Ian flashed his badge at the front desk clerk, a sleepy bulldog of a man with muttonchop whiskers attempting unsuccessfully to hide a severe underbite.
“Sir?” said the clerk.
Ian cleared his throat officiously. “Detective Inspector Hamilton, investigating the—incident involving Monsieur Le Coq.”
The clerk leaned forward eagerly, his sluggishness vanished. “Oh, you mean Henry Wright. Poor fellow.”
“I was given to understand his name was Le Coq.”
“That’s his stage name. Poor bloke wasn’t French any more than I am! He used that as an alias to make his act seem more sophisticated. I heard the ladies went for it.”
“Is the body still there?”
“Far as I know—but the lads from the morgue just showed up, so you’d better hurry.”
“Thank you,” Ian said, turning away.
“Room Two Twelve,” the clerk called after him. “Second floor—you can take the lift.”
Passing the lift, Ian bounded up the stairs two at a time, arriving at the room in time to see two morgue attendants enter with a stretcher.
“Just a moment,” Ian said, pulling out his badge. “DI Hamilton, Edinburgh City Police. I have one or two matters to investigate before you remove the body.”
The older of the attendants, a bear of a man with beery eyes and a gut like a bedroll, scowled at him. “The poor blighter offed hisself, mister. Wha’ else d’ya need ta know?”
“I’ll let you know when I find it,” Ian replied stiffly, pushing past them into the room.
The elegance of the suite was marred by the presence of the body lying upon the settee. Ian recognized him at once from the posters in front of the Theatre Royal. The handsome face was pale, the only visible sign of violence the purple discoloration on his neck, just above his shirt collar. A leather belt lay on the floor next to the body. Ian searched the victim’s pockets carefully for the usual playing card, but found none. As he was puzzling the reason for this, he heard footsteps behind him.
A reedy, worried-looking man in an elegant frock coat stood over him, wringing his hands. Balding and avuncular, he wore wire-rimmed glasses upon his beak of a nose.
“Alan McCleary,” he said, extending a thin hand. “I’m the night manager.”
“Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton, Edinburgh City Police.”
Mr. McCleary appeared suitably impressed by his credentials. “Dreadful business!” he said, continuing to wring his hands as he paced the plush carpet. “I fear it will bring bad repute upon the hotel!”
The manager’s lack of concern about the dead man struck Ian as more than a little callous, but he held his tongue. Mr. McCleary might yet prove useful, and Ian was too much of a pragmatist to scold him and risk losing his cooperation.
He pointed to the leather belt. “Was this used in the hanging?”
“Dear me, yes—shocking, it was! The chambermaid came in with clean linens and found him hanging from the beam in the bedroom! Poor girl, she was quite distraught.”
“Where is she?”
“I sent her home.”
“You did what?”
“She was quite hysterical, Detective.”
“I’ll need her name and address.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t yet determined the manner of death.”
“Surely it’s plain as the nose on your face!” the manager exclaimed. “The poor wretch hanged himself. Why on earth would he do such a thing here, of all places? Surely he was satisfied with the service—we gave him no cause for complaint.”
Ian stared at him. Did the man really have so little compassion that all he could think about was his hotel? But one look in McCleary’s frantic eyes and Ian knew he was in a complete panic, no doubt capable of uttering the most absurd nonsense. Sweat beaded in droplets on his creased forehead, and his sallow cheeks were aflame.
“What do you suppose drove him to do it?” he said imploringly.
“I am not at all convinced he did anything,” Ian replied, bending over the body.
“What on earth do you mean by that?” McCleary fretted, his shrill voice rising in pitch.
“I’m not at all convinced this is a suicide.”
“Oh, dear,” McCleary moaned, sweating even more profusely. “If it wasn’t suicide, then could it be—murder? At the Waterloo Hotel? Why, it’s unthinkable! Who on earth would do such a thing?”
