Chapter Five

We're still in the treasure room, having moved on to discuss the death mask, when Annis's voice erupts behind us.

"Dear Lord," she says. "Leave them alone for an hour and look what happens. They have children already."

"Even Duncan cannot work that bit of scientific magic," McCreadie says. "They merely borrowed these two, testing the idea on for size."

"May I introduce our guests," I say. "Or our hosts, as the case may be. This is Phoebe, and this is Michael. They are Sir Alastair's children." I turn to the children. "These are Dr. Gray's sisters, Mrs. Ballantyne and Lady Leslie, and our dear friend, Detective McCreadie."

"Detective McCreadie?" This time it's Michael piping up, voice tinged with admiration. "The police detective? From the stories?"

"Stories?" McCreadie says, but before anyone can answer, Phoebe walks up to Annis and says, "Lady Annis Leslie? The one accused of murdering her husband with poison?"

"Yes, though that is not usually how I introduce myself."

Isla shoots her a look. "It is exactly how you introduce yourself."

"Not to children. That would be wrong."

"You should never have been arrested," Phoebe says. "It was obvious you did not do it. You had no motive. You had your own money, and no need to kill your husband. The police were fools."

"I like this child," Annis says.

"Also," Michael says, "when Phoebe says the police were fools, she does not mean you, Detective McCreadie."

"Good to know," McCreadie murmurs.

"What's this about stories?" Isla asks, turning to me.

I say, "It seems someone has been chronicling and publishing our adventures."

"What? How did I not know this?"

"It appears to be a recent development, and we have been busy."

"Do you think it is…" Isla lowers her voice. "Jack?"

"If it is, I'm having a word with her."

McCreadie clears his throat. "I hate to interrupt, but we were seeking you for a purpose. The demonstration is about to begin. Perhaps the children should… retire?"

Phoebe huffs at him, and Michael looks disappointed, as if the fine detective just dropped in his estimation.

"Or not?" McCreadie says. "I do not know what your parents wish."

"Does it matter?" Phoebe says.

"As we are your parents' guests," Isla says gently, "it does matter. Disobeying their wishes would be rude."

"So? I would rather be honestly rude than falsely polite."

"I do like this child," Annis says. "If I could have been guaranteed of having one like this, I would have done so."

"All things considered," I say, "you were pretty much guaranteed to have a child like this."

"Nonsense," Annis says. "I had a fifty percent chance of that, and a fifty percent chance of having a mealymouthed brat, who fashions herself as such to spite me. Children do love to rebel against their parents, flouting all their influences."

"Ah," I say. "That is your excuse then. Rebellion."

Her eyes narrow, but she only shakes her head.

"We can take the children with us," I say. "We will be standing near the front, to properly hear the demonstration, and so if their parents do not wish them there, they will say so."

"We are expected to attend," Michael says. "Mother believes we ought to learn as much as we can, and Sir Alastair…?" He shrugs.

"My father does not care what we do," Phoebe says. "As long as we do not do it near enough to disturb him."

"Then you shall need to be quiet, Phoebe," Michael says. "Can you manage it?"

She makes what I presume is a rude gesture, and Michael smiles at her before they lead us to the demonstration room.

I am going to die of heatstroke. That will be my epitaph. Traveled back in time to Victorian Scotland. Survived all the unsanitary horrors of the time, only to die at a fancy party because she was wearing too many layers of dress, stuffed into a room with others wearing too many layers of dress, and no one would open a damn window.

It would help if there were windows. We're in an interior room that would comfortably host a dozen people and holds three times that, and as Gray warned, no one is paying the least bit of attention to the fact that there is an actual mummy on the table.

Okay, that's not true. Two boys tried to make a game out of daring one another to touch it, until the stone-faced butler shooed them off. And by "boys" I mean they were in their early twenties. The actual children have been chatting with us, far more politely than the grown-ups in the room, who keep raising their voices to be heard over the din, which of course only adds to the din. We've settled for taking a corner and trying to converse, while sweat drips down our faces.

"This is ridiculous," Phoebe says finally. "Where is Father?"

"I wonder if Mama is still trying to locate him," Michael says.

