“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Ian replied, taking a biscuit. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“I’d rather not go into it. Thanks for carrying on without me.”
“Not at all, sir. And now I’d like to get out on my interview.”
“Take another biscuit for the road.”
“Ta very much,” said Ian, taking one. As he approached the stairs leading down to the ground floor, he heard a familiar voice.
“Hullo, Guv’nur!”
He turned to see Derek McNair, his face even grimier than usual, leaning on the banister. “It’s about time you showed up,” said Ian. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I’ve got a livin’ to make, y’know. I left a message with yer brother.”
“I need to know exactly what the landlady said to you,” Ian said as they walked down the stairs and out of the building. Heading east, he turned south onto Stevenlaw’s Close.
“You mean Mrs. Sutherland?” Derek replied, scurrying to keep up.
“Yes.”
“She were real good to me—gave me soup an’ all.”
“She’s dead.”
Derek stopped walking. “Wha’ happened?”
“She was poisoned.”
“She were fit as a fiddle when I left ’er,” Derek said, his voice shaky. “What could . . . Wait—the soup! You don’t s’pose—why would anyone kill a nice lady like her?”
“I want you to repeat exactly what she said to you.”
“She said she foun’ somethin’.”
“Did she say what?”
“No.”
Ian resumed walking, the boy following. “Did you see anything while you were there?”
“Like what?” Derek replied, kicking at a stone in his path.
“Did you notice anyone or anything suspicious?”
“Not as I can remember. Like I says, she were fine when I left.”
“Anyone on the street, loitering about as you left?”
“No . . . wait, there was this one fella, looked like he were waitin’ fer someone.”
“Where did you see him?”
“On’t pavement, in front of ’er house.”
“What did he look like?”
“He were a handsome fella, with black hair and curious pale eyes, dressed like a gentleman.”
“How tall?”
“’Bout regular height. Not nearly so tall as you.”
“And you had the feeling he was waiting for someone?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he see you?” Ian said, turning onto Cowgate.
“He looked straight at me, like as to bore a hole right through me.”
Ian stopped walking. “You could be in danger.”
Derek snorted. “Who’d want ta go after a scrappy little street urchin like me?”
“He wouldn’t hesitate, if he thought you knew something.”
“Or,” Derek said, “maybe he were jes’ a nice gentleman waitin’ fer a lady to join ’im.”
“But you said he looked directly at you.”
Derek laughed. “Mister, if I’d half a crown fer every bloody person what gives me looks on the street, I’d be as rich as Solomon.”
“But hardly as wise.”
Derek shrugged. “Try livin’ as I do, an’ see how ye fare. There’s all kinds ’a wisdom.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Ian replied, heading south on Guthrie Street.
“So where’re ye headed?”
“To interview a young lady.”
Derek whistled. “Sounds romantic.”
“It’s nothing of the kind.”
“Ha! I’ve heard that afore.”
“What do you know about women, at your age?”
“Not as much as I’d like. But when I’m old enough, I’ll give the ladies a run fer their money, I swear it.”
“Look,” Ian said, stopping in front of Eugene and Catherine Harley’s town house. “You need to have a care for your safety. Don’t involve yourself in this any further.”
“But I was enjoyin’ bein’ part of the law instead of runnin’ from it all the time.”
“Where’s your friend Freddie? It’s safer if you have someone else around.”
Derek scuffed his shoe on the curb and picked at his blackened nails. “Me an’ him’s had a fight.”
Ian fished four sovereigns from his pocket and handed them to Derek. The boy stared at them, his mouth hanging open in astonishment. “It’s all I have right now,” Ian explained. “But I’ll give you more if you’ll promise me you’ll have nothing further to do with this.”
“Kin I work on yer next case?”
“Right now I just want your word that you’ll mind your own business and be careful.”
“Seems like I get paid more fer not helpin’ than fer helpin’.”
