by Jess Faraday
He’d read the letters before returning them to Miss Wallace. And in them, he had found what he most feared—that not only did Miss Wallace have no clue about his affections, but her own affections were already engaged by another.
But what had Miss Wallace meant about owing Findlay her life?
“Miss,” I said. “May I speak to you in private?”
“Of course.”
I turned to Drummond. “Constable, please wait here with Dr. Findlay.”
“But—” Findlay began. I turned to him. Apparently he thought better of continuing, because he shut his mouth with a snap.
Miss Wallace led me through a narrow corridor, and up a flight of stairs, to a floor of what appeared to be administrative offices. One of the doors led into a spacious double room, with a typist’s desk located outside an interior door.
“This was his office,” she said. “Or rather, our office.”
The inner room was very much how one might expect a museum curator’s office to appear. Bookcases lined one wall. A large window on the rear wall overlooked Selkirk’s desk. The desk itself held stacks of papers, which, upon closer inspection, seemed to have no recognizable organizational system. And everywhere, absolutely everywhere, were artifacts: exotic wood carvings, primitive statuettes made from metal and clay, a set of wooden masks. The strange thing was, the clutter suggested that Dr. Selkirk was not a tidy man. Yet his office had been recently, and hastily tidied.
Miss Wallace sat on the edge of the desk, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at me expectantly.
I said, “Tell me, Miss Wallace, why did you set the explosion?”
Embarrassingly, unlike the letters, I’d uncovered no evidence linking her to the explosion. Had she not all but confessed to it, she might never have been caught.
Her face flushed a vivid shade that clashed with her equally vivid scarf. After a moment she said, “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. And I especially didn’t want to damage the mummies. I just wanted to impress Salim. I…I loved him.”
“Even though he didn’t know you existed.”
She covered her face with her hands.
“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I wanted to punish the museum, and I wanted to impress Salim. I thought a small, careful explosion would shut down the exhibition. That would embarrass the board of directors, and prove to Salim how committed I was to the cause.”
“Why would you want to embarrass the museum?”
She dropped her hands, and looked me in the eye. “I told them about Dr. Selkirk’s advances. They said if I didn’t like working here, I should find a husband to support me instead. And they said that if the subject came up again, I’d never work in another museum.”
“But Dr. Al-Mahdi didn’t know it was you behind the letters.”
“I was planning to tell him. We were to dine together after the exhibition.”
“He thought he’d be dining with Dr. Selkirk,” I corrected.
“I’d have crossed that bridge when I came to it.”
“And then what? You’d run away together?”
She sighed and buried her face in her hands once more.
It was pathetic in the way that all human endeavors ultimately are—pathetic, inadequate, and doomed. And yet it was clever in its own way. And hopeful, passionate, and brave.
Something caught my eye on the floor near the window. I walked over and knelt to pick it up. It was a pottery shard, about the size of my thumbnail. The edges were rough, as if the shard had recently been broken. One side was quite sticky. I lifted the shard to my nose. Good God.
“Miss Wallace,” I said, holding the shard up so she could see it. “What could have possessed Dr. Findlay to bash in the curator’s skull with a three thousand year old jar of honey?”
She opened her mouth, I assume to speak. But her words were cut off by a bark, a cry, and a crash.
As we ran through the corridor and bounded down the stairs toward the exhibition gallery, Miss Henrietta Wallace told me her story.
•••
In the exhibition gallery we found Findlay on his back, the able officer Hamish straddling his torso, with one huge paw on each of Findlay’s shoulders. His great doggy nose was touching the assistant curator’s trembling human one. Hamish looked annoyed. Findlay looked petrified, and I couldn’t blame him. Drummond glanced over as we approached.
“Tried to run just now. Hamish wasn’t havin’ it. I told ye dogs can tell when a man’s up to no good.”
“So they can,” I agreed. To Findlay, I said, “The way Miss Wallace tells it, you have a good case for self defense. Or at least defense of another. What do you say we step into the corridor, and you can tell me your side?”
Findlay nodded eagerly. Drummond snapped his fingers, and Hamish returned to him. The huge animal sat down at Drummond’s left and looked up at his master with an expression of canine adoration. As Drummond scratched behind the dog’s ears, Findlay rose to his feet.
•••
Malcom Findlay hadn’t meant to kill Dr. Selkirk. That’s what Miss Wallace had told me. Findlay confirmed as much, and I believed them both.
Findlay had been passing by the office Selkirk and Miss Wallace had shared, when he’d heard her cries of distress. He’d burst in, to find Dr. Selkirk forcing himself on Miss Wallace. What’s more, Selkirk had his hands around her neck, and was throttling her. This part I knew to be true, for Miss Wallace had removed that amazing scarf in the stairwell, and shown me the bruises herself. There had been ten of them, perfectly round, each the size of a grown man’s fingertip.
