Chapter Thirty-Seven

I'm in the town house library with Isla, who is busy updating the household accounts while I… Well, I'm mostly just staring out the window, and she leaves me to it, after making sure I know that, should I wish to talk, she will happily take a break from her accounting.

After leaving the Christie house, McCreadie needed to go directly to the police office to speak to his superior officers about Muir. Deciding when and how to bring Muir in for questioning is tricky, given the earl's position. That might frustrate me, but it also frustrates McCreadie, so there's no point in grumbling.

Gray went with McCreadie, in case any parts of his story required backup. They invited me to join them, but I didn't see where I'd be any help, so I let them drop me off at the town house.

Now I am in the library and thinking. Doing lots of thinking. Putting together the pieces and fussing with them.

An hour later, Simon returns with a message from Gray.

Have found one of Lord M's accomplices in the kidnapping. Bringing him to the station for questioning. Would you like to join us?

I consider the question for a few minutes. Then I return a simple message that does not even require writing down.

No, thank you.

I send Simon with the message and my thanks for delivering it. Once he's gone, Isla raises her brows. I tell her what Gray asked, which only makes those brows jump higher.

"You do not wish to question the man who kidnapped Mr. Awad? Who might provide a direct link to Lord Muir?"

"Hugh can handle it."

"I have no doubt he can, but Duncan asked you to come—not to help but to witness your would-be killer seeing justice."

I shrug and gaze out the window.

"You do not believe Lord Muir is the culprit?"

"I believe he kidnapped and framed Selim Awad. I also believe he is behind the theft of the artifacts. And I know, beyond any doubt, that he tried to kill me."

"What about Sir Alastair? Could Lord Muir have killed him?"

"He has an ironclad alibi."

"One of Lord Muir's accomplices then? The men who kidnapped Mr. Awad?"

"How likely is it that Muir would have sent one of them to murder Sir Alastair?"

"Also they are clearly not the person seen by Mr. Awad. Then who killed Sir Alastair?"

I stare out the window.

"You have ideas," she says.

"My mind keeps circling back to Selim Awad. We presume he was on good terms with his brother-in-law because Sir Alastair enlisted his help."

"Yet we only have Mr. Awad's word on that."

"Plus the letter, which he produced, but it's exactly what Muir said—an urgent summons to discuss the missing artifacts. It could be interpreted either way."

"Helping Sir Alastair investigate or confronting Selim with the theft."

"Yes. I don't doubt that Selim was kidnapped, by Muir, who also was responsible for the thefts, but the thief isn't necessarily the killer."

"The thief—Lord Muir—may have only taken advantage of Sir Alastair's death and a house in mourning to steal more artifacts. While Mr. Awad was found unconscious in the tunnel, that could have been faked. And he is a hale young man who could easily have overpowered Sir Alastair and could have easily gotten him into that storage room."

"His alibi also doesn't clear him."

She rises. "Let us analyze that blanket Duncan brought back. I might be able to confirm whether Mr. Awad was truly under sedation in—"

A rap at the door. Isla calls in Lorna, who has a letter in her hand.

"My, my," Isla says. "Endless messages today. Is that also for Miss Mallory?"

"No, ma'am. This one is for you."

Isla smiles and takes it with thanks. As she goes to open it, she pauses, frowning as she looks down at the envelope. Before I can ask what's wrong, she opens it and takes out a card.

"Ah," she says. "It is actually for the both of us, Mallory. It is from Queen Mab, who says your contact for the mummia will meet you in an hour at the Old Calton Burial Ground. My presence has also been requested, as I had questions before agreeing to her terms."

Isla looks over at the clock. "We have time then to change and be off. It is still daylight, so I presume this will be a safe location to meet?"

The cemetery is on Waterloo, an extension of Princes Street, near Calton Hill, perfectly fine for two women in the late afternoon. I say so and then we head off to change into walking dresses and clean up for the meeting.

I come downstairs just as Isla is telling Lorna and Alice that she wants them to dust the library thoroughly. While the room is dusted daily—a must in the era of coal and wood heating—what she means is the monthly task of a thorough dusting, and the library is the most time-consuming room to do it in, with all the books and knickknacks. I just dusted it two weeks ago, but I presume Mrs. Wallace has talked to Isla about finding tasks to put the two girls in forced proximity, in hopes they will become better acquainted.