“That is what I mean to find out,” said Ian, looking around the room. Everything was in order, except for the French Empire–style writing desk beneath the far window. The center drawer had been pulled out, the contents in disarray. A pearl-handled letter opener lay on the floor near the desk. He turned to the hotel manager. “Is this as the maid found it when she entered the suite?”
“You mustn’t blame her, poor girl—she was out of her wits with terror,” McCleary said. “Under normal circumstances, she would have tidied up immediately.”
“I’m glad she didn’t,” said Ian.
“Beg pardon?”
“The disarray suggests a struggle of some kind. If your maid had put everything in order, I should have lost a vital clue.”
“I see,” McCleary replied, wiping his damp forehead with a neatly pressed handkerchief.
Ian went into the bedroom, McCleary tiptoeing after him as though he were the uncertain guest and Ian the master. As in the living room, everything was in order—Mr. Wright had clearly been a tidy man in life; even in death he left his surroundings largely undisturbed. “Is this the beam he was found hanging from?” Ian asked, pointing to a broad oak rafter stretching lengthwise in the center of the room. An overturned desk chair lay on the ground directly beneath it.
“Yes,” McCleary replied with a shudder.
Ian studied the beam, which could easily support the weight of a man’s body.
He pointed to the overturned chair. “And this was here?”
“Yes, yes,” the manager responded irritably. “But I don’t see—”
“Would you do me the kindness of fetching the belt, please?”
Alan McCleary blinked twice, then lurched into the parlor, returning with the belt, holding it outstretched between thumb and forefinger as if it were a venomous snake.
“Thank you,” said Ian. Turning the chair upright, he climbed upon it and threw one end of the belt over the beam. Slipping the metal prong of the buckle through the last eyehole, he attempted unsuccessfully to put his head in the loop formed by the buckled belt.
“Dear me!” the manager yelped. “You’re not going to—”
“Calm yourself, Mr. McCleary,” Ian said, stepping down from the chair. “I wasn’t planning on following in Mr. Wright’s footsteps. I was simply examining the length of the belt.”
He returned to the living room, where the disgruntled morgue attendants stood smoking.
“Look here,” said the fat one, “are ye gonnae release this body or what?”
“You can have him right now,” Ian said, “if you help me with one last thing.”
“What’s that?” the attendant asked suspiciously, his small eyes narrowed.
“Stand him upright for a moment.”
“What fer?”
“Just do as I ask, and you may have him.”
The attendants shrugged and hoisted the unfortunate man to his feet. Rigor mortis had not yet set in, so the limpness of his body made it a difficult task.
“All right,” said the fellow with the beer gut. “Now what?”
Ian stood next to the dead man. “Now then, Mr. McCleary, which of us would you say is the taller?”
“Why, you are, by at least an inch or two.”
“Thank you,” Ian said. “You may take him away now,” he said to the attendants, who did as he said, in between some head-scratching and eye-rolling.
When they had gone, McCleary turned to him in an agitated state. “I believe I see what you were after, Detective.”
“I am taller than Mr. Wright, and
yet, standing on that chair, even I could not manage to place my head in the belt once it was looped around the beam.”
“So that means—”
“Henry Wright did not hang himself,” Ian said, crouching to examine the floor beneath the beam.
“What are you looking for?” McCleary said, hovering over him anxiously.
Sweeping his hand over the polished wood surface, Ian felt coarse bits of fiber remnants. Scooping them up, he held them in his palm so McCleary could see. “This,” he said. “I was looking for this.”
The manager peered at them. “Dear me, I shall have to speak to the maid about her carelessness.”
“The careless person was not the maid but whoever killed Henry Wright,” Ian said with a grim smile. “And his carelessness may put a noose around his own neck.”
“Where did it come from?”
“From a rope.”
“What rope?”
“The one used to hoist a murdered man up in order to make his death appear as a suicide. Even for a very fit man, it would be a daunting task to lift an inert body that high, but quite easily done if you used a rope over the beam as a hoist. You could tie it off and place his neck in the belt loop and then just remove the rope.”
