Chapter Thirty-Five

Yes, the constable's story is correct. Sir Alastair's key disappeared a couple of weeks before his death. He'd been trying to remember where he put it, and in the meantime, he'd left the backup key with his secretary so he wouldn't misplace it, too.

After we finish speaking to the secretary, we tuck into a side hall.

"I thought the key we found might be for a different office," I say. "But it seems it was for Sir Alastair's. Florence nicked it and was hiding it under her mattress."

"To what purpose?" Gray muses.

"Well, we know Sir Alastair was leading the charge against the Edinburgh Seven. Maybe she was searching for his plan of action. Who he was trying to win to his cause. Who might have sent letters of support. Information Miss Jex-Blake could use to prepare for the fight ahead."

"Or information to stop the fight ahead."

"Ah. Digging for blackmail fodder to end Sir Alastair's campaign against the Seven. If that were the case, and Florence found something and confronted Sir Alastair with it… Looks like we might not be able to rule out Mrs. King that easily. Time to pay her a visit?"

"Indeed."

We'd had a hard time pinning down Florence after the murder, but she's home today, though she's preparing to leave for a study session.

We'd asked McCreadie to meet us at the apartment, to lend an official air to the interview. It's the right move, but I can see that it also sets Florence back, having the three of us descend on her tiny apartment.

"Is there something else you need?" she says. "I have told you all that I know. If you are having trouble verifying my whereabouts after Sir Alastair's death, I have thought of other people I encountered on my walks."

"No, we confirmed with the witnesses you provided," McCreadie says. "A well-dressed young woman out alone was memorable enough."

Her chin lifts. "It should not be, and the fact that it is demonstrates how far we need to go, when people look askance at respectable women without escorts."

"Agreed," I say. "However, that's not the problem we're currently trying to solve. Your whereabouts were verified, which is only marginally helpful."

She'll already know why. Confirming her alibi for the period after Sir Alastair died doesn't clear her in his death.

"I am sorry to interrupt," Mr. King says, hovering behind his wife. "Might I offer tea?"

"Thank you, but no," McCreadie says. "We hope this interview will be brief. You may be aware that your premises were briefly searched the other day, in accordance with proper procedure during a murder investigation."

"What?" Florence says. "When?"

McCreadie pushes past the part where I snuck into their bedroom while he was questioning her husband.

"We removed two items from your home," he says.

"Is that legal?" Florence says, and while it's a very inconvenient question, I give her credit for asking.

"It is a murder investigation," McCreadie says. "The items were located under your mattress."

She stops. While her attention fixes on McCreadie, mine can fix on her. When he says that, her expression is pure bafflement.

"The mattress? On our bed?"

"Yes, we found a key and note written in a cipher."

"A cipher? Is this some sort of joke?" She goes still again, her face now filling with dread. "Did someone place a coded message there? Trying to frame me for the murder of Sir Alastair?"

"No, the note was for studying."

Her face screws up. "Studying? Why would that be in a cipher?" A moment of thought and then her eyes flash. "If you are accusing me of cheating, let me assure you that we are not permitted to take anything into the examination room. A note—even in cipher—would be useless."

Across the room, Emmett King has stopped making tea. He's gone very still. Huh. I glance at Gray, who has noticed the same thing.

McCreadie continues, "We are not concerned about the study notes. It is the key that has become an object of interest, as it belongs to a specific door. That of Sir Alastair's office at the university."

"What? Why would I—?"

"He was leading the opposition against the admission of female students. We believe you were in his office for that. You may have been searching for details on his plan. Or information on his supporters. Perhaps even information that could discredit him."

"That… That is…" She shakes her head. "I should say it is preposterous, but I cannot help wishing I had thought of it myself, at least insofar as discovering his plans and allies. There are days when I am sorely tempted to explore more underhanded methods than Sophia espouses. However, I did not search Sir Alastair's office. Nor did I have that key."

"It was found—"

"I did it." Emmett practically throws himself in front of his wife. "I am sorry. I understand how this will look, but please know that my wife played no role in my scheme."

"Your scheme?" McCreadie says.

"I only wanted to help her cause. The cipher… Well, that is rather embarrassing. It was practice work." He turns to Florence. "Remember the time we discussed ciphers? We were playing with a simple one, and I said perhaps there was a use for such a thing. You said such a simple code would be too easily deciphered. I was learning a more difficult one. I thought perhaps you ladies could use it for communication." He hangs his head. "Yes, I was being foolish, and perhaps a little childish."

"And the key?" McCreadie asks.

