“Does it ’urt much, sir?” said Dickerson.
“I should bloody hope so,” Crawford muttered. “Well, what are you standing there for? Get him a towel and some ice,” he commanded the sergeant.
Dickerson scampered off to obey, and Crawford ran a hand through his sparse ginger hair. “Christ, Hamilton.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It was—I mean, I was—”
“I know what happened,” Crawford said. “There were plenty of eyewitnesses.”
“Was anyone badly hurt?”
Crawford shook his head. “They dispersed before our lads could round up the troublemakers. That’s what comes of freedom of the press,” he said glumly. “That damn rag of a paper has everyone terrified of the bogeyman.” He sat wearily on the side of the bed. “I hear you took a swing at someone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Felt like I couldn’t breathe, and I panicked.”
“I asked you this once before, and I’m going to ask you again. Do you think that your—problem—will continue to interfere with your ability to function as a police officer?”
Ian opened his mouth to answer, but Crawford interrupted him. “It’s no use saying that it doesn’t, because it already has. The question is, will you be able to control it in the future? Because if not—”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
“How?”
“I’ll find a way.”
“But—”
“I will find a way.”
Crawford looked at him with something like pity, then sighed. “You’re not the only one who looks bad if you fail.”
“I understand that, sir.”
He started to sit up just as Sergeant Dickerson returned with a towel and a bucket of ice.
“Lie down,” Crawford commanded. “You’re not going anywhere for at least thirty minutes. That’s an order,” he added before Ian could object. “And if you had any bloody sense, you’d go straight to hospital.” Heaving himself to his feet, the chief inspector lumbered from the room.
“Here y’are, sir,” said Dickerson upon his return, handing him the towel.
“Thanks,” said Ian, lying down again.
Precisely thirty minutes later, he left the station house via the back entrance, and was surprised to see Derek McNair slouching against the side of the building, waiting for him. The boy grinned when he saw Ian’s forehead.
“Oiy, ye got a nice one, din’ ye?”
“How long have you been waiting?”
“Long enough ta miss tea. Ye can buy me somethin’ t’eat.”
After two helpings of fish-and-chips from a street vendor, the two wound their way through the streets of Old Town to the Hound and Hare. The back alley of the pub yielded little of interest, having been well trodden and picked over by members of the press. Ian didn’t spy any of them loitering about—the body had already been taken down to the morgue pending further investigation.
“Where exactly did you find the body?” he asked Derek.
“It were right here,” the boy replied, pointing to a spot between rubbish bins and a rain barrel.
“Was it covered in any way?”
“Nope, it were just lyin’ out in the open, like.”
So, Ian thought, no real effort had been made to hide the body—another similarity to the Wycherly case. Was the killer in a hurry, reckless, or just arrogant? Or maybe he enjoyed the idea of people finding his handiwork.
“Let’s go inside,” he said.
The pounding in his head was growing worse as he entered the pub, young McNair in tow. They picked their way across the unswept floor, last night’s discarded peanut shells crunching beneath their feet. A couple of tables were occupied by middle-aged couples enjoying a quiet lunch—quite a different scene from the rowdy nighttime crowd.
The barkeep was a muscular, bald fellow with a thick Glaswegian accent—which is to say, he was nearly unintelligible.
“Afore ye ask, I dain’t know who kilt yer fren,” he said when he saw Ian, wiping down the counter with a soiled cloth. His lips did not move perceptibly when he spoke. Aunt Lillian had grown up in Glasgow, but years in Edinburgh had softened her accent considerably.
“He says he didn’t notice yer friend leavin’,” said Derek. Perched on a bar stool, legs swinging idly, he traced the stain patterns on the bar with his index finger.
“I speak Glaswegian,” Ian replied curtly, though in truth he was struggling to make out the bartender’s guttural dialect. The man swallowed his vowels, which sounded much like his consonants, swirling together deep in his throat.
Derek shrugged and helped himself to a pickled egg from a jar on the counter, swallowing it in two gulps.
