CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
The fog curled like a cat around Ian’s feet as he trod westward toward Victoria Terrace. As he passed the Hound and Hare, he saw a slight, wiry form dart into the far alley. Something in the set of the man’s shoulders and quick movements looked familiar—and since the fellow was trying to avoid him, Ian decided to follow. He slipped around the corner of the building in time to see his quarry scurry behind the pub. Ian turned and came around the other side, figuring the man would continue in the same direction.
He was right. Beneath the gaslight where the alley met the street, he ran headlong into Rat Face. Shock and surprise registered on his ferret-like features before sliding into an unconvincing smile.
“Why, Detective Inspector Hamilton, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Is it? I had the distinct impression you were trying to avoid me.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“I can think of several reasons.”
“One must never be too careful about choosing one’s companions,” Rat Face replied, drawing Ian into the shadows beneath the building’s eaves. “But I would never avoid you—on purpose, that is,” he added, glancing nervously in the direction of the street.
“Perhaps you mistook me for someone else?”
“No doubt. My eyesight is not the best.”
“May I inquire whom you are so afraid of encountering, and why?”
Rat Face coughed delicately. “There was a slight misunderstanding over a card game.”
“When you cheat at cards, you must take care to not be found out.”
“Your insinuation wounds me,” he replied, with a hurt look no more believable than any of his other expressions.
“I believe we have some unfinished business.”
“Do we indeed?” Rat Face said, without taking his eyes off the street, as shouts and drunken laughter floated out of the Hound and Hare.
“I seem to recall the last time we met—at this very pub—I rescued you from a thrashing.”
“Most kind of you,” he said, shifting restlessly and scratching his long nose.
“Perhaps you could enlighten me on a matter regarding my investigation.”
“I am always delighted to assist members of the police force, Detective.”
“What can you tell me about card tricks?”
“Why do you ask?” he said nervously.
“I’m afraid some details of the case must remain hidden.”
“What makes you think I know anything about card tricks?”
“A little mouse told me—your cousin, perhaps.”
“How amusing,” he said, shrinking back against the building as the wheels of a passing cab threw a spray of muddy water in their direction. “I regret to say I really do have to be somewhere.”
“In other words, you need to be away from here.”
“Something like that.”
“Very well,” Ian said. “I know another place not far from here.”
Soon they were seated in the back room of the White Hart Inn, a pint of ale at their elbow. The clientele was considerably less boisterous than the patrons of the Hound and Hare—at this hour, mostly university students, more given to quoting Burns and Milton than brawling.
“Well?” Rat Face said, his eyes darting about the room. “What did you want to ask me?”
Ian withdrew the four of clubs from his pocket. “Have you seen this card before?”
“Dear me, what a strange design,” he replied, studying the grinning skeletons in their jaunty red fezzes. “I have not. What else do you wish to know?”
“I would appreciate anything you have to say about sleight of hand.”
“As much as I am gratified by your interest, I am a busy man.”
“I will pay for your time.”
A smile snaked across his thin lips, and he leaned forward. “May I assume you will not use anything I say against me in the future?”
“I am in search of more dangerous game.”
Rat Face drank deeply, wiping his mouth. “Sleight of hand is an ancient art, invented to beat the house, as it were.”
“And the other players.”
“Ah, but that can be risky. One must never succumb to the temptation to show one’s skill.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it is a very good way to court death. Your technique must be invisible, unless you want to die.”
“And do the same rules apply to magic tricks?”
“The great Robert-Houdin said magic is cheating for amusement. Your technique should always be secondary to the effect. That is what matters, not your skill.”
“How does one acquire this skill?”
“Doing magic is about focusing the audience’s attention on what you want it to perceive. There are many ways to accomplish this, but one of the most well-known methods is misdirection.”
Ian signaled the waiter for another round. “Please continue.”
“Simply put, you give the audience something else to focus on in order to hide the move that is the secret to the trick. Allow me to demonstrate,” he said, pulling a deck of cards from his vest pocket. “I always carry these with me just in case—not as colorful as the deck you showed me, but they do the trick. Oh, that’s rather good,” he added, chuckling. “They do the trick.”
He proceeded to shuffle the cards with great dexterity, his long, thin fingers flying over the deck, which he extended to Ian.
“Pick a card, any card.”
Ian plucked the four of diamonds from the pack.
“Ah,” Rat Face remarked with a sly smile. “I see you have chosen the Ambitious Card.”
“Meaning . . . ?”
“No matter where you place it in the deck, it always ends up on top. Allow me to show you what I mean.”
He cut the deck deftly in half, placing Ian’s card on the top of the bottom half, faceup, pushing it forward from the others so he could see it. “Is that your card?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll slide that in the middle of the other half—you see?” he said, sliding the card into the top half of the deck.
“I do.”
“Now we put the two halves together—and it should be in the middle, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And yet somehow it works its way to the top of the deck,” he said, turning over the top card—the four of diamonds.
