A Rip Through Time (A Rip Through Time #1)

by Kelley Armstrong

She cackles. “He may not be a proper toff, but he’s got a fine house and a fine income. No proper lady will have him, so you might as well.” “Dr. Gray’s occupation would hardly prevent him from finding himself a proper lady.” “His occupation?” She snorts. “You have indeed taken a hard blow to the head if you think that’d be what stops them.”

Does she mean because he’s not white? What would that have to do with a scandal? Ah, I bet I know. His skin tone suggests one of his parents is white and the other isn’t. Such a union would probably be shocking in this day.

“A drink?” The woman scowls. “Is that a joke?” Fortunately, my expression must answer for me, because she eases back, still eyeing me sharply. “You really have lost your memory. No, kitty-cat, I do not want a drink. I don’t imbibe. Neither do you, and that piece of advice I’ll give for free. Lose yourself in a bottle, and soon you’ll be lifting your skirts for more. That’s not the life for us.” “So what is the life for us?” I say. “Forget the drink. May I ask you some questions?” I take out the coin. “I can pay.”

“I’ll give you the going rate for a high-class whore. A pound will buy you twenty minutes of my time.” She starts to walk away. “You know where to find me, kitty-cat.” “No, actually, I don’t.” She laughs and points at the dive bar where Catriona had been spotted the night she was attacked.

I’d imagined Catriona as a girl who’d grown up fighting for scraps. A victim of circumstance who’d done what she had to and “worked up” to housemaid in a prosperous home owned by a decent man. It might not seem like much to me, but it was a Victorian success story. Except that’s not how it went at all, was it? Catriona didn’t grow up in Old Town poverty. That doesn’t mean she didn’t escape horrors of another kind at home, but I’m getting the sense she’s less a scrappy success story than a remorseless criminal.

This world may not be hell, but it is another sort of nightmare, one where my rights and freedoms have been snatched away, and I am powerless to fight back. That might be the worst of it. I want to fight, and I cannot because it would land me in the streets or an insane asylum.

Am I missing? I realize with a jolt that I might not be missing at all. I might be walking around the modern world … with Catriona puppeteering me. What if Catriona took over my body? A thief and a con artist in my body.

At the voice, I spin to see Alice. When I move fast, she shrinks on herself before straightening. How many times have I seen her do this? How often have I lifted a hand, and she’s flinched? Moved toward her, and she’s steeled herself? Spun to face her, and she’s drawn back?

Friend? No. Alice isn’t quick to be helpful because she likes Catriona. She’s quick because she’s afraid of her. Because, on top of all her other charming qualities, Catriona is a bully.

In this world, the data is overwhelming for me. So I’ve shut down the part of me that I’d like to think is bias-light, and I shoved everyone into boxes. My undertaker employer will be grim and foreboding. As a man with servants, he’ll be an inconsiderate asshole. The body I inhabit is that of a pretty teenage housemaid. She’ll be meek and mild and not terribly bright. Oh, wait, she was a thief? Then she did it out of desperation, a girl from the slums driven to steal for a living. The twelve-year-old scullery maid flinches from me? She’s a poor and timid creature. Oh, she’s also nice to me? Because we’re sisters in service, bound by circumstances.

When I enter my room, the first thing I see is a book on my dresser. Records of Washing Away of Injuries, by Song Ci, translated by W. A. Harland. I crack it open and smile for the first time in hours. It’s the thirteenth-century Chinese book of forensic science that Gray had mentioned.

I settle on the bed and open the book to the first page. There’s an inscription. To my darling genius son, I found this in a shop, Duncan, and thought you might enjoy it. Please don’t let your sister get hold of this one. You know she’ll insist on reading it, even when it will give her nightmares. Love always, Mama

“Alice did not come to wake you, because I had a more important task for her. I realized you were still abed and came to get you myself and found you’ve been eating pilfered biscuits. That was bad enough. But this?” She waves the book. “You stole from the master’s library?”

“It is bad enough you pilfered from the good silver,” she says. “Bad enough I caught you with one of the mistress’s bracelets. They will not notice that. This they will notice.” She waves the book again. “I didn’t—” “I covered for you, missy. I let you cry and promise you wouldn’t do it again. I knew better. I could hear the lie in your voice, see the crocodile in your tears, but for Miss Isla’s sake, I allowed you one final chance. This is the last straw.

“I believe Alice gave Catriona the biscuits. I have noticed her sneaking uneaten food from my tray.” He glances down the hall, as if making certain Alice isn’t there, though he still lowers his voice. “I have spoken to Isla about it, and she says I ought not to comment. Alice has known want in the past, and so it eases her mind to store food in her quarters. It is, after all, unwanted food, and no harm is done. I would prefer to give her some to put away, but Isla does not wish to embarrass the girl.”

