A rip through time, p.34
A Rip Through Time, page 34
I snuff out my candle, walk to that end of the bedroom, and discover there is a window. It’s small, just a typical basement window to let in a bit of light or air. It’s doing neither because someone—Findlay or his imposter—has covered it with dark fabric as a makeshift blind.
Footsteps sound on the sidewalk right outside the window. Booted footsteps. I can’t help lifting the edge of the fabric for a peek. If Findlay returns home from hunting in the Old Town, he’ll come this way, passing the town house before circling around to the mews entrance.
It’s not him, though. Just a well-dressed couple wandering home, a little unsteadily, as if they were at a neighbor’s for drinks. Before I drop the corner of the fabric, a movement catches my eye. Someone across the road. Someone in dark clothing, tucked in beside a shrub.
A figure across the road, watching the house. Watching this house. Because I didn’t realize there was a damned window. The jury-rigged blind doesn’t do a perfect job of blocking all light, and I suspect my candle caught their attention. I’m sure it’s Findlay until the figure shifts, and I catch a glimpse of red hair. My gaze shoots lower to see black skirts. A woman dressed all in black, as if in mourning. She’s not in mourning, though she would likely still have the attire for it.
“Isla,” I mutter as I let the drape drop.
Did she follow me? No, that doesn’t make sense. If she followed, she’d have come around the back. There’s no entrance from the front. She’s here for the same reason I am—because she has the damned address. She’s staking out the town house, possibly trying to determine whether Findlay is home.
I growl under my breath. Isla’s out front, and if Findlay does pass that way, he’ll see her, because she’s not nearly as well hidden as she seems to think.
Damn it. I should have had that talk with her. I really should have.
I keep telling myself that I’m doing fine in this world, waiting to get home but playing it cool. That is a lie. This investigation has been the only thing keeping me from breaking down in panic and fear at the possibility I might never get home. I’ve been treading water, keeping my head above the surface.
Things aren’t so bad here. I met Gray and McCreadie, interesting guys doing interesting things, and maybe I can help. Oh, Gray doesn’t trust me after I stole Isla’s necklace? Well, that sucks, but until I can mend that fence, I have another to lean on: Isla herself. She’s as interesting as her brother, and now that I’ve been forced to confess my truth to her, she is a true ally. I needed that. Needed it more than I realized, and when she took offense at my warnings, I backed down. I was afraid of losing her trust as I’d lost Gray’s. I couldn’t afford that. Mentally and emotionally couldn’t afford it, and so I screwed up.
Enough of the self-flagellation. At least I saw her, and I can remedy the oversight before she gets hurt.
I relight my candle. One last look around Findlay’s bedroom to be sure everything is as I found it. I step toward the hall, only to hear the soft clunk of my alert trigger, telling me someone has opened the back door.
I dart soundlessly to peek out the window. Isla is still there. Which means the person who triggered my alert is the apartment dweller: Findlay’s imposter. The killer inhabiting his body.
Two choices. Hide and then flee or confront him. If I were in one of Isla’s penny-dreadful detective tales, there would be no question. I’m the detective. The hero of the story. I can’t creep out and turn him over to the police. What kind of ending is that? A boring one. Also, in reality, the safe one.
Sneaking out and turning over my evidence would be the obvious answer, if I could turn over all my evidence. If I didn’t need to tap-dance through an explanation that involves time travel and hope it’s enough for McCreadie to arrest his own constable—his protégé.
If I fail, the killer will take his next victim. If I fail spectacularly, and the imposter finds out that I fingered him to McCreadie, I will be his next victim. I’m already on his hit list.
I could end this here. I know the man in Findlay’s body is a killer. I know Findlay himself tried to kill Catriona. I could live with myself if I had to kill him. Dowse any regret I might have over whether or not the real Findlay deserves it, because in this world, he’d get the death penalty for killing Catriona.
I can hide. Catch him off guard. Kill him. Escape.
