Edinburgh Twilight

by Carole Lawrence

  Crawford rubbed his throbbing forehead and tossed the photos across the desk. “Very well—have your investigation. Sergeant Dickerson!” he called.

  The sergeant appeared at the office door, and Crawford beckoned him in.

  “Take Dickerson along with you. You deserve each other.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Crawford waved a hand at Hamilton, dismissing him, but the detective didn’t move.

  “I’ll keep you informed on what I find, sir.”

  “No doubt,” Crawford said. “On your way out, ask the desk sergeant to bring me more tea.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and, Hamilton . . . ?”

  “Sir?”

  “When are you next seeing your aunt?”

  “We have tea every Sunday.”

  “Would you deliver a message from me?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Ask her if she would be interested in working as a staff photographer with the Edinburgh Police.”

  “I will—thank you, sir.”

  Crawford watched Hamilton leave, Sergeant Dickerson trailing in his wake, before sitting heavily at his desk. The chief inspector ran a hand through his sparse hair and looked at the ever-mounting pile of papers on his desk. It was going to be a long day.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  According to Stephen Wycherly’s landlady, he worked as a clerk in a solicitor’s office on George Street, a part of the New Town boasting a goodly number of law offices. Ian found himself wandering past rows of handsome entrances with polished brass nameplates and matching door knockers—a far cry from the warrens of dilapidated buildings in the Old Town. Sometimes Edinburgh seemed like two cities, the inhabitants leading such different lives it was as if they were on separate continents.

  Ian stopped in front of chambers with a polished brass plaque proclaiming “Harley, Wickham, and Clyde.” He stepped up to the burnished wooden door and rapped sharply three times. He heard a man’s voice from within—muffled, as though coming from a back room.

  “Just a moment—I’m coming!”

  There was a rustling sound, as though papers were being shuffled about, and the sound of a chair scraping against the floor.

  “I’ll be there straightaway!”

  More rustling, then a thump, like something being dropped on the floor.

  “Oh, blast!” the man inside muttered. The door burst open abruptly, and Ian was confronted with a singular-looking gentleman. He could not have been more than five feet tall, a gnomelike individual with a crooked spine and a tuft of stiff brown hair over a long, weathered face with a beak of a nose and watery blue eyes. His age was impossible to tell; he could have been forty or eighty. He wore an elegant frock coat, a crisply knotted cravat, and striped stovepipe trousers, all of the very best material. The incongruity of such fine clothing on such a misshapen form was striking. Ian could hardly imagine the man was vain; no doubt he dressed like that to impress clients.

  He peered at Ian through gold pince-nez, his rheumy blue eyes sharp behind the thick spectacles. “Well?” he said in a cultivated Edinburgh accent. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  Ian held out his badge. “Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton, Edinburgh Police.” Normally he did not feel the need to prove his identity, but this gentleman exuded an air of authority, in spite of his diminutive and deformed figure.

  “Ah, yes, of course,” he said, extending his hand. “Eugene Harley, Esquire.”

  Ian shook the hand, which was thin and dry, the bones like a loose collection of sticks.

  “Won’t you come in, Inspector?” Harley said. His voice was pleasant and plummy, his manner refined and gracious.

  He opened the door and led Ian into an office in dire need of a file clerk. Papers and folders were strewn everywhere. Briefs, motions, and other legal documents were stuffed into cubbyholes, stacked in piles upon the thick oak desk, or scattered on the floor like fallen leaves. Ian realized what he had heard from outside—Eugene Harley struggling through the forest of paper to get to the door.

  This seemed to worry Eugene Harley not a bit. He flicked a few papers from a handsome oak office chair and gestured toward it.

  “Do sit down, won’t you?”

  “Thank you,” Ian said, settling into the chair, padded with green leather and quite comfortable.

  His host perched upon the edge of the desk and crossed his thin arms. “Now then, I presume you are here about young Wycherly?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eugene Harley shook his head sadly. “Unfortunate fellow—terrible business, that. Poor Catherine is so distraught, she failed to come to work today.”

  “Catherine . . . ?”

  “My niece. She assists me in my practice and, when she has time, tidies the place up. As you can see,” he said, waving a hand at the piles of paper, “we are much in need of her services.”

  “So your niece is also the housekeeper for your law firm?”

  “I like to keep it in the family, so to speak, with all the legal documents lying about. You can never be too careful, eh?” he said, with a squeaky little giggle, like a rusty door hinge.

  Ian made a note of the girl’s name in his notebook. “I presume you can tell me how to contact her?”

  “Most certainly,” Mr. Harley replied. “She lives with me. My poor brother and his wife died of cholera some time ago, and I have cared for the girl since she was in bloomers. As I have no children myself, she has been the great joy of my life,” he added, tears gathering at the corners of his pale blue eyes.

  “And your partners?” Ian asked quickly. He was rather taken with the old gentleman and wished to spare him the indignity of crying in front of a stranger.

  To his surprise, the solicitor’s face crinkled into a wry smile. “Ah, yes, my—partners.”

  “Misters Wickham and Clyde?”

