Chapter Twenty-Four

Back at the house, we don't just have the "reading material." We have two copies of it, one from McCreadie and one from Tommy. They're in two formats, though. The ones McCreadie found are bound chapbooks, selling for…

"A half crown each?" I sputter. "That's more than a properly published book."

Isla says, "That is intentional. It will keep them out of the hands of common folk and make the well-to-do readers feel they are receiving something special."

"Who would pay that much for a book they've never heard of?"

She picks up what Tommy found, which is serialized pamphlets. "They will have heard of them through these, which are priced at a thruppence each. Triple the price of penny broadsheets, but reasonable enough to find an audience of middle-class thrill seekers, who will carry the word to others, who will then purchase the chapbook, it being the same price as buying all ten pamphlets."

I still shake my head. I know there's an appetite for stories of crime and murder. The interest lingering from The Newgate Calendar is now morphing into an interest in detective fiction. But it still astounds me that these stories could have been circulating for weeks now, somehow finding a market that extended all the way to Lady Christie and her children.

"The title is ridiculous," I mutter as I glare at the first volume. "TheMysterious Adventures of the Gray Doctor? The Mysterious Adventures of Doctor Gray would flow better and make sense."

"I would have used ‘undertaker' myself," Isla says. "The Mysterious Adventures of the Curious Undertaker."

She glances at Gray, but he's staying out of the conversation, leafing through the pamphlets with a growing fissure between his brows.

"Mallory?" Isla says softly, pulling my attention back. When I look over, she murmurs, "He is fine."

I want to grumble that he might be fine, but this is not fine. It's not fine at all.

Gray has kept out of the limelight because he doesn't want it. He just wants to do his damn work, and I get that. As a cop, I'd cringed anytime I got in the papers, and if I had the chance, I'd direct attention to a more deserving officer.

Part of it was that I felt there was always someone more deserving, and if I got my photo in the paper instead, it was because someone making those decisions thought I had a better "look" for the piece. Young, female, and attractive enough. I had a pleasant and open face. Cute, as I'd been told, which was a whole lot more flattering when I was a whole lot younger. In interviews, I was, well, me. Friendly, approachable, a little bit outspoken, a little bit sarcastic. A good choice for a sound bite that was honest but never too biting.

So I understood why I got more ink than my colleagues, but I hated it. I'd literally cringe when someone joked that I was in the papers again. I just wanted to do my damn job.

This isn't a photo or a mention in the paper. These are entire stories dedicated to Gray, written by a stranger who is profiting from Gray's earnest attempts to quietly help the police and further the state of forensic science.

I might be snarling about the shitty title, but really, I'm snarling about the whole damn thing. And that's before I start reading.

"Oh hell, no," I say after two pages. "If this is Jack, she had damn well better never show her face around here."

"Perhaps," Isla says gently, "but it is no worse than you would read in the papers, Mallory. In your time writers might have better ways to describe people who do not resemble the dominant population, but this is normal."

Maybe, but the fact that she didn't need to ask what I'm snarling about tells me she noticed it, too. McCreadie might have grumbled about the adjective "vigorous" being attached to his every mention, but in two pages, the writer has made three different references to Gray's skin color and two to his "foreign visage."

"Perhaps you would like to read elsewhere?" Gray murmurs.

The words are soft, with no sense of rebuke, but my cheeks still heat.

"Sorry," I say. "It just pisses me off."

"Then we shall reach an agreement. You have registered your disapproval of these descriptions. Now I will say that if this damnable writer mentions your bosom one more time, I shall be forced to challenge them to a duel, even if it does turn out to be Jack."

Isla snorts. "Oh, but her bosom is mentioned so prettily, Duncan, so as not to offend women and children." She lifts the book. "‘Miss Mallory leaned over the victim, the firm mounds of her maidenly bosom rising and falling in panicked breaths. "Sir!" she cried. "Do you think he is dead?" She clapped her pretty hands over her pale breast and gazed beseechingly at her employer through her lovely golden lashes.'"

"That is not for women and children," I say. "It's soft-core porn disguised as detective fiction. For the record, I don't give a damn how many times Catriona's boobs are mentioned. I'm going to be challenging the writer to a duel for portraying me as a simpering fool."