Ian stared at him. “How on earth did you do that?”
“It relies upon a common technique known as a double lift. When I showed you that your card was on top of the bottom half, you noticed I turned it over so you could see the face?”
“Yes.”
“That was a misdirection. There was another card on top of it—and that was the card I slid into the middle of the top half. That was the double lift.”
“Remarkable.”
“Child’s play. But a trick should work even when it is explained—if it is well done.”
“Very impressive.”
“I believe you hinted at a more corporeal form of appreciation?” Rat Face said, his eyes hungry.
Pulling out his wallet, Ian handed him a five-pound note.
“Most generous,” his companion replied, folding it carefully before sliding it into his vest pocket. “I hope you’ll allow me to be of use in the future.”
“You may have helped to unlock a key part of the puzzle.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
“I can only say that it involves misdirection,” he said, rising and tossing some coins onto the table.
“But—”
“Thank you—I am in your debt.”
He scooped up his cloak, hurrying out into the night, leaving his puzzled companion with two half-full pints of amber ale.
Ian was both relieved and disappointed to find the flat empty and dark, save for a very hungry and vocal Bacchus, who proclaimed his displeasure at Ian’s absence loudly, weaving in and out between his feet. Picking his way carefully a
round the cat to the kitchen, Ian tore into what remained of the joint his brother had cooked. He ate standing at the counter, tossing bits of meat to Bacchus, who gobbled them up greedily.
When Ian crawled into bed, the cat snuggled up against him, purring loudly, one paw thrown over his arm. The cat’s eyes were half-closed, the expression on its face as close to pure contentment as Ian had ever seen. Why was it so easy for a dumb animal to find peace and happiness in this world, while human beings created wars so they could hack at one another, spending untold hours thinking up new ways to inflict harm?
Why were families, which should offer solace and comfort, such sources of anguish? The story of his family had ended too abruptly, leaving too many unanswered questions. It was like a badly constructed plot, loose narrative threads dangling without closure. He stroked the cat’s head absently, and the animal reached a paw up to his face, running it lightly over his cheek. Ian burned with shame and regret. Why was it so much easier to befriend a stray cat than to be kind to his own brother? Was there a missing component in his personality that compelled him to push people away? Self-pity began to flower in his breast; through force of habit, he immediately converted it into anger, a far more acceptable emotion.
The thin sliver of moon stared down from the eastern sky as he pulled the covers up to his chin, but thoughts continued to race through his brain. What had happened to his family was no worse than a hundred tragedies that befell others every day—why linger on the agony? The pain and rage had made a home in his heart, burrowing in like the cat nesting next to him in bed, and he felt powerless to budge it.
Finally he rose and lit the bedside lamp. Rifling through the rolltop desk in the corner, he fished out a few pieces of paper. He scribbled out some lines, without thought as to whether they were good or bad, just to make himself feel better.
The Hand of God
is dull, diffident—or worse, indifferent
How can he demand from us
what he refuses to provide
mocking us with notions of love
he continues to hide
while we stew in shame
like an unwilling bride
He didn’t really believe in a Christian God, but he needed a target for his anger. The lines did provide some relief, and when he returned to bed, Ian smiled at the sight of Bacchus stretching a paw out to him, as if welcoming him back to bed.
But when he finally drifted off, sleep was not an amiable companion. He was visited by nightmares of pursuing a killer down dark and crowded streets, through closes and wynds, until a blank brick wall stopped both pursuer and pursued. When the man turned to face him, red and panting, the shock of recognition turned Ian’s limbs to stone. There, in the dank and festering alley, was his brother.
“Shocked, are you?” Donald taunted. “Stupid git—the clues were there all along, but you were too dim to see them!”
Ian tried to speak, but no words came—his tongue was as thick and useless as his legs. He watched helplessly as Donald turned into the same hideous skeleton found on the playing cards left by the murderer. His brother danced a jaunty gig, bones rattling, grinning an eyeless grin as Ian looked on, horrified. The scream that finally wrung itself from Ian’s throat was drowned out by his brother’s mocking laughter.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Lucy Davenport, her head swathed in layers of flannel, staggered down the Canongate, trying unsuccessfully to wring the voices from her head. She hoped that if she wrapped her ears with enough fabric, she could silence the tormenting whispers that followed her everywhere.
Sadly, she was wrong. At the moment, she was engaged in a dialogue with one she called Evil Seth. He was a particularly nasty character who liked to berate her, reminding her of her own worthlessness.
“Small wonder your mother abandoned you,” Seth snarled as she lurched past the window of McClennon’s Dry Goods. The well-dressed shop ladies inside shook their heads and clucked their tongues at the sight of her—poor Daft Lucy, out there all alone in this wretched weather. But Lucy took no notice of the weather—when the voices were upon her, it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other.
“You’re a worthless bampot,” her tormentor declared, using the slang word for “idiot.” Seth often used vulgar language—yesterday he had called her a “fanny,” a double insult meaning both “vagina” and “stupid.”
