“But it wasn’t—”
“Please—I insist.”
A glance at the quality of his London tweed jacket and Italian leather shoes told Donald the man was well-heeled.
“Jolly decent of you,” he said, unconsciously sliding into his companion’s British inflections. There was something compelling about the man’s commanding personality, though Donald felt oddly repulsed at the same time.
His companion handed him a pint and held up his own mug. “That’s better—cheers.”
The two men touched glasses, and the stranger gave him a smile. Donald was struck by the power of his gaze, concentrated in the deep-set, powder-blue eyes. The smile, though intended to be friendly, was intense and strangely cold. He felt the man was sizing him up, and yet there was an energy about him that made resistance difficult. Though the room was warm, Donald gave an involuntary shiver.
“Do you like card tricks?”
“I suppose so.” Donald wanted to walk away, but he couldn’t seem to summon the will. “I’ve never thought much about it.”
With a flourish, the man produced a deck of cards. “Pick one.”
Feeling the heat of his gaze, Donald hesitated.
“Go ahead—any card.”
Donald reached for a card.
Outside the pub, deep in the night, an owl hooted as the pale moon slid behind a dark cloud.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
“Shall we call it a night?” Sergeant Dickerson said to George Pearson as the two stumbled down Cowgate Street in the company of the gang of footballers.
The footballer nearest to him put a hairy arm around his neck. “Oiy—ye can’t go yet, lads! The fun’s only just beginnin’!”
Pearson shot Dickerson a desperate look. The footballers had appropriated George and the sergeant, annexing them to their merry little band when they’d pressed forward in search of the man they’d thought they were following. Sandwiched between two swarthy fellows with calves like hitching posts, the librarian was sweating miserably, the beery fumes coming from his companions making him nauseated. He squirmed uncomfortably in their embrace, but the larger one gave him an affectionate squeeze.
“Oiy, Georgie boy, what position d’ye play?”
“Uh—forward?” Pearson replied hopefully, trying to catch Dickerson’s eye. But the sergeant was trying to fend off the flask of whisky another of the players was pressing upon him.
“Forward, is it?” the giant roared. “Hey, lads, Georgie ’ere plays forward!”
The hulk on George’s other side bellowed with laughter. “Fer which team, then—George Heriot’s School fer boys?”
The others howled and slapped one another on the back. A flat palm between George’s own shoulder blades knocked the air out of him, and he gasped as he stumbled forward.
Two strong pairs of hands reached to steady him, but Pearson saw his chance and wriggled away, twisting off to stand on the side of the road. With a final frantic pull, Dickerson wrenched himself from the clutches of his companions and staggered after the librarian.
The two men took to their heels, scurrying away as fast as their lack of fitness would allow, followed by the disappointed cries of their newfound friends.
“Don’ go, Georgie boy!”
“Oiy—where ye off tae?”
“The night’s still young!”
The two kept running until they reached Tron Square, where they stood panting, their breath forming white puffs in the chill air.
“I thought we’d never git away,” Dickerson said finally.
“We were lucky to escape with our lives,” Pearson remarked, wiping the sweat from his brow.
The sergeant barked out a laugh. “I were tryin’ t’imagine you as a footballer—not bloody likely!”
“I might say the same of you.”
Dickerson laughed again, out of relief. “Yer not ’alf bad, mate.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” Pearson replied. “But I think I’ll be getting along home before we are apprehended by another gang of sports-minded ruffians.”
“Me, too,” said the sergeant. “I’ve ’ad enough for one night.”
“Good night, then,” said the librarian, heading off toward New Town.
“’Night,” Dickerson replied, watching him for a moment before turning in the other direction.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
It was well after midnight when Ian staggered back to his flat. He had searched every pub and gambling den nearby, but exhaustion tore so fiercely at his body that after two hours he was forced to give up the search. With the beating he had sustained two days earlier, combined with lack of sleep, he felt as if he had been drugged. He had no sooner crawled into bed than he succumbed to the pull of sweet oblivion.