Emmett straightens, still planted between his young wife and the detective. "Sir Alastair left it behind in the lecture hall, after I spoke to him. I took it to return it… and then I had another idea. I thought perhaps I could find something to help Florence and the others in their fight against Sir Alastair." He glances at McCreadie, half sheepish and half cunning. "Is it still considered illegally entering his office if I had the key?"

McCreadie ignores the question. I highly doubt he's going to charge Emmett with anything, but it's in his best interests to give the impression that the outcome will depend on Emmett's cooperation.

"Did you find anything?" McCreadie asks. "Being a murder investigation, anything you might have uncovered could be useful."

"I fear I am a very poor detective," Emmett says. "That is why I had not mentioned it to Florence before Sir Alastair's death. And then after his death, well, I dared not mention it then and cause her to worry, particularly after she herself had been questioned in his death. It was a foolish thing for me to do, sir, and I deeply regret my recklessness."

Florence lays a hand on his arm. "I appreciate the thought, my dear, but you need to be more careful. Imagine if you'd been caught? You could have been expelled. As it seems unlikely that I will be able to practice medicine, one of us really needs that license."

"I know, and I had not even considered the consequences. I acted rashly, and for what? I found nothing helpful and have brought the police to our door."

"I believe I brought them first," his wife murmurs. "Behaving rashly myself outside Sir Alastair's party." She sighs and turns to us. "We have both acted like impulsive children, and I do apologize."

I speak up. "Was there anything that caught your eye in that office, Mr. King? Anything at all?"

"I cannot say there was." He pauses, as if he just thought of something. Then he says, "No, that was odd, but not useful."

"What is it?" I press.

"I found a letter in the trash, from a fellow who wanted to buy a mummy. I knew Sir Alastair was also an Egyptologist, and I am certain he hears from many wealthy people wishing mummies for their collections. Yet the letter did not look like it came from such a person. It was poorly written and ink-stained. So I continued reading, and it turned out the fellow didn't want that sort of mummy at all."

"That sort of mummy?" I repeat.

"He was asking Sir Alastair if he could buy any that were not found fully intact. I suppose he hoped to sell pieces to those who could never afford a full mummy, as a curiosity of sorts. The odd part was that he referenced Sir Alastair as a doctor and said he would understand."

"That, being a doctor, Sir Alastair would understand why the letter writer wished to purchase mummified body parts?"

"Yes. Is that not strange?"

Florence shakes her head. "He wanted them for mummia."

"For what?"

The young woman smiles. "Did you sleep through your course in medical history, Em? Mummies were once used in medicine."

"They were?"

She sighs. "The fellow wanted mummia for some medical purpose, and Sir Alastair wisely disposed of the letter rather than pursuing it. I cannot see that it bears any connection to his murder, though. I can hardly imagine anyone coming to Sir Alastair's house demanding bits of mummified bodies and killing him for refusing. The servants would never admit such a person."

Emmett turns to us. "That is all I have then, sirs and madam. I am sorry I made you chase down the clue of the cipher and the key for nothing. It was simply a young man behaving foolishly."

I wouldn't say it was for nothing. While Florence is right that stealing mummia hardly seems motive for murder, it might not be a coincidence that someone was pestering Sir Alastair for mummified remains shortly before those remains were stolen.

It reminds me of something else, too. I'd gone to the goblin market for a lead on mummia buyers. Time to talk to Gray and McCreadie about how vital that lead may be.

Gray and McCreadie are divided on this subject, in a split that I could have predicted. Gray sees no harm in asking Isla to help our black-market Miss Havisham. McCreadie is far less willing to let Isla commit herself to this "woman of criminal enterprise" for a lead that might prove pointless.

In the end, I realize that the choice really isn't theirs, and it was wrong of me to lay it there. Isla already suffers from an affliction too common in middle- and upper-class Victorian women. The affliction of having spent her life with men making decisions for her. First her father, then her husband, and now her brother. Her younger brother, no less. Legally, Scottish women have more rights than English ones, but in practice, even as a widow, Isla is under Gray's informal guardianship.

Isla may be less sheltered than most women of her class, but that only means she pursues her own interests, travels alone and such. Compared with me and most women of my time, she is still sheltered and sometimes naive. That makes it easy to take decisions away from her.

For her own good. Just looking after her interests.

That's infantilizing, and she'd be rightfully upset with Gray for doing it and even more upset with me, who should know better.