Phoebe harrumphs. "Then why are we all packed into this room like a jar of kippers?"

When a man with a cane moves up beside the mummy, I notice him, mostly due to the sheer number of shiny medals on his suit coat.

"Former military?" I whisper to Gray.

He shakes his head. "Those would be medals earned by his grandfather, who was quite a hero in the French revolutionary wars. That is Lord Muir. He sponsors Sir Alastair's expeditions."

Lord Muir is perhaps in his late sixties. Stout and bearded, with white whiskers and hair and bright blue eyes. He's obviously trying to get everyone's attention, and growing red-faced when he cannot. Finally someone whistles, and that vulgarity has the room dropping to silence.

"Thank you," Muir says. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I am afraid the demonstration cannot proceed. As many of you have noticed, our esteemed host has been unable to join us."

Guests look at each other, clearly conveying that they had not noticed. That's why Lady Christie had been able to take time from her hostess duties to talk to us. Not because people were ignoring the second wife, but because they wouldn't have noticed whether the host and hostess were present. They'd been too busy enjoying their hospitality.

"We had hoped Sir Alastair would join us soon," the man continues. "But I fear he continues to be indisposed. I understand this will be a terrible disappointment. Perhaps we can schedule the unwrapping for another day."

"But we're here now," a young man says, chest puffing in a way that suggests a few too many glasses of booze-soaked punch. "We were promised an unwrapping, and I am staying until I get an unwrapping."

A few murmured voices join in with their support.

"You do the honors then," an elderly woman says, waving at Lord Muir.

"The honors?" Muir says.

"Unwrap the thing."

Muir blinks. "I am neither a surgeon nor an Egyptologist."

"What does that matter?"

Gray seems ready to rock forward in protest, but McCreadie catches his jacket.

"I do not like the looks of this," McCreadie murmurs. "I have seen too many dangerous mobs."

I want to laugh. Dangerous mob? This is a party of Edinburgh's wealthiest and most influential. Yet when I think that, the crowd surges toward the central table.

"We should remove the children," Isla says.

"Agreed," McCreadie says.

I expect Phoebe to protest, but she's looking toward the mummy, her eyes clouded with obvious concern.

"Take the children please," McCreadie murmurs to Isla and me. "We will do what we can here."

"You cannot let them unwrap the mummy," Michael says. "They will rip it apart."

Someone reaches out and grabs a loose wrapping, and Michael lunges, caught by Gray, who steps forward, saying, "Come now, enough of this."

"Dr. Gray!" a voice says, rising over the crowd. We turn to see Lady Christie fighting her way through. "Dr. Gray! Yes!" Her voice goes louder. "We do not need to postpone the demonstration. We have a very capable surgeon in our midst."

Gray stops fast.

"Dr. Gray," she says, hurrying over to him. Her smile is gentle but her eyes glow with panic. She turns to the mob. "I am sure many of you know Dr. Duncan Gray. He is perfectly suited for this task. Not only does he possess a surgeon's training, but he is a local undertaker with experience in science of a forensic nature."

"Cutting up dead bodies, you mean," says someone I can't see.

"For science," Lady Christie says firmly. "It is a noble endeavor, and combined with his surgical background, I cannot imagine anyone more suited to this task if my husband is indisposed."

"I-I do not think—" Gray says, too low for others to hear.

"Please," she says, meeting his gaze. "I hate to impose but…"

"Either you do it," Annis says, "or they rip that mummy open like a wrapped present."

"Please," Phoebe says.

Gray's gaze shoots to mine. I won't add to the chorus of voices begging him to do this. If he's uncomfortable, he needs to be allowed to make his own choice.

"Would you assist?" he whispers to me.

"Of course," I say.

"I cannot provide the proper historical dialogue," he says to Lady Christie. "I can only report on what I see and the medical implications."

"Michael and I can give the lecture," Phoebe pipes up. "You only need to do the unwrapping."

Gray takes a deep breath and glances toward the table, where the jackals circle.

"All right," he says, raising his voice to be heard. "I will not be able to fully take Sir Alastair's place, but let us see if we can attempt a proper unwrapping."