A pounding at the front door jolted him into consciousness. He sat bolt upright in bed, aware of morning sounds coming from the street below, the clatter of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves vying with the cries of street vendors and tradesmen. The angle of the sun suggested it was midmorning. The knocking sounded again, and he sprang from the bed. Seized by a wave of dizziness, he grasped the bedpost to steady himself before hurrying to answer the door.
Sergeant Dickerson stood alone on the stoop, a grave expression on his pale face. The implication was clear: another victim. Without a word, Ian let the sergeant in, closing the door behind him. He headed back to the bedroom to get dressed, but Dickerson’s voice stopped him.
“Sir.”
Something in his tone made Ian’s blood freeze. He turned slowly and regarded Dickerson, dread seeping into his limbs.
“What is it?”
Dickerson opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Unable to hold Ian’s gaze, he averted his eyes, which were rimmed with red.
“Who is it this time?” said Ian. “For God’s sake, who?”
Staring at his shoes, the sergeant muttered in a strained monotone. “He was found this morning, sir, outside the Lion and the Lamb. Just like the others.”
“Who, Sergeant?”
“It’s . . . Pearson, sir.”
“What?” Ian said. “George Pearson?”
“We haven’t moved him yet, sir. If you could just come with me—”
Relief crested over him like a wave. What he had feared, more than anything, was to hear his brother’s name, but . . . His knees buckled, and he grasped the wall to steady himself.
Dickerson stepped forward. “Y’all right, sir?”
Ian’s vision blurred as relief was replaced by boiling rage that the killer had claimed poor, harmless Pearson. The librarian’s only desire was to help Ian—instead, he became another victim. Even though he had tried to keep Pearson at a distance from the investigation, Ian felt responsible for his death, and his guilt was replaced by a cold, hard thirst for vengeance. Without a word, he went to his bedroom and put on his clothes. When he reappeared in the foyer, the face he turned upon Sergeant Dickerson was the stony mask of a basilisk.
“Take me there.”
The sergeant peered at him like a frightened rabbit before scurrying out the door.
DCI Crawford was not prepared for the man who appeared in his office at 192 High Street later that morning. He looked like DI Hamilton, and sounded like him, yet there was something unsettling about the frosty, faraway look in those gray eyes. He showed no traces of human emotion as he stood, stiff as a rod, in front of the chief inspector’s desk.
“Rotten news about your friend, Hamilton,” Crawford began, but the look on the detective’s face silenced him. It was chilling, the gaze of an automaton, not a human being.
“Here are the copies of the sketch my aunt drew last night,” Hamilton said, thrusting a handful of papers onto the desk.
“I’ll see that these are distributed,” Crawford said. “And one for the bulletin board, of course.”
“I would like you to see that an article appears in the evening edition of the Scotsman,” Hamilton said, “announcing we have a suspect in custody in the cas
e of the Holyrood Strangler.”
“But we have no such—”
“Furthermore, it should state that we feel the case will soon be closed, and will soon be revealing the name of the suspect.”
“But why—”
“If you do as I say, it will become clear.”
“You could at least explain what you have in mind,” Crawford said. Damn it, Hamilton was making him uneasy with that bloody stare.
“He knows we’re closing in—he may be planning to leave town. It’s imperative he believe he is safe for the moment so he relaxes his guard.”
“And then . . . ?”
Hamilton gave a grim smile that sent chills up Crawford’s back.
“He will find that there is no safe hiding place in the city of Edinburgh.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Wednesday was Edinburgh’s midweek market day. Local farmers herded their livestock into town and along the Cowgate to the Grassmarket, transforming it into a pulsating mass of bleating and lowing. The smell of the animals was ungodly, especially the cattle, which emanated a noxious odor. People walked by with handkerchiefs pressed to their faces—all except the herdsmen in their rubber boots and flat-brimmed hats, who seemed unperturbed by the stench. Black-and-white border collies paced restlessly beside their masters, sharp eyes fixed on their hooved charges.
