by Jess Faraday
Her blue eyes flashed, and her lips tightened.
“Constable, women may be making our way into the universities, but when it comes to employment, most doors are still barred from the inside. Yes, I support myself by copying other people’s writing. But it’s a far sight better than spending my days wiping the noses of overprivileged brats, or spooning porridge down the gullets of bedridden old women.”
“I see.” I hadn’t thought about it that way. And if those were the choices, I could see why she’d be annoyed. “Still, Edinburgh is such a long way from London. Surely you might have found a position closer to home.”
“I wanted to work in a museum.” For just a moment, her face lit up, revealing a glimmer of the excited girl beneath. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’d have preferred something a bit more challenging, but I was grateful to take anything. And to be fair, it doesn’t pay badly.”
“It pays well enough, it appears,” I said, gesturing toward an exquisite-looking pen peeking out of the pocket of her dress, “for you to afford a beautiful writing instrument.”
Her hand went to her pocket. “This? It was a gift.”
“May I?”
She handed it to me. Up close, it was even more impressive, with an etched silver body and one of the new pointed nibs. I handed it back.
“What was Dr. Selkirk like to work for?” I asked.
The light left her eyes like a candle snuffed.
“It was difficult, at first. At a women’s college, one becomes accustomed to a certain freedom. One learns to speak her mind, to offer opinions and insights. People are actually interested in working together and learning from each other.”
“But that wasn’t the case in Dr. Selkirk’s department?” I asked.
In the sigh that followed, I heard the unspoken frustration of everyone who has ever labored under someone of lesser intelligence but infinitely greater power.
“Constable, no one wants to hear the typist’s opinion about the true nature of the prince’s relationship to his ‘constant companion.’”
“I do,” I said. The words leaped out before I could stop them. For a moment I regretted the lapse. Then Miss Wallace turned those flashing blue eyes to me once again, and in them, I saw a glimmer of hope. And also fear—perhaps fear that I was only asking so I could make fun of her after the fact.
“I’m serious,” I said. “I was here to see the exhibition today, when the explosion happened. What’s your professional opinion?”
She preened a bit, then leaned toward me with a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “Well, let’s just say that three thousand years ago in Egypt, people were quite a bit more liberal minded about certain kinds of romantic unions.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course it is. Horus and Seth. King Neferkare and General Sasenet. Khnumhotep and Niankhkhnum. Maimonides even referred to sapphic love as ‘acts of Egypt.’”
My heart pounded. When you’ve spent your entire life being told some intrinsic part of you is an abomination, it’s an unspeakably powerful thing to come across evidence that not everyone throughout all of history actually believed that way. But this was not the time to give way to emotion. I took a deep breath and straightened in my chair.
“Did you share your views with Dr. Selkirk?” I asked.
The mask fell again. “I tried to. You can guess how that went.”
“He didn’t want to hear it?”
“‘My girl,’ he said.” Her voice became a caricature of a plummy Oxbridge accent. “‘Even if anyone were actually interested in what you had to say, that particular opinion would drive museum-goers away, when what we want is to bring them in.’” She stopped. Narrowed her eyes. “You look like you know the type,” she said.
“I do indeed.”
“But did any of those types ever lay their hands on you in an overly familiar way?”
“No,” I replied. But at least now I understood her deliberately unattractive clothing.
She gave a crisp nod. “All the same, perhaps you can understand that I won’t be mourning Dr. Selkirk’s passing.”
I did understand, to my shame as a man. Not that I would ever take liberties with a woman – or with a man, for that matter. But I could have named quite a few fellow constables who might have done so as naturally as breathing. I thought to ask why she didn’t simply leave her position for a more congenial one. But if museum positions were so difficult to come by, perhaps she was afraid she wouldn’t find another.
“Could you take me through the events of your day before the explosion?” I asked.
She looked thoughtful. “I arrived at work early. We all did. We had set everything up last night, but Dr. Selkirk wanted to make sure that it was perfect before the museum opened its doors. Malcom, that is, Dr. Findlay, and I did one final sweep of the exhibition gallery around eight o’clock.”
“Did you find anything amiss?” I asked.
“No. Everything was just as we had left it the night before.”
“No sign of an intruder?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Miss Wallace, were you aware of any objections to the exhibit? Had there been any threats or expressions of protest?”
Her sharp intake of breath was so quick I almost missed it. And her subsequent delivery was so natural, for an instant I doubted the suspicion that quick breath had caused.
“No, Constable. Dr. Selkirk hadn’t told me anything of the sort.”
This was probably true. At the same time, as Dr. Selkirk’s typist, she would have had access to his correspondence—possibly including his correspondence with Dr. Al-Mahdi. And one of her languages, as Findlay had so thoughtfully informed me, was Arabic.
I asked, “Did part of your job include dealing with Dr. Selkirk’s correspondence?”
She frowned. “Not his personal correspondence.”
“Of course not. But correspondence with other museums and institutions?”
I did not imagine, at that point, how her shoulders seemed to relax. “Oh, yes. He quite enjoyed dictating letters. I think it made him feel important.”