  Eugene Harley Esq. cleared his throat. “They don’t exist—or rather, not as human beings.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Those are the names of my cats.” Mr. Harley chuckled and leaned forward, crackling sounds emanating from his twisted spine. Ian had an impulse to offer his chair, but there was something mesmerizing about the old gentleman, and he remained seated, caught up in his spell. “You see, Detective Inspector—Hamilton, was it?” the old man said. Ian nodded. “Well, you might be surprised to learn how comforting it is to potential clients to see more than one name upon the nameplate. It confers an aura of respectability—creates confidence, as it were.”

  “So your firm consists solely of you and your niece—and the unfortunate Mr. Wycherly?”

  “Yes, indeed. You may find it odd that our clients seldom inquire about the whereabouts of Misters Wickham and Clyde, but such are the mysteries of human nature. Do you mind if I partake of some tobacco?”

  “Not at all,” Ian replied, expecting him to light a pipe or cigarette, but instead Mr. Harley slid a tin of snuff from the pocket of his frock coat and delicately placed a pinch in each nostril. Throwing his head back, he sneezed mightily, with such force Ian feared his fragile-looking form would crack. But Mr. Harley was made of sturdier stuff than his appearance suggested. Wiping his face with a voluminous silk kerchief, he beamed at his visitor.

  “There now—that always puts some vinegar into my blood! Much better,” he said, replacing the handkerchief in his pocket with a theatrical flourish. “Now, what was I saying?”

  “You were speaking of your niece.”

  “Ah, yes—dear Catherine! I’m afraid poor Wycherly’s death came as quite a shock. Between you and me, I think she quite fancied the lad. This morning she declined to emerge from her room, so I left her in the capable hands of my housekeeper and came to the office myself.”

  “Was there anything unusual in Mr. Wycherly’s behavior in the days leading up to his death?”

  “Not that I can think of; he seemed quite himself . . . Oh, wait, yes, there was one thing. Perhaps it’s nothing, but—” />
  “What was it?”

  “He received something in the afternoon post the day he died—a letter.”

  “Did you chance to see whom it was from?”

  “Sadly, no—though I did see him open it, and he seemed disturbed by it. He folded it and placed it in his pocket, along with the envelope.”

  “And he never spoke of it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Did anyone else see him receive the letter?”

  “My niece, Catherine, was in the office at the time—she may have seen it.”

  “Did you see him leave the office that day?”

  “No—I spent the rest of the afternoon going over a case with a barrister in his chambers. When I arrived back here, young Wycherly had already left.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Harley.”

  Mr. Harley waved a thin hand in dismissal. “Anything I can do to help. Here is my address,” he said, handing Ian a smartly embossed card. “If you wish to call upon my niece in the next few days, I will leave instructions with my housekeeper to admit you, in case of my absence.”

  “Your cooperation is much appreciated, Mr. Harley.”

  The old man shook his head. “I cannot imagine who should want to harm young Wycherly. He was such a harmless fellow, quiet and mild—one might even say retiring. Of course,” he added with a sharp glance at Ian, “I am assuming his death was the result of foul play. Your presence here rather suggests that it was.”

  “Your assumption is correct. Stephen Wycherly was murdered.”

  They looked out the window; a smattering of rain was beginning to fall.

  “I hope you catch the person or persons responsible,” Harley remarked, “before anything sinister befalls my niece.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “‘I am a very foolish fond old man, fourscore and upward’—fear has lodged itself in my head, an unwelcome visitor.”

  “That’s from Lear, isn’t it?”

  “Ah, you like the Bard?”

  “I do.”

  “The latter part was my own addition. In my case, at least, advanced age has brought with it increasing anxiety.”

  “Please do not concern yourself, Mr. Harley. I see no reason either you or your niece would be in danger.”

  Mr. Harley waved a gnarled hand. “Tut-tut—I’m old, and have not so many days left. But Catherine is another matter—you will look after her, won’t you, Inspector?”

  Ian cleared his throat. He was charmed by the old man and suppressed an impulse to tell a comforting lie. “I’m sorry that the Edinburgh Police can’t guarantee the safety of an individual. We simply haven’t enough manpower.”

  “I see,” the old gentleman said, but his tone suggested that he didn’t.

  When Ian stepped into the street, he failed to notice the cloaked figure leaning against a lamppost. The man’s posture was casual, but a pair of keen eyes watched as he made his way back toward the Old Town. As Ian rounded the corner onto Hanover Street, the man followed at a discreet distance.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  George Frederick Pearson, chief reference librarian at the University of Edinburgh, was a collector. What he acquired was immaterial—books, bottles, bric-a-brac, beer coasters—but part of his brain seemed specifically designated for this task. It began at an early age, when he brought home bits of string, discarded tea tins, and broken pieces of pottery from rubbish bins. His mother initially regarded this eccentricity with fond indulgence, but after a couple of years during which he squirreled away items in various corners of his room, she began to grow concerned. One day after finding a stash of outdated market flyers underneath his bed, she marched out to the street where he was playing with his friends and demanded an explanation for his excessive acquisitions. He could give her none that satisfied her. He hardly understood it himself; it was something he felt compelled to do.

