Page 3 of Death at a Highland Wedding

McCreadie sighs. “Looks as if we will get our jackets dirty, Duncan. These fellows are going to need some help.”

Gray only grunts. If the problem is a stuck coach or broken wheel—which happens as often as flat tires—neither of them will stand by waiting for divine intervention. They’ll take off their coats, roll up their sleeves, and get to work.

“Trouble with the coach?” McCreadie calls as we draw near.

The two men turn, and McCreadie’s gait slows. They’re about our age. Both are dressed as if heading to a formal event, wearing silk cravats and top hats. Even McCreadie—usually a total fashion plate—is dressed for travel.

One of the men is tall and broad-shouldered, with light brown hair. The other has medium brown hair and is more compact. When they see us, the darker-haired one’s frown lifts in a welcoming grin. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, his companion steps forward.

“Duncan Gray,” the bigger man says. “Thank God you are here. We are in most urgent need of your very special skills.”

Something in his tone grates down my spine, and I find myself hoping he’s in need of a doctor… to treat some terribly embarrassing rash.

“Cranston,” Gray says, his tone managing to be both cool and cordial at the same time. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“I have lost my lapel pin.” He motions to his cravat. “We stopped to take… a brief jaunt into the woods, and when I climbed back into the carriage, I realized it was gone.”

McCreadie’s eyes narrow. “You are holding up an entire line of coaches because you lost a stickpin, Archie?”

“It is a very expensive pin.”

The darker-haired man murmurs, “I did mention that we ought to pull over up ahead and walk back.”

“Nonsense, Sinclair.” Cranston claps the other man on the back. “They can wait. We shall be moving soon, now that we have Detective Duncan Gray on the job.”

“Hugh is the—” Gray begins.

“Yes, yes, but Hugh is apolicedetective.” Cranston gives the word a derisive twist that has my hackles practically vibrating. “Gray here is the celebrity. Even has books written about his adventures. Well, children’s books, but still.”

Yes, someone is chronicling Gray’s investigations. No, they are not children’s books—they are detective serials. Victorians may be a prudish lot, but they make up for it with a thirst for blood and guts, and a good mystery provides that.

We are seeing the start of the detective novel, with Sherlock Holmes still nearly twenty years away. The primary market for such work, especially true crime, is women, just as it is in the modern world. Such an interest, though, could be concerning in a woman, and so these stories are shared with children, as cautionary tales.

Crime doesn’t pay, lass.

The detective will find you out, lad.

Seeing a market, someone leapt on Gray’s adventures. Since then, they’ve been shut down and replaced with our own scribe—and new housemaid—Jack, who is far less inclined to make me look like a simpering magician’s assistant and McCreadie look like a bumbling police detective.

But it’s still Gray who gets the limelight. People prefer heroes to ensemble casts, and that’s fine for McCreadie and me, who like to stay out of the limelight. Not quite so fine for Gray, who would really rather join us in the shadows.

“Dr. Gray’s specialty is forensic pathology,” I say.

Both men turn my way, as if the trees spoke.

“My assistant, Miss Mitchell,” Gray says. “Who is correct. Unless you have a body that requires dissection, I cannot help solve your mystery.”

“As for the stickpin,” I say, “it’s right there. Caught on your pocket.”

Cranston looks down, and McCreadie barely suppresses a snicker as he sees the jeweled pin, half caught on the edge of Cranston’s pocket.

“The mystery is solved,” McCreadie says. “We will take our leave. Good day, gentlemen.”

“Wait. You cannot leave before saying hello to Violet. She would be most offended.”

Something spasms in McCreadie’s face, but he quickly schools his features and gives a stiff nod of his head.

“Violet!” Cranston bellows, as if the coach isn’t six inches away. He throws open the door. “Look who we have met on the road. Hugh McCreadie. You remember Hugh. Your former fiancé.”