Observing the gathering crowd, Derek McNair stood at the top of the same staircase he and Freddie Cubbins had scurried down less than a week ago. Street buskers had set up shop, each claiming their corner. A trio of jugglers wearing motley tossed brightly colored balls into the air while a pair of acrobats did cartwheels; across the wide square, a hurdy-gurdy man cranked the handle of his case, sending out strains of familiar Scottish ballads and folk songs. Derek recognized the tune to “Annie Laurie”:
Maxwelton’s braes are bonnie,
Where early fa’s the dew,
’Twas there that Annie Laurie
Gi’ed me her promise true.
He scanned the crowd, looking for potential marks. He preferred pickpocketing men—for one thing, they were less attentive than women, but he also felt fewer pangs of conscience about stealing from a man. A good-looking toff in an elegant frock coat and gold brocade vest caught his eye. The man was on the young side, with perfectly coiffed hair beneath a well-brushed top hat. Derek licked his lips and rubbed his fingertips lightly across his moistened mouth, to sensitize them and make them stickier. It was his ritual before performing a “lift,” to put himself in the mood and focus his concentration.
He loped casually down the stone steps, taking care not to stare at the man. When he reached the bottom, he was surprised to see his intended victim remove his top hat and release a live dove; with a flutter of wings, the bird flew into the air. Disappointment flared in the boy’s breast—the blasted fellow was just another busker! Bloody magician, Derek thought bitterly as he watched the man pull a row of colorful silk scarves from his sleeve. Several women in the crowd turned, attracted by the flash of color. Their keen expressions softened into something altogether different as they took in the handsome face and graceful figure in the fashionable frock coat.
Caught in the magician’s spell, Derek loitered at the foot of the stairs. All hope of stealing from him had vanished—his lightning hands were quicker even than Derek’s—but the boy lingered to watch. The magician offered a silk scarf to each of the ladies who had formed a semicircle around him. Their tittering and lowered eyes did nothing to relieve the impatience on their husbands’ faces. Attempts to disengage their wives from the spectacle met firm resistance.
The boy couldn’t help admiring the man’s aplomb as he winked and smiled at the delicate flowers of womanhood gathered round him. Hoping to learn a few tricks of the amorous arts, Derek stood at the edge of the crowd as the magician produced an egg from behind a small girl’s ear—which immediately hatched, revealing a snowy white chick. The girl clapped her hands in delight, while her blushing young mother laughed as he presented her with the chirping hatchling. He took out a pack of cards, deftly tossing them into the air. His quicksilver fingers flicked the cards out in a way that made them return to him as faithfully as homing pigeons.
Derek was astonished. Entranced, he watched the magician’s hands slide gracefully through the air. Edinburgh had its share of street performers, but nothing like this. He would have expected such skill only in fancy theaters, at shows you had to pay good money to see. He stood, arms crossed, his mouth open in amazement as the man cut the deck again and again with one hand—then, fanning it out, offered it to the prettiest young woman in the front row.
“Pick a card—any card.”
She blushed and giggled, turning to her exasperated husband, who rolled his eyes. Ignoring him, she plucked a card from the middle of the deck with delicate gloved hands.
“Look at it—don’t show it to anyone—and put it back in the deck.”
The lady obeyed, and the magician began shuffling the cards. As he did, a man on the other side of the crowd caught Derek’s eye. The boy barely recognized DI Hamilton—he looked terrible. His face was drawn and haggard, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His right cheekbone glistened with a bright purple bruise, and his face bore other cuts and gashes. Next to him stood Sergeant Dickerson, blue eyes as bright as ever, his ginger hair vivid even under the bleak Edinburgh sky.
Both men were attentively watching the performer, but Hamilton’s gaze wandered long enough to notice Derek. The boy frowned, as if to say, “What are you doing here?” but the detective just shook his head.
Puzzled, Derek looked back at the magician, who had turned the deck he was handling upside down, so the face of the top card was visible. A chill shot through Derek as he saw the dancing skeletons on the face of the card. His jaw dropped open as the magician’s eyes met his. The smile slid from the man’s handsome face, replaced by the most murderous look Derek had ever seen. Without warning, he slipped the cards back into his pocket, and, to the astonishment of the crowd, abruptly bolted.