“Oiy!” said the bartender, snapping his towel at the boy.
Ian dug a penny from his pocket and flipped it onto the counter. “And he isn’t my friend—he’s a murder victim.”
The bartender pocketed the coin and began polishing beer mugs with the same grimy cloth. “’At’s as may be—seen ’im ’ere afore, though.”
“He’s a regular?”
“Fridays, mostlah, yeah.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Bobby, I thaink . . . yeah, ’at’s it—Bobby. Dunno ’is last name.”
“Did you see him speak to anyone while he was here?”
The bartender twisted his rag around the inside of a beer mug as he considered the question. Ian imagined the interior of the glass when he finished, filthier than before his ministrations. He had an aversion to dirt and disorder, something Lillian teased him about. He did his best to hide it from his fellow officers in the Edinburgh City Police, where anything could be a target of ridicule. Personal quirks were best kept to one’s self.
“It wa’ crowded, always is of a Friday,” said the barkeep. “He spoke wi’a fellow I ’adn’t seen afore. Can’t say fer sure wha’ aboot.”
“Can you describe the man?”
“Dadn’t get much of a look. Pale eyes, I ’member that.”
Ian pulled out the playing card Derek McNair had given him and held it up for the bartender. “Have you ever seen this card before?”
Peering at it, the man shook his head. “Nay. That’s from a right strange deck o’ cards, mate.”
“And you’ve never seen it before?”
“I tol’ ye already, I nair seen it afore. I’m no’ likely ta ferget a card lak that.”
The door was flung open, and Sergeant Dickerson burst into the pub. The handful of patrons who were settled in for an early lunch glanced up apprehensively at the sight of a uniformed policeman.
“Beg pardon, sir,” Dickerson panted, “but thought you might like t’know the victim has been identified. His name is—”
“Tell you what, Sergeant,” Ian said, gripping him firmly by the arm, “why don’t you and I take a stroll outside?”
He drew the baffled policeman to the front door and pushed him through, closing it behind him. The cooler outside air seemed to ease the incessant throbbing in his head. The wooden wheels of a passing vegetable seller’s cart threw a spray of water from a nearby puddle at them, and Ian pulled the constable beneath the eaves of the pub. A feeble sun struggled to poke out from a dense cloud cover, but the rain had stopped—for now, at least.
“S-sir?” stammered Dickerson, his blue eyes wide.
“I imagine the patrons trying to enjoy their meal would appreciate not hearing the details of last night’s murder. But more to the point, it’s best not to reveal that information to the general public until we’ve had a chance to notify the poor blighter’s family.”
“Sorry, sir,” said the sergeant. He looked as if he were about to cry. Ian figured he was about twenty-four years of age, but his pale complexion and ginger hair made him appear even younger. He remembered his own first year or so on the force, and laid a comforting hand on the sergeant’s shoulder.
“Never mind—just remember next time, will you?”
“Right you are—sor
ry, sir.”
“So what is his name, then?”
“Oh, right!” the sergeant exclaimed, flustered. He extracted a notebook from his pocket. “His name is Robert Tierney. His sister identified the body. Saw ’is picture in the paper an’ all, y’know.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“She said he lived on the London Road.”
“Well done,” Ian said. “After we’re through here, we’ll—”
He was interrupted by an explosion of activity from within the pub—loud, angry yelling followed by the sound of chairs and tables being overturned. The door banged open, and Derek McNair shot through it, followed by an elderly man with a napkin still tucked into his shirt collar. It fluttered beneath his chin like a deranged clerical garment as he charged after the escaping street urchin, who dashed toward the heart of Old Town as fast as his thin legs would carry him.
“Stop, thief!” the man cried, waving a fist in the air. Seeing Hamilton and the sergeant, he yelled, “That boy picked my pocket!”