While coming to Miss Wallace’s aid, Findlay had grabbed the nearest thing to hand—the three thousand year old honey jar.
They both deeply regretted the loss to archaeological science.
Findlay said he’d only intended to stop the attack. Once he had done so, he’d sent Miss Wallace out of the room, reassuring her that the curator was only knocked cold. He’d stashed Selkirk’s body in the coffin in a moment of panic. Miss Wallace hadn’t known it was there.
“But what about the prince?” I asked. For Selkirk’s mummy had been the only one in the coffin. Findlay smiled sadly.
“I laid him to rest together with his companion. It was where he belonged.”
Once we’d taken the sworn statements of Miss Wallace and Dr. Findlay back at the station, Drummond did end up convincing me to take a late luncheon with him at a nearby pub. I stuck to coffee, but enjoyed what was probably the tastiest joint of meat and the crispiest potatoes I’d ever had in my life. By the end of it, I was feeling almost human again.
“Star-crossed lovers, eh?” he began, once the food had vanished. “Like the Bard said.”
“I never took you for a literary man, Jimmy.”
He cracked a crooked smile. “I’m not as thick as I look. Sometimes it just ain’t meant to be, lad, mark my words.”
I raised my coffee cup in acknowledgement. He looked thoughtful, as if he were trying to find a way to broach a difficult subject. I remembered Cal’s words—Drummond had said something that suggested to Cal that Cal hadn’t belonged there at the museum with me. It might have worried me, but the meal had left me feeling warm and sated, and, as I’d already made up my mind about the rest, I couldn’t muster the energy to care.
Outside the window, the sun was shining, bright and pure through a bank of dark clouds. Then, in typically Scottish fashion, snow began to fall.
“It’s a terrible thing when the one ye want doesnae want ye back. But it’s her loss, lad. Ye can’t let it destroy ye.”
I said, “But what if she did want me, and I made a pig’s ear of it?”
He shrugged. “Then it’s just a misunderstandin’. Surely she can forgive a misunderstandin’.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Eh?” He frowned. “That bad?”
“You know me, Jimmy. I don’t do anything by halves.”
He exhaled, and took a long swallow from his pint, his
gaze wandering toward the fireplace on the far wall. It felt like we were playing charades. Like we were dancing around something we both knew was there, hoping the other would guess what we were trying to say without having to put it into words. Then, a look of resolution crossed his face.
“She’s really worth all this consternation, then, this…lass? If that’s the case, my friend, it looks like you’ve got a decision to make.”
•••
As I climbed the stairs to Cal’s flat, my heart filled with equal parts of hope and dread. My behavior had been indefensible, my accusations unspeakable. He’d been right to throw me out. At the same time, perhaps, if I could manage to apologize for the correct offense, without somehow making it worse, he could, in time, forgive me. All I needed was for him to say some speck of hope remained. If so, I would happily take the chief inspector up on his offer and stay in Edinburgh. If he told me to shove off, I’d return to London the next morning.
My knees began to quiver as I reached the top of the stairs. With each step, the urge to flee became more unbearable. But Drummond was right. If Cal was worth it, I had to try to sort this out. And if he said he’d washed his hands of me, then I’d leave him in peace and go home.
Wiping my palms on my coat, I let out a long breath and knocked.
A sandy-haired, bespectacled young man opened the door. He had a bit of the scarecrow about him, all gangly limbs and sharp wrists hanging down too far from his shirt cuffs. I wondered if this was the mathematician or the philologist.
“Yes?”
“Is Cal at home?”
His pinched features grew wary. “You’re Simon.”
“That’s right.”
“He’s not here. But even if he were, he wouldn’t want to see you.”
Well, that answered the question of whether Cal discussed his personal life with his flatmates. Or perhaps, God help me, the scarecrow had been in the flat when Cal and I had fallen out, and had heard it all for himself.
“Do you know where I might find him?”
He regarded me for what felt like forever. Then he pursed his lips and gave a little shrug. “He mentioned something about dining at his uncle’s house in Newington. Would you like the address?”
The mention of Cal’s Uncle Henry tightened the knot in my stomach. All the same, I did consider it. Then I thought of the myriad ways I might foul that up, and nearly brought up that magnificent lunch. Such careless courage was for the Jimmy Drummonds of the world, not for the likes of me.
“No,” I finally said. “But will you give him a message when he returns?”
The scarecrow gave another little shrug. “Fine.”
I said, “Tell him I’m going back to London tomorrow on the first train. And tell him I’m sorry.”
“That’s all?”
I nodded.
“I’ll tell him.”
As I turned to leave, the young man said, “Weren’t you the one who was asking about Dr. Bell?”
I whirled. “That was me.”