“Did he ever dictate any letters to scholars or museum staff in Egypt?”
She shook her head. “No. The arrangements for bringing the mummies to Edinburgh went through the British Museum.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back in my chair. Dr. Al-Mahdi, it seemed, had been corresponding with Dr. Selkirk in private. I wondered again about the nature of that correspondence. Combined with Al-Mahdi’s delicate demeanor, his choice of cologne, and his unexpectedly sentimental reaction to the death of a man he’d never met, I had my suspicions. But again, he’d been so eager to hand over the letters.
“To your knowledge, did Dr. Selkirk maintain any sort of contact, personal or professional, with native Egyptian colleagues?”
She scoffed. “Dr. Selkirk had the same regard for Egyptian scholars that he did for academic women. If he even believed such a thing existed at all.”
This did present a conundrum, then. For I had just given Dr. Findlay a stack of letters that seemed to indicate the opposite. I hoped he would have them translated quickly. My curiosity about their contents was now almost physically uncomfortable.
“Thank you,” I said. “That will be all for now, but I may wish to interview you again, so please don’t leave town.”
“Constable,” she said with a wry expression. “Where is it you think I would go?”
•••
By the time Findlay sank down onto the chair, he looked as if it had been him, rather than me, who had been wrestling with a suspect in the middle of a busy street. And it appeared as if he actually had ended up under the wheels of that lorry. Gone was the bookishly attractive young man whom I’d feared would steal my companion’s attentions. His face was sallow, now, his eyes sunken and ringed. And he squinted against the light of my lamp as if he had the same splitting headache that I did. But his discomfort was not my concern. The sooner this was fini
shed, the sooner we could both leave.
And the sooner I could attend to the matter that was really weighing on my mind. I wasn’t actually certain I owed Cal an apology. My actions had been right, my intentions pure. But something I’d done had upset him enough to make him vanish without so much as a wave. So whether my actions actually merited his offense was immaterial. If I didn’t want to lose him, I had to make things right. And I would, somehow, just as soon as this interview was over.
Findlay and I regarded each other wearily across the desk. My earlier jealousy was long gone, replaced now by curiosity. As the assistant curator, Findlay probably had the best chance of clearing up the mystery of who Dr. Selkirk actually was. And from there I might be able to determine why someone would want him dead. Was the curator a brilliant scholar with an open mind toward unorthodox relationships in the households of long-dead princes? Or was he a condescending prick who couldn’t keep his hands off of female staff members? And where did he stand on the issue of returning the prince and his companion to Egypt?
“Dr. Selkirk was a complicated man,” Findlay began unhelpfully. I crossed my arms over my chest and sighed. “That is, he was an excellent curator. He always put the museum first. He had a gift for envisioning exhibits that would generate public interest. You saw the number of people here today to visit the mummies, for example.”
“That was impressive,” I admitted.
“At the same time, when I say he put the museum first, he never did so in a way that wouldn’t benefit him as well.”
Just like the captain of any industry, I thought. “How did you get on with him personally?”
Findlay left just enough of a pause to let me know that, regardless of his opinion of his supervisor’s professional abilities, on a personal level, their relationship left something to be desired.
“He always treated me well,” Findlay finally said.
“And others?”
Again the pause.
“I should have strongly disliked being a female staff member in his department,” he said carefully.
“I see. And what about his relationships with male colleagues?”
Findlay shrugged. “He behaved as one might expect from a department head.”
“At least where male staff were concerned.”
“Unfortunately, plenty of eminent men are cads when it comes to females in their employ. Henrietta—that is, Miss Wallace—and I have a theory about that.”
My ears pricked up. She, too, had slipped and referred to Findlay by his Christian name.
“You and Miss Wallace are friends?” I asked.
“We’re colleagues, Constable.”
“But not more than that?”
He set his jaw and met my eyes. “Miss Wallace has a fine mind and a first class education. It was to the department's detriment that Dr. Selkirk refused to look beyond her…physical charms to appreciate this.”
“But you appreciate it. You appreciate her.” Slowly, realization began to dawn. And now I knew for certain that I really did owe Cal an apology. “Do you love her, Dr. Findlay?” I asked gently.
He smiled, but it was a sad, embarrassed smile, as if he’d been caught out at something. “It’s that obvious, is it?”
“One should never be ashamed of love,” I said.
He regarded me evenly, unwaveringly, and in a way that told me that he was Cal’s friend, and had been for much longer than I.
“I’m not ashamed of my feelings, Constable. But it was never to be, between me and Henrietta.”
“Why not?” I asked. From where I sat, it looked like the stars had gone to a great deal of trouble to bring Miss Wallace and Dr. Findlay into one another’s orbits.
“Dr. Selkirk would never have allowed it. In fact, I made the mistake of broaching the subject with him. He said under no circumstance would he allow a married woman to continue to work for him.” He shrugged. “All Henrietta had ever wanted was to work in a museum. I could never expect her to give that up for me.”
“Did you ever ask her to?” I asked.
He laughed miserably. “No. It was doomed before it began.”
