Page 2 of Kirkyards & Kindness
I wait until the door closes behind Annis and Isla. Then I stand. “By ‘creature,’ I presume Annis means a person. One she considers beneath her notice.”
A soft sigh. “Yes. It is a woman who seems . . . likely to have been a former compatriot of Catriona’s. That is who she asked to speak to.”
I make a face. “That’s never good.”
“It is not, which is why I am going to accompany you.”
“It’s broad daylight, Duncan. I think I can handle this.”
He ignores that—as usual—and steers me into the mews, where a woman has found the one scrap of shadow and tucked herself into it. She’s in her late twenties, with dark hair and a scarred cheek. My steps slow.
“You know her,” Gray says under his breath.
“Mmm. We had a couple of run-ins after I arrived.”
At one time, Davina had apparently been partners-in-crime with Catriona. Then she betrayed her, selling her out to the guy who strangled her in that alley.
Catriona Mitchell was not a good person. She was a thief and blackmailer and probably a sociopath. But she hadn’t deserved that betrayal from someone she obviously considered a friend.
The last time I saw Davina, she’d promised me information on Catriona, for a price, since “Catriona” had lost her memory. I’d fully intended to take her up on that offer . . . until I learned what she’d done. I haven’t seen her since.
“Hello, Davina,” I say.
“There’s my little kitty-cat,” she says. “With her fancy man tagging along behind.”
My eyes narrow. “Fancy man” might seem like a reference to Gray’s upper-middle-class status, but it’s also local slang for a pimp. When I check Gray, he’s as expressionless as ever. If he knows the slang, he’s ignoring it.
“May I help you?” I say.
“Oooh, such pretty manners. The kitty-cat has found herself a cozy little den, hasn’t she? Where she can play lady of the manor with her fancy man.”
I ignore the digs. From what I understand, Catriona never talked like someone from the Old Town slums. But she hadn’t spoken like an educated New Town lady either. I do have her voice, which makes sense. I also have her accent, which makes less sense, but I’m grateful for it. That accent, socially, puts me somewhere between Davina and Gray.
At home, here in Gray’s town house, I don’t mask the peculiarities of my modern speech. Out in the world, I’m more careful, leaning into educated speech—more formal, few contractions, bigger words. I also lean into the Scots dialect, though my brain insists on mentally translating each “ken” and “dinna” that I hear to “know” and “did not.” With Davina, I don’t care how I talk. She can needle me for sounding posh, and she can needle me for sounding street, and it doesn’t matter to me.
“If you need something, Davina?—”
“I saw this.” She holds up a chapbook and makes a show of flipping through it. “The Mysterious Adventures of the Curious Undertaker. You and your doctor here are famous. Solving murders and such.”
Last year, someone started writing semi-fictional accounts of the work Gray does for his childhood friend, Detective Hugh McCreadie. Victorians love true crime at least as much as anyone in the modern day—the gorier and more sensational the better.
The chronicles have a new writer—our housemaid, who is also an experienced crime journalist. The stories are much better for the change, especially since we have editorial control and the power of veto. But their growing popularity thrusts Gray into a limelight he’d always hoped to avoid.
Is this what brought Davina to my door? She’s realized exactly how good “Catriona” has it now and how much she might pay Davina to keep her secrets?
“What do you want, Davina?” I say again.
“I have a case for you to solve,” she says.
I eye her carefully, waiting for the punchline. She only stands there, a smug look on her thin face.
“Mall— Catriona is not a detective for hire,” Gray says. “She is my assistant, which means I require her for my own work.”
“Oh, I’m certain she will not mind helping me.” Davina smirks at me. “Will you, kitty-cat?”
I glance at Gray, warning him that I need to handle this—and that I’ll explain later.
“What kind of case is it?” I ask cautiously.