Derek heard Detective Hamilton’s voice above the clamor of the market-day crowd. “Stay where you are—Edinburgh Police!” That was followed by a shrill blast from Sergeant Dickerson’s police whistle. Two constables at the far end of the Grassmarket heard the call and gave chase.
But the magician had already taken to his heels, running toward the center of the square just as a drover was leading his flock of black-faced sheep into it. Skirting the front of the herd, the fleeing man managed to clear it and get to the other side of the Grassmarket. Following in hot pursuit, Ian and the constables were not so lucky, finding their path blocked by a bundle of bleating white bodies.
Derek took in the situation and headed straight toward the herd. Falling to his hands and knees, he scrambled beneath the animals, through their legs. The fit was tight and the smell was horrid, and he wasn’t entirely successful in dodging either the kicks of the skittish sheep or the piles of manure, but he managed to reach the other side, emerging just in time to see the magician head toward the maze of tenements on the other side of George IV Bridge. Gulping a lungful of air, Derek took chase, weaving nimbly past shoppers and tradesmen. As he cleared the shadows thrown by the overhanging bridge, Derek heard a low whistle coming from behind one of the stone arches. He spun around just in time to register a sharp blow to the back of his head. He fell to his knees, stunned, as a pair of strong hands grasped him around the throat. He struggled for breath, but blackness descended upon him like a thick fog.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Ian Hamilton watched helplessly as the magician disappeared into the tumbledown neighborhood known as Little Ireland. He had no choice but to weave through the dense congregation of sheep, grabbing their thick, oily coats in an attempt to shove them out of the way. But sheep like to huddle against one another, and it took all his strength to push through them.
He reached the other side and looked around for Sergeant Dickerson, who was still flounderin
g through the thick herd of fluffy white bodies, followed by the two uniformed officers, both of them madly blowing their whistles. Unfortunately, the sound panicked the animals, and they pressed together even more tightly. The newspaper ruse had worked—Wright was arrogant enough to think he had given them the slip—but Ian was astonished at the magician’s audacity to perform in public.
He ran east on the Cowgate, beneath George IV Bridge, and into the gloom of the streets below. In front of him stood a blacksmith shop, its sign reading “Wm. Dyers & Sons.” A grime-encrusted smith in a leather apron with the shoulders of an ox pounded iron into submission with his hammer, sparks flying. The embers in his forge glowed red as the flames of hell.
“Did you see a well-dressed man run past here?” Ian shouted, keeping a safe distance from the shooting sparks.
The man looked up from his anvil, eyes shining fiercely blue through his blackened face. Lifting his hammer, he pointed it toward the center of the huddle of tenements. Ian took a deep breath and plunged into the maze of buildings, where families were stuffed in cheek by jowl, and right angles were rare as hen’s teeth. It was as different from the stately esplanades and lavish mansions of Princes Street as it was from the rolling hills and vales of the Highlands.
The rain of the past weeks had lifted; clothes fluttered on laundry lines strung between the buildings as housewives beat their rugs from open windows, dust flying, borne away on the greedy west wind. Children and dogs darted in and out of alleys, staring up at Ian curiously as he searched the streets frantically. Venturing deeper into the web of wynds and alleys, he reached a dead end between two moldering buildings. There was no sign of life—no skittering children or pets, only shuttered windows and the slow drip of water from overhanging eaves.
He had turned to leave when he heard a sound—not a loud noise, just the shuffling of leather soles on cobblestone. But there was something furtive about the way it ceased abruptly when he stopped to listen. He looked at the sign nailed to the crumbling mortar of the building nearest him: “Skinner’s Close.” He crept around the corner, stepping over a dead rat next to a rain barrel before creeping cautiously down the darkened alley. The feeble February sun had dipped behind a cloud, and the narrow passage lay entirely in shadow, sandwiched between two tenement buildings.
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