“Goodness, that requires quite a lot of planning,” McCreary said, wringing his hands.
“The man we’re looking for is quite adept at planning.”
“Dear me,” the manager said, eyes wide, “who on earth would do such a thing?”
“That, Mr. McCleary, is an excellent question.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
As it was a bright moonlit night, Ian decided to walk back through the sleeping city. No one on the staff had seen anyone enter or leave Henry Wright’s room—but getting in and out of buildings unobserved was no doubt easy for a conjurer. There was no certainty the hypnotist had been murdered by the Holyrood Strangler—the absence of a playing card was indeed puzzling. But every fiber of Ian’s being told him he was closing in on the perpetrator. The night manager could not recall Henry Wright receiving visitors during his stay, nor could any of the other staff members. Ian longed to interview the chambermaid who had found the body, but it was past midnight, and he supposed the poor girl would be calmer in the morning.
He turned south onto George IV Bridge, which arched over the streets below like the back of a whale. As he swung onto Victoria Street from the bridge, Ian saw the tower of Greyfriars Kirk poking through the cloud cover, its gray stone steeple somber in the moonlight. He rarely visited his parents’ graves in the kirkyard. The fire had left little more than charred ashes and a few scattered bones—the caskets they lowered into the ground were so light, it seemed a pity to waste the space burying a pile of bones. Afterward he had the wild notion that the charred remains found in the house were not his parents’—that they had somehow escaped the conflagration, and someone else was buried in that churchyard.
When Donald disappeared shortly after the fire, not even staying for the funeral, Ian was left adrift, with no one to share memories of his childhood. His response was to bury them as deeply as the caskets in Greyfriars Kirkyard. Something grew in him, fierce and hard and cold, a sticking place where neither light nor joy could enter, forged on that night when he felt the utter indifference of the universe. Surrounded by his aunt’s affection, embraced by the dark city that was now his home, he felt like an outlier, doomed to roam the earth, calling men to account for their evil deeds.
Lost in thought as he rounded the corner of Fleshmarket Close, he was unaware of his attackers until they were upon him. Only moments after that, he realized the hard object that had come in contact with his face was a fist.
Hit so hard that he spun clear around, Ian found himself face-to-face with the second assailant, who landed a blow to his stomach, sending him to his knees. His kneecaps had no sooner hit the cobblestones than he felt a kick to the ribs, and fell heavily on his side beneath a shower of blows. Blood spurted from his nose and trickled from his forehead into his right eye. The first ruffian lifted him to his feet and whispered in his ear with horrible, cheap whisky breath.
“Rodney sends his regards.”
The first thought in his fuzzy brain was that he knew no one by that name. But as the thug released his grip and Ian sank to the ground, he recalled the two toffs who had insulted Derek the day before. The second one had called his friend Rodney. Ian braced himself for more blows, but to his surprise they didn’t come. He raised his head, dimly aware of the presence of a third person.
He heard an exclamation of pain coming from the first assailant. Wiping the blood from his eyes, Ian could just make out the third individual—an enormous hulk of a man. He remembered the fight behind the Hound and Hare, Rat Face, and his companion.
“Jimmy,” he gasped, “is that you?”
The giant lifted the second man by the collar as if he were made of straw and flung him against the side of the nearest building. He landed with a thud, sinking to the ground with a groan, and then was silent. The first assailant, seeing what short work Jimmy had made of his companion, took to his heels, scampering away down Fleshmarket Close.
“Never could stand an unfair fight,” said Jimmy, and before Ian could thank him, he vanished into the night.
Getting painfully to his feet, Ian hobbled the last few blocks to his flat. When sleep came to him that night, crawling into his bed like a reluctant lover, he sank gratefully into blessed oblivion. Just prior to losing consciousness, he was aware of something kneading his legs as if they were dough, and realized it was the cat. He tried to lift his hand to pet it, but before he could summon the will, unconsciousness overtook him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
DCI Crawford looked up from his steaming cup of tea when Ian presented himself at the station house around noon.