“I am not,” she muttered, clutching her ears as she stumbled past an organ-grinder and his monkey. He was hardly a more popular figure on the street than she was; though children loved to see his strange little creature perform its tricks, most people in Edinburgh, when they gave him money, did so in hopes he would move on to another neighborhood. Still, he tipped his hat to her like a gentleman, and she attempted to smile back, even though she couldn’t help shrinking away from the ugly little beast with its tiny head, sharp teeth, and sunken eyes. Its shriveled face reminded her of shrunken heads she had seen in London shops as a girl.
Those days seemed a long way off—Daft Lucy, as she was known, had lived in Edinburgh most of her life. The voices had begun around her eighteenth birthday, causing her parents to turn her unceremoniously out of the house. She was now in her midtwenties, though she wasn’t sure exactly how old she was. Her parents had died in the last cholera epidemic, along with many of Edinburgh’s citizens, and she truly was alone in the world.
But Edinburgh was a city that embraced its oddities, and Lucy was seldom without an offer of a hot meal or a discarded dress to wear. She spent her more lucid days reading in the library, devouring books on everything from history to botany to popular literature. She was well-known to all the local pastors, always welcome in church; sometimes, on the good days, she even helped give lessons to the children in Sunday school.
This was one of the bad days. When the voices came, she could not bear to be still, so she wandered the streets, shaking her head and talking to her invisible companions. Families on their way to church gave her a wide berth, mothers tucking their children’s heads close to their skirts to shield them from her.
“Everyone is watching you,” Seth said. “They think you’re just a daft, useless drudge.”
“What do ye know of anythin’?” she muttered, pulling her scarf tighter around her head as she peered into the Daily Bread Bakery. Her mouth watered as she stared at the fairy cakes in the window, tiny round treats with frosting in all colors of the rainbow. They were so beautiful—if only she could have just one . . .
As she stood gazing through the window, she thought she heard a faint moaning coming from Warden’s Close, the alley next to the bakery. Thinking it was just Seth trying to trick her, she ignored it—but no, there it was again.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded as she crept around the corner into the narrow passage.
“Aw, shut yer trap,” she muttered, walking slowly between the buildings and listening for the sound.
Sure enough, there it was again—coming from behind the bakery. She searched the cramped rear corridor for any sign of life. All she spied were a few trash bins, discarded radish greens, and an old set of rusty bedsprings partially covered with an oilcloth. Turning to leave, she heard it again, coming from behind the bedsprings.
Stepping carefully over the piles of rubbish, she lifted the oilcloth and peered around the corner of the bedsprings. There, lying between them and the wall of the building, was a young lad of about ten. He lay very still and appeared to be dead. But was it not his moaning she’d heard coming from the alley? His blond hair was lank and long, his features marred by the purple blotches beneath his eyes, though even with that and the grime on his cheeks, she could see he was quite a handsome boy.
“Get away!” Seth sputtered. “They’ll think you killed him, you stupid cow!”
Ignoring him, Lucy reached out to touch the boy’s face, and was shocked to see his eyes open as he gasped for air. Startled, she fell backward, hitting the cobblestones hard and smacking her tailbone
smartly on the paving stones.
“God take me fer an idjit!” she muttered as tears spurted into her eyes. She didn’t pause to rub her bruised limbs, more concerned about the boy in the gutter than her own injuries. Pulling herself onto her hands and knees, she crawled toward him. His eyes were closed again, and she saw no further sign of life. She cradled his head in her lap and stroked his forehead, brushing the long yellow locks of hair out of his eyes. His lips were blue, his skin alarmingly white, the flesh mottled like marble. “Come on, then,” she whispered. “Kin ye breathe, then?”
She imagined she should be doing something to resuscitate him, but she couldn’t think what it might be. She loosened his collar, revealing the angry purple bruises around his neck. Lucy knew enough about death to recognize the signs of strangulation.
“Who did this to ye?” she murmured, and to her surprise, the blue lips parted in a feeble attempt at speech. She leaned her head over his, her ear to his mouth. “What is it?”
The words were little more than a breath of air, thin with the approach of impending mortality. “Ma . . . magi . . .”
“Louder,” she urged. “What are ye tryin’ to say, lad?”
But the next breath that left his body was his last. A slow wheezing sound escaped his lungs, and his lips closed forever, leaving Lucy crouched on the unforgiving ground with his cold, lifeless form cradled in her arms.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Ian Hamilton awoke to a chill and clinging dawn. He closed his eyes again for what seemed like just a moment, but when he opened them again, the gray light had blossomed, intensifying the pounding in his head. From the angle of the sun, it looked to be midmorning. He took a ragged breath and rubbed his eyes, startled by the sound of an engine nearby. He turned his head to see Bacchus staring at him through half-closed eyes, purring loudly. Glad for the animal’s presence, he reached out to stroke its fur. The cat leaned into him, rubbing its face along Ian’s fingers.
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