Edinburgh Twilight

by Carole Lawrence

  He stepped around a sleeping vagrant in front of Waverley Station, resisting the urge to give him a kick as a train thundered out of the station, belching black smoke into the night air. He took the ramp to North Bridge, still cursing himself for being so careless.

  It was shortly after that evening he decided Stephen must die. He felt a little bad about the landlady, but glad he had come prepared. It would seem like a death from natural causes. Poor old thing—she reminded him a little of his mother. He bore no ill will toward kindly landladies; she was simply in the way. And he was not a man to let anything—or anyone—stand in his way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Dawn slunk timidly through the streets of the city the next morning, as if afraid of what it might find. The pale sun filtering in through the gingham curtains in the kitchen of 22 Leith Walk fell on a pathetic sight. The woman seated in the kitchen nook stared out at the thin light with unseeing eyes, her head resting upon the table as if she had fallen asleep. A bowl of cabbage soup sat next to her, long gone cold, as had the pot on the stove. A large black-and-white cat rubbed against her shins, complaining vocally that she had not yet stirred to feed it.

  The cat would go unfed for most of the day. The poor woman was finally discovered by her lone boarder, a university student who stumbled sleepily downstairs after a night of studying. Expecting a hot meal, he was startled and shaken to find his landlady’s lifeless body. After collecting himself, the boarder turned his footsteps in the direction of the police station, arriving disheveled and wild-eyed, to the bemusement of the constables on duty. Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton was summoned to the town house, accompanied by the stalwart Sergeant Dickerson.

  “Sir?” the sergeant whispered, hovering next to DI Hamilton, who stood, staring at the dead woman in front of him, arms crossed, lips compressed in a frown. Sergeant Dickerson sighed. It had been nearly a quarter of an hour since they arrived at the boardinghouse, and the detective had spoken scarcely half a dozen words to him. Hamilton seemed to be burning with inner rage, clenching and unclenching his fists and muttering as he examined the scene. Dickerson tiptoed from the room into the hallway, where a pair of uniformed officers stood guard.

  “What’s this all about, sir?” asked one of them, a chunky young fellow with close-cropped blond hair. “Why are we treating this like a crime scene? Looks to me like the poor lady had a heart attack.”

  The sergeant removed his cap and ran a hand through his own head of increasingly shaggy red hair. His next haircut was long overdue. “It’s like this, lads,” he said. “This is where that dead fella lived—young Wycherly.”

  The blond constable’s eyes widened. “The one what was strangled?”

  Dickerson nodded with the satisfaction of possessing knowledge the others didn’t. “The same.”

  “So did his killer do her as well?” asked his companion, a young lad with such smooth cheeks, he didn’t look old enough to grow a beard, let alone wear a uniform.

  “That’s what DI Hamilton is trying to determine,” Dickerson replied, feeling rather important. “Best leave him alone when he’s workin’.”

  “I hear he’s like a bloody bulldog,” said the pudgy blond constable. “Once he gets ahold of a case, he don’ bloody let go.”

  “Ye heard right,” said Dickerson. “And one thing t’remember ’bout bulldogs—stay away from their teeth.”

  The constable’s snicker was interrupted by Hamilton’s voice from the next room. “Sergeant! Would you come in here now?”

  Startled, Dickerson dashed off to the kitchen, leaving the constables murmuring to each other in low voices so that DI Hamilton’s wrath would not descend upon them.

  He entered the kitchen to find Hamilton staring down at a yellow hound mix racing around the room. The dog, less than a year old, was madly cavorting around the kitchen, sniffing in all the corners and trying to lick the detective’s shoes.

  “That must be the puppy she were talkin’ about earlier,” Dickerson said. “I near forgot I said I’d take ’im.”

  “Meanwhile, would you please remove this animal before it contaminates the entire crime scene?”

  Dickerson hastened to obey, scooping the dog up in his arms. The puppy was heavier than it looked; it squirmed and wriggled so energetically trying to lick Dickerson’s face that the sergeant nearly dropped it.

  “What shall I do wi’ him, sir?”

  “Just get him out of here.”

  The sergeant lugged his unwieldy burden down the hall, locating an empty laundry room in the back of the house. He deposited the dog in the middle of the floor and made a break for the door, which the puppy took as an invitation to a jolly game of chase. The dog easily beat Dickerson to the exit; standing in the doorway, it wagged its tail and grinned happily.

  “All right, you,” the sergeant muttered. Finding a rope in the cupboard, he tied the dog to the legs of the clothes wringer and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Plaintive yelps followed him down the hall as he retraced his steps, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

  As he passed the staircase leading to the second floor, he was greeted by a young Indian man descending the steps. His smooth dark hair gleamed in the gaslight from the wall sconces.

  “I say, is there any chance that you chaps could interview me so I could be getting to my classes? I have an exam today.” His accent was educated, with just a hint of his Eastern origins.

  “Uh, I’ll see wha’ we can do, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Singh. Rabindranath Singh.”

  “Jus’ a moment, please, Mr. Singh.” Dickerson ducked into the kitchen, where he found Detective Hamilton sniffing at the half-eaten bowl of soup in front of Mrs. Sutherland. “Excuse me, sir—”

  Hamilton silenced him with a wave, then motioned him over to where he stood. “Lend me your nose, would you, Sergeant?”