  She marched right back into the house and promptly threw all of his treasures into the rubbish bin, which only cemented his compulsion. What was formerly a desire became a desperate need as objects assumed a role of absurd importance to him. That day haunted him for the rest of his life. Waking or dreaming, he could see his mother on her hands and knees, digging through his beloved possessions, stray strands of hair clinging to her sweaty forehead, the sleeves of her gingham frock rolled up to the elbows, her face flushed with determination and rage.

  He wished never again to be the cause of such destructive fury. So he hid his compulsion, living alone in his cluttered flat on Princes Street, while employed at the university library. He never dreamed that his “hobby,” as he called it, might be of use to anyone else.

  Until a rainy Friday in February, when the only visitor in the reading room was a studious-looking young man with a pile of curly black hair and eyes that were slate gray in the dim glow of the gaslight. George approached him and coughed discreetly.

  “May I be of service, sir?” They were roughly the same age, but George treated all visitors to the library with the same courteous formality.

  The young man cocked his head to one side and studied George, which made him a bit uncomfortable. As it was seasonably raw weather, he was dressed in a thick blue jumper with shoulder patches, rather than his usual three-piece suit. Born and raised just outside London, he liked Edinburgh because the Scots were less formal than the British—though his English dialect was not always well received in some quarters.

  “Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton,” the man said. “Do you have any books on crime investigation?”

  George extended his hand. “George Pearson, chief reference librarian. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Hamilton’s handshake was firm, his hand strong. “May I ask if this relates to a particular case?”

  “A potential case, perhaps.”

  Hamilton’s speech was educated, and though it displayed hints of an early life in the Highlands, it was definitely Edinburgh, possibly Royal Terrace. George was very good with accents. His posh inflections made George relax a bit—well-heeled Scots tended to be less anti-English.

  “Anything in particular?” said George.

  “I’m interested specifically in strangulation.”

  George kept his expression neutral, but he was intrigued, being something of an amateur crime buff. “From a medical perspective or a forensic one?”

  “Both, if possible.”

  “We’ll begin with science, then. Right this way.”

  George led his visitor to the five hundred stacks. “Here’s something you may find helpful,” he said, sliding a book from the shelf. “Uses of Science in Examining Crime Scene Evidence. Translated from the French. The author was an associate of François Vidocq, the great French criminologist.”

  “That alone is a recommendation,” Hamilton said, taking the book.

  “I see you have heard of him.”

  The detective smiled. “I have copies of everything he wrote.”

  “I see,” George said, envy forming a knot in his stomach. To have a complete set of anything was the collector’s ultimate dream. “Perhaps I can be of further assistance? I have a rather interesting collection of crime books myself. At my flat, I mean,” he added. Panic swept over him, leaving his knees weak—he had not invited anyone to his residence for a decade. “I can perhaps bring you some tomorrow,” he said, “if that is convenient.”

  “That is very kind of you. In the meantime, I will take this one, please.”

  “Certainly,” he said, leading the way to the lending desk. On the way, they passed the rack of newspapers with all the daily broadsheets, and the detective’s eyes lingered on the front-page headline of the Scotsman:

  TRAGEDY ON ARTHUR’S SEAT—YOUNG MAN TUMBLES TO HIS DEATH. SUICIDE OR MURDER? WILL EDINBURGH’S OVERWORKED POLICE FORCE INVESTIGATE?

  George coughed again discreetly. “Right this way, sir.” Hamilton followed silently, apparently lost in thought. He said nothing as George entered the title of the book in his ledger, in his careful,
spidery script. He wrapped the book in brown paper and held it out to the detective. Just before letting go of the book, George said softly, “Is this regarding the death of that young man found in the park?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to talk about an ongoing investigation,” Hamilton replied, a little too quickly.

  George nodded. “Of course,” he said, finally releasing his hold on the tome. “Still, it did seem an odd incident,” he added, pretending to busy himself arranging papers. “Very curious, if you ask me.”

  “I suppose so,” the detective said, tucking the book underneath his arm.

  “Well-dressed young men are not given to tumbling from well-trodden paths in the middle of the afternoon.”

  Hamilton regarded him suspiciously. “How did you know he was well dressed?”

  “Why, it’s in all the papers, sir—you could hardly avoid reading about the story if you tried. He appeared to be wearing office attire, if I’m not mistaken. Curious thing, that.”

  Hamilton stared at him. “How do you know that?”

  “His photograph was in all the papers.”

  The detective frowned. “I should have known. If a Welshman can be bribed by a policeman, I suppose he can be bribed by a newsman.”

  “I’m part Welsh,” George said, frowning.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just—”

  A couple of other patrons seated at the long oaken tables looked up from their reading with disapproval. A sharp-faced woman in an absurd hat resembling a parrot gave a loud, “Shush!”

  “The person who murdered him has all the answers,” George remarked casually, though he felt anything but casual. His stomach churned with excitement—he hadn’t felt this alive in years.

  “Perhaps,” Hamilton murmured, standing motionless, the book still tucked under his arm. The sharp-faced woman gave another loud, “Shush!” He regarded her with surprise, as if only just realizing where he was. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Pearson.”