Chapter Twenty

We put aside the Hand of Glory, and I use a dampened cloth to wipe my face and dress and insist Gray do the same, which irks him. In this world there are far fewer opportunities to see oneself. Water closets don't necessarily contain mirrors. Nor do bedrooms, other than a small one for shaving.

Mirrors are used in decoration, but Gray isn't the sort of man to pause at one before he leaves the house. That could be a refreshing lack of vanity, but it's more that he's focused on a goal and pausing would be an interruption, and if it means he goes out with ink—or blood—on his face, well, no one else cares so why do I make such a fuss over it? Probably because he fails to notice people crossing the road to clear his path when he has blood spattered on his collar. Or maybe that's the point—getting people out of his way—and I'm ruining everything.

I leave him with the cloth, and I head toward the front parlor, murmuring for him to give me a moment alone with Mrs. King. She's standing at the window, looking out at the street, and on hearing footsteps, she turns, seeming annoyed, as if she's been waiting for hours.

"I am here to speak to Dr. Gray," she says coolly.

"Mrs. King," I say. "I must apologize for last night, when we referred to you as Miss. That was a dreadful presumption. Please, sit. The maid is bringing tea. And you must excuse her as well. She is very new. Less than a week at a job I used to do myself." I sweep my skirts elegantly behind me as I sit.

"You were a maid?" she says as she sits.

"Yes. Dr. Gray recognized my interest in his work and was in need of an assistant, so he allowed me to take on the position." I smile. "It is so much more enlightening than scrubbing floors. We were just working on something when you rang. A human hand preserved for supposed magical purposes. The process of how it came to be that way—the desiccation and treatment—is fascinating, as is the folklore behind it. I believe it dates all the way back to medieval times." I laugh softly. "The lore, that is. Not the hand."

Gray opens the door and enters, and Mrs. King blinks up at him, thrown off-kilter by me, which is the point, of course. Don't be what she expects. Don't act like she expects. Don't make the small talk she expects. After our encounter last night, she came here with a chip on her shoulder. I need that knocked off before we start.

"Thank you so much for coming, Mrs. King," Gray says. "We can only imagine this has been very unsettling. Might I presume you have already spoken to Detective McCreadie?"

She seems to try to find some of her anger, only to realize it will indeed sound peevish, when we are both being so genteel and considerate.

"I do not trust the police," she says finally, keeping a touch of sharpness. "There have been incidents, and the police have treated us like hysterical women."

"Incidents with the male students?" I ask, remembering the stories I'd read of the Seven.

Her gaze pierces mine, half surprised and half searching. "Actually, that has been a growing concern of ours. The male students do not seem as if they will be inclined to treat us fairly, but they do not know us." She relaxes a little. "I cannot help but believe that is true for most who oppose us. If they got to know us, they would see we are earnest and serious in our pursuits, and no threat to them. As for the male students, it is early days yet, and we have hope."

"Hope is good," I murmur. "But so is caution. I heard many of you outscored them on the entrance exams. They will not take kindly to that. Just… be wary and be prepared. They will see you as competition and use your sex to say you are unsuitable for the occupation or that you are receiving preferential treatment."

That gaze continues to search before she gives a quick nod. "You are correct, Miss…"

"Mitchell. Mallory Mitchell." I settle into my seat. "But you will have allies among the male students. Your husband certainly seems to be one."

Her expression softens and she even smiles. "Yes, Emmett is truly an ally. He understands we are not competition, that there should be no competition in such a profession. We are all striving for the same purpose—to help others."

"A noble goal," I say. "And I am glad you have your husband's support. That will make things infinitely easier. As for what you have experienced requiring police assistance, I presume it is harassment of some sort? From a specific quarter?"

"No, not a specific quarter. I would almost prefer that. An organized opposition gives us something to fight. This is so general that it is… well, discouraging."

"It would be. Please understand that you will have allies in the police force as well. Detective McCreadie for one, and he can recommend others you should speak to. In the event of trouble, you need resources within the department. Going straight to the nearest policeman—or nearest police office—might not be useful in your situation."

She stares at me long enough that I worry I've misspoken. That is how one reports crimes in this pre-911 time, isn't it?

"Miss Mitchell is correct," Gray says, a little tersely, as if annoyed she seems to be questioning me.

"Y-yes, of course," Mrs. King says. "I only… I appreciate the suggestion. It is very wise and very insightful, in regards to, as you say, our situation."

Ah, that's the problem. I was talking like a cop experienced at handling such situations. I wish I could say that everyone in "such situations"—be it abuse or assault or harassment—could just expect their local police department to handle it properly, but no one pretends that this is the case in my day, and it certainly isn't in this time.

"I will ask Detective McCreadie to provide you with contacts," I say. "And, who knows, maybe someday there will be women among the police as well."

