Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

N ext on our interview list is the valet. He’d said he wanted to spend the holidays home with his family, but when we knock on his sister’s door, she tells us he’s working at a pub.

“Poor lad cannot even take the holidays off,” she says. “That man let him go without a penny’s wages. At this time of year? Can you believe it?”

That certainly isn’t the story Lord Simpson gave, and it seems odd that he’d send us after the valet with a lie easily exposed.

She gives us directions to the pub, and then says, “Tell Lewis he need not bring home any money for the rent. I know he feels he must contribute, but I do not begrudge him a few coins in his pocket.”

I ask for a description of her brother, and she seems confused—why do we need that when he’s working there, easily found? Still, she describes him, and we set off along the snowy streets.

Along the way, we pass a small market, and I slow to eye the wares. It seems to be a little holiday market, full of holiday purchases—a stall of sweets, another of toys, a third of toiletries wrapped in pretty bows.

“Have you finished your Hogmanay shopping yet?” Gray asks.

“Isla and I went out last week, but I couldn’t buy for her, obviously.” I didn’t buy for him, either, as I continue mulling over and rejecting ideas. Gray is fond of giving me gifts—perfect little presents that only I would appreciate, like a poison ring or a tiny derringer. I need to get exactly the right one for him.

“Do you wish to pause here?” he says. “Find something for her?”

My gaze slides over the stalls. I have a few ideas, but like buying for Gray, I won’t find the right gift for Isla here. I still take the excuse to wander and browse. I purchase scented hair oil for Simon, and Gray buys a bag of boiled sweets for Alice, mostly so two of the best-dressed customers don’t walk away without spending any money.

“Where do you shop for presents in your time?” Gray asks as we continue on.

“Online.”

He gives me a look.

I shrug. “I’m not much of a shopper. I know what I want, and I order it online and get it shipped to my door.”

“That sounds...”

“Soulless?”

“I was going to say wonderfully convenient.” He slides a glance my way. “I do not suppose I can hope for such things in my lifetime?”

“It only started in my lifetime.” I peer in the sooty window of a curiosities shop. “I do like to go out at least once for actual holiday shopping. When I was visiting my nan a few years back, she took me to the Christmas market here.”

“A Christmas market in Edinburgh? Sacrilege.”

I smile. “They still do a big blowout for Hogmanay. Music, live theater, and lots of fireworks.” I glance at him. “You have fireworks, right?”

One brow shoots up.

“Don’t give me that look,” I say. “I know they were invented in China centuries ago, but I don’t know when they arrived in the UK. I’m not a historian.”

“Have you heard of Guy Fawkes?”

“Right! Bonfire night. Remember, remember, the fifth of November. Mostly by blowing things up. Including fireworks, in honor of foiling Fawkes’s plan to blow up parliament. When did that happen? About fifty years ago?”

“1605.”

“Huh. History. Really not my thing.”

“Evidently. Yes, we have Gunpowder Treason Day, which can be celebrated with bonfires and fireworks. In fact, until about ten years ago, it was illegal not to celebrate it.”

I peer at him.

“The Observance of Fifth November Act,” he says. “It was repealed in the past decade.”

I can’t tell whether he’s serious. Before I can ask more, we arrive at the pub. It’s a tavern in a middling area of the Old Town. Very small, very dark, very much a local watering hole. At this time of day—early afternoon—it’s only about half full.

Using the description Lewis’s sister gave, it’s easy enough to find the valet, being the only guy under forty. He’s deep in conversation with an older man, and unless his “job” involves chatting up customers while downing a pint himself, he is not working.

Here’s another interesting thing about Victorian life. When I see depictions of domestic staff, they look very proper, like poor relations of the family they serve. Diffident, polite, starched, even a little stuffy. If I could picture their home lives, I’d see them sitting by the fire stitching Bible verses into tea towels. The truth is, of course, that their work persona is an act. Or, more accurately, it’s Victorian code-switching. They act and talk in a manner that reflects well on their employers. Get them away from work, and it’s very different.

Gray doesn’t have a valet, but I’ve met a few, and they are very dapper and proper soft-spoken men. That is not the guy downing that pint. He’s loud, gesturing wildly, and unshaven in a way that suggests he just hasn’t bothered with it in a few days. He’s young—maybe midtwenties—and handsome, and I can tell he’d clean up well enough to present the very picture of a fashionable young valet. Right now, though, he’s off the clock. Permanently off the clock.