I’ve often wondered—as a purely theoretical exercise—whether I could get away with murder. As a detective with an interest in homicide, I have the advantage. A “crime of passion” where I’m unprepared? No. I’d make a mistake. Everyone does. But premeditated murder? Maybe. In this world, absolutely. They are not ready for my level of expertise, no more than they are for that of the serial killer in Findlay’s body.
Here is my theoretical question put into practice. I can take what I know, kill Findlay, and escape.
It is a solution … and one I don’t seriously consider for more than a heartbeat. If I had to kill him to save others—or save myself—I’d do it. But I still have one ace left here. Isla.
If Gray doesn’t believe me, I will tell McCreadie the truth, and Isla will back me up. He will listen to Isla, possibly even more than Gray does. I’ve seen the way McCreadie looks at her. There’s history there. Unrequited history? Or just a failure to connect? Doesn’t matter. If Isla supports me, McCreadie will come around.
I will hide. I will flee.
Making that choice takes about three seconds. Even during that, I don’t stand gaping at the bedroom door. Either way—confront or flee—I need to start by hiding, and I’ve been doing that as I work it through.
The room contains a bed and a wardrobe. That’s it. No closet—wardrobes fill that function in this world. Getting under the bed would trap me. Even hunkering behind it puts me at a disadvantage. So I plaster myself to the wall beside the wardrobe and listen.
I listen for footsteps that don’t come.
My alert definitely sounded. That door creaked open, too. I thought I caught a footfall or two. Then nothing.
Did the imposter find the trigger? It was a simple setup. Door opens, hinge gap widens, a nail thumps to the floor. If the person hears and finds it, they’ll think it’s just a nail that fell out. Nothing unusual there.
Is he trying to figure out where it fell from? Please don’t play Mr. Handyman. Be the kind of renter I was, who’d set the nail aside and text the landlord to let them know I found it.
Is a man more likely to try fixing it himself? My dad would, despite the fact that Mom’s the one who knows where they keep the hammer and how to use it.
The other possibility? That Findlay realizes it’s an alert. Or that he had some junior-detective alert of his own rigged up, to let him know if someone entered his apartment.
I take out my knife. I don’t open it. I stand there, holding it, and cursing myself for not having a different weapon. Knives are messy. It’ll work if I need to just scare him as I flee, but if I’m forced to do more…?
I won’t be forced to do more. I’ve got this. I just need to get past him.
Damn it, why couldn’t he have come home when I was in the kitchen or living room? Someplace where I’d have a way to get past him. There’s a window here, but I’m not foolish enough to think I can climb up there and squeeze through before he walks in.
One way out. The door. Which is on the other side of Findlay.
I hold my breath to listen. Silence. Then the creak of a floorboard.
Okay, he’s not trying to fix the door. He knows someone’s here.
I finger my knife. Should I open it up? Or fight my way past without bringing that into play?
What if he has a knife of his own? Then I’ll definitely want mine.
I’m about to flip it open when I catch sight of something in the corner. It’s nearly hidden in the darkness, but it looks like …
Is that a billy club? Oh hell yes. Findlay keeps a police baton in his bedroom, the way I keep a baseball bat.
I strain to listen. The apartment seems silent. Then I catch the softest scuff of a boot. He’s halfway down the hall. I take one careful step, lean out, and stretch until my fingers touch the club. They graze wood and start to close, but my aim is off, and the movement starts the baton toppling. I lunge, and it clatters against the wall as I grab it.
I snatch the billy club and jerk back into my spot, clutching it to my chest. There’s no cry from the hall. No pound of footsteps. He heard me. He must have, and yet he’s continuing his silent approach.
The hunter stalking his prey.
I slide the knife into my pocket and lift the club, gripping the handle. It’s wood, smooth with age. There’s a ridged section for a handgrip and a worn leather strap to go around my wrist. The weight is different from a modern baton, and I test it out, preparing.