Ian and Sergeant Dickerson gave chase, but Derek ducked into the twisting warrens of alleys and wynds leading down to the Lawnmarket. Finding anyone in that maze was next to impossible. Ian and Dickerson gave it their all before admitting defeat and trudging back up the hill to the pub. The irate customer stood waiting, the white linen napkin still dangling beneath his chin like a flag of surrender.
“That wretched urchin stole my wallet!” he sputtered.
“If you’d like me to, I can accompany you to the station where you can fill out a report,” Sergeant Dickerson said, panting heavily from the burst of exertion. Ian too was out of breath, and his headache had returned.
The old gentleman’s face turned scarlet. “No, I do not want to fill out a ‘report’! I want my bloody wallet back—now!”
“How much was in it?” Ian inquired, fearing the elderly fellow might succumb to a fit of apoplexy.
He glared at Ian. Startled wisps of hair stood up from his nearly bald pate, wind-borne like small gray sails. “Ten shillings tuppence.”
“Very well, here you are,” Ian said, fishing money from his pockets. Counting out that amount, he handed it to the bewildered gentleman.
“I can’t take this,” the man said.
“Think of it as a loan,” said Ian, “pending the return of your wallet.”
“When it’s found—if it’s found—there’ll be no five quid and change in it,” Sergeant Dickerson muttered, but the man grinned, showing a broad set of teeth as gray as his hair.
“You are a scholar and a gentleman, sir, and I am forever indebted to you,” he said, giving a little bow.
The bartender emerged from the pub, his face scarlet. “I’ll gae the blighter a skelpit lug!”
“You’ll have to catch him before you can cuff his ears,” the elderly man remarked dourly before following him back into the building.
Dickerson shook his head, still breathing heavily. “You can’t cover fer that little ruffian forever. I’ve seen ’is kind afore, and—”
“Please, Sergeant, not now,” said Ian. His head ached, his legs were wobbly, and he yearned for the sanctuary of his flat—to close the curtains, lock the door, and be alone.
He headed toward the pub as Dickerson muttered something under his breath. Ian spun around. “Tell me something, Sergeant.”
Dickerson’s eyes widened, his face slack. “Yes, sir?”
“Have you had occasion to live on the streets?”
“Well, no, sir—”
“Then do me the favor of allowing me to conduct this investigation in my own way.”
“A’course, sir—sorry, sir.”
Ian marched back into the pub, leaving the sergeant standing in the street amidst the clatter of horses’ hooves and the call of fruit vendors and vegetable peddlers.
“Get your fresh cress—two bunches a penny!”
“Figs—plump and ripe! Figs for sale!”
“Neeps an’ tatties—freshest in the land!”
After a moment, Dickerson brushed himself off, straightened his uniform, and followed Hamilton back inside the Hound and Hare.
From across the crowded street, another pair of eyes watched—seeing yet unseen, taking advantage of the anonymity a city like Edinburgh could provide.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ian went straight from the Hound and Hare to the morgue to examine Bobby Tierney’s body. The smooth, even bruise on the neck indicated ligature strangulation. Carefully measuring the ligature mark, Ian noted that it was exactly the same as on Stephen Wycherly’s neck, just under an inch wide. The deep purple indentation was regular and smooth, which meant the weapon used was not a belt or anything with a buckle or a pattern that could be transferred onto the skin.
Tierney was powerfully built—even in death, his muscular body seemed to bulge with menace. Edinburgh was full of Bobby Tierneys—angry young Irishmen with nothing much on their minds except getting pissed and pummeling somebody. And yet someone had gotten the better of him—rather quickly, by the look of it. Examining the body closely, Ian found no indication of a prolonged struggle, no other bruises, cuts, or contusions.
Looking at Tierney’s face, the skin chalky white in the pale light streaming in from the tall windows, Ian felt hollow inside. Here was youth, strength, vitality—reduced to a lump of flesh on a slab in a damp city morgue. His initial exhilaration at being the lead detective in the case melted as he pondered the mystery of who would take such a life—not only who, but also how and why. Tierney was a bar brawler, the kind of man who might be on the receiving end of a beating, if he was unlucky enough to meet his match, but this was something different. Whoever killed him had done it quickly, coldly, and, Ian suspected, had come prepared. Was Bobby targeted, or simply unlucky?