“Sorry I’m late, sir. I had a rather eventful night.”
“Something tells me I’ll regret asking, but what the devil happened to you?”
“My face had the discourtesy to interrupt the forward motion of a fist.”
“Do I want to know any other details?”
“Probably not.”
“You may have a broken nose.”
“Quite possibly.”
“Well, it can only improve your appearance. What else? You clearly have something on your mind.”
“You have heard of the hypnotist found hung in his room at the Waterloo Hotel yesterday afternoon?”
“I have.”
“I went round there last night to have a look, and—”
“Wait—don’t tell me,” he said, holding up a plump hand. “It wasn’t suicide—it was murder.”
“If you say so, sir.”
The chief ran his fingers through his thinning ginger hair. “I assume you have a theory for this one as well.”
“I think Henry Wright was killed by the Holyrood Strangler.”
Crawford stirred his tea and licked the spoon before placing it carefully on the desk. “Go on.”
Ian described his findings at the scene.
“Do you think the killer was looking for something in the desk?” asked Crawford when he described the open desk drawer.
“I believe Henry Wright was looking for something to defend himself with.”
“The letter opener?”
“Aye, which means he didn’t expect the attack.”
“And yet no sign of forced entry indicates—”
“He knew his killer,” Ian said.
“But the front desk clerk saw no one go to Mr. Wright’s room?”
“So he claims.”
“Could he be lying?”
“More likely asleep. He looked pretty drowsy when I saw him.”
Crawford hauled his bulk out of the chair and lumbered over to the filing cabinet. “An open desk drawer, a dropped letter opener, and a few bits of rope fiber are precious little evidence.”
“But apart from that, Henry Wright was a fastidious man.”
“We al
l have our little corners of untidiness. My wife is an excellent housekeeper, but her sewing basket is appallingly disorganized. It’s full of stray needles likely to stab you if you’re not careful—”
“What about the length of the belt?”
“Couldn’t he have pulled himself up by his hands and placed his neck in it?”
“Possibly. But why not use something longer—say, a bedsheet?”
“I’ll grant you it’s a more logical choice, but can we suppose someone in that state of mind is thinking clearly?”
“I just think it bears consideration, and given all the other clues—”
“Very well,” Crawford grunted. “Let’s move on, shall we?” He plucked a sheet of paper from atop the filing cabinet. “Your little Nancy-boy showed up early this morning and gave a credible description of the young rake who went off with Kerry O’Donohue Friday night. Oh, and your aunt is a damn decent sketch artist.”
Ian snatched the sketch from Crawford and studied it eagerly. The resemblance to Henry Wright was remarkable. The face looking back at him was handsome, with the same firm chin and broad forehead as the dead hypnotist. He was struck by the deep-set eyes, intense and brooding.
“Judging from this,” he said, “I believe this victim may be related to his killer. Brothers, perhaps.”
“That puts a new twist on the case,” Crawford said, stroking his lush whiskers. “Your aunt did a good job on the sketch, assuming it’s a decent likeness. She was very patient with the little pervert.”
Ian winced at the word. “I’m glad he was able to be useful.”
“So?” Crawford asked. “Does the likeness call anyone to mind?”
“There’s a resemblance between this man and Henry Wright—they could be brothers,” Ian said, threads of excitement spiraling in his stomach.
“Mind you don’t fiddle the facts to fit your theory,” Crawford warned.
“I’m going to interview the chambermaid who found the body at the Waterloo Hotel. May I take this along just in case?”
“Right,” said Crawford. “Off you go, then.”
Before Ian could move, the door to the office swung open, and a disheveled Sergeant Dickerson lurched into the room. His uniform was unbrushed, his boots in need of polish, and one of the brass buttons on his jacket had come undone. “Sorry, sirs,” he panted. “I meant to be here earlier.”
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