"At least we know the writer has never met you," Isla says. "That would seem to strike Jack from the list of suspects."

"Unless she's doing it to piss me off. Panicked breaths and beseeching looks," I mutter under my breath.

"Now, now," Gray says. "I have seen you look at me most beseechingly from under those golden lashes. You do it every time there is only one cup of coffee left in the pot."

"Like the way you look at me when there's only one pastry left on the plate?"

"While I hate to interrupt your adorable banter," Isla says, "I must assure you both that I have now gone two pages with nary a mention of Mallory's bosom. There is only this rather unremarkable tidbit." She raises the book again. "‘Miss Mallory noticed a mark on the floor, and in her haste to examine it, she lifted her skirts—'"

"What?" Gray looks thunderous.

Isla raises a finger. "‘She lifted her skirts most decorously, revealing no more than a sliver of milky skin above her fine boots, and then she arranged the skirts to allow her to crouch on all fours—'"

Gray starts to make strangled noises, his expression murderous now.

"‘To crouch on all fours,'" Isla repeats, clearly enjoying herself, "‘with her rounded posterior in the air.'"

"A duel," Gray grinds out. "This requires a duel."

"‘She crouched there, on her hands and knees, rounded posterior lifted as she bent to examine the evidence on the floor, which…'" Isla chokes on a laugh. "‘Which turned out to be nothing but a speck of dirt.'" She claps a hand to her mouth as her shoulders shake with laughter, tears welling. "Oh, my."

"Yep," I say. "Soft-core porn, Victorian style."

Isla's eyes dance. "May I presume the existence of the term ‘soft-core' implies there is a hard-core?"

"Definitely."

"What exactly would constitute—?"

Gray clears his throat, loudly.

Isla looks at me. "Men might say they avoid such conversation so as not to scandalize women, but as you can see, that is but an excuse. The ones we must truly fear scandalizing are the men themselves."

"If you are finished," Gray says, "might we return to reading these…?" He struggles for words.

Isla grins. "Mysterious adventures of the very foreign doctor and his lovely assistant's lovely body parts?"

I sputter a laugh. "All right. We've registered our shock and disapproval. Now let's read and see if we can figure out who is writing this trash."

"So I may challenge them to a duel?" Gray says.

"So we may tell them to—in the name of all that is holy—stop writing. Or it may be their murder we're investigating next."

Gray smiles, a little too broadly, and I pick up another pamphlet to read.

"So we agree it's complete and utter trash," I say as I put down the last pamphlet.

"As well as ‘soft-core porn,'" Isla says with a smirk my way.

I roll my eyes. I have to admit I'm almost impressed at the way the writer wove those bits in, using every excuse to have my bosom aflutter or my ass in the air, even if that's not physically possible while wearing a corset. In one part, I'd even, for a brief moment, been kneeling in front of Gray. All in the most innocent of contexts, of course.

The stories might allegedly be for children, but someone was making sure they didn't ignore the male market. I can't even grumble, having seen too many detective dramas where the camera lingers a little too lovingly on naked young female corpses. Hey, at least I'm alive in these stories. And fully dressed.

What actually pisses me off about my portrayal is that I seem to be the equivalent of a magician's assistant, there to look pretty and hold things for her genius boss. That role is also a time-honored one in detective fiction—the wide-eyed ingénue who asks endless questions that give the protagonist a chance to pontificate and look like the genius he is. I'm a foil—Gray's Dr. Watson.

So I'm not truly pissed off about the portrayal of myself. It just tells me that the writer either doesn't know me or is intentionally tweaking me.

When I say that, Gray makes a noise deep in his throat.

"Yes, I realize that isn't as helpful as we'd like," I say. "It doesn't answer the question of whether it could be Jack or not."

"Given these descriptions of you," Isla says, "I must presume the writer has developed something of an infatuation. I did not get that impression from Jack."

"She finds me interesting, but not that way."

"And her preferences in general…?" Isla says, circumspectly. "Do we have any indication of that?"

