Chapter Forty-Two

Emmett King will go on trial for the murder of Sir Alastair, and that's no longer the tragedy I thought it was going to be. Yes, it won't be an easy life for Florence, as the wife of a killer, but when the alternative seems to have been dying at his hands herself, well, that's not much of an alternative.

She's a sensible young woman with the willpower to get through this, and she has the support network to help. She plans to stay in school—even her husband's reputation isn't going to drive her out—and I overheard Gray quietly offering whatever aid he can provide. Earlier Jex-Blake had wanted to convince Gray to lend his support to their cause. I know why he can't—his own position is too precarious and he doesn't believe his notoriety would help them. Aiding Florence is something he can do. She's also considering moving to America afterward. That would let her practice medicine while escaping the shadow of her husband's crimes.

Lord Muir is in prison, on a charge of conspiring to kill Sir Alastair. I asked McCreadie to request that the procurator fiscal not press charges for Muir's attempted murder of me. McCreadie didn't like that, but he understood it would only drag Gray further into the limelight. Better to let Muir know that I identified him as my attacker, and I'll change my mind about those charges if he doesn't negotiate a satisfactory end to his business arrangement with Lady Christie.

She's decided to part ways with Muir and seek an Egyptian patron for their continued work. While the family wishes to continue living part-time in Scotland, they want the artifacts to stay in Egypt whenever possible.

The missing artifacts have been recovered, as well as most of the mummified body. Both will be repatriated. As for the remains, that's a bitter note. Sir Alastair had hoped to identify the person in those wrappings and send them home for a proper burial. Now the burial will come, but only part of the body remains, and any hope of identifying the person is lost.

As for why Muir set us on Florence's trail in the beginning, he isn't explaining that. McCreadie believes it's because Florence made such a poor suspect that we'd eliminate her quickly and, if clues later turned toward the Kings, the police would ignore them. Maybe McCreadie's right, but I also wonder whether he did that on purpose to spook Emmett. After all, having Emmett flee the country would have been to Muir's advantage, his only tie to Sir Alastair's murder gone.

That leaves us with one loose end, only tangentially tied to this whole affair.

"It's McBride," Jack says. "He's the one writing those adventures, and your housemaid has been spying for him."

We're sitting in the funerary parlor—Isla, Jack, and myself. Jack and Isla have been in charge of solving this particular mystery. I'm just here because I'm invested in the results, not only in stopping those serials but in learning Lorna's fate.

Gray isn't home. To him, this is a domestic concern, and so it is Isla's province. That might sound like a man washing his hands of "women's" work, but he's given his sister control of the household and the staff, and to take part in discussions like this would make it seem as if he's still in charge. If there's a man in the room, people will look to him for the final word.

"All right," Isla says. "Mallory, would you bring Lorna in, please? Jack, we appreciate all your help in this, and my brother will ensure you are adequately compensated."

"Oh, I know he will, but I am in no rush to leave." Jack stretches out, propping her feet on Gray's desk. "I'd like to see this play out. Also, feel free to blame me for uncovering the truth."

"Blame you? Or credit you?"

Jack smiles. "Either."

They're still talking as I head downstairs to where Mrs. Wallace has Lorna scouring pans.

"Lorna?" I say. "Mrs. Ballantyne and I could use your help in the funerary parlor."

She drops the pot in the water basin and fairly scampers after me. Before, I would have thought she was just tired of scrubbing pans. Now I know she's just leaping at the chance to hear something useful.

We walk into Gray's office. Jack is still seated behind the desk. Seeing her, Lorna tenses.

"What is he doing here?" A note creeps into her voice, and it isn't curiosity. It's the sound of hackles bristling. She might not realize Jack is a woman, but she seems to know Jack works for McBride's main rival.

"Jack is a friend," I say. "You have seen him before when he's dropped off notes."

"Notes which you read," Jack says.

Isla and I exchange a look. So much for the subtle approach.

Isla cuts in. "We know you are spying on us for Joseph McBride, who is writing the Dr. Gray serials."

"McBride even admitted it," Jack says. With a smug smile, she adds, "Or he did when I offered to give him better information, as I know Dr. Gray and have been involved in his investigations."

