the candle will flicker out if anyone in the house wakes, warning the thief. Others say it will keep everyone asleep. For a thief, though, either way it's…" I wave the appendage. "Handy."

His eyes narrow.

"I'm serious," I say. "Look it up. It's folk magic."

"Which you know because, in the twenty-first century, thieves run around using pickled hands to rob houses."

"Sarcasm does not become you, Dr. Gray. I know what this is because, when not dreaming of ponies, I was a ghoulish little brat who thrived on the macabre. In this case, I read about it in a novel, and I was annoyed with the author for making up something ridiculous. So I did my research, and found it's a real thing. And, being so bizarre, naturally I remembered it. You found yourself a Hand of Glory, which you have now given to a thief. Well done, sir."

He shakes his head. "I suppose with that mystery solved, I ought to dispose of it." He sounds so disappointed that I feel a pang of guilt for having accidentally robbed him of his puzzle.

"I think we should still dissect it," I say. "We don't know how it was prepared, which could prove interesting. Also, I think we should discover where it came from, in case someone is…" I waggle my brows. "Grave robbing."

He sighs with the slightest roll of his eyes. "You are far too interested in grave robbing, Mallory."

"Oh, I'm not the only one."

"It was a misunderstanding," he says with a mock glare. "But yes, we will put this aside for further examination. However, on the topic of human remains…"

"My favorite topic."

"Even if they are wrapped in bandages to be unrolled at a party?"

I make a face. I don't mean to—seeing Isla's excitement, I'd decided to keep my thoughts on mummy unwrapping to myself. I quickly hide the reaction, but Gray catches it and exhales.

"So I am not the only one who finds such a thing in poor taste?" he says.

"You are not." I wave at the hand. "This is different. You rescued it from a shop, and it's only a hand. You'll treat it as a scientific specimen and dispose of it appropriately when you're done. I know they're having a surgeon unwrap the mummified remains and calling it science…"

"It would be science if it were the first mummy unwrapped, or if we had reason to believe it was unusual in a way that would prove useful. Experts have already dissected mummies. We understand how the process was accomplished. Now the dead should be left in peace, as that was the intended purpose of mummifying them in the first place. A person who lived thousands of years ago died, expecting to rest for eternity as their religion dictated."

He pauses, looking abashed. "That was a lecture, wasn't it?"

"If so, it was to an appreciative audience. I understand that graves were robbed to advance medicine, and thankfully that's no longer necessary. I agree with exhuming a body if it means catching a killer. But people have the right to have their beliefs respected. So there's my lecture."

"Then we are agreed that an unwrapping party is not an event we wish to attend."

I shrug. "I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't be fascinated. Same as I'm fascinated by this." I wave at the hand. "Even as an adult, I still have a macabre turn of mind, as you well know."

A faint smile. "A turn of mind that we share, and I agree. Having never seen an unwrapping, I am curious. If a colleague had invited me to this, I would politely demur. But Isla…"

"Isla wants to go, and I don't want to shame her for that."

He meets my gaze. "Precisely. Hugh will also want to go. If you would rather not, I will understand."

"The unwrapping is happening whether I attend or not. I don't see the point in standing on principle, not when Isla might question why I'd refuse something that should interest me."

"So we are going to a mummy unwrapping?"

"It seems so."