Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

W hen we get back to the town house, the coach has returned, and we pop into the stable to speak to Simon, who’s putting Folly to bed for the night. Simon has been wary around Jack. It isn’t that he has an issue with cross-dressing. That’s actually why Isla hired him. Simon was part of the molly subculture, as a gay man who sometimes socialized while dressed as a woman. He’d been young, and with youth can come the confidence that people won’t care what you do as long as it doesn’t hurt them. A lovely sentiment, but sadly false.

While being a gay man isn’t illegal in Scotland, as it is elsewhere in Britain, it’s still not something you want to flaunt, which is what got Simon into trouble. If he’s cautious around Jack, it’s because she’s cross-dressing for a different reason. Tonight, though, they strike up a conversation, and I use the opportunity to slip off and give them a chance to chat.

I’m just inside the door and sitting to change into my indoor footwear when boots clomp on the stairs. I look up to see Gray coming down.

“You were out,” he says.

I lift the winter boot I just removed. “Yes.”

“It is late.”

“It is.” I finish lacing my indoor boots. While I’m going to need to take them off again upstairs in my room, walking around in my stocking feet would be like walking around half dressed. It is simply not done.

I stand. “I did leave a note.”

“Yes, I got it.”

I lean against the wall and look up at him still halfway down the stairs. “You know, this feels familiar. Like when I was a teenager and I’d come home past curfew and my dad would wait up to give me hell.”

“I did not wait up. I was still up.”

I don’t answer that. I know from Simon that Gray has been home for the past hour, and given how late it is, he’d normally have gone straight to his room.

“But you are giving me hell?” I say.

“I am expressing mild concern. I know you were with Jack, and I know you are fond of her, but I am not convinced...”

“She wouldn’t leave me to my fate if we got jumped in an alley?”

“Exactly so.”

“I had my gun and my knife.”

He considers this. Not considering whether this is enough—I suspect I could roll through the Old Town in a tank and he still wouldn’t be convinced it was safe enough. What he’s considering is whether he would be justified in pursuing the complaint.

“How was your evening?” I ask.

He still pauses, as if debating whether he’s ready to drop this. Then he sighs. “It went much later than I expected. I thought I would have been done hours ago, but I was not even granted an audience until nearly nine.”

“Damned nobility.”

“I considered leaving. Unfortunately, they were good clients of my father’s, and they are also well connected enough that being rude to them might cost me half my clientele. Which sometimes I think would not be the worst thing...” He scratches his chin and sighs again. “Perhaps someday.”

I used to wonder why Gray keeps the undertaking business when he clearly does not care for it... and doesn’t need the money. I understand better now. It’s duty and pride. Duty to his family, because his father built the business and Gray inherited it. It’s also pride because his forensic work doesn’t pay the bills, and he wouldn’t be comfortable living off passive income from money his father made and invested.

“Dare I hope your evening went better?” he says.

I head up the stairs to join him. “Pour me a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“It smells as if you’ve already had a few.”

“Is that judgment of my drinking habits, Gray?”

“No, it’s knowledge of your drinking habits, which suggests you may regret another.”

“It was a few sips of a pint to be polite,” I say.

“The glass was dirty?”

I sigh. “It always is.”

“Poor Mallory. Let me get you a proper drink, then, clean glass and all.”

From what my visit to the print shop suggested, we’re not looking for someone who seriously intends to sell the letters. If they had thought they could, they don’t seem to have made any inquiries to that effect. So we’re most likely dealing with someone who fully expects Lady Inglis to pay. This is useful because it suggests some knowledge of her finances. As she said, five hundred pounds certainly isn’t pocket change. It seems to be about as much as someone could expect to pay. Otherwise, they’d be left with letters they can’t actually sell.

Of course, that could all be pure luck—they just happened to pick the right figure—which is why our first stop the next day is to the suspect least likely to know Lady Inglis’s finances.

It seems early to be calling on an actress. They’re not known for being morning people, especially in this era, when an ingenue like Miss Howell might be picking up some cash on the side. Not the sex trade per se, but entertaining—providing a pretty bit of scenery for a late-night party.

However, what kept Gray out late last night wasn’t only inconsiderate clients. It was the stop he made afterward, to what seems to have been a far less staid sort of gentlemen’s club than the one I got a peek at earlier.

It can be hard to remember that Gray is only my age. He seems older, with the weight of his era and his responsibilities. But he is a young man and a bachelor at that, and so I don’t doubt he knows where to go for late-night entertainment, the sort with gaming tables and actresses on their off nights.

From there, he learned that Miss Howell was not known to frequent such establishments... or any other sorts of establishments that might be popular with pretty young women whose acting careers don’t pay the bills. Miss Howell actually has a day job working in a dress shop.

That is where I find her, and not even in the front, where I’d expect to find a pretty and poised young actress. She’s in the back, working with several seamstresses. Even when the shop girl calls her forward, I think there’s been a mistake. The young woman presented to me is small and plain looking, with the sort of red hair that isn’t quite as flattering as Isla’s.

When the clerk summons her, I say, “Miss Mary Howell?”

“Yes?”

“I am terribly sorry to bother you. It is about Lord Simpson. Might I speak with you outside? I am very sorry for the interruption.”

She gives no sign of confusion or consternation and only smiles. “I will not refuse the excuse for a break. Yes, let us walk.”

We head outside. Gray has stayed on the street for this interview. It makes more sense for me to speak to Miss Howell alone. I still spot him dressed in a shabby jacket and cap to blend in as well as he can. He’ll tail us, but he’s been warned to keep his distance. It’s midday, and I doubt I need protection from Miss Howell.