"She likes men," I say. "She's made comments to that effect." Admiring McCreadie, though I won't say so in front of Isla. "That doesn't mean she doesn't also like women, but…" I leaf through the pages. "Presuming Jack is ‘Edinburgh's Foremost Reporter of Criminal Activities' this writing is shit compared with hers. It's possible Jack isn't writing those broadsheets but tried her hand at these without any writing experience, which would explain the terrible prose, but that feels like too many ifs for me. Jack slipped up the other day. She started to say she covered crimes before switching to saying her writerly friend covers them."

"You caught that, too," Gray murmurs.

"Oh, I caught it. I just wasn't going to call her out on it. My gut says this isn't Jack. It's not just the bad writing or the weird obsession with my body parts. It's not even the racism, which doesn't sound like Jack either. This is ninety percent fiction. There are things Jack knows, especially about the poisoning case, that she would have included for a better story. This is written by someone who knows nothing more than they'd glean from the papers."

"And someone who has met you and formed an unhealthy attachment," Gray says.

I wrinkle my nose. "Have they, though? Or is that just marketing?"

"I believe someone disinterested in women could pen this," Gray says. "But my sense is that the writer does find you attractive. I even speculated briefly whether it could be Dr. Addington. He would certainly pen those bits. But the portrayal of him is dismissive, and he could not bring himself to do that, even to hide his identity."

"Let's look at that, then," Isla says. "You are the clear star of these stories, Duncan. The writer exoticizes you in an uncomfortable way, but not an overtly negative one. They have nothing but praise for your abilities. They fail to realize Mallory's contributions, but she plays a significant and equally positive role. As for Hugh, it is clear that the writer considers his detecting skills far inferior to Duncan's. Dr. Addington is written as equally superfluous. They are bit players in your drama, Duncan. I am completely absent from the pages as anything other than ‘Dr. Gray's widowed sister.'"

"Handsome widowed sister," I say.

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, but there is no mention of my chemistry, even when it played into the last case. My sense is that we are not looking at a writer who is part of our social circle, even our wider circle. This is a stranger who has absorbed Duncan's story through the papers and broadsheets and maybe uncovered a tidbit or two through gossip, but has stitched the rest out of whole cloth."

"I think you're right," I say. "Which is not going to help us get rid of these. Or even just control the narrative."

"That is why you have Jack," she says. "We believe she works in this milieu. Let her investigate. We have a murder to solve, and Mallory has an underground market to infiltrate."

"Not until this evening. It is only…" I check my pocket watch and curse.

"Teatime," Isla says. "You both missed lunch, and so I shall insist on tea. Later, we must find you proper attire for your mysterious late-night excursion."

We'd hoped for an update from McCreadie, but he's obviously busy with the case. After tea, Isla slips off, saying we will worry about my outfit later. Gray and I spend some time in the lab with the Hand of Glory, in case I need to give it away tonight.

After dinner, Isla enlists help designing my costume. Who she enlists has me doing a double take.

"Mrs. Wallace?" I say, and then look at the housekeeper's hands, expecting to see she's only bringing something into Isla's rooms. They're empty.

"Mrs. Wallace has graciously agreed to help us with your outfit for this evening," Isla says as she closes the door behind the housekeeper.

"Er…" I say.

"That was a thank-you," Isla says to Mrs. Wallace. "Mallory is struck dumb with appreciation."

"I do appreciate it," I say. "I just…" I glance at Isla. "Have you explained where I'm going?"

"Not yet."

Oh, this should be fun.

"I decided you can do the honors," Isla says to me.

Double fun.

"Er, uh…" I glance at Isla. "I'm not sure how much I should say." When she doesn't seem ready to help, I turn to Mrs. Wallace. "We are working on the investigation, obviously. There is reason to believe that the, uh, mummified remains may have been taken for, uh, medical reasons. Medicine, that is."

"Mummia," Mrs. Wallace says. "I have heard of it. Ridiculous notion, but one cannot blame people for being willing to ingest almost anything that might restore their health."

"Right. Yes. So that's what we think, but it's no longer readily available, so if the remains are sold, they'd be sold at a black—at a market for illegal and mystical substances."

Her eyes narrow. "You are planning to go to the underground market?"

"You've heard of it?"

She answers with a snort and then says, "If you are counting on the ‘old' Catriona having contacts that will allow her into the market, you will find yourself stopped at the entrance. If you can even find the entrance, which I doubt. I myself have never gained admittance, and I was more than a mere thief."