“I must go inside now,” Ian said. “Why don’t you spend some of that getting a bath somewhere?”
“Oh, the nuns’ll give me a bath,” Derek said with contempt. “I jes’ don’ care for ’em.”
“The nuns or the bath?”
“Both.”
Ian laughed. “Go on with you, before you get into trouble.” He watched the boy swing jauntily around the corner before rapping on the front door of Eugene Harley’s elegant town house. His knock was answered by the redoubtable Bernadette, looking even more imposing than he remembered, in a dark blue dress with white cuffs and collar and a matching white apron.
“Good day to you again, Detective Inspector,” she said, her Irish accent thick as her considerable girth. “What can I do for you, now?” she asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel. They were covered in flour, which Ian thought was a promising sign. He had not forgotten her cream cakes—and his stomach was reminding him it was long past lunchtime.
“Is Miss Harley home?”
“I’ll just go and see, sir.”
“Much obliged, Bernadette.”
She gave the briefest of nods. “Please wait here.”
“Thank you,” he replied, stepping into the foyer with its paintings of bucolic English landscapes complete with huntsmen on galloping horses, baying hounds underfoot. Eugene Harley didn’t strike him as the horsey type—nor, in fact, a likely candidate for any sort of athletic endeavor, in spite of his alleged fondness for golf.
He listened to Bernadette’s heavy tread upon the stairs and the first-floor landing as she lumbered to Catherine Harley’s bedroom. The sound of her knocking was followed by low voices—strain as he might, Ian couldn’t make out the words. Shortly afterward, he heard the return of footsteps down the steps, and the maid reappeared at the foyer entrance.
“Miss Harley is indisposed at the moment,” she announced, avoiding his gaze. “Perhaps if you’d like to leave your card—”
Her speech was interrupted by the sound of a door opening upstairs, followed by a muffled cry.
“Excuse me, sir,” Bernadette said, alarm spreading over her broad face. “My mistress—”
At that moment Catherine Harley appeared on the staircase, clad as before all in white, but this time she wore an ivory nightgown. She stumbled down the steps, one pale hand clutching the banister, the other pulling at her unkempt hair. Bernadette bustled to her aid, clucking like a red-crested laying hen.
“My lady, what are you doing? You are not well. I implore you, go back to bed!”
Catherine Harley shook off Bernadette’s fumbling attempts to shepherd her back upstairs, staggering down the stairs in what appeared to be a drunken state. Seeing Ian, she stretched out a thin arm toward him.
“Ah, you’ve come back, Stephen—thank God! I thought you were dead. How I’ve missed you!”
Her vacant stare and halting gait shocked Ian into a sudden realization. He wondered how he had not recognized it earlier.
Catherine Harley was an opium addict.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Passengers swirled through Waverley Station like drops of cream in an unstirred cup of tea, forming geometric patt
erns so intricate that the man in the dark overcoat standing in the majestic main room could only watch in fascination. As much as he loved solitude and dark, secluded streets, he appreciated the charms a city like Edinburgh could provide. Such variety, so many endless possibilities! Oh, there was so much evil in a man . . .
He leaned casually against the wall next to the tea canteen, scanning the crowd. He enjoyed the chase more than anything—the moment before was so delicious, so luxurious, he wanted to prolong it. That was one reason he had not yet gone after that pesky Edinburgh detective. He smiled as he lit a cigarette—his time would come, just not today. He was saving the best for last, when the attack was least suspected. Today, though, he had another victim in mind.
He didn’t have long to wait. As the last rays of daylight faded behind the tall latticed windows, a trim, dapper figure appeared, stood in line at the ticket booth, then advanced toward him, heels clicking smartly on the polished floors.
The man in the dark overcoat followed at a discreet distance, his face impassive, until they reached Platform 18. Burying his face in a newspaper, he waited next to the well-dressed gentleman until the train heaved into the station, white smoke billowing from its single stack. Obscured by the spreading smoke, his hands shot out to give a quick, sharp shove to the small of the back of the trim gentleman. Turning quickly, he didn’t even see the man clawing the air in a futile effort to arrest his fall into the path of the oncoming train.
