Chapter Twenty-One

McCreadie shows up in time for dinner, and he understandably grumbles over Mrs. King coming here instead of the police office. It's a soft grumble, though, one laced with understanding for her distrust of the police. He will need to speak to her officially, but he'll wait until he has any new questions. I've covered everything he'll need for now, leaving him to pursue more viable leads.

McCreadie is investigating Sir Alastair's business dealings, which are mostly related to his excavations. Sir Alastair does lecture at the university enough to earn him an office, but that's mostly to honor his reputation rather than the amount of work he does there. It's also about the university maintaining a link to someone who brings in important artifacts.

McCreadie gets the sense Sir Alastair treated the lectures the way some researchers do, where teaching students is a necessary evil rather than a calling. My dad genuinely loves what he does, but he became an English professor because he wants to share his passion, not because he needs the affiliation to support his research and provide a laboratory.

Sir Alastair strikes me as a scientist more akin to Gray than to my father. His Egyptology might have leaned into the arts—history more than medical science—but his passion was getting out into the field and making discoveries.

It wasn't just lectures that got in the way of that. It was that damned filthy lucre. Gray is lucky there. His family's wealth means he only needs to work a few days a week, maintaining his father's undertaking business with no interest in growing it. Also, his own brand of research requires very little in the way of supplies. Cadavers aren't what I'd call cheap, but I haven't seen him purchase one since I got here. They're brought by the police looking for answers. As long as Gray has time and equipment, he's set.

Sir Alastair was different. He needed money—a lot of it—to fund his expeditions. That's where Lord Muir came in, but having a sponsor also meant Sir Alastair had to do things like put on that humiliating mummy-unwrapping demonstration.

Had there been more tension between the men?

That's all on McCreadie's investigative plate. Tomorrow, he will keep digging through the business side while we wait to follow up on Queen Mab and her goblin market.

We have a quiet evening in. Once we finish dinner, the exhaustion of yesterday's sleepless night hits. Isla and I retreat to the library to read, and after McCreadie leaves, Gray joins us.

There are many things about this new life that frustrate me, and at least as many that I love. One of the parts I love is the quietness that can settle over an evening like this.

We might be in the middle of an investigation, but no one has anything urgent to do for it, and so we just let ourselves rest. In my world, even on a quiet evening, my brain would whisper that I couldn't get too wrapped up in a book or a TV show or a video game. A brief rest was all I could afford before I needed to be productive again. Answer email. Reply to a text. What am I missing? What else should I be doing? Am I forgetting some obligation? I must be, if I think I have an entire evening free.

Here, we put the investigation aside and give our brains and bodies a much-deserved rest. I'm reading a first edition of The Moonstone, published last year. Isla has the equally recent Little Women, which I finished last week. Gray—well, Gray has the latest edition of The Lancet, so he's kind of working, but this is his idea of leisure activity, so I'll let him have it.

We sit in silence, with only the ticking of the clock to mark the passing of time, and I read until I can't keep my eyes open. When I make to leave, the other two agree we should all turn in, and we say our good-nights and head off to bed.

Gray, Isla, and I are taking breakfast together. I could get used to this. Oh, they've always invited me to join them, but taking meals with our bosses while Alice served would have been awkward. I would dine with them when I could put on my assistant hat, but even then, I'd insist on serving. Now I can rise at a normal hour without Mrs. Wallace giving me shit for showing up five minutes late and serving Gray his morning coffee less than piping hot. I can dress properly and at my leisure, and then I can read a newspaper or check in on Gray or Isla before breakfast.

This morning, we eat upon waking. We all slept until eight, and we need to be ready for our day.

"I have sent Simon to fetch the newspapers," Gray says. "If young Tommy has not uncovered any of those stories about us, I would propose that we seek them out."

"I agree," Isla says, "though you will need to take Mallory for that. I have a lunch engagement that I should not break without just cause."

"Mallory?" Gray says.

"Sounds like a plan. I'd also like to—"

A tentative knock at the door.

"Yes, Lorna?" Isla calls.

Lorna pokes her head through. "Sorry to interrupt, but this came for you, Dr. Gray." She holds an envelope out, quivering slightly, as if suspecting this should have waited until after breakfast. "It's from Lord Muir, and the boy said it was very urgent. Lord Muir will be waiting for you at the Christie house."

Gray bites off a sigh and finds a suitably neutral expression. "Thank you, Lorna."

She hesitates and then ducks her head, as if embarrassed at the two-second pause before realizing that was a dismissal. Gray waits until she is gone and then releases the sigh in a long exhalation.

"I understand that working with men such as Lord Muir is part of Hugh's job," Gray says. "But it is yet another reason why I prefer to avoid calling too much attention to myself."

"Because if men like Muir don't know you're involved in the investigation, they can't send messages demanding you wait on them like a common footman?"

He wrinkles his nose. "That makes me sound rather superior myself, doesn't it."