Ian pondered the question as he headed to his meeting with George Pearson at the White Hart Inn, a venerable establishment just north of the Grassmarket. Popular with both students and dons at the University of Edinburgh, the White Hart was Edinburgh’s oldest public house, dating back to the early 1500s, though it was allegedly much older.
The din of voices was as thick as the smoke hanging in the air of the saloon bar when he spied Pearson sitting alone in the far corner, a pint at his elbow. He was engrossed in a thick book with an ancient-looking green leather cover, his prominent eyes appearing even larger behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
The clientele at the White Hart was as varied as the conversation. Ian wove his way past tables of people, catching snippets of conversations on politics, sports, business, and love. In addition to university students and professors, the darker corners of the room were occupied by courting couples. A few barristers in crisp suits hovered over a table near the bar, arguing amidst a thick blue haze of tobacco.
Pearson spotted Ian through the crowded room and waved him over. “I say, I rarely come here on Saturday—it’s rather an assault on the ears, isn’t it?” Pearson observed as Ian took a seat across from him.
“It is a bit loud.”
“What happened to you?” the librarian said, indicating Ian’s head.
“I had occasion to test the law of gravity. I am happy to report it is intact.”
The librarian gave one of his curious, high-pitched giggles. “Allow me to buy the first round. What are you having?”
“Same as you—heavy ale, is it?”
“Coming right up,” Pearson said.
Ian watched the librarian shoulder his way to the bar. A young couple at the next table with a small white terrier at their feet smiled at Ian, their faces soft with the flush of young love. Would they look back on the sweetness of this day years hence and wonder how it had evaporated so quickly? Sweeping dark thoughts aside, he watched Pearson weave through the crowded tables.
Pearson was a strange fellow, but Ian saw his potential as a resource. Ian’s first instinct was to distrust his enthusiasm—but there was something endearing about him, an innocence and complete lack of guile. Of course,
he wanted a little too much to be of assistance—Ian would have to prevent the librarian from inserting himself too deeply into his investigation.
Pearson returned with two foaming pints, setting them on the thick oak table before sliding his bulky form into his seat. To say he was stocky would imply an athletic build; it would be more apt to call him pudgy. Everything about him suggested softness: his white hands with their dimpled knuckles, his round cheeks, and full lips. Even his eyes were soft as a doe’s—large, round, and golden brown, with thick lashes. He carried himself with the air of one unaccustomed to physical exertion, his belly protruding, sunken in the chest.
“So,” he said, placing a pint in front of Ian, “I brought you a nice selection from my personal library. Perhaps you think I’m foolish—”
“‘A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.’”
Pearson beamed. “As You Like It, act five, scene one! Pardon me for saying so, but I wouldn’t have expected a policeman to be conversant in the works of the Bard.”
“My mother was a schoolteacher, and my father rather fancied himself an amateur actor.” Ian didn’t mention his own literary ambition; it might sound pretentious to a librarian.
“You used the past tense. Your parents are . . . ?”
“Both dead.”
“Mine as well.”
“What did you bring me?” Ian said, gulping down some ale, cool and bitter and tasting of the earth. He wanted to avoid a personal discussion—naturally wary of intimacy, Ian liked to keep his worlds separate. And the subject of his parents’ death had sharp, pointed edges he did his best to avoid.
“I thought we might begin with this one,” said Pearson, extracting a book from a leather satchel at his feet. He opened it, gently turning the pages. No lover caressed a woman with more tenderness than George Pearson touching the pages of his book. He gazed at it, his eyes glistening. “I found this in a secondhand bookshop in London. It’s quite rare—I doubt the chap knew what he had.”
Ian looked at the frontispiece, the title engraved in a florid script. Inside the Criminal Mind, by Guillaume de La Robert.
Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1) Page 7