"So please let us skip any protests that you are not employed by Mr. McBride," Isla says to Lorna. "He hired you, knowing we were in desperate need of a housemaid, and he helped bring you to our attention. The question now is not whether it's true, but what we are going to do about it."

Lorna hasn't said a word. Nor is she cowering in fear of repercussions.

Few crime stories in Victorian Britain are as popular as those with domestic servants as the villains. These are the people allowed into a family's inner sanctum. One would sooner hire a lazy maid than an untrustworthy one. If Isla spreads the word of Lorna's betrayal, she'll never find another job. Yet she only stands there, stone-faced.

Isla clearly expects more, and her hand dips into her pocket for a mint, a sign of unease. She stops herself and straightens. "I believe we can come to an arrangement, Lorna, one that might not even see you losing your position. You have been a good maid, and we are willing to consider keeping you on—"

"One hundred pounds."

Isla stops and stares. "I beg your—"

"A hundred quid, m'lady." Lorna twists the last word. "That is the cost of my silence."

"Your silence in what?"

"Everything." The girl crosses her arms. "For one hundred pounds, I will keep all the secrets of this house."

Isla meets her gaze square on. "No."

Lorna blinks. Then she laughs. "If you are trying to negotiate, I would suggest you ask this one"—she waves at me—"to do it. You lack the backbone."

A muscle twitches in Isla's cheek. "Perhaps, but I am not negotiating. I am refusing to make any payment."

"So you want me to tell the world what happens inside this house?"

Now it's Isla's turn to laugh. "And what does happen here, child? We are odd, but all you can threaten us with is public embarrassment for our eccentricities. That only works on a family far more respectable than ours. Everyone knows we are eccentric. What else would you tell them? There is nothing truly scandalous happening here, and certainly nothing criminal."

Lorna's eyes glint. "What if I say different?"

"Who'd believe you?" Jack cuts in. "Whatever lies you tell about this household, there'll be a dozen people to say that you are lying. A dozen people far more respectable than a guttersnipe who…"

She stands and passes over a folded piece of paper. Lorna opens it and blinks.

"Where did you—?" Lorna begins.

"None of your bloody business," Jack says.

I sidestep to see the paper.

"Uh-uh, Miss Mallory," Jack says, taking it back. "None of your business either. Nor, with all respect, Mrs. Ballantyne's. This is between me and Miss Lorna." She turns to the girl. "You heard the lady. She is not accepting or negotiating your offer. She accepts your threat to spill secrets. I do not accept it, as that tidbit might imply. Tit for tat, girl. Tit for tat."

"Fine. I will stay on—"

"Yeah, not a chance." I stop and look at Isla. "Sorry."

Isla turns to Lorna. "Mallory is correct. Not a chance. You will pack and leave today. While you did not stay the full quarter, I will pay you the full quarter. That is not a bribe. I have done the same to the other maids who have not worked out. Now, go. Mrs. Wallace has your earnings."

Lorna doesn't leave quite so easily, but she's gone soon enough, and I'm sinking into the guest chair as Isla takes a whisky bottle from the shelf.

"Another maid lost," I say with a sigh. "I'm starting to think the others weren't so bad."

"I am sorry," Isla says. "We will borrow a maid from Annis until I find someone."

"So there's a job opening?" Jack says.

"Yes," Isla says. "If you know of any young women who might wish a fresh start in life, perhaps someone in trouble, I would love to meet them."

"Oh, the one I know isn't in trouble, but she will fit in much better than that." She waves toward the door where Lorna left. "I'm applying for the position myself."

Isla and I both stare at her.

"It's… a housemaid job," I say. "That means—"

"My parents were in service. I was even a parlormaid, once upon a time. I can do it, and I will, in return for special considerations."

"What… considerations?" I say carefully.

"I want something."

"Uh-huh."

Jack smiles, and I swear I see canary feathers sticking out of her teeth.

She picks up the pamphlet of our latest cases. "I want to be the official chronicler of your adventures."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say. "But to do that, you'd need to be a writer."

She rolls her eyes at me. "Yes, fine, apparently I need to admit that you are correct."

"Correct in what?" I cup my hand behind my ear. "I can't hear you."

"I am Edinburgh's Foremost Reporter of Criminal Activities, as you guessed. Now I want to write…" She waves the pamphlet. "Something better than this trash. The official adventures of Dr. Gray and Miss Mallory."

