Chapter Thirty-Nine

It is nearly ten when we arrive at the Kings' apartment. Two constables are watching it. They've staked out a spot where they'll see the Kings climbing the stairs to their home, and they can quietly swoop in before they reach it.

One of the officers is Iain, the young Highlander constable, and I suspect that's no accident. When an officer is friendly toward Gray, he's more likely to get picked for important tasks by McCreadie. It's a solid foot on the ladder to detectivehood, if this young man wants it. I hope he does.

McCreadie is accustomed to having a constable at his side, rather than the traditional detective partnership I'd had. He lost his protégé back in May, and he hasn't found a new one yet. If it turns out to be Iain, I'll be pleased for both of them.

We leave Iain and his partner outside, and we're in the apartment after a few moments of small talk. Well, I make the small talk, while practically holding Gray back from galloping up the stairs to the apartment. It'll be a long night for Iain and his partner, and they could use a bit of conversation, as well as a promise to find them something hot to eat after we're done here. I might even add a pint of ale to the inevitable hot meat pie. That'd be a huge no-no at home, but here "drinking on the job" means downing a bottle of whisky. A pint of ale—or even a hot toddy—doesn't count and will keep them warm and keep their spirits up.

It doesn't take long for us to find samples of both Emmett's and Florence's writing. Florence keeps meticulous records, even in a time that predates the modern filing system. She has a small desk with pigeonholes for current papers and drawers filled with past papers. It's obvious that she handles the couple's finances and the correspondence, even to the point of dutifully writing to Emmett's parents. While those letters are signed by both, other letters signed by only Florence make it clear who the writer is. We do find samples of Emmett's writing, love letters to her, signed by him, which she had saved.

I try not to read those letters. Of course, I can't help but see a few lines, and it is enough to make me feel worse about what happened here. The tragedy of a young man pushed beyond his intellectual limits, resorting to cheating on exams and then killing his professor in what I can only presume was a blind panic. The tragedy, too, of a world where he was expected to be the doctor when his wife was obviously better suited to the occupation.

With those writing samples in hand, we can conclude, beyond doubt, that the ciphered notes were written by Emmett. Florence's handwriting is much different, measured and precise, much like the woman herself. Emmett's is more florid and flowing, and it is an exact match for the cipher. Now we need to confirm that this looks like the penmanship on the note sent to the White Lady. Either way, it wouldn't be Florence's, whose handwriting would never be categorically identified as a woman's hand.

I'm finishing my examination when Gray walks over and hands me a crumpled letter. "I found this hidden in Emmett's clothing."

I take it, scanning it. "Damn. Not unexpected, though."

"No, sadly, it is not."

The letter is from the medical school, warning Emmett that if his grades do not improve, he will be expelled. The only surprise there is the name at the bottom.

"It's from Sir Alastair," I say.

"Yes, it seems he was Emmett's advisor. That is why the tone is casual, encouraging even."

I would never have called the tone casual, but I'm coming to understand that is a very different thing in this world, where even letters between friends can sound far more formal than I'd jot off to my modern friends.

On second reading, I see Gray's point. A letter from the college itself would be cold and impersonal. This one is a warning from his advisor that he needs to improve his grades or risk expulsion. The "encouragement" is a stiff line that says Sir Alastair knows Emmett can do better and that he expects better of him. Not exactly warm and fuzzy, but in the Victorian world, I can see where it would be considered supportive. There's even a line at the bottom with Sir Alastair's office hours, which I presume is meant to suggest he's there to help Emmett.

That only makes the situation worse. Emmett was in danger of expulsion, and Sir Alastair had tried to help. This wasn't a cold professor cruelly refusing to hear Emmett's pleas after he was caught cheating. It was an ally, and yet one with a strong set of ethics that could not condone the cheating.

"There is more," Gray says.

He leads me to the far wall and then waits. Apparently my educational advisor is testing me. I can grumble, but I'd be grumbling more if he always pointed out what he sees without giving me a chance to develop my skills.

I touch marks in the plaster. Most are old, as if dented by previous tenants. Then I see a few recent dents, including one so new it still has plaster dust hanging from it.

I've seen walls like this before when I'm investigating a certain type of call. Dents in the drywall. Chips in the paint. All just above the height of my head. With these plaster walls, they're divots. Same pattern, though.

I'm backing up for a better look when something crunches under my boot.

"I should have picked that up," Gray says, "but I remembered you do not like me handling evidence."

I give him a hard look. "Then you can warn me before I step on it."

I lift my skirts and crouch. I find a sliver of rough china that I've crushed under my boot heel.

Gray sighs. "You do realize you are doing that entirely wrong."

I look up at him.

"You are supposed to bend over with your posterior in the air."

I snort. "You try doing that while wearing a corset. Now, would you hand me that lamp?"

He does, and I crouch lower to get a floor-level view. I can make out a few more slivers of china, along with drops of something.