I open my mouth to ask what she was then, but this isn't the time—and I know she won't answer.

"That part is handled," I say. "Someone is taking me there and getting me in."

Her eyes narrow more. "Who would have the influence to not only obtain entry but to be able to take a guest? No one short of—" She rocks back on her heels. "You are working with Queen Mab."

"We are working with someone," I say firmly. "I can divulge no more."

"It must be Queen Mab. I wondered whether you had approached her during the case with Lady Annis. I know it was whispered that she was responsible for selling the poison that killed those men. Now you have made a contact, which you are using." Her eyes are all but slits now. "Does she know who you are?"

"Whoever is helping us knows I am Dr. Gray's assistant. That is enough."

Mrs. Wallace makes a shockingly rude noise. "That is certainly not enough. Someone must tell her who you are."

"Who Mallory was," Isla says gently. "Before her accident. That is immaterial in the current context."

"It is hardly—" Mrs. Wallace softens her voice. "I am sorry, Mrs. Ballantyne, I did not mean to speak to you that way."

Isla's faint eye roll suggests Mrs. Wallace's show of deference is for my benefit. While I know how much Mrs. Wallace adores Isla and Gray, it's with the adoration—and occasional exasperation—of an aunt who dotes on her younger relatives but sees the need to nudge them now and then, to keep them on the path.

"Yes, yes," Isla says. "You may speak freely here, Mrs. Wallace. Duncan and I have no concerns that Mallory will do anything untoward at the market nor use the visit for anything but the intended purpose, which is to represent herself as a young woman with an item to trade and possibly hoping to pave the way for future enterprise."

"What are you taking to trade? It cannot be some bauble, however valuable."

"A Hand of Glory. That's—"

"If you are hoping to pass off a mere severed limb as a true Hand of Glory, they will see through that ruse in an instant, and you will damage Queen Mab's reputation."

"It's an actual Hand of Glory. I can show it to you, if you like. It's downstairs."

I have, for once, rendered the indomitable Mrs. Wallace speechless.

"Downstairs?" she says.

"Duncan found it," Isla says, "and bought it for Mallory as a gift."

Mrs. Wallace assimilates this. Then her gaze hardens. "If Dr. Gray bought you this item as a gift—and I cannot believe I am saying that—and you are traipsing off to the underground market to give away something he purchased at great expense—"

Isla cuts in. "Duncan is aware of what we are doing, and he agrees with Mallory using the hand to gain entry in hopes of furthering the case." Isla meets the housekeeper's gaze. "If you believe you know who Mallory is meeting, then you know we would not attempt to misuse her in any way. We would not dare."

Mrs. Wallace looks from me to Isla. Then she says, "I will accompany Cat—Mallory."

She's making a concession here, calling me Mallory, but Isla shakes her head.

"If someone else could go, I would," Isla says. "Or Duncan."

"No disrespect, ma'am, but that would be, frankly, ridiculous. Your brother's growing reputation makes it impossible for him to disguise himself in a place that is expecting disguises. And you are a proper lady, unable to act as anything but a proper lady."

Isla's expression makes Mrs. Wallace's grim countenance soften in a near smile. "That is not an insult, Mrs. Ballantyne."

"It most certainly is, and one I will rectify at another time, with Mallory's training."

"Aye, something tells me Miss Mallory would be an excellent teacher for such things."

"And that," I say, "I will take as a compliment."

"You cannot go, Mrs. Wallace," Isla says. "Our contact was clear on that. Only Mallory may accompany her."

"I know Queen Mab. I have not seen her in several years, but she will take me. I had oft thought of asking her to take me to the market, but by the time I was in a position to do so, I was no longer engaged in work that would benefit from such a visit."

"That work being… in the circus?" I prompt.

"I will accompany you to the meeting point," Mrs. Wallace says, ignoring my question, as expected. "If Queen Mab does not wish to take me further, I will not argue the matter. That is settled. On to dressing Miss Mallory appropriately."

"Fairy wings?" I say. "Please tell me I get to wear fairy wings."

Mrs. Wallace looks at me. Then she gives a slow smile. And with that smile, I know I'm in trouble.