“Her name is Elizabeth. She’s Joseph Bell’s niece. She’s in Cornwall, at present, of all places. Bodmin.”
“Thanks,” I said.
She? E stood for Elizabeth? So many questions rushed to my mind. But by that time, the scarecrow had shut the door. Joseph Bell was famous for his work with the police. Had Elizabeth also consulted with the police here in Edinburgh? And what was she doing in Bodmin? On top of that, why did her most recent monographs seem to only be available in French?
These weren’t the answers I’d been looking for, when I’d come here. There weren’t any answers at all. But at least it would give me something else to think about during that long train ride home to London.
The next morning, Drummond and his four-legged carpet met me at Waverly Station to see me off. I hadn’t actually expected Cal to turn up, and I wasn’t disappointed. I was disappointed, however, to be leaving behind a colleague, who was becoming a close friend.
“Not too late to change your mind,” he said, as the train disgorged its load of tired travelers. “You’d make a cracking DI. All the lads think so.”
“I’d have liked that, but I can’t stay.”
He nodded. I scruffed Hamish’s soft ears. He licked my wrist and looked up at me with his large, liquid brown eyes. He’d been the reason I’d come to Scotland in the first place. Strange to think I’d even miss that great lump of dog.
“You’re really going to let her chase you off?” Drummond asked.
I opened my mouth to speak, but, once again, the words—any words at all—eluded me. Just then, two young men, perhaps eighteen, nineteen years of age, walked up the platform together. It was clear from the way they stood a bit too closely, their heads angled toward each other, from the way they gazed into each other’s eyes for a bit too long, what their relationship was. It would have been clear to anyone. Silently, I cursed their recklessness, and wished them not only to escape unnoticed, but also to grow up quickly and develop a bit of discretion before they came to harm. Drummond noticed, too. But instead of the remark I expected, he said this.
“Some things are only a crime because the folk who make the rules have small minds and smaller hearts. There’s no shame in love, lad.”
My throat went tight. His words were so simple, but so kind. And suddenly, I realized my suspicion had been right. He knew. He’d probably known for some time. More than this, I knew that he would never betray me to a soul. Of all my regrets, the loss of this developing friendship would stand among the greatest.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The conductor checked his watch and made the boarding call. Drummond gave my shoulder a bracing slap.
“Drop us a line when ye get to London. Let us know how you’re getting on.”
“Give my best to your wife,” I said.
He nodded. “I’ll miss ye, Simon.”
“Miss you, too, Jimmy.”
Once aboard the train, I found my seat, not far from one of the indiscreet young men. He was so young, with a wide, open face, still untouched by the cares of the world. I thought to give him a friendly word of advice. But I realized it might not be appreciated. Besides, who was I to offer advice about a damned thing? So I took out a piece of paper and my favorite pen. And, as the train pulled out of Waverly Station, I began a letter to Cal.
It hadn’t felt right to simply leave my regrets with his flatmate. I’d wanted to apologize in person. But, being the coward that I am, I left it until the last moment, and he hadn’t been at home. Now it was too late. But perhaps it was for the best.
My letter was short, abject, and sincere. I finished as the train cleared the towering brown stone buildings of Musselburgh and headed south into rolling green hills. I sealed it in an envelope, tucked it inside my book, then leaned my head back against the seat to sleep.
I thought I might dream of Egyptian mummies, as the sun cast dappled shadows onto my eyelids through the gathering clouds. Or of clever young women with thwarted ambitions, or big, unexpectedly friendly black dogs. I thought I might dream of the different pairs of would-be lovers I’d encountered over the past few days, and the various ways the stars had conspired to keep them apart. But I didn’t.
As the strangely angled Scottish sun played hide and seek with the clouds, and the train carried me back toward God only knew what awaited in London, I dreamt of nothing at all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jess Faraday is an award-winning writer and editor of mystery and suspense. Her first novel, The Affair of the Porcelain Dog, was shortlisted for a Lambda Literary Award, and her third, Fool's Gold, won the Rainbow Award for Best Gay Historical and was a runner up for Best Gay Novel overall. Her novella, “The Strange Case of the Big Sur Benefactor,” was both a GCLS finalist and a Rainbow Award Winner for Lesbian Historical. When not writing, she moonlights as the mystery editor for Elm Books, chases cryptids, and runs the hills and trails of the Scottish countryside.
You can follow her adventures at:
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sp; Website: www.jessfaraday.com
Twitter: @jessfaraday
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Other Titles By Jess Faraday
Blades of Justice
The Affair of the Porcelain Dog
Turnbull House
Fool’s Gold
The Left Hand of Justice
The Strange Case of the Big Sur Benefactor
THE HAUNTING OF COMISTON HOUSE
THE STAR-CROSSED LOVERS
About the Author