Page 38 of Schemes & Scandals

“Have you heard of finger marks?” Gray says. “And their applications to criminal science?”

Simpson looks at McCreadie, as if this question is clearly intended for him.

“I am asking you, Charles,” Gray says.

“Me? I know nothing of criminal science.”

“But you said the other day that you wished to know more about my cases and the application of science in them, and so I thought you might find this interesting. If you look at your fingertips, you’ll see tiny ridges in fascinating patterns. No two people’s patterns are alike.”

Simpson’s brows rise as he looks at his fingertips. “They are unique?”

“Yes. In fact, for well over a century, China has used finger marks as an acceptable substitute for contractual signatures. Japan has used them. India has also used them. We are slower here, but European scientists have been studying finger marks for over a century.”

“That is fascinating,” Simpson says, in a tone that suggests he’s simply being polite.

“Finger marks are everywhere,” I say. “Every time we touch something, we leave our mark, quite literally. Like this plate.” I gesture at the one I took from him. “You touched one side, so your prints are there. I touched the other. Mine are there.”

“And the maid’s are all over it,” Simpson says, with an easy smile. “The maid’s, the cook’s... I can only imagine how many of these finger marks are on it.”

“Only the two sets,” I say. “It was cleaned before we ate.” I look at Simpson. “Would you like a demonstration? I can show you the marks.”

“That’s hardly necessary. While this is all very interesting, we are in the midst of tea?—”

“Detective McCreadie? Would you assist me?”

I produce four blank cards and a stamp pad that Gray helped me devise. With McCreadie’s help, I roll my fingertips in the ink and press them onto the cards. Then I do the same to take Gray and McCreadie’s prints. Simpson hesitates, but then he decides to be a good sport and lets me take his prints, which saves me from needing to use the ones on the plate.

“So these are your fingerprints,” I say, holding up the card. “Earlier, we conducted the same experiment on the ransom note Lady Inglis received.”

Now Simpson stops short. “What?”

“Detective McCreadie? May I have that card?”

He produces an envelope, and I open it with all due drama. “We lifted two sets of prints. One belonged to Lady Inglis, who provided an exemplar so we could exclude hers. The other...” I lay it down beside the card with Simpson’s print. “Hmm... Am I correct, Detective McCreadie? Do these match?”

I knew they would. I’d memorized a part of the pattern from the letter and noted the match as soon as I took Simpson’s prints. If it hadn’t been a match, I’d have just pretended this was a very peculiar piece of teatime entertainment.

“It is indeed a match,” McCreadie says, his gaze rising to Simpson.

Simpson blusters. “Because I touched it. When Patricia showed me. I held the note.”

“No, you didn’t,” I say. “We asked about that before we took it. Only Lady Inglis handled it. She read it to you aloud and then returned it to the envelope, which she immediately put into her safe, along with the letter.”

There are several ways Simpson could play this. The most obvious is to call bullshit on the science. Most people would—it’s not even admissible in court yet. But there’s a reason Gray liked Simpson. The viscount is a curious and intelligent man, interested in science. He is a believer, and so it never occurs to him to call this bullshit. He knows it isn’t.

Instead, his gaze goes straight to McCreadie. “I stole nothing. The letter from Lady Inglis was my own property, and therefore, I cannot be charged with theft.”

“Hugh was only here to witness the fingermark identification,” Gray says. “Unless you wish to press the point—and have him agree it was not theft, but itwasblackmail, which is also illegal.”

“The situation is not as it seems,” Simpson says.

Gray simply nods, but some offenders need only the vaguest hint of empathy to unburden themselves. As a detective, I interviewed suspects where I couldn’t bring myself to fake empathy, but sometimes, even a nod was enough.

“I am not a bad person,” Simpson says. “You know that, Duncan. I care very much for Patricia. The problem is... Blast it, this was never supposed to go so far.”

I open my mouth, but he’s not looking at me. Not looking at McCreadie. His confession is for Gray alone.

“You expected her to pay,” Gray says.

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