I tell Gray and McCreadie that we need to put the question to Isla, with the data she needs to make an informed decision. Back at the town house, we do exactly that. Not surprisingly, Isla would like to accept the deal. She does, however, want to be very clear on what services she will and will not provide and how they will be provided, with a layer of privacy for her. In other words, she makes the calculated choice.

Gray sends Simon to convey a letter to Queen Mab.

We are finishing lunch when a message arrives. My first thought is "that was fast." But it turns out to be Bob, Elspeth's errand boy, delivering a package from Jack.

"Oh, look," I say, waving the pamphlet. "It's the latest installment in The Mysterious Adventures of the Gray Doctor." I lift it to show the cover, with a poorly done sketch of what I presume is me, frozen in terror at a mummy rising from an examination table. "Seems someone has a head start on the latest case. Think they can provide any clues?"

Isla takes the pamphlet from me. "Oh, this might actually prove useful. Listen. ‘As Edinburgh's finest citizens crowded around the table, dear Miss Mitchell unspooled a strip of cloth to reveal the face of poor Sir Alastair, twisted in a horrifying grimace. She leaped back into the arms of our gallant Gray Doctor, who calmed her, while her alabaster chest heaved and she panted most prettily.'"

"‘Panted most prettily'?" I imitate a dog's panting. "Like this?"

"You need to work on your panting," Isla says. "If you do not, Duncan will never wish to calm you. Remember that. A young woman must carefully craft her moments of hysteria, if she wishes to attract the right sort of attention from a man. Fainting is fine, as is pretty panting. But if you dissolve into panicked shrieks, you will never find a husband."

I roll my eyes. "At least we can rule out the writer as anyone who was actually at the party."

"Mmm. Do not be so quick with that assumption, Detective Mitchell," Isla says. "The writer describes your dress to a tee. Either they were at the party or they spoke to someone who was."

"How bad is the rest—?" I begin, only to be stopped by a knock at the door.

"I apologize for interrupting again," Lorna says when Gray calls her in. "But another message has arrived. This one is addressed to Dr. Gray."

She holds out an envelope. Gray takes it and excuses her. Once she's gone, he opens and reads it. Then he passes it to McCreadie, who scans it and curses.

"I surrender," McCreadie says, throwing the letter aside. "I am sorry, Isla, but it seems I have no choice but to move into your guest room, as people seem to be under the impression that this is my residence. Or, at least, I am going to tell myself that, as it is a far easier blow to my ego than admitting that people have declared Duncan to be the superior detective."

"Yet another reason to find whoever is writing those"—I point at the pamphlet—"and shut them down. I'm guessing that letter is another summons."

McCreadie is already getting to his feet, Gray doing the same.

"The writer claims to know where we might find Selim Awad," McCreadie says. "Which would be far more exciting if I didn't fear it was a false lead."

"Or a trap," Isla says.

"Yes," McCreadie says. "Considering who it was addressed to, someone might simply hope to lure Duncan and Mallory out to see them in action."

"May we accompany you?" Gray says. "In case whoever sent the note really does expect to see us?"

McCreadie's smile warms. "That makes a fine excuse for an adventure. Yes, come along. I will send word to the office for backup, but I should proceed there directly and could use the support."

According to the note, a young man matching the description of Selim Awad was seen outside a "land"—or apartment building—in the Leith Wynd district of the Old Town. That area is known for prostitution, and from the careful language in the letter, we presume the building is a brothel. Or maybe "brothel" isn't the right word. That implies an organized business run by a madam. These buildings are mostly inhabited by sex workers, who seem to operate either independently or under the supervision of a "fancy man"—a lover who is usually also their pimp. According to McCreadie, there are three of these buildings triangulated in that area, locally known as the Happy Land, the Holy Land, and the Just Land. I really need the explanation for those names, but McCreadie is withholding it to tease me.

I find all this fascinating. I've been through this part of the Old Town, both in this time period and my own, but I wasn't aware of the stories behind the walls. I guess to know that, I'd need to be a prospective patron.

Even knowing what I do, I don't see anything out of the ordinary. Sure, it's only early afternoon, but McCreadie says that even at night, you wouldn't see scantily clad women lounging outside the buildings. There's no need for advertising. If you want to engage a sex worker, you know where to find them, or you'll be directed here by someone who does.

The women I do spot seem ordinary enough, though many are bleary eyed, as if they've just woken. Seeing McCreadie, a couple stiffen, seeming ready to slink back into the shadows, but he only tips his hat, as if they are ladies in the New Town. One perks up, hopeful, until she spots me, and then casts me an envious look before continuing on her errand. A few glance at Gray, but it's mostly with curiosity. McCreadie is the one catching their attention, which means they likely realize he's a cop.