"You'd work here to get the inside scoop?"

"The what? You mean the insider's viewpoint? Yes."

I glance at Isla.

"Hmm," Isla says, and Jack perks up before affecting an air of nonchalance, as if she isn't champing at the bit for this. "I presume you are open to negotiation?"

"Sure." Jack leans back, feet on the desk again. "Negotiate away, ma'am."

"You will fulfill the complete duties of a housemaid, leaving no extra burden on Alice or Mrs. Wallace. We do not generally require a full day's work, but it would range between four and ten hours a day."

"I was working ten by the time I was ten myself. I would only ask that if I finish in a half day, I will be permitted to leave early and not linger about, waiting for more work."

"Agreed. The pay is five pounds a quarter with board, double without."

"Let us split the difference, and I need only a place to lay my head now and then and the occasional meal. I'd like to keep my lodgings elsewhere."

"As for chronicling my brother's adventures, that will require his permission."

"Of course."

"And if he agrees to it, I will play the role of editor."

Jack stiffens. "I do not require—"

"Every writer does. As your editor, I will have the power to veto anything I deem unacceptable, either an intrusion upon our privacy or a misrepresentation or mockery of those involved."

"So I cannot have Miss Mallory raising her rump in the air?"

"If it sells papers, go for it," I say. "But you can't have me doing it to investigate nonexistent evidence."

She smiles at me. "That is fair."

"Speaking of selling papers," Isla says, "I will require a cut, as your editor. Ten percent to me and an additional ten to Mallory, who should gain something for the use of her adventures. Duncan will not care."

"Neither do I," I say. "Isla should take both cuts."

Isla looks at Jack. "Ten percent to me. Five to Mallory. Five to the running of the household."

Jack pretends to think it over, but I can tell she expected Isla to demand more.

"Sounds fair," Jack says. "You have yourself a new housemaid and a new chronicler."

"If Duncan agrees. Also, first we need to put the other chronicler out of business. At least in this endeavor."

Jack's smile is all teeth. "Leave that to me."

It's been a week since our adventure ended. A busy week for Gray, helping McCreadie and the procurator fiscal build their case. If one good thing came of those serialized adventures, it was that they brought more recognition to Gray's work within greater law enforcement. I'm not sure how he feels about it, and it's not something I can ask and expect an honest reply.

As for those serialized adventures, Gray has agreed to let Jack chronicle them. Someone will, and it seems better to have editorial control.

It's Gray's first full day off since everything ended, and he's taken me to lunch. Now we're walking home as I look toward the castle in the distance, glistening in the sun and snow.

"It's such a pretty city," I say.

Gray smiles. "With the snow to cover all the grime and soot."

Even without the snow, I see the beauty in everything from the city to the people. A world in flux, changes coming hot and fast, the world evolving within and beyond their borders. Some, like Gray, race forward to embrace this new world, and others, like Lord Muir, walk backward and try to pull the world with them. Not so different from my time. Maybe that's why I'm comfortable here. There's so much I want to see changed, but also so much that I already see changing. Just like my own world.

When we arrive home, Gray tugs off his gloves and says, with utter nonchalance, "Have you checked the floorboards today?"

I tense.

"I will stop asking," he says, "if you truly do not want the nudge."

I've written two letters for my parents and put them under that board. Both are still there.

"If they have not fetched them," Gray says, now studiously turning his attention to his boots, "that does not mean they cannot. They do not live in Edinburgh. They will only check periodically, perhaps no more than once a year."

"I know," I say, which I do know… except that time seems to work differently, and they'd have needed to stay awhile to deal with my coma, and renting the Robert Street town house would be wise.

"Even if they get them, the letters would likely still remain in this time," Gray says. "Perhaps they will pile up there until they read them in the future." He frowns. "I truly do not understand how this time traveling works."

I throw up my hands. "Who does? Whatever cosmic force threw me here forgot to drop off the instruction manual."

He chuckles.

"I will continue to write letters," I say as I put my winter boots away. "And continue to post personal ads."

"And trust they will receive them."

I nod. "But I'm also going to keep checking under that damned floorboard, even if it's futile."

"Then let us do that now."

