Brian lowered his voice to a whisper, nearly drowned out by the rumble of steam engines as a train pulled in and out of Waverley Station.
Ian made him repeat what he said until he was satisfied he had heard correctly.
“You’re right,” he said, straightening up. “That was worth another shilling.”
“Always glad t’be o’ service.”
“I wonder if you would do me a small favor.”
“Name it,” Brian said, licking his lips.
Ian looked around, and spotted a sleek young man loitering near a lamppost, but when he glanced back a moment later, the man had disappeared.
“It concerns misinformation.”
“How so?”
“We have reason to believe one or more of our sources has gone sour—”
“An’ ye’d like my help findin’ out who it might be.”
“Just keep your ears open, and report anything you learn back to me.”
“Will do, chief, will do.”
“Of course I will remunerate you for your time.”
“A’ course. I kin always count on you, Detective.”
Ian pressed another coin into the beggar’s hand, but as he walked away, he wondered whether he had made a mistake in trusting the man. Brian had never failed him, and yet . . . It was unlikely, but he had to entertain the possibility that his oldest informant was no longer what he seemed to be.
When Ian arrived at police chambers, the door to DCI Crawford’s office swung open as soon as Ian entered the main room.
“Well,” Crawford said, lumbering toward him, “was it murder most foul?”
“Most definitely,” Ian replied, hanging his cloak on the rack near the front entrance.
“Hamlet, first act, I believe,” Crawford couldn’t resist adding, with a smug little smile.
“Well done, sir.”
Crawford appeared to have been waiting for his return, because as soon as Ian disposed of his outerwear, the chief beckoned him into his office.
“Any suspects?” Crawford said, sinking heavily into his desk chair.
“None so far—I know little about the victim as yet,” Ian replied, taking the chair opposite. His relationship with the chief had become relaxed enough that he no longer waited for an invitation to sit when summoned to Crawford’s office.
“Yet she’s a friend of your aunt’s?”
“They attend the same weekly séance.”
“Indeed?” Crawford stroked his whiskers. “My wife goes in for all that, but between us, I think it’s bosh and bunkum. They have a medium, I suppose?”
“They do indeed—a Madame Veselka.”
“Mysterious and exotic foreigner, claims to communicate with the dead?”
“Exactly.”
Crawford sighed. “Well, I s’pose it’s harmless enough, as long as she doesn’t milk them dry.”
“I have no idea how much Madame Veselka charges for her sessions.”
“You’d best keep an eye on your aunt, see she doesn’t succumb to a charlatan.”
“My aunt has means. And a level head, I believe, even in regards to mediums.”
“A very sensible woman,” Crawford said. “And a damn fine photographer. Please tell her that we may again be requesting her services.”
“I certainly will.”
“Good,” the chief said, twisting a piece of string between his fingers, a sign that he was anxious. “Now then, I’d like to discuss what we talked about yesterday.” He rose and paced behind his desk, glancing out the window to the street below, where the sound of horses’ hooves and wooden cart wheels on cobblestones competed with the sound of children’s voices. Glancing at the clock above the filing cabinet, Ian remembered Sergeant Dickerson mentioning that his younger sister was to have a half day at school, though he had forgotten it until now.
As if reading his mind, DCI Crawford turned to him and frowned. “Where is Dickerson, by the way? Haven’t seen him all day.”
Ian’s first instinct was to cover for the sergeant. “I sent him off to interview friends of the deceased,” he lied.
That seemed to satisfy the chief. “I see,” he said, plucking at a stray whisker. “I expect you’ll want to be getting on with your investigation, but as to this other matter . . .”
“I have reason to believe there is to be a concentrated criminal action very soon.”
Crawford sat down again and leaned forward over his desk. “Do you know—” he began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come in!” he bellowed.
The door opened to admit Sergeant Dickerson. His cheeks were ruddy; he was perspiring and out of breath.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he began.