"Nah. I'd get that when I was a cop, and it rankled. Technically, I was a civil servant, but that didn't give anyone the right to order me around. What does Muir want? Besides us dropping everything and rushing to the Christie house at his convenience."

"Which I shall not do," Gray mutters. "Perhaps I do have too high an opinion of myself, but I will not set such precedents."

He slaps the envelope onto the table and picks up his coffee. Isla and I share a knowing look. Gray manages to get one sip of coffee before reaching for the envelope again.

"I shall read this and return a message," he says.

"Mmm," I say, "if it really is a summons to the Christie house, we might actually want to use the excuse to pop by and talk to Selim Awad about mummia. We just shouldn't drop everything, as you say."

When Gray keeps reading, my own curiosity spurs me to say, "Did anything actually happen? Or is Muir ordering us to deliver a status update in person?"

Gray's frown grows as he reads. "They have discovered several artifacts missing from the collection."

Isla puts down her cup with a clink. "Truly?"

"That was checked right away," I say. "It's the obvious motive for murder—Sir Alastair caught a thief in the act. But the staff said everything was there."

"They did. And now they say it is not, and Lord Muir believes he knows who took them. He's waiting for us at the house now."

"Then I guess we really are dropping everything and leaving."

Before we walk to the Christie house, Gray dispatches Simon with the coach to track down McCreadie and bring him, if he's not already on his way. While the note was addressed to Gray, that might only mean Muir doubled his chances of a response by messaging both men.

We arrive to a very quiet house. Black crepe wraps the outside pillars, and a black ribbon wreath at the door warns visitors that this is a house in mourning.

Inside, more crepe is hung over the doorways. Clocks have been stopped at the rough hour of Sir Alastair's death and the mirrors have been covered.

I remember Nan saying that the mirror-covering is from an old superstition that sees mirrors as portals to the next world. If they're left uncovered, the soul of the dead could be trapped in there. Is Lady Christie really worried about that? No, I suspect the staff did it, and even then, it was just a custom, the meaning probably long lost.

The thought, though, reminds me of my grandmother. I'd come to Edinburgh to sit at her deathbed, and I'd been flung here before she passed. Did she die thinking I'd vanished? That I'd died? And what about my parents? What do they think happened to their only—

I cut off the thought. I've gotten better about compartmentalizing my grief and worry. Someday I'll get home and explain everything. That has been my mantra since I left, and if it has faded, that's only because I know my goal and don't need to keep repeating it and reminding myself that I have no damn way of achieving it. It's not that I've become comfortable here. It's not that I'm no longer sure I want to go home. I've just set the whole thing aside. That's all.

The butler leads us wordlessly through a house that seems empty, but I've been in service long enough now to hear the swish of skirts and tap of soft indoor boots as the maids retreat. The butler opens the door to the artifact room and inclines his head and—again without a word—seems about to withdraw when I clear my throat.

Gray takes the hint. "I am sorry," he murmurs, "but I must ask, for the investigation, if we might speak to Mr. Awad afterwards. I promise we will keep the conversation brief."

"Mr. Awad is not here, sir."

"When do you expect him back?"

The butler's gaze cuts farther inside the room, and I realize Lord Muir is there, within earshot.

"I do not know, sir, but on his return, I will tell him you need to speak to him."

"Thank you," Gray says.

The butler closes the door behind us as Muir walks over.

"You came," he says.

"We did, Lord Muir," Gray says. "I have also taken the liberty of notifying Detective McCreadie. I am certain you had done the same, but he will be out of the police office today and my man might stand a better chance of finding him."

"I do not much care whether he comes or not. You are the one I messaged. He is merely a criminal officer. Lady Christie needs a detective."

"Hugh McCreadie is a detective," Gray says. "That is his rank. He investigates crimes, such as murder."

"Yes, yes, but he is a mere police detective."

"Who has brought several murderers to justice."

"With your help. My daughter reads all about your adventures, Dr. Gray, and it is very clear who is the brains behind this operation."

"Not at all. Hugh McCreadie is—"

"A fine policeman, which is an admirable achievement for someone from the lower classes."

Gray opens his mouth, and then stops, and I can read his thought process there. He'd been about to protest that McCreadie didn't come from the lower classes… and then realized that would sound as if that meant McCreadie shouldn't be lumped in with "common" police officers.

Muir continues, "My daughter loves detective fiction, and she says that the police detective is never the one who solves the mystery. He is the one bumbling about until someone such as you steps in to guide him in the right direction."

I wince. Apparently, this was a problem even before Doyle penned his famous amateur sleuth. I do love Sherlock Holmes stories, but I'll admit I didn't much appreciate the portrayal of the police, one that continues to prevail in detective fiction. The cops are buffoons who need the clever private detective to guide them from the fog of their own ineptitude. While I can grumble, I know that, for fiction, it makes sense to downplay the police if your protagonist is an amateur sleuth. It just has the unfortunate effect of making real-life police detectives seem like the amateurs.