We don't stop at any of the three buildings. The note said that Selim was spotted outside one "conversing with a young lady" but that he was "unsteady on his feet" and she helped him into a neighboring building.

Helping him? Or taking advantage of his drunkenness?

Of course, we don't know this is actually Selim Awad. There's a good chance they just saw a brown-skinned young man. We're also aware that this isn't a random tip. Whoever sent it knows the police are looking for Selim, and the fact that the letter came to Gray means they realize why the police are looking for him. That's not normally divulged, though in this era, we can't be sure one of the constables wasn't going around saying Selim is wanted in the murder of Sir Alastair.

The writer was very specific about the building Selim was "helped" into and also the apartment entered, which they'd noted because a light appeared after Selim and the woman went inside.

The building we need is actually the one beside the brothel lands, and we get inside easily enough. No controlled-access condos in this part of Edinburgh. The smell hits me first, and that's saying something, considering how the street had smelled. The stench of poverty is enough to have me wishing I carried a handkerchief. When something taps my hand, I jump, only to see Gray pushing a spare handkerchief into my pocket. I take it with thanks, although then I'm aware of the figure I must cut—the girl in a decent dress, daintily picking her way through the rubbish with a cloth over her nose.

This isn't the worst part of town, but this building must be the worst of it. The stink of unwashed bodies and unemptied chamber pots is so thick I understand the logic—however faulty—behind the miasma theory of disease.

When we reach a man half sprawled in an open doorway, I inhale sharply, which is a mistake. Gray and McCreadie calmly each take one of the man's shoulders and heave him into the room, which I presume means he's alive.

Gray flips a coin near the man's outstretched hand.

"You know he'll only use that for poteen," McCreadie says.

"Yes."

McCreadie sighs and drops his own coin beside the man before retreating and shutting the door. Yep, that money will probably go toward cheap alcohol, but that isn't something Gray and McCreadie can control, and probably not something the man can control either. At least waking to find the coins will be a bright moment in a dark day.

We take the stairs. The building must have been a private residence once, with its indoor staircase and makeshift rooms. We go up three levels and then McCreadie pauses, as if figuring out which apartment would be the one seen from the road. He starts forward, only to hesitate. There are three doors along this wall, and the middle one seems to be a closet, but the letter writer specified the second apartment from the left, which would seem to be that door.

McCreadie steps forward and raps on it. The door beside it opens, and an older woman scowls out.

"What's all that racket?" she says. "It's two o'clock."

"In the afternoon, ma'am," McCreadie says evenly.

"That's even worse." Her gaze travels across us and then narrows, her eyes glittering. "Are you from the society? I—" She hacks into her hand. "—have a terrible cough and cannot afford medicine."

"I am a doctor," Gray says. "If you can tell me your symptoms, I will make sure you get the proper medicine."

The glint leaves those narrowed eyes.

"Unless you would prefer to get it yourself," he says, holding out a coin.

She reaches for it, but he pulls it back.

"A few questions, first. This door here. Is it an apartment or a closet?"

Her look calls him daft. "An apartment, of course. No one's living there, though. Well, no one's paying rent. There's a fellow inside, drunk as can be. His friends dragged him in there last night. Haven't heard a peep from him since. Might be dead by now."

Gray hands her the coin as McCreadie grabs the knob on the narrow door. It's locked, and I hurry over to pick the lock.

Before the woman can retreat, Gray says, "May we knock if we have more questions?"

"That depends. Do you have more coins?"

"Naturally."

"Then knock. I'm awake now, thanks to you."

She retreats just as McCreadie decides to skip my lock picking and break the flimsy door down. He throws his shoulder into it, and the wood cracks.

"Good job," Gray says as he reaches through to unlock and open the door. "See? You are a valuable member of this team, Hugh. Never let anyone tell you otherwise."

As Gray starts pushing open the door, I grab his jacket. "Uh, trap?"

He frowns at me. I nudge him aside, hoist my skirts, and kick open the door while holding the others back. Inside, the window has been covered, and the room is pitch black. McCreadie lights a match, and we step in.

The woman might have claimed this was an apartment, but it's no bigger than a closet. In fact, I'm quite sure that's what it had been before the house was converted into apartments. At the very most, it was a small child's bedroom. It's a single room, no more than eight feet long and half that wide. There's room for a cot and nothing more. Except there is no cot. Just blankets piled on the floor… with a man lying atop them.

McCreadie lifts his lit match, and the face of the man comes clear.

It's Selim Awad.