Lorna, who hasn't questioned any chores so far, balks at this one. She has a bit of a headache and hoped for a lie-down. To my surprise, Isla doesn't grant it, instead only giving her headache powder.

Isla is not the sort of boss to give a bleeding employee a bandage and tell them to keep working. But is it my place to ask what's up? I might not be a housemaid anymore, but what exactly is my position in the house?

That brings thoughts of the future, which sends me into silence with its uncertainty. We leave the house and start to walk, and I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I don't even notice whether it's sunny or overcast, snowing or not. As we near Princes Street, I spot a mail carrier and give a start.

"Oh, I need to speak to you later," I say.

I explain the situation with my parents, with the plans of a letter under the floorboards and personal ads in the paper.

"Your parents are exceedingly clever," Isla says. "Yes, the newspaper notices should work, and it will allow them to know you are well."

She glances over as we step around a couple of tourists. "I am not going to bother you about what happened until you are ready to talk. May I say, though, that I am happy you returned to your time before your grandmother died? I am glad she lived so much longer than expected."

"Actually, she didn't. I woke up a couple of days after I left. Probably about the same time I woke up here the first time. Don't ask me to explain that. But, yes, I got to see Nan and tell her everything, including about here. She's the one who made me realize it wasn't a dream. And the one who pushed me to return."

"Did you… feel obligated then?"

"What?" I look over sharply. "Oh. Obligated to come back because she wanted that? No. It was…" I take a deep breath. "It feels weird to call it a choice when it happened so fast, but it was a choice, and I'm glad it did happen quickly. This wasn't the sort of decision you think through. My gut said I should take the chance if I got it again, and so I did."

Her voice drops. "Do you regret it? You may say if you do. It will help to have someone to discuss it with. I would never tell Duncan."

"I don't regret it." I cross the street with Isla. "In an ideal world, I'd have a door I could pass between. But at least I had the chance to say goodbye to Nan and to see my parents, and they know where I am. Also Catriona never showed up there, which is a huge relief. If she ever does, though, they're prepared."

"I do not think she will. I have no idea where Catriona has gone, and I feel some sadness for what I presume is her death, but I am not overcome by grief. I do not think anyone is, and that is what makes me the most sad. No one should die unmourned."

"Catriona made her choices, and I'm sure survival was at the top of her priority list but…" I shrug. "People survive in the harshest of circumstances without backstabbing everyone who shows them a bit of kindness. Catriona was wired differently."

"That she was."

When we pass a clock and notice we're running early, Isla slows to window-shop. Then she says, "I must speak to Duncan about your salary. I know he raised it when you began helping him, but it should be higher now that you are his assistant full time."

She waves at a drapers shop displaying fabric wares. "You are no longer expecting to leave at any moment, and so it is time to accept a higher salary and begin taking your proper place in this world." She looks at me. "If this world is to be your home, you must truly make it your home, Mallory."

"Yeah, about that…" I clear my throat. "This is the awkward part. I decided to live here without consulting the people who were hosting me. I've been thinking that I should find an apartment. Catriona had a bit of money saved, and I've barely spent any of my last two quarterly salaries. That should help me get settled."

Silence. Then, her voice careful, Isla says, "That is what you want? A place to call your own?"

"You didn't sign up for a permanent guest," I say. "If you want to negotiate room and board in my salary, I'm happy to stay, but I know it makes things more crowded, now that we have Lorna."

"I would understand if you need your own apartment, but we would very much like it if you stayed." She glances over. "I enjoy your company, if that is not perfectly clear, and the house is quite large enough for all of us. We should discuss moving you to one of the guest rooms, though."

"I'm fine where I am. And I'm happy to stay. I just don't want to inconvenience anyone. I wasn't inviting myself to be your permanent houseguest."

"You are not a houseguest. You may consider yourself a lodger, if you like, but we see you as a friend who has chosen to live with us, much to our delight."

"Uh, if you're including your brother in that ‘we,' you'd better check with him first."

"No need. I am certain my brother feels the same. Now, after this is over, we will talk about your new salary and then we will make plans to visit a drapers shop for a new wardrobe, befitting your new and permanent position."