As we move toward Lewis, he glances over. Then he stops midsentence, stares at Gray for a moment, drops his pint and runs.

I look at Gray, who looks at me.

“That was... unexpected,” Gray says. “I suppose we should go after him.”

“Nah, we can just grab a drink. He’ll be back soon enough.” I smile at Gray’s obvious disappointment. “Yes, we’re going after him.”

I let Gray give chase out the back door as I head around front. It’s the Old Town, but it’s a decent neighborhood and midday. I’m not concerned about being alone—either for safety or propriety.

I slip out the front and look each way. Like many streets in the Old Town, it’s so narrow that two coaches can’t pass each other. These are medieval roads, meant for walking and riding horses and maybe pulling a cart. At midday, the street is crowded, and I scan for Lewis’s light hair. He hadn’t bothered to grab his outerwear when he ran, which should make him easier to spot. There’s no sign of him, though.

The rear door would likely exit into a close—an even narrower lane between buildings, similar to an alley. I hurry left, spot a close and pick up my pace. I swing into it to find an exceptionally narrow passage. Towering buildings on both sides plunge the alley into darkness. I break into a slow jog as I strain to listen. Somewhere ahead, I catch the pound of running feet.

A rickety wooden staircase blocks easy passage. That’s not unusual. Access to many apartment floors requires external stairs so decrepit they make me shudder. I duck past this set and?—

A figure grabs me from the shadows. I wheel, fists rising, only to stop when I catch a glimpse of a tall man in a fur-trimmed coat and top hat.

“Goddamn it,” I say. “How many times do I need to warn you not to sneak...”

I trail off as I squint up into the pale face of a stranger.

“Well, now, you have a tongue on you, don’t you, lass?”

The man is about Gray’s age and height, but otherwise, there’s no way to mistake one for the other. He’s missing half his teeth, and a dentist would insist on pulling the remainder. Even his coat only superficially resembles Gray’s. It’s shabby and tattered, and the smell of it is enough to have me backpedaling even as his grip tightens on my arm.

“What a fine little thing you are,” he says, with a wave of breath that smells worse than a week-old corpse. “So fancy. Surely you can spare a few coins for my supper, lass?”

I eye him, thinking fast. When he calls me “fine,” he means my clothing, which indicates I have a bit of money. That’s what he’s interested in. While I’m carrying a derringer in my cloak pocket and a knife in my boot, I’d rather not pull them if I can part with a few coins instead. The last time I stabbed a man who grabbed me in an alley, I spent the night in jail for assault.

“I am sorry, sir,” I say with a pretty half curtsy. “I mistook you for another. Yes, I believe I can spare a few pence to help a gentleman down on his luck. God tells us to be charitable.”

I cast my gaze up in what I hope is a pious expression as I fish a few coins from my pocket. When I extend my hand, I see I’m offering three pence and two shillings. More than I intended, but not more than I’m willing to give.

“If you will please remove your hand from my arm, sir,” I say. “Your grip is very tight.”

He tightens it enough to make me inhale sharply.

“Is that better?” he says.

“I am offering you money, sir,” I say, struggling to keep my voice sweet and a little confused. “That is what you asked for.”

“It’s not enough.”

I look down at my hand to double-check the coins. Hell, yes, it’s enough. From Gray and Isla, I’ve learned more about charity than I knew in modern-day Vancouver, where I’d walk past panhandlers with an “I don’t see you” expression and make a mental note to donate to a shelter instead. Here, a few small coins go a long way. What I’m offering is double what he should expect.

“Forgive me, sir,” I say, “but I need my last shilling to get home again.”

“You can walk. You’ll give me that last shilling... and everything else in your pockets, along with that ring on your finger and the necklace?—”

“There you are,” a voice rumbles behind us. “I wondered where the devil you took off to.”

I turn to see Gray and bow my head. “I am sorry, sir. I tried to take a shortcut.”

He grunts. “And look where that got you.” He lifts his gaze to the man still holding my arm. “I am going to presume you are holding my assistant’s arm because you helped her up from an unfortunate fall.”

The man’s gaze sweeps up Gray and back down, his eyes narrowing as he assesses. Then he says, “If I did, I believe I am due some recompense. Who knows what could have befallen the child back here.”

Gray hands him a shilling. “There. Thank you for your kindness.”

The man looks at me, that narrow-eyed gaze telling me I still owe him the money I offered.

“How generous, sir,” I say to Gray. “I was about to pay this good man myself, but as you have done so, I will take my leave of him.” I look at the fingers gripping on my arm. “I am quite recovered, sir. You may remove your hand.”