I shake my head, but I do walk to the stairs and begin to climb. The house is quiet. Both Jack and Alice have a half day, and Isla had an appointment and couldn't join us for lunch. Our soft-soled boots seem to echo through the house.

"I heard Alice," I say as we climb. "When I was here in my time. I heard Alice's boots."

Gray sighs behind me. "She is so loud that the very walls still echo with her steps a hundred and fifty years from now."

I smile back at him. "That is exactly what I thought."

We reach my room. I've taken to locking the door again. Not that I don't trust Jack but… yeah, while I trust Jack not to steal my silver hairbrush, I do not trust her not to come poking about for secrets.

I head for the floorboard. I've moved the bed slightly, so one leg rests on that board. Yep, I'm being super careful. I'd joked to myself once that I didn't lock my door because I had nothing to hide—it wasn't as if I was chronicling my adventures as a time traveler. Yet that's exactly what I'm doing with those letters.

"I know it is difficult," Gray says as we shift the bed. "You made a very hard choice, and I would understand if there are times you regret it."

I shake my head. "I don't."

A soft exhale. "Good."

He moves to lift the floorboard but I wave him off, and he sits on the edge of the bed as I maneuver to the floor.

"I am glad to have you back, Mallory," he says. "I have said that, more than once, but I worry that my reaction upon your return was…"

I glance up to see him rubbing his mouth. Then I turn away and pull at the board.

"I feared it was not true," he says. "That I… wanted it too much and was imagining you waking. I dared not hope you had actually returned. I'd spent two days sitting there, hoping for some sign and telling myself that if you woke, I would tell you—" He stops short. "The letters are gone."

I look up at him. "You would tell me that the letters are gone?"

"No." He gets to his feet and points down. "Your letters are gone."

He crouches to check the space, as if the letters might have slipped into some unseen hole. Then he smiles at me.

"They are gone. Your parents have the letters."

I swallow. "But why would they be gone here? Shouldn't they just pile up—"

He lifts a hand toward my lips. "Your parents received your letters, Mallory. Do not question and second-guess and doubt. They know you are alive and well."

"And that we solved the case."

He smiles. "I think they will care more that you are alive and well, but yes, they will know you solved the case."

"We did. All of us."

As we rise, I look up at him, and my smile breaks into a grin. I want to throw my arms around his neck. I want to do a silly little dance of joy. I'm not sure why this is such a big deal, but it is. My parents know I am well. I can send them missives from the nineteenth century.

Gray takes my hand and squeezes it. "I am happy for you."

"Thank you." I look up at him. "Now, what were you saying before?"

"Hmm?"

"Before you saw that the letters were gone. You said that, if I woke, you would tell me something."

"Ah. Yes." He plucks at his collar. "I would tell you…" He rolls his shoulders. "I would tell you that if you could go home again, and you wished to do so, I would understand. I would understand that you might change your mind."

"I appreciate the sentiment. But I really have made a choice, and I don't regret it."

"Still, if you ever did—"

"No." I meet his eyes. "I need to make a life here, Duncan. Yes, I can't predict the future, but I need to commit to this as my future."

He meets my eyes, and something in his, some… I don't catch it before he glances away, busying himself with getting something out of his pocket.

"Speaking of the case," he says… which was not what we were speaking of at all. "I bought you a gift. You wanted this, and I agree that—after your attack in the tunnels—you need it."

He opens his hand to reveal a derringer pistol. I may let out the kind of noise others make on seeing a puppy. It's adorable, and unlike any derringer I've ever seen. It's silver—nickel-plated, I suspect—with scrolled engraving. The butt curves as if to fit around a finger.

I hug it to my chest. "I love it. Thank you."

"And you will learn to shoot it, as I presume it will be different than you are accustomed to."

"I will. Thank you. Really."

"You are very welcome. I thought to also buy you a pair of trousers, but they would not fit in my pocket."

I laugh. "True."

"Also, they would likely not fit you. You require a tailor's help. Jack has suggested one that might prove suitable. I suggest we head there to arrange a fitting. If that is acceptable to you."

I smile up at him. "It is all very acceptable to me."

He waves me toward the bedroom door. I tuck the derringer into my pocket and as I leave, I glance over my shoulder at that floorboard, those letters gone and with them a link to my life in the modern world. Then I turn my gaze ahead, and walk out the door, toward our next adventure.