“How did your interviews fare?” said Crawford.
“Sir?”
Ian turned and glared at him. The detective’s back was to Crawford, so the chief couldn’t see his expression, but the bewilderment on Dickerson’s face only deepened, as if someone had requested that he recite The Iliad in the original Greek.
“The murder inquiry, Sergeant,” Ian said tightly. “Have you concluded all your interviews?”
Dickerson finally caught on, nodding his head vigorously. “Oh, yes, sir! I wen’ straightaway, like—”
“Good man,” Ian interrupted.
“Could you discuss that later?” said Crawford. “Detective Hamilton was just telling me something of interest on another matter.”
“A’ course, sir—whatever ye say.” Dickerson loosened the collar of his uniform, wiping sweat from his still-damp forehead.
“Please, have a seat,” said the chief. Dickerson complied, perching on the edge of the captain’s chair nearest the door.
Ian repeated what Brian had told him.
“So there’s t’be a big robbery?” Dickerson said eagerly.
“I presume that’s what it is,” said Ian, “though the details are still somewhat vague.”
“Do ye know when?”
“Within a fortnight.”
“And how is it that you came by this information?” asked Crawford.
“I’d rather not reveal my source at this time.”
“Even to me?” the chief said, frowning.
“I don’t want to compromise him in any way, lest he be found floating in the Water of Leith,” he said, referring to the main river snaking through Edinburgh before emptying into the Firth of Forth.
Dickerson shuddered. “I shouldn’t like that t’happen. Feel horrible guilty, I would.”
“And yet you trust him?” Crawford asked. “Even in light of what we discussed?”
“I do,” Ian replied, though in all truth he was beginning to wonder whom he could trust.
“Any more details?”
“The target is Murray and Weston.”
Crawford’s jaw dropped. “On Princes Street?”
“The same.” Murray and Weston were the most respected jewelers in Edinburgh, and had received more than one commission from the Queen herself.
“Good Lord. That’s outrageous.” Sitting behind his desk, he tugged at his whiskers, chewing on his lip. “We need confirmation. The word of a snitch isn’t enough to go on.”
“I agree entirely,” said Ian. “We’ll do what we can, eh, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” Dickerson replied.
“Now, about this other matter. Have you any news for me?” Crawford asked Ian.
“I suggest that this upcoming robbery—”
“If that’s what it is—”
“May be a chance to root out any source of false information.”
“Like if we should get a conflictin’ bit of information from another source?” said Dickerson.
“Exactly,” said Ian. “We have to keep a careful watch on our informants.”
“Hmm. Maybe you’re right,” Crawford said, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Get on it, will you?”
“Right away, sir. ‘Better three hours too soon than a minute too late,’” said Ian. Raising his left eyebrow, Cr
awford scowled at him. “The Merry Wives of Windsor,” Ian added quickly. “Not his best play, of course.”
“Of course,” Crawford echoed, though it was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic. “Off you go, then. Oh, and tell your aunt I’m very sorry about the death of her friend.”
“I will, sir.”
“If you need manpower on that case, just ask. Meanwhile, I’ll put some undercover men on patrol at Murray and Weston.”
“Yes, sir,” Ian said, and left the office, Dickerson trailing behind him. “Where on earth were you this morning?” he asked when they were out of earshot.
“Sorry, sir—it were my sister, y’see. It won’ happen again.”
Sergeant William Dickerson looked after his younger sister like a brooding mother hen, with a devotion Ian found touching.
“Everything all right, is it?”
“It were a matter of bullying at school, an’ she were gettin’ into fights tryin’ to protect the girls what were bein’ picked on.”
“That’s quite admirable.”
The sergeant sighed. “I wish the headmistress saw it that way, sir—she don’ like fightin’.”
“Then she should look to the girls who are causing the trouble in the first place.”
“I’m afeard she’s less devoted t’justice than to peace an’ quiet.”
Ian frowned. “Let me know if I can be of any help.”