The man hesitates. Gray tenses, jaw setting, and with another look at him, the man releases my arm, mutters something and disappears into the shadows again.

Gray ushers me along the alley, and I mutter, “Do not do that.”

“Do not do what? Rescue you from ruffians twice your size?”

I snort. “He was just a troll, guarding his bridge and demanding a fare for passage.”

“Which you had offered, and he was not accepting.”

“I was working it out.”

Gray looks down at me.

“You need to let me work it out, Duncan,” I say, my voice softer. “I do appreciate that you were close enough to intercede. If I hadn’t been able to get out of it, I’d also have appreciated actual intercession. But I need to find strategies for all situations in this world.”

“What would you have done in yours?”

I consider as we step onto another street. “If he’d just asked, I’d have given him money. Grabbing my arm changes things. That’s a threat. I’d have shown him not to expect women to be easy marks.”

“And you would not do that in this world?”

I turn a look on him. “Remember why I spent a night in jail this spring? Also, knocking him down is a whole lot harder in this body and this clothing.”

“All right. So I should watch until you need my help? Presumably signaling to you that I am near.”

“Mmm. Signaling me means I know I have backup, which changes things, but sure. Signal me and then stand down until the last possible moment.”

“The split second between him pulling out a knife and ramming it between your ribs?”

“Pfft. I’m wearing a cloak, dress, corset cover, and corset. He’d better have a sharp knife and a sharper sense of anatomy.”

Gray sighs and steers me around a woman passed out drunk.

“I’m guessing we lost Lewis?” I say.

“No.”

Gray leads me down another close, this one wider and busier, with people walking in both directions. Then he pauses and points with his chin. Ahead is a recessed doorway, and in it stands Lewis, pressed against the rear as if rendered invisible.

Now it’s my turn to sigh. Yes, household staff might not be as prim and proper as they appear on the job, but unless they work for Isla Ballantyne, they’re not exactly criminal geniuses, either.

“Head around and come in the other way,” I say. “I’ll wait here. When I see you, I’ll approach him. Be ready in case he runs.”

“Is that an order?” he says.

“Of course. I’m the lead detective, remember?”

His headshake says he’s humoring me, but he does backtrack the way he came. That means I need a reason for hanging out here that doesn’t look like active solicitation. That isn’t easy with Catriona’s body and a lack of “pause in public place” excuses like cell phones.

I decide to fuss with my glove. Pull it off. Peer inside, scowling slightly, as if something is poking at me. I’m turning each finger inside out when I finally spot Gray. He slips into the end of the close, sees me, and then moves to the side and removes his own glove to examine it.

I laugh softly at that and put my glove on before someone decides we’re engaged in an elaborate mating ritual. Or planning a midday heist.

I stroll over to where Lewis still “hides” in the recessed doorway.

“Hello, Lewis,” I say.

He frowns at me with zero recognition. Apparently, the only one he saw at the pub was Gray.

“I need to speak to you about Lord Simpson,” I say. “We had your sister’s address and?—”

Lewis flinches, his gaze going over my shoulder. I look to see Gray.

“He’s with me,” I say.

Lewis looks from Gray to me and says, “Lord Simpson sent you?”

“No, but we’re here investigating his missing property.”

“This has nothing to do with, er, a young lady I’ve been seeing?”

“Uh... no.”

Lewis exhales. “I thought it was about that. She has an older brother, and they are... That is to say, he might resemble...”

He trails off, but I can figure out the rest. Lewis is seeing a young woman of color, and on seeing a man of color bearing down on him, he bolted.

“This has nothing to do with your social life,” I say. “It is entirely about work. Speaking of which, though, your sister seems to think you’re employed at that pub.”

His eyes open, far too wide to be genuine shock. “What? No. She must have misunderstood.”

“She says Lord Simpson let you go without a shilling in payment, when he told us he paid you a quarter’s wages.”

Lewis colors and tugs at his collar. “She’s misunderstood.”

In other words, Simpson did pay, but Lewis doesn’t want his sister knowing he has money. He’s pretending to work at the pub and then giving her a few “hard-earned” coins for his rent, like a good brother.

This puts us in a position of power. If he decides not to cooperate with the interview, we have leverage.

“No matter,” I say. “We are here to speak of Lord Simpson’s missing property. Would you like to go someplace else?”

“I am a wee bit thirsty,” he says, “from all the running.”

“Let us return to your pub and buy you a pint.”