Slipping back into the main room, he blended into the crowd as the screams from Platform 18 caused everyone to stop what they were doing and freeze in horror. Anyone observing the scene would have noticed that as everyone in the station surged toward the commotion, he alone moved quickly in the opposite direction. By the time anyone knew what was happening, he was walking briskly along George IV Bridge, to be swallowed up in the bowels of the Old Town.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Bernadette’s distress was evident, and her attempt to protect her mistress was touching. Seeing the recognition in Ian’s eyes, she hastened to escort Miss Harley back upstairs, but the lady was having none of it. She lurched into the foyer and wrapped her arm around Ian, tugging him toward the parlor.
“Come tell me where you have been all this time, my poor dear Stephen,” she said, stroking his cheek.
He allowed her to draw him into the next room, as Bernadette fussed and cajoled her mistress. “Now, now,” she said, “does this gentleman look like Mr. Wycherly to you?” as Catherine pulled him down next to her on a gold French settee.
“Why, he is the very image of dear Stephen!” her mistress replied, hanging on to Ian’s arm as though it were a life preserver.
Bernadette shook her head, tears springing to her frank green eyes. “Shouldn’t you return to your room until you feel better?”
“Nonsense—I fee-el f-fine,” Catherine responded, though her eyelids drooped, and her mouth was having trouble forming words. Her lank hair hung in disarray upon her bony shoulders; the diaphanous dressing gown she wore failed to conceal her skeletal form. She looked even thinner than the last time Ian saw her, just a few days ago.
“Did you b-bring me some . . . medicine?” she asked, tapping him on the shoulder.
He glanced at Bernadette, but she averted her eyes.
“I did,” he replied. “And I’ll give it to you later.”
“I want it now,” she said, pushing out her lower lip like a petulant child.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get dressed, and we’ll go riding together?”
“Oh, Stephen!” she said, taking his head between her hands. “That would be lovely! But c-can you give me my medicine?”
“After you’re dressed, you can have your medicine.”
She gazed at him searchingly, as if she didn’t believe him, but rose unsteadily from the settee and tottered out of the room upon wobbly legs, throwing him one last glance as she started up the staircase. Even with her halting gait, Ian had the odd sensation she was floating up the stairs, her strangely ethereal quality enhanced by the effect of the drug.
When she had gone, he turned to Bernadette, whose solid body sagged with defeat. “Laudanum, is it?”
She blinked at him and shook her head of massive red curls. “Begging your pardon, sir?” she replied, doing her best to sound offended.
“Your loyalty to your mistress does you credit. But surely you must see that hiding her addiction is no help to her.”
“I really don’t take your meaning, so I don’t,” she said, turning away. But he heard her sharp intake of breath, which was followed by a sob that caught in her throat.
“It’s not your fault,” he offered.
“D’you think I don’t know that, then?” she cried bitterly, wheeling around. “Isn’t it me who stayed up of a night with her when she couldn’t sleep?”
“Your mistress is indeed lucky to have you.”
“So she is, at that,” Bernadette replied. “Though I don’t know what good it’s done her.”
“When did it start—the addiction, I mean?”
Bernadette sat heavily upon the couch, the springs groaning beneath her broad posterior. Ian was a little surprised to see her sitting so freely in his presence, but her distress had evidently erased any class distinction between them.
“She were always high-strung, but the real trouble started after the death of her mother—a sweeter lady never trod the earth, so help me God,” she added, crossing herself. “You have to forgive Miss Harley; she has suffered so much.”
“It’s not up to me to judge her. I truly hope she finds the strength to conquer her affliction before it is too late.”