"Can you help me up, please?" I say, lifting a hand.

"You really do need a lot of assistance today."

"It's the damn corset and skirts, okay?"

He sobers as he lowers his hand. "If you would prefer to dress like Jack, we could manage that. I know you were accustomed to trousers in your time."

I heave myself up. "Tempting, but it means I need to pretend to be a man, and I'm not sure I want to wear trousers badly enough for that. With this body, I'd need a serious binder to pass as male. It'd be nice to wear trousers now and then, though. Maybe at the town house, when no one else is there? If that would be acceptable."

"That would be absolutely acceptable. We will find you trousers and inform the others of your choice. They will not question it."

Which is, again, why we need a very particular sort of housemaid, one who won't be scandalized by a woman lounging in trousers… or won't run around telling others.

I remember that I'd noticed some spilled liquid, which is why I'd needed to get up in the first place. As tidy as this apartment is, I wasn't about to crawl over the floor.

I crouch again where I saw the spot. Then, when I'm pretty sure I know what it is, I reach down and touch it. My fingertip comes back red.

A drop of blood on the floor, still wet, along with several more that have already been absorbed by the wood.

From there, I find the trash and look inside. Right on top are the remains of a broken cup and a bloodied rag.

"Shit," I say. "I really did not want to see this."

"Hmm."

"Marks on the wall in the kitchen area. Right at what would be roughly head height. Someone routinely throwing things at another person, the latest being a cup, very recently. They cleaned up the big pieces but hadn't swept yet. Blood on the floor, and a bloody rag in the trash."

"I had not noticed the blood myself," Gray says. "Just the broken cup and the wall, the marks suggesting a pattern of behavior."

"A pattern of domestic violence by one partner against the other."

"Presumably Mr. King against his wife."

I nod. "Statistically, yes. She's just over my height, and the marks are consistent with that, but I need more. I want to speak to the neighbor on the other side of that wall."

When McCreadie and I first visited the Kings, Emmett had said their neighbors were the Ryans, the wife ill. Fortunately, that isn't the neighbor we need. The person living on the other side of the kitchen wall is an elderly widower. He's slow to open his door, but when I say that I'm concerned about Mrs. King, he readily invites us inside. It doesn't take much to get him talking. He's fond of Florence… and not nearly as fond of Emmett.

"He should be an actor, that one," the old man says. "Not a doctor. An actor. Has everyone in this building fooled except me. They all think he's such a nice young man, so charming and polite, while they think his wife a haughty little miss. She's a somber lass, serious and sometimes outspoken. But she is the one always running errands for me and bringing me a bowl of stew and letting me complain about my feet. She would make a good doctor. I wouldn't let him treat a stubbed toe. He'd likely want to take the toe clean off. He might seem friendly, but he has no time for anyone but himself and his lads."

"His lads?"

The old man waves a hand. "His friends from the college. If he's not out drinking with them, leaving her all alone, he's bringing them home to drink and driving the poor lass out."

I remember thinking Emmett's exhaustion meant he was up late studying. Guess not.

"He drives her out of the apartment with his behavior when he's drunk?" I ask.

"No, no. When the boy is in his cups, he's sweet as can be. But the girl has no peace with all that noise. She goes to study with her friends or slips out on one of her walks, and when she comes back, he's sober, and that's when he's a right tyrant."

"You hear them arguing?"

"Oh, he's careful. Never shouts. Barely raises his voice. He's too clever to let others hear him. Instead, he throws things about. Dishes and such, as if they can afford to buy more. Just tonight he smashed something against my wall. The poor lass left with blood under her nose. She tried to clean it, but I saw blood. I tell you, if I were twenty years younger, I'd thrash that boy. If I were thirty years younger, I'd whisk that girl out from under his nose. She deserves better."

"Could you tell what they were arguing about?"

He shakes his head. "My hearing isn't what it used to be, and the boy is careful. I only heard his voice, angry, and then something smashed. She came out not ten minutes after, and I asked if she was all right, and she said yes and that she was going for a walk. I stayed by the door to make sure he didn't follow. He never does, though. He lets her go off at all hours."

"So Mrs. King left, and her husband did not follow. He is gone, though. They both are."

"Oh, he left. He just did not follow her. He went out about twenty minutes later, wearing his good coat and hat. Heading out for a pint with his lads, as if nothing were wrong."

"His good coat?"

"Like yours there, sir." The man nods at Gray, who has been silent. "A long black coat and a black cap. He only ever wears it when he's going out on the town with his lads. He must think he looks dapper, but it does not suit him at all."

So the Kings had a fight. Emmett whipped a cup at Florence, and it hit the wall. He also struck her. She quickly cleans her bloody nose and leaves him to his foul mood. He lets her get a head start and then goes out himself, at night, dressed in a long black coat and black hat, invisible in the dark night.

I can hope Emmett really did go out for a pint, but I don't think he did. I really don't.