"That is not true in this case," Gray says firmly. "While I have not read these stories, from what I have heard, they give me far too much credit. They have been fictionalized to conform to public tastes for a single central figure rather than a collaborative group."

"Yes, yes, dear boy," he says, slapping Gray on the shoulder. "It is admirable that you wish to deflect credit to your associates, but see that you do not become too adamant about doing so." He meets Gray's eyes. "The world will be quick enough to take credit from you, on account of your background. Do not allow that. You deserve better."

Huh. Well, that wasn't what I expected. Muir had made his stance on higher education for women clear, and so I presumed his bigotry would spread further. That's not always the case, though. Someone can support equal rights for one group while denying it for others.

For Gray's sake, I'm just glad Muir isn't as quick to dismiss him as he'd been to dismiss the Edinburgh Seven. If only that opinion hadn't come at the expense of denigrating McCreadie and the working class.

"I appreciate that you have faith in my competence," Gray says carefully. "I have still summoned Detective McCreadie to join us. In the meantime, though, I will respect your time by beginning the investigation along with my assistant here."

Muir smiles. "The lovely Miss Mitchell. I apologize for not having understood who you were before now. My daughter has schooled me most soundly. She is exceedingly fond of your character in the stories and says you are very charming."

Yeah, we definitely need to see those stories. Many words have been used to describe me. "Charming" is never one of them.

I return the smile with a half curtsy as I murmur, "I do my best, sir."

"You said artifacts are missing," Gray says, looking about. "I fear that is rather unwelcome news. It does put another spin on the case entirely. The staff seemed confident they were all accounted for."

"They were. That is the problem."

I take out my notepad and pencil.

"The artifacts were all here after the murder?" Gray says.

"Yes. I have done a little sleuthing of my own." Muir's blue eyes sparkle. "I knew you would need to question the servants again about the missing pieces, presuming they had somehow been overlooked in the inventory. They were not. The two footmen who checked were using a list. Alastair was very particular about that. He had a list of all artifacts in this room, and he made a note of which ones were to be placed on display last night. The footmen had to mark those removed and returned. Alastair was most particular."

Muir crosses the room and brings us a sheet of paper. All the artifacts are catalogued, and there are notes beside each showing when they have been removed and returned, like proper museum exhibits. Whoever moves them must sign them in or out. Even Sir Alastair's own signature is there when he was the one doing the moving.

"The final column was added last night," Muir says. "The footmen documented each artifact as it was returned, as well as checking the others. They are all clearly accounted for. I took the list to the footmen, who insist the missing artifacts were here when they shut the door last night."

"Shut it but did not lock it?" Gray says. "As the key is still missing."

"Correct. I believe, with the door being opened and closed so often, the thief took advantage of the household's grief and distraction to steal the artifacts, presuming the crime would be blamed on the murderer."

Muir looks almost shyly pleased with himself, as if envisioning his own portrayal in the next installment of Gray's adventures. The venerable Lord Muir, secret sleuth. I'm not inclined to like this guy, but I have to wonder how much of my dislike is based on his title and entitlement, rather than the man himself. Yes, one could argue that the sense of entitlement is part of his personality, but it's also the times and its classism.

"That seems a very solid conclusion," Gray says.

Muir beams.

"What can you tell me about the missing artifacts?" Gray asks, and here, Muir falters, looking like a boy who proudly stood up in class with the answer, only to realize he's missing half of it.

"No matter," Gray says without waiting for an answer. "I was unsure how well versed you are in Egyptian antiquities yourself."

"Not at all, to be truthful." Muir relaxes, seeming more human with each passing moment, first in his enthusiasm and now in his honesty. "For me, sponsoring Alastair's work was a philanthropic investment in the pursuit of knowledge. I find all this"—he waves at the room—"beautiful and fascinating, but the importance of it is an abstract concept to me, as with most art." An almost self-deprecating smile. "My wife and I buy art that we like and must rely on others to tell us the meaning of it."

"My view of art would be the same," Gray says. "I only know what I like."

"Precisely." Muir looks about the room. "That is why I sponsored Alastair. He was doing worthwhile things. First a surgeon and then an Egyptologist? He makes the rest of us look quite indolent, sitting in our country homes, having our little parties."

Muir says this with a smile, his tone light and jovial, but there's a wistfulness in his eyes, and I'm reminded that in this time, having a title often meant you couldn't do much else. The title and its responsibilities were your job.

Muir clears his throat. "I can tell you that the thief did not make off with what I would consider the most beautiful of the artifacts—the jewelry and masks are still here. I believe those to be the most valuable, but the sale value and the historical value could be very different."

"They could be," Gray says.

Muir perks up. "And knowing which ones the thief took might tell you why he could have taken them. To sell to a private collector or to sell to a museum. All that would help you find the thief." He hesitates, his enthusiasm faltering. "Except you do not need to do so, as I know very well who stole the artifacts."

Right. He'd mentioned that in his note.

"It is young Mr. Awad," he says. "Lady Christie's brother."