The loyal Bernadette could not suppress a shudder. No doubt she, too, had glimpsed the vacant-eyed wraiths who succumbed to the noxious drug. They could be seen wandering the back alleys and wynds of the Canongate. Those without means turned to prostitution to support their habit.
“It seems Stephen was her supplier—until recently,” Ian ventured.
“Yes, sir. Though Lord knows where he got it.”
“Does her uncle know?”
“I don’t see how he could miss it, though he never speaks of it to me, bless his soul.”
“Where is he now?”
“In his law chambers. He hasn’t yet found a replacement for Mr. Wycherly, so the poor dear is working even longer hours than usual.”
“Bernadette,” he said, “I want you to think—hard—where Mr. Wycherly might have procured this substance. A great many lives may depend upon it.”
“The laudanum, you mean?”
“Laudanum is a derivative of opium, as you must know.”
“Er, yes—now that you mention it, sir.”
“So if you have any idea as to how Mr. Wycherly might have come by opium, I implore you—”
“Hang on a minute,” she said. “Mr. Wycherly did like to go to a certain place, and sometimes he would stop by here afterward, rather—er, under the influence, as it were.”
“Where did he go?”
“He mentioned . . . an owl, I think it was, sir. I took it to be a pub, o’ course, but maybe it was something else?”
“Anything else you remember?”
“He talked about a Chinaman called Pong. I remember it struck me because the name is so much like the game, Ping-Pong. You know,” she said in response to his blank look, “also called whiff-whaff.”
“Ah, yes—table tennis.”
“Right you are, sir.”
“Thank you, Bernadette!” Ian cried, kissing her upon the forehead. “You have been most helpful.”
The good lady blushed and waved her flour-coated hands at him. “I just hope you can use what I told you to solve poor Mr. Wycherly’s murder.”
“Take care of Miss Harley, will you?”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
By the time Ian left the Harley residence, he was faint with hunger. His head felt light as a balloon; he had an odd floating sensation a
s he walked down the street, as though half levitating, like a magician’s assistant. He bought a meat pie from a street vendor and gulped it down so fast, he nearly choked. Wiping his fingers on his handkerchief, he strode with purpose toward the Canongate, the epicenter of all that was shady, vile, and unlawful.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
George Pearson stood at his window overlooking the Royal Terrace, a steaming cup of tea on the sill. There was little free space in his large but cluttered seven-room flat, so windowsills often served as impromptu tables. The steam rising from the cup fogged the lower portion of the glass, but George could see the street well enough. He watched the pedestrians on the pavement three stories below. He could make out the faces without being seen himself, his stocky body tucked behind green brocade window drapes.
He had always felt more comfortable hiding behind things—reference desks, curtains, doorways. Out in the open, he felt his body was exposed, dangling like a useless appendage and waiting for instructions to a language George had never fully understood.
And so George collected. China, furniture, doilies, histories of the world—it hardly mattered. Surrounded by his objects, he felt safe, protected. Collecting filled a yearning inside him, like a giant maw, a hunger that knew no satiation. The objects were the physical representation of something much deeper and keener. He could not bear the thought that all the world’s knowledge would someday be lost. He believed that deep within inanimate objects lay a truth more real and necessary than the merely corporeal world.
He reached for his tea and took a sip, grimacing as he swallowed. He had forgotten to buy sugar, and on top of it, let the pot sit too long; the expensive blend of oolong he favored turned bitter quickly. He set the cup back down on its matching bone china saucer, a delicate robin’s egg blue. George was feeling restless. Even the sight of his exquisite—and expensive—Royal Doulton china failed to placate his jittery nerves. He had spent his Saturday afternoon reading—not his usual history texts or books on botany; he had turned his attention to crime in all its gory and salacious detail.
Crime was his passion, and when he became interested in a subject, he immersed himself in it. And, to be honest, he was more than a little taken with DI Hamilton. His fine figure and keen gray eyes had cast a spell on George Pearson.
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