A Rip Through Time
Kelley Armstrong
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Welcome to 1869 Scotland, as written by a 2021 Canadian. Yep, I am not exactly the obvious writer for such a story, which is why my narrator, Mallory, is also a twenty-first-century Canadian. That said, I did want to present the time period as accurately as I could, within the limitations of available data, contemporary interpretations of that data, and my admittedly modern perspective.
If you share my interest in this time period, you’ll find both a selected and more complete bibliography on my website. The selected version is primarily books written for a general audience, while the complete includes scholarly articles and primary sources.
In cases where the primary sources differed from the secondary sources, I initially chose to follow the primary sources. However, if my early readers flagged any of those choices as seeming incorrect, I opted for the better-known variation found in secondary sources. This is a novel of historical fiction, after all.
On the subject of fictional license, readers familiar with Edinburgh will note that there is no “Robert Street,” where I’ve placed Gray’s town house. This is intentional. Also, in 1869, the Edinburgh police surgeon was Henry Littlejohn, who held that post during a long and storied career, where he did memorable work in forensic science. Let’s just say that Gray and McCreadie would have much preferred Littlejohn to my fictional police surgeon, but that would have made for a very different story.
Again, this is a work of fiction, written by an enthusiastic amateur history buff who must accept that she will make mistakes and hopes they’ll be forgiven. If readers wish to point out errors, well-intended constructive corrections—with academic source links—are always appreciated.
ONE
My grandmother is dying, and I am getting coffee. I can tell myself that I’m treating the hospice nurses. I can tell myself that Nan is sleeping, and I can’t do anything right now. I can tell myself that even if she woke, she would never begrudge me a fifteen-minute break. It doesn’t matter. I crossed an ocean to be at her side for her final days … and instead I’m standing in an Edinburgh coffee shop, ordering lattes and chais as if it’s just another midafternoon caffeine break, as if the doctor hadn’t told me, thirty minutes ago, that the person I love most in the world will be dead before the weekend.
The shop is overcrowded and understaffed, tempers fraying, people shifting and sniping, and I want to scream at them all to shut up and be glad for a day where a five-minute wait is the worst thing that will happen. Instead, I’m on the phone to my mom, hunched over for some modicum of privacy. In the midst of this excruciatingly banal chaos, I am telling my mother that unless she can get here in the next three days, she will never see her own mother again.
I want to step outside, but I’ve already placed my order. I want to say “to hell with it” and reorder elsewhere, but I left my wallet in the hospice and the ten-pound note I brought is now reduced to spare change. I want to tell Mom I’ll call her back, but she’s on a brief recess from court.
I want, I want, I want. I want so many goddamn things right now.
If wishes were horses …
I hear Nan saying that, and with a blink, the coffee shop glistens behind a gauze of tears.
Focus, Mallory. Do not lose it. Not here. Not now.
“I will do everything I can to get there,” Mom says. “If I can’t, your dad will.”
“Dad won’t want you to be alone at home if … when…” I can’t finish that line. Cannot.
Her voice drops to a whisper, as if I’m not the only one having this very private conversation in a public place. “We don’t want you to be alone there either, Mal.”
“I’m not. I’m with Nan.”
She inhales. “And I am so, so glad of that. I’m—”
“Two turmeric lattes, one masala chai, one dark roast!” a barista calls, with the exasperation that says this isn’t the first time she’s announced my order. I can barely hear her over the low roar of discontent around me. Her accent doesn’t help. I may have spent every childhood summer in Scotland, but as a thirty-year-old cop chasing career goals, I haven’t visited for more than a week in years.
I step forward, phone pressed to my ear. Mom’s still talking, and I’m half listening, focused on collecting those drinks and getting the hell out of here.
I make it halfway when my phone vibrates. A glance at my watch shows a number that has me cursing under my breath.
It’s an informant who ghosted me a month ago. One I’ve been desperately trying to contact, for fear her silence isn’t voluntary.
I really need to answer this, but there is no way in hell I’m cutting Mom off, not when her voice cracks with grief and fear. I’m the lifeline to her dying mother, and I won’t sever that to take a work call, however urgent.
“Two turmeric—!” the barista shouts.
“Mine,” I say, waving my free hand as I reach the counter.
“I should let you go,” Mom says.
“Sorry, I’m just grabbing coffee for the nurses.” My phone continues vibrating as I shove cups into a cardboard tray. “Can I call you back in sixty seconds?”
“Tonight is fine, hon.”
“Really, I can—”
“Tonight, Mal. I need to get back in court anyway.”
She signs off. I hit the Answer button to connect my informant as I slam the last cup in the tray. I’m opening my mouth as I turn to go … and I crash into a man standing right behind me.
The coffee tray hits his chest. I stagger backward just in time to avoid dumping four cups of hot liquid on him. Droplets still splatter his white shirt.
“Oh my God,” I say, twisting to set the tray down. “I am so sorry.”
“It’s quite all right,” he says.
In Canada, there is a warmth to such reassurances. Here, it seems as if they’re mandatory, spoken with a cool efficiency that always throws me off balance.
“No, it’s not okay,” I say, handing him a wad of napkins. “Let me—”
He jerks back, as if I were about to touch him.
“I’m fine,” he says, and again, the words are cool. No annoyance. No anger. Just the sense that he is terribly busy and wishes I would stop talking. Please.
He moves up to the counter, placing his order as he plucks napkins and dabs his shirt. I hesitate, but an older woman beside me whispers, “He’s all right, dear. You go on now. Enjoy your drink before it gets cold.”
I nod and murmur my thanks. That’s when I realize I’m still holding my cell phone. I glance down to see my informant has hung up.
* * *
It’s night now. My grandmother is asleep. The nurse warned she might never wake up, and I am not certain that is a bad thing. I want more time, so much more time, but she’s so confused and in so much pain that a tiny part of me hopes she will not wake, and a tinier part wonders whether that is for her sake or mine.
I told the hospice nurse I was going for a jog, but really, I’m running away as fast I can, and every footfall on the pavement drives a dagger of guilt through my heart. I should be at Nan’s side, and instead, I’m fleeing her death as if the Reaper dogged my own heels.
I’m in the Grassmarket. I remember Mom telling me how she volunteered at a homeless shelter here during uni. It’s long gone, and pubs line the street now. It’s much too busy for jogging, even at this hour. After fielding catcalls and dodging tourists, I find a quieter street lined with funky little shops, all long closed for the night.