She gives me a smile for that. "Perhaps there will be. Thank you, Miss Mitchell. I will admit that I am feeling rather defensive about being summoned to speak to the police regarding Sir Alastair's murder. I understand that murder is far more important than harassment, but I cannot help but wish we received a wee bit of that time and attention."

"It must rankle to have the police immediately on your doorstep for this when they ignored your own concerns. As for being on your doorstep, we had a murder last night at a home where you were situated outside."

She tenses. "Yes."

"We must ask whether you saw anything."

She exhales a little, though she tries to cover it. "Oh. Yes. Of course. You wish to know what I saw."

"We do."

"Very little, I'm afraid. I went directly from the apartment I share with my husband. I walked to the Christie house and took my place outside and did not leave it until your Detective McCreadie made me realize perhaps I should."

"But you did not go home, as you apparently heard of the murder and went to speak to Miss Jex-Blake."

Mrs. King swallows. "Yes, I retreated, but I did not leave. I was angry. I paced. I walked away and came back. Paced some more, and then walked away and came back again. When the body was discovered, I was close enough to hear the screams."

"And then?" I say.

"I… went to where the servants had left open a door."

"Which door was that?"

She relaxes a little, apparently relieved that I don't gasp in outrage at her getting closer after hearing screams. As far as I'm concerned, the only people who wouldn't get closer are those who are afraid they might be called on to help.

"Down the steps on the left. There are two doors down. I took the one on the left, leading into the servant quarters."

"You went inside."

A pause as she realizes what she said. Then she lifts her chin. "Yes. They may say I can never practice medicine, but I have been training as a doctor all my life. My father is one."

"So you went inside to determine whether help was needed, and what did you see?"

Again, she relaxes at my tone. "Not much," she admits. "Servants came running down the stairs, alerting the others that the master was dead. I hurried out before I was discovered."

The door opens, and I remember we'd asked Lorna to bring tea. She starts to pour, but I get to my feet.

"I still remember how to do this," I say. "Thank you for bringing it."

She hesitates and glances at Gray.

"Mallory will serve the tea," he says.

Lorna nods. Then she says, "Mrs. Wallace wishes to know whether you will still be dining at seven."

Gray checks his pocket watch. From here, I can see it's already six thirty. We were up all night and on the go all day, and I've lost track of time and meals.

"Shortly after seven," he says to Lorna. "Tell her I expect Hugh to join us. Thank you."

Once she leaves, I serve the tea as I resume the interview. "You hurried out before you were discovered. And then what?"

"I was not certain what to do then. Clearly, I could not help. In Dr. Gray, they had both a doctor and an undertaker at the party. I was leaving when I heard one of the maids inside say it was murder. That is when I left the area altogether. I knew I could not be found there, and because I had been recognized earlier—by a policeman no less—I had to warn Sophia. Miss Jex-Blake, I mean."

"Which you did after three o'clock this morning. The murder was discovered before eleven. There are four hours remaining."

A wan smile. "You miss nothing, do you, Miss Mitchell? I am beginning to wish I had gone to the police for this interview instead."

"That wouldn't have made it any easier. Detective McCreadie and I discussed what to ask you before we arrived at your home. My questions would have been his. Also, your husband says you returned home this morning and then left again. I am going to need a full accounting of your time."

She sighs. "Of course you are. All right then. I say I realized I had to speak to Sophia, as if I knew that immediately upon leaving. I only wish I were as clearheaded as she is." A faint smile. "Sophia knows what she wants and how to get it, and woe betide anyone who stands in her way. I am not nearly so decisive. I left the house and went down by the Water of Leith to walk and think, and I fear it took a good few hours before I realized I had to warn Sophia. Even when I left the Christie house, I had not realized the full import of what happened, only that I dared not be found there."

I finish the tea service and sit down with my own cup and biscuits.

Mrs. King continues, "I was with Sophia for a couple of hours. She needed to calm me, and that involved both whisky and distraction. We ended up talking about murders—a man in my village who died and a case she had followed for the medical implications. When I left there, it was past dawn. I knew Emmett would be worried sick, and so I bought fresh bread and some butter for his breakfast. I took that home and found him deep in his studies, having not even realized the hour."

She smiles again, that affectionate smile. "My husband lacks the advantage of a physician father and a good education. He must work harder than I do, and seeing him like that, I knew it was not the time to burden him with my mood. I explained what happened and said I needed to walk. He offered to accompany me, but I persuaded him not to. I walked, and I walked. When I got home before noon, Emmett had left for a lecture. He returned late this afternoon and told me the police wanted to speak to me. I decided to come here instead, after learning where to find Dr. Gray."