“I wish ye could, sir, but the headmistress don’ take kindly t’interference.”
Just then the front door to the station house opened, and in stepped Derek McNair—thief, pickpocket, ragamuffin, and Ian’s most valuable source of information. Breezing past the desk sergeant, he sauntered over and planted his bony posterior on Ian’s desk.
“So,” he said, helping himself to a biscuit from a tin on the desk, “wha’ do I haf t’do ta git yer attention, issue an engraved invitation?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Didn’ yer brother tell you I were lookin’ fer ya?” Derek asked, calmly chewing the biscuit. “Oiy, kin I get a cuppa ’round here?”
“Yes, he did, and no, you may not,” said Ian. The boy wore an overcoat several sizes too large over a blue jumper and scuffed trousers tied around his narrow waist with a frayed bit of rope. His boots were in relatively good condition, if several sizes too large. His hands were encased in thick woolen gloves missing the tips of several fingers.
“Then why didn’ ye meet me?” he said.
“I wasn’t aware a meeting had been arranged.”
Derek sighed and hopped off the desk. “Ye’d best have a word wi’ yer brother ’bout not passin’ on messages proper like. Well, let’s go, then,” he added, brushing biscuit crumbs from his clothes. “Oh, an’ them biscuits are stale.”
“I’m sorry the cuisine isn’t up to your standards.”
“Come along, then,” the boy said, strolling past the desk sergeant as if daring him to throw him out. “I ain’t got all day.”
“If DCI Crawford inquires, I’ll return later this afternoon,” Ian told Sergeant Dickerson.
“Yes, sir,” he said, frowning. Dickerson was not Derek McNair’s biggest fan.
“Where are we going?” Ian said, fetching his cloak from the rack.
“Ye’ll find out when we git there,” said Derek as they left the station house.
Ian followed the boy past St. Giles, where a group of schoolboys were spitting energetically on the Heart of Midlothian mosaic built into the paving stones—ostensibly to express their disdain for the former location of the notorious Tolbooth prison, though Ian suspected it was merely young boys enjoying an opportunity to spit with impunity.
They passed another group of boys playing gird and cleek, known in England as hoop and stick. Derek glanced at them with contempt as they trotted alongside the rolling wooden hoops, tapping them with sticks to keep them moving forward without toppling over. The boys—about his age—collapsed to the cobblestones in laughter as one of the hoops tottered and fell, tripping them, as the other continued rolling until it collided with a rag picker’s cart parked by the entrance to Parliament Square.
“Silly muckers,” Derek muttered as they passed the giggling boys.
“Don’t you ever play that game?”
Derek snorted. “It’s fer children.”
“What do you consider yourself, then?”
“I ain’t no foolish child, that’s fer sure.”
“So no games for you?”
“Ain’t got time, Guv—I got better things t’do.”
“Such as fondling strange women?”
“There’s nothin’ strange ’bout the women I fondle,” he replied with a sly smile.
“You’re going to lose a hand one day if you keep it up, you know.”
“I’d best get on wi’it, then,” he replied, turning onto George IV Bridge.
They continued on through the Grassmarket, where Ian inhaled the aroma of pitch, tar, and linseed oil wafting down from the rows of wholesale shops on Bow Street. They turned onto King’s Stables Road, where Grassmarket became West Port, and these odors were replaced by the earthy smell of horse manure. Here the cobblestones were rough from heavy use, chipped from decades of clops from hooves of horses, sheep, and cattle, and the unforgiving drumming of carriage wheels and wooden carts. High above them the castle perched on its rocky parapet, gray stones against a dull December sky.
“Where are you taking me?” said Ian as Derek darted past half a dozen smartly dressed soldiers on matching black stallions, their white belts gleaming on their scarlet uniforms, their high fur hats making them appear even taller upon their mounts.