This body may be younger, but it often feels like driving a clunky rental. Catriona’s strength isn’t the kind I’m accustomed to. Legs that are used to standing all day, yet balk at moving faster than a walk. Arms that can hoist a full water bucket, yet ache after an hour wielding a pen. And don’t even get me started on my core. Remove the corset, and I can barely manage a proper sit-up.

“And now you may run back to whatever has currently seized your attention. Lovely to see you, Isla. Did you have a good trip? Yes, yes, we shall chat later, dear sister.”

A handsome woman. That never seems like a compliment, but I mean it as one. “Pretty” implies a fleeting attractiveness. Catriona is very pretty, and I have no idea how much of that is true beauty and how much is simply youth. At sixteen, Isla Ballantyne would not have been the most attractive girl on the dance floor, but I have no doubt she will be at sixty.

“Catriona?” She stares at me, one glove still half off. “You know your letters?” I bow in what I hope is a proper curtsy. “I do, ma’am. I must apologize for keeping it from you, but I feared you might think I had airs above my station.” “Airs above your…?” She arches a brow at Duncan. “This is Catriona, is it not?” “I fear I am somewhat changed, ma’am,” I say. “Due to the concussion I received during my incident.”

“Come, Catriona,” Isla says. “There is a murder victim to tend to. This is terribly exciting. It’s been months since we had one. No wonder Duncan is so distracted.” She beams at him. “Is it an interesting case? Please tell me it is interesting.” McCreadie steps into her path. “No, Isla. Duncan has Catriona to assist him. You are not seeing this one.” Her brows arch. “I beg your pardon? It sounds as if you said I am not to see him, when you meant that I ought not to.”

Finally, she flutters her fingers. “All right. Off with all three of you then, and I shall await the report. There will be a report, yes? And if there are any unknown substances to be analyzed, you will bring them to me?” “We shall report and, of course, anything requiring chemical analysis shall be delivered to your laboratory.”

McCreadie says gently, “Dr. Gray possesses a medical degree, but he cannot—er, does not—practice medicine. Even if he did, there is only one police surgeon in Edinburgh. It is an elected position. The police surgeon autopsies the victim. I examine the scene and make observations regarding the body.”

McCreadie snorts. “A high-minded ideal, Catriona, but I believe the breadth of my professional instruction was ‘Can you wield a cudgel? Yes? Excellent!’”

Most officers of the law, not being scientists, mistrust the science. They solve a robbery by questioning witnesses. Not by matching finger marks left on the window frame to the fingers of a suspect.” “Still not convinced of that one myself,” McCreadie murmurs.

Gray hoists a vial like it’s the Holy Grail. Inside is an opaque liquid. “Mucus?” McCreadie says. “Water,” I say, before I can stop myself. Gray smiles at me. “Very good, Catriona. It is water. There was a significant quantity of water in his lungs, meaning he inhaled it shortly before his death.” “So he died of drowning?” McCreadie says. “Not strangulation?”

“Er, I, uh, do not know the proper terminology for it,” I say. “That is the word I have heard, I think. I mean the method of torture in which one pours water over the victim’s mouth and nose, to inflict the sensation of drowning.” More staring, and I realize my explanation sounded far too technical for Catriona. Either that or Gray’s rethinking having anyone in his home with such a well-rounded knowledge of torture.

My gut tells me that I am lucky to have landed in a household where I’m considered a suitable assistant to a forensic scientist. Lucky to have these two professionals consider my observations. I’ll credit the woman bustling about upstairs unpacking. It’s obvious McCreadie is an old family friend. It’s also obvious that Isla is a chemist—a scientist in her own right—and that this is accepted as normal within these walls.

With this case, a window keeps cracking open, just enough to let in the sweetest whiff of fresh air and a view of possibilities beyond housemaid drudgery. An opportunity to experience police work in a past century. A chance to work with a pioneer of forensic science.

Indulge her curiosity, my ass. Over the next thirty minutes, Isla Ballantyne interrogates me like a suspect in the box. An apt description, because she does suspect me of something. So far, everyone has bought my story. Blow to the head muddling my mind and my memory. Gray, the medical expert, accepted it at face value. Both McCreadie and Mrs. Wallace have their doubts, thinking “Catriona” is up to some trick, but they’ve stepped back to watch and judge. Isla dives in with a razor-sharp scalpel. Without even a skeptical raised eyebrow from her, I still feel my story falling apart around me, eviscerated by her questions.

There are several pieces of jewelry missing. That plus a ring and a set of earrings from my late husband.”

“Only the locket is. My grandmother gave it to me on her deathbed, in recognition of the fact that we shared something in common. She had secretly trained to be a doctor and yet was recognized as no more than my grandfather’s assistant. I received training in the pharmacological sciences, but have no hope of being recognized as more than a woman who dabbles in herbal remedies.”