  “Sir?”

  “I want you to see if you can smell something.”

  “Anythin’ in particular, sir?”

  “Give this a whiff.”

  Dickerson complied, stepping close enough to Mrs. Sutherland that he could see the whites of the deceased woman’s eyes. His skin felt clammy and his muscles weak as he bent over the table. William Dickerson did not like dead bodies, a fact he contrived mightily to conceal. He willed himself not to faint or otherwise humiliate himself in front of Detective Hamilton.

  As he bent over the congealed soup, his stomach lurched, threatening to rebel. He inhaled a faint but distinctive aroma of almonds, bitter at the edges. He turned to the detective. “Smells like burnt almonds, sir.”

  “Are you sure, Sergeant?”

  Bending lower, Dickerson took another whiff. “Yes, sir—I s’pose that’s what ye’d have t’call it. It’s like almonds, only kinda gone off, like.”

  To his surprise, Hamilton clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Well done, Dickerson—well done indeed!”

  “Thank you, sir, but what’s this all about?”

  “Only certain members of the populace have the ability to detect the distinctive aroma of bitter almonds in cases of poisoning by cyanide salts. Fortunately for us, you are a member of that select group.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “I immediately suspected Mrs. Sutherland was the victim of foul play, and now, with your help, I hope to prove it.”

  There was a knock upon the kitchen door, and Rabindranath Singh poked his head into the room.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but I should like to be interviewed as soon as possible.”

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting,” said Ian. Dickerson’s triumph seemed to have lightened his mood, and the tightness had drained from his face. “Please come in.”

  The tenant complied, but as he stepped into the room, there was a sound like the report of a pistol in the back of the house. All three men instinctively ducked, but as he heard the rapid scurrying of approaching paws in the hallway, Sergeant Dickerson realized the pistol shot was actually the laundry room door bang
ing open. The guilty culprit appeared at the kitchen door, tail wagging, a chewed piece of rope still tied around its neck. The puppy jumped up on Mr. Singh, attempting to lick his face.

  Hamilton glared at Dickerson, but there was no real fury in his gaze; the sergeant had scored too big a victory for him to be truly angry.

  “Come along,” Dickerson said to the dog.

  “Where are you taking him, Sergeant?” asked the detective.

  “Well, sir, seein’ as he’s so stuck on me, I thought I’d take ’im home, like I promised.”

  “We’re not finished here yet. Put him back where you had him. There’s a leash upstairs you can use—and this time, lock the door, why don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Dickerson, picking up the gnawed end of rope dangling from the dog’s collar. “Come along, Prince.”

  “That’s not his name,” Mr. Singh offered.

  “It is now,” Dickerson called out as he disappeared down the hall.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Sit down, for God’s sake—you’re giving me the willies standing there like a bloody statue. Have a drink with me.”

  “But sir—”

  “First a drink, then you can tell me whatever it is you’re so keen to say.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “Sit.”

  Ian Hamilton complied, settling his lean body in the chair opposite DCI Crawford’s desk. Crawford fished a bottle from the drawer, poured two shots, and handed one to the detective, who looked surprised, but took it. It was early evening, and the station house was quiet, with only the desk sergeant on duty at his post near the front door. Darkness had fallen like a sentence from heaven, with freezing rain thick enough to discourage even the most stouthearted miscreants.

  Crawford took a sip of scotch, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat. He settled back in his chair and rested his feet on the desk. Outside, the sky was slinging down sleet in thick, long shafts that caught the light from the gas lamps, shining like the tails of tiny comets hurtling from the night sky. Crawford shivered and took another swig, pointing at Hamilton’s untouched drink.

  “Drink up. No use in wasting good whisky.”

  Hamilton took a sip, a distracted expression on his maddeningly handsome face. He leaned back in his chair, letting the glass dangle from his hand.

  “Now see here,” Crawford said. “The death of young Wycherly’s landlady is not on you.”

  “If I had gone to see her last night, instead of going to my aunt’s, she might still be alive.”

  “We don’t know yet that any foul play was involved. Didn’t it look to all indications like a heart attack?”

  “That’s what I came to tell you, sir. I suspect cyanide poisoning.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  “There was a distinct aroma of bitter almonds.”

  “Which you yourself smelled?”

  “Sergeant Dickerson detected it.”

  Crawford’s bushy eyebrows furrowed into a frown. “Dickerson? What is so special about him?”

  “Only a certain percentage of the population can detect the scent of bitter almonds in the presence of cyanide salts. Dickerson belongs to that group—I, alas, do not.”

  “Even if the coroner proves you right, it’s still not your fault,” Crawford insisted.

  Hamilton ran a hand over his forehead and reached for a refill. “I’ll never know what she wanted to tell me.”

  “Did the tenants hear anything, see anything?”

  “The medical student who resides in the room nearest the front of the house says he thought he heard two visitors. The first one sounded like a child.”

  “Any idea who that might be?”

  “Not really.”