I sip my tea. Then I say, "Backing up a little. You said Miss Jex-Blake knows what she wants, and woe betide anyone who stands in her way. I understand Sir Alastair stood quite firmly in all your paths."

"And so we murdered him to clear the way for our progress?" A bitter smile. "If we began that, we would never stop. Those who oppose us are like ants at a picnic. There are too many to kill, and even if you managed it, more would march in to take their place."

"Had you ever met Sir Alastair before?"

She sets her teacup down. "That would depend on how you define ‘met,' Miss Mitchell. If you are asking whether we were formally introduced, no. If you are asking whether I have exchanged a word with the gentleman, no. I have, however, ‘met' him in the sense that I was in the room when Sophia spoke to him. Or, I should say, when she tried to speak to him. Sadly, he was busy. Terribly busy. This came after she had tried, repeatedly, to set up an appointment to do so. We waylaid the man, and he fled."

She pauses, fingering the saucer of her teacup. "I admit it was very disappointing to all of us. Of all those affiliated with the university who oppose us, Sir Alastair had seemed the most reasonable. The most likely to listen and perhaps even be swayed. Our hopes were dashed after that."

"You say he fled. Your choice of words seems significant."

She glances over.

I say, "He did not walk away or refuse to see you or shut the door in your faces. He fled."

"Perhaps that is the wrong word, implying he took flight and ran off down the hall." Her lips quirk. "That is not anything I could imagine him doing. He was a very dignified man. When I say he fled, I mean he made haste to leave."

"And your group had tried multiple times to arrange a meeting with him, while he was in Edinburgh, but he refused."

"‘Rebuffed' is a better word, if we are choosing them with care. Perhaps even ‘dodged.' He did not refuse to see us. He was simply busy. So very busy."

"And when you waylaid him, as you called it? Did he say anything?"

"He was in his office at the university. Sophia got in while the secretary was away from his desk, and we marched into Sir Alastair's office. Took him quite by surprise. He said he was terribly sorry but had someplace to be, grabbed his jacket, and rushed off. We tried to follow, but by then, the secretary had returned and stopped us."

"So Sir Alastair wasn't refusing to speak to you as much as avoiding doing so. Dodging, as you said."

"Precisely."

His maid suggested Sir Alastair avoided confrontation. Is that the behavior I'm seeing here? It would seem, though, that a man of Sir Alastair's position would not flee before a group of women. He would simply tell them no, he would not speak to them, and please stop bothering him.

This behavior speaks of discomfort. Like a politician ducking a question on a policy he doesn't really believe in, but he has to toe the party line.

Both Isla and Gray have noted that Sir Alastair seemed an odd choice to join the opposition against the Edinburgh Seven, much less take a leadership role.

Did he really believe these women posed a serious threat to the future of medicine?

Or was he toeing the party line?

Not just toeing it, but being pushed into the forefront of the charge.

And who would be the "party"? Who would be doing the pushing?

I make notes of all this. Then I say, "For your whereabouts when you were walking, do you have anyone who could provide an alibi?"

"Alibi?"

"Someone who might have seen you—perhaps you stopped to purchase something?"

"Ah." She thinks. "Not between the time I left the house and went to speak to Sophia. At that time of night, I avoid being seen. Between Sophia and Emmett, I bought the bread and butter. After I left Emmett…" Her eyes roll upward. "I bought a newspaper with an article on the murder and later I stopped for a cup of tea in the New Town. I can provide addresses for all of those stops."

"Thank you. I would also like to know where you went walking both times."

"Certainly."

"And then I will need your itinerary for the day before, between nine A.M. and four in the afternoon."

She goes still. Then her gaze rises to mine. "I presume that is when Sir Alastair died?"

"Roughly, yes."

"I was with the other ladies until noon. We met for a late breakfast and studied together. After that, I was studying at home."

"Which your husband can verify?"

"Yes—No, actually, he cannot. He was in class. But I was at home. I returned around twelve thirty, after spending the morning at Buccleuch Place with the other ladies."

Meaning her afternoon lacks a witnessed alibi. Would that give her time to kill Sir Alastair and wrap his body and encounter Selim in the tunnel after four? I'm not sure. Of course, I'm also not sure I consider her a viable suspect anyway.

Stopping Sir Alastair's opposition would be, as she said, pointless. But the murder doesn't seem to have been premeditated. Could Mrs. King have gone to speak to Sir Alastair at home, after he evaded Miss Jex-Blake? Killed him in the heat of the moment?

She showed a temper last night, and she is not a tiny woman. She could have done it after delivering those punches to knock him down and then leveraging the rope with that foot on his back. If I could drag Selim, she could as well.

"Thank you," I say. Then I turn to Gray. "Do you have any questions to add, sir?"

"I do not. If you would like to take the rest of Mrs. King's statement, I will leave you to that."