Perhaps. And perhaps Dr. Selkirk’s untimely death had opened a new opportunity for this particular set of star-crossed lovers. But another pressing question concerned a different ill-fated pair.
“Back to the mummies for a moment,” I said. “Were you aware of any objections to the exhibit? Had the museum, to your knowledge, received any threats?”
“Like a brick through the front window?” Findlay asked.
“Or angry letters, anything like that? Anything to suggest that someone might attempt to disrupt the opening?”
Findlay frowned. He let out a long breath and shook his head. “No. There was nothing like that, that I was aware of. And since I was responsible for the physical security of the gallery, Dr. Selkirk would surely have told me if there were.”
Findlay was folding and unfolding his hands in his lap. It was the same strange hand washing gesture I’d seen when he’d taken the lectern. It was natural, of course, for anyone to be nervous during a police interview. Especially if he’d been having a cup of tea for each one he’d served me. It struck me as unusual, though, that someone who worked with books, paper, and artifacts should have tiny cuts and scratches along the backs of his hands, as if he'd been performing physical labor. Moreover, they were fresh.
“Do you have a kitten, Dr. Findlay?” I asked.
He looked surprised, then confused. Then he glanced at his hands and laughed that strange nervous laugh. “This? No, I’m afraid I’m just clumsy. A few too many cups of tea and one starts to drop the things.”
“Indeed,” I said. I’d had to set my own cup aside for the same reasons. A constable with shaking fingers inspires confidence in no one. Strange, though. I’d have thought, given the boredom of those waiting in the main gallery for their interview, that someone dropping a teacup would have made enough of a spectacle to cause an uproar. But perhaps I’d been too deep in my interview with some aggravated museum-goer at the time to notice.
“Did you have any other questions for me, Constable?” Findlay asked.
“Actually, I did, though it’s a bit off topic. What do you think was the nature of the relationship between the prince and his constant companion?”
“I think,” he said, raking his hair back from his forehead in a weary gesture. “It was simply another case of finding the right person in the most wrong time and place possible. There seems to be a lot of it about.”
•••
It was close to nine o’clock when Findlay, Miss Wallace, and I emerged from the museum. A chill had set in, and it cut like a knife through my thin scarf, and it was starting to rain. Thick, penny-sized drops fell on my face and shoulders, and down the back of my neck. Findlay locked the heavy front doors, settled Miss Wallace in a cab, and then bade me good night. Once he had disappeared into the darkness, I walked as quickly as I could toward Cal’s home near the University.
I had never been inside Cal’s building, but we’d reluctantly parted in front of it often enough that I knew how to get there. The area itself was a bit dodgy, but the building was cheap and clean. The snow was falling hard and fast now, covering the black, muddy slush between the cobblestones like a ratty blanket.
Cal shared a flat—paid for, of course, by Uncle Henry—with two other students. It was a fortunate arrangement, he’d told me. The young men all entertained overnight visitors from time to time, but the only woman who ever set foot inside the place was the landlady, once a month, to collect the rent. I’d never met his flatmates, and had no idea if he’d even mentioned me. Not that I should have expected him to. Or should I have? Either way, it took a moment or two in the hallway to work up my nerve to knock at the door.
It was a relief when Cal answered. At least until I saw that he was wearing his coat, and carrying his hat in one hand. He had washed and shaved, his hair was oiled and combed, and he was wearing a different cologne.
“Going out?” I asked.
“What’s it to you?”
I swallowed. This was going to be harder than I thought. I’d not imagined it would be easy. “A lot, actually. May I come in?”
He frowned, but stepped back from the door. He didn’t offer to take my coat, nor did he remove his. The flat was exactly as I’d imagined it: simple, tidy, masculine. It was warm, as well. I was suddenly aware of the rain running off my boots and coat, and the wet footprints I was tracking in from the street.
“Have you come to finish the inquisition?” he asked.
“What?”
“Your friend Drummond interrogated me quite thoroughly this morning.” He smiled mirthlessly at the fear that must have shown on my face. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he was just as thorough with everyone else he didn’t think belonged at the exhibition with you.”
My heart stopped. But I couldn’t think about what Drummond might have said or done right then. I had to do what I came to do before I lost my nerve.
“I came to apologize,” I said.
Cal’s expression softened a bit. “I’m listening.”
“I had no cause to be jealous of Malcom Findlay. No cause at all, as it turns out. He’s in love with Dr. Selkirk’s typist.”
Cal’s brow wrinkled. With surprise? “I could have told you that.”
I drew a deep breath. “But even if he wasn’t, it’s not my place to be jealous. You and I have no formal agreement. I was out of bounds.”
He cocked his head. “You were really jealous?” He still looked annoyed, but a bit of the usual spark had returned to his eye, and I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“Seething.”
Now he cracked a small smile. “That was you, seething?”
“If you only knew,” I said.
“But I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” How many times would I have to say it?
“Jealous.” He laughed under his breath. “It’s actually quite flattering.”
“Then why were you so put out with me?”
He stared. “You think that’s why I was angry?”