As with Greyfriars Kirkyard, I've been to both Calton Burial Grounds in the modern day. There's an "Old" Calton Burial Ground, and a "New" one that is, in this time, actually relatively new.

These are parish cemeteries from a time when that was the only way to be buried. Or the only way to be buried if you were a Christian hoping to pass through the pearly gates. Private cemeteries are relatively recent… and a source of newfound wealth for families like the Grays, who had invested heavily in this wave of the future.

For hundreds of years, every Christian in Edinburgh was buried in one of a handful of kirkyards. Yet there are only a few hundred gravestones in each. The answer to that mathematical impossibility is that the majority of the graves aren't marked. Such things are for the rich.

In this cemetery, the most obvious marker is the Martyrs' Monument—a ninety-foot obelisk to memorialize four parliamentary reformers who were transported to Australia. There's a rumor that it's so tall you can see Australia from the top, which would be quite a feat, with the thousands of miles between them and that whole "round earth" problem. At some point there will also be a statue of Abraham Lincoln, and if I ever heard why, I've long since forgotten. But while Lincoln was assassinated four years ago, there's no sign of that monument yet.

Queen Mab told us to meet our contact up on the hill. We head there, passing about a dozen people, a few paying respects but most just walking through. At the top, a woman in black kneels before a grave, her gloved fingertips pressed to the ground.

We're giving the widow a wide berth when she says, "Mrs. Ballantyne?"

The woman rises. She's dressed head to toe in mourning black, complete with a veil that hides her face. It's the veil that tells me this is our Miss Havisham. The White Lady, as Queen Mab called her.

As we walk over, I look down at the grave she'd been paying respects to.

"No one I know," she says. "It is a convenient way to have a private meeting here. No one wishes to intrude on my grief."

She motions to a bench nearby, and we take a seat. I stay quiet while she negotiates with Isla, answering her questions and then haggling over the amount of work she will receive in return. When they have finished, the White Lady turns to me.

"I presume you still seek someone who purchases mummy remains?" she says.

"I do."

"Then my answer is not going to please you, but be assured that I still have something of use."

"All right…"

"If there is a person trading in mummia within Edinburgh, I do not know them, and if I do not know them, I doubt they exist. So my answer is that no one purchases such things, as no one, to my knowledge, sells them."

My fingers clench the slab seat of the bench. "You said you had information. Our agreement—"

She lifts one black-gloved hand. "I said I had information. Someone came to me wishing to purchase mummia. I told them I do not sell it, and they wished to know who did. They were most insistent on an answer. They were in dire need of it and wished to make contact with a seller."

"I'm not looking for someone who wants to buy it."

She shakes her head, veil whispering against her dress. "They were not seeking to buy mummia. I realize that now. They wanted a seller because they had some to sell."

"When was this?"

"The day after Sir Alastair's death."

"So you've met the person who might have been trying to sell mummified remains?"

"I do not meet any customers outside of the market. This person contacted me by letter."

I lean forward. "Can you get in touch with him?"

"I have a method of communication. Also, it is not a he. The hand was feminine. However, I believe the sender is connected to a physician. Perhaps a doctor's wife or a hospital nurse."

"How so?"

"I often receive requests from physicians for ingredients that are rare or no longer in fashion. The letter was from someone who was obviously well educated and used medical terminology that suggested they were seeking it on behalf of a doctor. They even used the name of someone I previously employed to obtain… certain ingredients."

"Certain ingredients?"

Her sigh ripples the veil. "I had a contact at the medical college, who would provide me with ingredients from dissected cadavers. He is no longer there, but whoever wrote the letter used him as a reference."

"A doctor was selling cadaver parts?"

"A student, who has since graduated. Although I presume that makes him a doctor now. I will not give his name because he is overseas and therefore not connected with this, beyond being used to establish this letter writer's credentials. Put all that together, though, and you can see why I presumed the letter was a legitimate request."

"From a woman connected to a doctor looking for mummia."

"Yes."

"Do you have the letter?" I ask.

"No. I burned it, as I always do when someone writes anything that could land me in trouble. I can tell you how to make contact, though. You are to leave a letter here, in this cemetery, and she will collect it when she can. I will show you the spot."