The next noise is so soft I’m not sure I don’t imagine it. The slide of a foot. Right at the doorway. Turning in to the room.
I press into the wardrobe, and when I hold my breath, I swear I can hear his. Then another soft-footed step. Another.
He knows I’m in here. And he knows there are only two places for me to hide.
FORTY
I tug a coin from my pocket as quietly as I can. Then I flip it down on the far side of the bed. I want Findlay to dive toward the movement. To react and move without thinking.
He doesn’t.
The slide of another step. I wedge as far as I can get into the corner between the wall and the wardrobe. Then I remember my skirts. I’m not wearing a body-hugging cocktail dress. I’ve got long skirts over layers of underskirts, and they do not “wedge” into that corner with me. I consider pulling them in, but that will cause both noise and movement.
Forget the skirts. Hold my breath. Lift the baton. Be ready.
The edge of a figure appears. Findlay’s dark-clad, dark-haired figure. He’s moving toward the bed. Then I catch the faintest shift my way, his face turning, checking behind the wardrobe before he focuses on the bed.
I lunge and swing. At the last second, he spins. The club hits him in the shoulder instead of the skull. It should still hit hard enough for him to reel. I feel the solid thwack of it. Yet he barely staggers, and before I can pull back for another blow, he’s grabbing at me.
I swing the club. I kick. I even let go of the damn baton with one hand and punch. It shouldn’t be that hard. I’ve fought the imposter before, and he only stood a chance when he had a rope tightening around my neck.
The guy I faced before was a half-assed fighter, all awkward blows and jabs, like someone who’s never fended off more than a schoolyard bully. This is different. This guy grabs the club and ducks my blows and ignores my kicks, and with the damned dress on, I can’t do more, and before I know it, I’m up against the wall with a hand over my mouth.
He has one hand on my club and the other over my mouth, but he’s not otherwise restraining me. I release the club and pull back for a punch … and see him clearly, out of the shadows.
Light brown skin. Dark eyes. And a face at least three inches above where I expect Findlay’s to be.
“Duncan?” I say, my voice muffled by his hand. He doesn’t seem to notice—or can’t hear—the familiarity of the address. He just motions for me to be quiet, brows lifting as if waiting for me to agree.
I nod, and he lowers his hand and steps back.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper.
“Following—” He shakes off the rest and glances toward the hall. “Constable Findlay will be back soon. That’s what I came inside to warn. The public houses have closed, and he will be on his way back.”
My mouth opens, ten questions leaping into the gap, but I close it and nod. “He’s not at a public house, but yes, I was just about to leave. Is—Mrs. Ballantyne is out front.”
His brows gather, face darkening. “You brought my sister?”
“Uh, no. Didn’t you follow her?”
“Certainly not. I followed you. You were obviously in a hurry to leave earlier this evening, and I presumed you were about to follow another clue. Which is why I had that talk with you—vowing to do better, so that you wouldn’t feel the need to do such things on your own. But obviously…”
He pulls back, and in that movement, I see his hurt.
Damn it, Duncan. I’m sorry. I really am.
“I’m sorry—”
“No need,” he says, too quickly to mean it. “You did not trust me yet. I have not earned it.” He starts for the hall. “We must get to my sister. She is too reckless by far.”
“Not reckless,” I say as I hurry after him. “Just restricted. Restricted and restrained and sheltered, and so when she gets an adventure, she isn’t prepared to deal with it.”
He turns to peer at me, and I realize I’m using my Mallory voice. I wave at the hall. “We’ll speak later, sir. I have—I have things I need to tell you, but for now we must get to Is—Mrs. Ballantyne.”
We walk two steps. Then I stop so abruptly he bashes into me.
I turn. “There are notes. I can grab them quickly. I just need you to watch me, so you may tell Detective McCreadie that they are where I said they were.”
“As I found you here, I am not certain how that proves anything. You may have planted them.”
I curse under my breath. Then I stride forward. “Forget the notes. We’ll discuss them once we have your sister.”