“I wish to say in advance that Lord Simpson did not send me,” I say. “I was given your name by another, and Lord Simpson will be piqued to hear we have spoken.”

She frowns at me. “I have trouble even imagining Charlie in a state of pique, and if this would upset him, I am not certain we should speak.”

“He has had an item go missing,” I say. “My employer and I have been hired to find it.”

She brightens at that. “Are you Pinkertons?”

There’d been a time when I’d have been flattered by the question. To young Mallory, the Pinkertons were swashbuckling American Wild West detectives. Sherlock Holmes on horseback, with a pair of six guns at his side. I know better after having chosen the Pinkertons for a high school history report. While I’m sure there were real detectives among them, they were union breakers and corporate thugs, hired to protect the wealthy, not the innocent.

I laugh softly. “Not quite. We are private investigators of a much more discreet nature.”

Her eyes still glimmer. “Detectives? Oh, please tell me you are a detective. I am an actress, and my company is putting on a murder play, with a woman detective, and I wanted the part, but the director says the only women detectives are elderly spinsters.”

“You can tell him he is wrong. Anyone may be a detective, and the best are the ones no one expects, which may be elderly spinsters or...” I gesture at myself.

“Oh, this is terribly exciting. You say Charlie has lost something?” Her eyes round. “No, you said it had been stolen. And he did not wish to give my name because that would imply I could have stolen it. That is very sweet of him, but most shortsighted. In a proper mystery, one cannot rule out suspects simply because one does not wish to accuse them.”

“Quite so. It is a delicate situation, and I understand why he did not wish to give your name, but I hope you recognize why we needed to find and speak to you.”

“Of course.”

“It is even more delicate because the item stolen belonged to another woman of Lord Simpson’s acquaintance.”

“Lady Inglis?” At my expression, she laughs. “That is the only other woman of his acquaintance at the moment, at least in the manner in which I presume you mean. I can certainly see why you would need to speak to me, though. If a man’s... womanly friend loses an object at his home, his other womanly friend would be the primary suspect.”

“Whoever this other woman is, she did not give your name, either.”

A soft, trilling laugh. “You do not need to be quite so discreet, lass, but I understand why you feel the need. I am glad to hear that this other lady did not name me as a suspect. She is truly lovely, is she not?”

The genuine warmth in her voice gives me pause.

“Oh, apologies,” she says with a sidelong grin. “Should I hiss and show my claws at the mention of the other woman in Charlie’s life? I am sorry to disappoint you, but the situation is far less dramatic. This other lady being in Charlie’s life is a blessing. It means I can rest confident that I am getting exactly what I want, a companion for when I wish companionship. Nothing more.”

When I don’t respond immediately, she says, “That is not what you expect, either, is it? After all, I am an actress, only on the stage in hopes of securing a wealthy man to whisk me off it.”

She grins. “If that were the case, I have chosen very poorly. No, I realize that is what people expect of actresses, but sadly, it is also what men expect. They fall in love with us on the stage, but to them, it is like seeing a pretty doll in a window. They do not wish us to stay on the stage. That is only the display case. Once they choose us, we are to give it up and live tucked away in comfort.” She glances at me. “Comfort and abject boredom.”

I smile. “It does sound rather dull.”

“It would be. I will admit, I do not always intend to be a seamstress, but only because I aspire to make a proper career as an actress, which will not happen if I am a kept woman.”

“Or a wife.”

Another trilled laugh. “Heavens, no. Fortunately, I do not need to worry about either of those things with Charlie. If he wanted a wife, he’d marry the woman whose name we are not saying.” She purses her lips. “If she’d have him, which she will not. But he would not marry me, and he cannot afford to keep me, so I am free to enjoy what he does offer.”

I consider which avenue to pursue first. “You said his other lady friend will not have him?”

“Sadly, no. Sadly for poor Charlie, that is. Not sadly for the lady in question, as I do not blame her for not wanting another husband. If I were a widow with money, I would never marry again. I would simply take lovers.”

“You are under the impression that Lord Simpson would like to marry her?”

Here, Miss Howell loses a little of her sparkle, retreating into a solemn, “That is not for me to say, miss, and as I cannot see how it relates to any missing item, I should not speculate.”

“Understood and, as you say, inconsequential. You also said he cannot afford to keep you.” I smile at her. “I presume you would be expensive.”

Her good nature returns at that. “ Dreadfully expensive. I would require oranges and strawberries year round.”

“Which is more than Lord Simpson could afford?”

She sighs. “The poor fellow. I am only glad that he is still able to go abroad, as he planned. I had begun to worry he would need to cancel the trip. But the situation seems not as dire as he feared.”

“Are you going abroad with him?”

“Heavens, no. That he could certainly not afford. Nor could I afford the time away from either of my jobs. No, I will travel one day, lass, but it will be to step on the stages of the world.”

“Sounds lovely,” I say. “Where would you most like to visit?”

She answers, and we finish our walk in amicable discussion of the places we’d love to travel.

“I do not like the sound of that,” Gray says morosely as I tell him about the interview.

“Yep.”

“We had contradictory accounts of Lord Simpson’s finances from his brother and the valet. I was inclined to believe his brother was mistaken.”

“That Lord Simpson was just crying poor to keep his money from Arthur? That’s what I hoped.”

“You will want me to investigate his financial situation, then?”

“Yes, and I’ll let you set that ball in motion before we pursue a bit of science.”

He glances at me.

“It’s time to check that ransom note for fingerprints,” I say.