Ignoring the question, the boy led him past a row of low stables being mucked out by sleepy-looking attendants in thick barn coats and knee-high green Wellies. The sweet, musty aroma of hay and horse sweat permeated the air as Ian followed the boy to the rear of a row of stalls. The horses regarded him with wide, mild eyes as he passed, snorting softly, their breath misting in the chill air. A small black mare nipped playfully at Ian’s shoulder, shaking her head so that her long dark mane flopped over one eye. Ian liked horses, though he had not as much skill around them as Derek—another of the boy’s unexpected abilities. Derek pointed to a small booth near the back of the stalls, evidently a place for grooms and stable hands to eat or play cards while on duty.
“How did you find this place?” said Ian.
“One a’ the stable hands owes me a favor,” the boy replied as they turned the corner to reveal the single occupant of the booth.
To Ian’s surprise, sitting at the booth, dressed in a trim black waistcoat and matching cravat, was Terrance McNee, a.k.a. Rat Face—pickpocket, cardsharp, con man, and general miscreant. At their first meeting some six months ago, Ian had trounced his brawny companion, Jimmy Snead, in a bar fight, which unexpectedly caused the big man to become Ian’s devoted ally. Both Snead and McNee had helped him greatly with the case he was working on at the time, but he had seen little of either of them in the months that followed.
McNee’s sharp face broke into a smile when he saw Ian.
“Good to see you again, Detective. I trust you’ve been well.”
“And I trust you’ve been keeping out of trouble.”
“Please, have a seat. You look surprised to see me.”
“I confess I am,” Ian admitted, sliding into the bench opposite him. Derek perched himself upon a wooden chair next to them, chewing on a sprig of straw. Ian thought about cautioning him about his choice of refreshment, but figured the boy had ingested much worse in his life on the streets. He turned to Rat Face, who was idly shuffling a dog-eared pack of cards, sliding each one through his long fingers with mesmerizing dexterity.
“Why didn’t you just come to me yourself?” said Ian. “Why all this cloak-and-dagger business?”
“If I were seen speaking with you, it might not go well for me,” Rat Face replied, stroking his neatly trimmed mustache. The small goatee he had grown since Ian last saw him f
ailed to hide his weak chin, which, along with his long, pointed nose, were plainly the reason for his nickname.
“If you’re willing to risk it, there must be something in it for you,” said Ian.
“That depends rather on your generosity,” his companion replied, his small black eyes focused on the deck of cards.
Derek rose from his chair. “Why don’ I jes keep an eye out t’make sure the coast is clear?”
“If necessary, there is a back entrance we can slip out of,” said Rat Face.
“You seem prepared for any eventuality,” Ian remarked as Derek sauntered toward the stable’s front entrance.
“I find it advisable to always have an escape plan.”
Ian leaned back in the wooden booth. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?”
His companion lowered his voice. “I understand you are making inquiries regarding the fire that killed your parents.”
“How do you—”
Rat Face dismissed his question with a wave of his hand. “It is my business to know things.”
“Do you have information?”
“The question is whether or not it is useful to you.” Digging deep into his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out a small, crumpled black bag. It appeared to be made of black velvet, though in the dim light it was hard to tell. Reaching inside, he carefully extracted a pair of teardrop pearl earrings and placed them on the table.
“Do you recognize these?”
Ian stared at the earrings. A blackness threatened to engulf him, as his mind struggled to comprehend the meaning of this. His vision suddenly felt surrounded by darkness on all sides, as if he were inside a tunnel; his mouth dried up, and sweat beaded on his upper lip. Saliva suddenly spurted into his mouth, and he felt he was going to be sick.
“I see that you do,” Rat Face said rather more gently.
“They belonged to my mother. Where did you get them?”
“I won them in a card game from a particularly unsavory specimen of humanity. A surly little petty thief by the name of Nate Crippen. Specializes in burglary, though he’ll turn his hand to any nasty job—for the right price.”
“And he got them—?”
Edinburgh Midnight Page 4