  “How odd,” Crawford commented. “Because I think I know. Oh, aye, I’ve seen him loitering about waiting for you,” he added in response to Hamilton’s look. “You can’t trust boys like him, you know.”

  “I don’t have to trust him,” said Ian. “I only have to make him useful.”

  “You have some romantic notion of the poor, beaten-down urchin—and no doubt the lad’s life has been hard. If it weren’t for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all, and all that. But you’d best be careful, or—”

  “What exactly are you cautioning me against, sir?”

  “The wrong mistake can cost you your career.”

  “The kind of mistake my father made?”

  Crawford downed the rest of his glass and poured himself another. “I had nothing against your father.”

  “Then you were in the minority, sir.”

  “Look, Hamilton, I don’t see the point of digging up old grievances.” He shook his head and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. Blasted headache—it had been with him all day and was getting worse. “Why don’t you update me on the case?”

  “We know a few key elements about our man,” said Ian.

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “He’s a fellow of some size and strength. Likely educated, perhaps bilingual.”

  Crawford took another swig of scotch. “That’s something, I suppose.”

  “I have reason to think that his relationship to Mr. Wycherly was of a personal nature.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Strangulation is a very personal way to kill someone. Absent a monetary motive, which we have yet to uncover, it points at something more insidious and disturbing.”

  “Revenge, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And what about this French detective?”

  “He should arrive in Edinburgh shortly.”

  “Bring him here tomorrow, why don’t you? Show him round the station house, that sort of thing. I’d quite like to meet him myself.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Fighting one of his unaccountable urges to giggle, Crawford leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. It wasn’t an especially comfortable pose for a man of his size, but he was trying to show Hamilton that he could be informal and relaxed, even while projecting what he hoped was an aura of gravitas. “‘Man’s inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn,’” he declared.

  “Robert Burns, sir?”

  How irritating that Hamilton not only recognized the quote, but he didn’t even consider that Crawford himself might have come up with it.

  “You know, when I joined the force, I had the same ambition as you,” he said, trying to project a fatherly tone.

  Hamilton drew his thick black eyebrows together. “What might that be, sir?”

  “To change the world—make things better for the common man; all that bosh and bunkum.”

  “What gives you the impression—”

  Crawford laughed—a long, somber sound closer to a sob. “Come, now, Hamilton—haven’t I been around long enough to be able to read a man? Take my advice—save yourself some sleepless nights and give up your fancy notions of justice. It will only cause you grief in the end.”

  Hamilton stiffened. “Sir?”

  “For Christ’s sake, man, can’t you see I’m trying to help you? Loosen up before you burst a blood vessel!” Crawford thought of his wife’s admonitions to avoid becoming overly emotional. Moira insisted it was bad for him, though it was her health he worried about now.

  DI Hamilton drained the rest of his whisky in one gulp. Crawford winced—that was no way to treat a decent single malt. He tried not to dwell on what he had paid for that bottle.

  Hamilton placed the glass on Crawford’s desk and stood up. “I appreciate your taking me under your wing, sir, but I—”

  Crawford banged a fist on the desk. “Under my wing? What do you think this is, a boys’ school? I’m merely offering you some much-needed advice—take it or not.” Aware his reaction was excessive, Crawford leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. “See here, Hamilton, I’ve taken an interest in you.”

  The detective frowned. “What are you getting at, sir, if I might ask?”

&n
bsp; “Blast you bloody Highlanders and your pigheadedness,” Crawford muttered, shivering as sweat trickled down his shirt collar. “It’s like this, Hamilton. If you throw yourself headlong into this damn job, it will eat you from the inside out. Trust me; I know what I’m talking about. Now, a lot of the lads around here just take it as all in a day’s work. They go home to their fat little wives and snotty-nosed children; they have pensions to look forward to and all the rest of it. You see?”

  “What are you suggesting, sir?”

  “Get yourself a fat little wife and a couple of snotty-nosed children, Hamilton. Go home at the end of the day like a normal, sane man. Stop prowling the streets at all hours, following dubious information given to you by some ratty little street Arab.” Crawford leaned forward in his chair, until his protruding belly touched the oak desk. “Your father was a Highlander, too.”

  Most of the original members of the Edinburgh City Police were Highlanders—Crawford himself was no exception, hailing originally from Pitlochry. He folded his fingers as if in prayer and cleared his throat. “There is a fierce kind of honor up there. Men may be violent and cruel, but they are straight with you. They mean what they say and do what they promise; their words match their deeds.”

  “Have you forgotten the Glencoe Massacre?”

  “Tut-tut, man—that was centuries ago! And that was the fault of the bloody English.” Hamilton raised an eyebrow, but Crawford waved him off. The detective chief inspector lowered his voice, even though the only other soul in the station house was the duty sergeant, two rooms away. “This place—this city—is not like that. It is dark and close, slippery as an eel. Secrets live within its walls. It has always been thus, Hamilton—neither you nor I nor any man can change it.”

  As he spoke, a sheet of rain hurled itself against the windows, rattling the panes, as if trying to break into the station house.

  “‘Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires,’” Hamilton murmured.

  Crawford groaned. “If you must show off your book learning, Hamilton, at least pick a proper Scottish writer.”