“Are you all right, Catriona? You sound odd.”
“I am distracted, sir. Upset at my discoveries and distracted and now concerned about Mrs. Ballantyne.”
We reach the door. I wave for him to wait while I peek out. There’s nothing to see, though—just the stairwell. We creep out, and I ascend first, scanning the yard.
We jog to the road and then stride along it. Or Gray strides, while I need to stay jogging to keep up.
“You said you knew I was up to something earlier?” I prompt carefully, mostly just to get him talking. He’s trying to act normal, but I feel the edge of a chill. I didn’t confide in him, and that stings, however much he wants to pretend it doesn’t.
For a moment, he seems ready to brush off my question. Then he says, “There was something you were not telling us. Something about Constable Findlay. You discovered something else earlier today, and I had the distinct impression that you did not trust Detective McCreadie with the information.”
“That’s not it.”
“No?” He glances over as we turn the corner. “Yes, perhaps I misspoke. You did not trust Detective McCreadie or myself.”
“I suspected Constable Findlay, and I know he is very close to Detective McCreadie, so I wanted proof before I took my suspicions to him.”
“That is what I presumed,” he says. “I followed you, and I saw where you were going, and as it seemed unlikely to be an assignation, I knew you must be investigating Constable Findlay. I am resisting the temptation to lecture you on the dangers of what you did. I know you are not a child, even if you do seem very young to me. However, you are very obviously able to take care of yourself, as you proved when attacked the other day and as you proved again tonight.”
“I did not prove it so well tonight,” I mutter. “Detective McCreadie wasn’t joking when he said you know how to fight.”
He shrugs, relaxing a little. “A skill I learned early in life. While my former public school now admits international students, I was an anomaly at the time, and some people do not like anomalies. They mistake difference for weakness. I learned how to teach them otherwise, sometimes with my grades and sometimes with my fists. The problem, as my mother would say, is that I came to enjoy the latter an unseemly amount.”
I smile. “Well, you are good at it, which always helps.”
“It does, and so I say, as a fellow student of the art, that you have obviously had training yourself. You would do much better without those damnable skirts.”
“Tell me about it.”
He relaxes more, even offering a faint smile. I’m about to say something else when we turn the corner and I stop short.
Isla is gone.
“Catriona?” Gray says, frowning at me.
I hike my skirts and break into a jog. He follows, and I run as fast as I can to the spot where I last saw her.
“She was right here,” I say.
“Are you certain?” He peers across the street and answers his own question. “Yes, that is the town house.” He straightens. “Do not panic. She has simply gone home. She saw us round the corner—or heard our voices—and fled, and we shall find her at home, slightly out of breath, acting as if she has been there all along. Yes, no need for panic.”
I don’t point out that he’s said that twice. The reassurance is for himself as he paces, scouring the street and frowning.
“Unless she heard our skirmish in the apartment,” he says. “She may have come to your aid. Perhaps she went the other way around.” He squints down the street. “Blast it. We shall be running in circles trying to find her, while she will be at home. I know she will be.”
I’m only half listening to him. I’m pacing on the sidewalk, thinking. Yes, Isla would have fled if she heard us. We weren’t whispering once we came outside. Yes, she could also have heard a crash or a grunt or a cry from in the apartment—it’s hard to look back on a fight and know whether you made some involuntary noise.
“I will run home,” Gray says. “I am dressed to move faster. Whether she is there or not, I shall return with the coach. You check around the back of the town house. See—”
He cuts himself short. “You have not said whether you found evidence that Constable Findlay is guilty of anything.”
“He’s the person who attacked me the first time. I am certain of that.”
“What?”
“He thinks I double-crossed him.” I keep pacing, my gaze on the ground. “A woman I believed to be a friend told him so, and she lured him in that night to the public house where I was seen. I found the evidence in his rooms. Yes, you go home and get the coach. I will check behind the house.”