What the hell had the girl been thinking? Mrs. Wallace must have already caught her stealing from Isla’s room, which is why I’d been forbidden to air it out for the mistress’s return. After being caught and let off with a warning, Catriona steals the very necklace Isla is guaranteed to notice missing. How could she be that stupid?

My Dearest Duncan, I know you think we ought not to see one another again, but I must implore you to reconsider. Perhaps these memories will spur your return to my doorstep. I stop after two more lines. Okay, so by sharing “these memories” what she really meant is “let me send you a very explicit description of the last time we had sex.” Well, gotta give Gray credit for that—he definitely left her wanting more.

Catriona has been intercepting the post. Taking anything that looks interesting, like a box of candies. Or anything that looks useful, like a letter for Gray in a woman’s handwriting. I am furious on their behalf. For someone like Catriona, decent people are nothing but suckers who deserve whatever she dishes out.

Twelve pounds. A small fortune for a housemaid. And it must be what remains of Isla’s locket and whatever else Catriona stole and pawned.

the concession that my despair has little to do with the locket situation and everything to do with feeling powerless in this world. The locket issue only brings that into sharper focus.

He shakes his head. “I will not pull you from your duties today, Catriona.” Pull away. Please. The words are on the tip of my tongue. At first, I hold them back because the phrasing is too modern, but that pause gives me time to realize the truth of what he’s saying. If I don’t do my chores, who does? Mrs. Wallace? Alice? To ask for case work means pushing my maid duties onto the shoulders of others. Damned ethical dilemmas.

Not so in Victorian Scotland, where guys walk in from tromping along a horseshit-laden road and track it all on my clean floors. Why? Because I’m here. I exist to clean it up.

“Remind me why we are at odds over Constable Findlay.” He arches one brow, and I tap my temple. “My memory, remember?” “We are ‘at odds’ as you put it because the poor man is besotted, and you bat your eyes at him, so he’ll court you with pretty trinkets and baubles that you sell as quick as you can. It isn’t right.”

If you want to come visit me in the stables, you cannot be leading him on anymore.” I stop myself before saying I’m no longer leading Findlay on. True, but nor do I want to be “visiting Simon in the stables.”

Catriona accepts Findlay’s wooing gifts and accepts his wooing, while playing the shy maiden who won’t do more than hold his hand before the wedding day. She certainly isn’t going to tell Simon that. They might be casual, but no guy wants to hear that a girl is only with him while she makes a play for someone else. What happened between Catriona and Findlay? Something for sure, considering the cold shoulder he’s giving her. Did she tell him to put a ring on it, and he backed off, not being in the market for a wife? Or did he make a pass that she rebuffed?

In this world, there are two options for a man of thirty with a nineteen-year-old female assistant. Either I’m a delectable morsel, his for the taking, or I’m a clever girl he’s encouraging to explore higher educational interests. Gray is thankfully embracing option two. He’s treating me like a child, because to him, that’s what I am.

“They’re making it up,” I say. “Even the newspapers.” “Of course.” “But why? There was a press conference. I hardly saw anyone there.” Gray shrugs, his eyes still scanning an article. “Why bother attending that when they can invent something more entertaining? They are wordsmiths, crafting a narrative to suit their audience.” “And these?” I lift one of the single pages. “These are pure fiction.”

“It is singular in its staging. As an intellectual exercise, poor Evans’s death is fascinating. What person conceives of such a thing? I am no alienist, but even I must wonder at such a mind. It is almost, dare I say, artistic.” “The killer has a vision. Or else he is plagued by inner demons, and this is his way of expressing it. A compulsion.”

However, to the average citizen, Evans’s murder lacks passion. It is a cerebral killing, and therefore quite dull. Nary a severed limb to be found. They’re bloodless crimes, and as such…” I feign a yawn, and that has his face lighting up in a way that makes my heart stutter.

“Speaking of Hugh, he is due for lunch to discuss the case, and if you’d be so kind as to serve the meal, you may join us and listen in.”

Isla has analyzed the water and believes it is from a tap. It’s definitely fresh water rather than salt, and the lack of foreign particles suggests it’s not from a body of standing water, like a puddle. They still aren’t sure what that means—my waterboarding hypothesis has obviously been dismissed.

“The young men Evans was living with still refuse to speak to me,” McCreadie says. “I am, apparently, the enemy.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s a household of young radicals, all convinced the police only exist to deprive them of their rights.”

McCreadie gives him a look. “They will speak to her because she’s a fetching young lady and they are a household of rowdy young men. That would be obvious to anyone but you, Duncan.” “No,” Gray says coolly. “I did not mention it because it might suggest we expect her to employ her feminine charms.” “I’m fine with flirting,” I say. “Help me come up with a cover story and tell me what you want to know.”

I’m taking on my first Victorian undercover mission. I’m shocked by how readily McCreadie agreed. Yet more proof that policing is very different in this world. He didn’t need to clear it with a supervisor. He doesn’t need me to sign a waiver. He barely even hesitated when I suggested it.