Edinburgh Midnight

by Carole Lawrence

  Rat Face leaned into him, and Ian could smell the tobacco on his breath. His teeth were yellow and pointed, like those of the animal that had inspired his nickname. “The thrawn puggy was deep into his cups by that time—I didn’t know whether or not to believe him when he told me.”

  “Told you what?”

  “He’s a meater, you see,” he said, using the street term for coward. “So I wasn’t sure—”

  “What did he tell you?” Ian rasped, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  “He was given them to do a job—nasty sort of work.”

  “Which was—?”

  “He claimed he was paid to set a fire.”

  “When?”

  “Some years ago. He wasn’t very clear on the exact details.”

  “Who paid him?”

  “He was either unwilling or too drunk to share that information. But he was babbling about it being a policeman’s house.”

  Ian picked up one of the earrings and held it between his fingers. The pearl glistened with the mysterious beauty of the sea, pink and ivory with touches of aquamarine at the edges. So perfect, this by-product of the lowly oyster, a creature that had neither sight nor reason yet could produce such beauty that men would risk their lives for it.

  “What do you want for these?”

  Rat Face shrugged. “We can discuss the matter of my expenses later.”

  Ian placed the earrings back on the table and locked eyes with Terrance McNee.

  “Take me to this person.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” said Rat Face, rising smoothly from his seat. In one graceful move, he slipped out of the booth, passed the last stall, and disappeared. Caught flat-footed, Ian snatched up the earrings and stumbled after him. Seeing a narrow door at the back of the building, he went through it, but when he entered the alley behind the building, there was no sight of the man. Ian stood, blinking in the glare of the overcast sky, but Rat Face had vanished.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He found Derek McNair leaning on the stall of a muscular gray gelding, running his fingers through the horse’s coarse mane. The animal snorted softly as Ian approached, the breath from its nostrils misting in the cold air.

  “What did you know of this?” Ian said.

  The boy petted the horse’s velvety muzzle and shrugged. “Not much, Guv. It weren’t my place t’inquire wha’ the meetin’ were about. I reckoned it were related to one a’ yer cases, right?”

  Ian peered at him, unsure whether he was lying or not. He knew from experience the boy was a damned good liar, but couldn’t see what he had to gain in this instance, so decided to believe him.

  “In a manner of speaking,” he said. “It relates to my parents’ death.”

  “Blimey,” Derek said, his eyes wide. “An’ you’re thinkin’ they was murdered, right?”

  “Yes. And this has confirmed my suspicion.”

  He began walking in the direction from whence they had come, and the boy fell into step beside him. Snow swirled around them as the dull December sky finally made good on its threat of pending precipitation.

  “What’d he tell ye?”

  “The less you know, the better. I’d rather not get you mixed up in this.”

  “But I’d like t’help.”

  “It’s not safe. There are unsavory characters involved.”

  “I’m as unsavory as they come, Guv.”

  “Alas, if only that were true. There are dark players in this game, and I’d rather not put you at risk.”

  “Wha’ about Rat Face?”

  “He can take care of himself.” But even as he said the words, they sounded hollow.

  Snow continued to gather as they walked, so Ian flagged down a hansom cab.

  “Come along,” he said when Derek hesitated. “I’ll drop you off.”

  “Ta very much, but—”

  “What?”

  “Don’ really know where I’m goin’ yet. My usual lodgings ain’t so good when it’s snowin’.”

  Ian imagined what his “usual lodgings” consisted of—the back lot of a deserted building, a church doorstep, a grate beneath the eaves of a pub.

  “I’ll drop you at my flat. Tell my brother you’re staying the night.”

  The boy didn’t have to be asked twice. In half a second he had climbed in next to Ian, rubbing his hands against the cold. They rode in silence for a few minutes, then Derek cleared his throat. “D’ye think . . .” he began with unaccustomed shyness.

  “What?”

  “Might I ’ave a bath?”

  “Yes,” Ian replied. “You may have a bath. And if you don’t steal anything and are very, very well behaved, you may have a small sip of whisky.”

  “Now yer talkin’!” Derek crowed, his bravado restored.

  After letting the boy into the empty flat—Donald being no doubt still at school—Ian instructed him to lock the door behind him and let no one in. He then returned to the waiting cab and continued on to the High Street police station.

  He found Sergeant Dickerson scribbling away at his desk. DCI Crawford was not in his office.

  “He went t’take ’is wife t’see Dr. Bell,” said Dickerson when Ian asked. “He wants a report tomorrow on the murder of yer aunt’s friend.”

  “Did he say anything about the autopsy?”

  “He said Dr. Bell agreed t’do it.”

  “But that would be Dr. Littlejohn’s province.” Dr. Henry Littlejohn was Edinburgh’s police surgeon, and as such was responsible for autopsies in cases of suspicious deaths.

  “He said Bell wants t’do a demonstration lecture fer students.”

  Ian frowned. Public autopsies had been common in Edinburgh until the notorious Burke and Hare murdered victims whom they then sold to Dr. Joseph Knox for dissection. His public lectures drew large crowds, but after William Burke was hanged in front of twenty thousand people and publicly dissected the next day, the practice was banned, and autopsies were done in private.

  Medical school students and doctors still regularly attended dissections, though Ian was not keen on the idea of Dr. Bell using Elizabeth for a demonstration. He did not like the man, though he admired his skill and deductive powers. He could still remember the icy, analytical look in Bell’s eyes when he autopsied the poor prostitute murdered during Ian’s last case. The physician possessed a coldness that repelled Ian—perhaps because he sensed the potential for the same trait within himself.

  “What have you there?” Ian asked, glancing at Dickerson’s papers.

  “I’m jes writin’ down questions t’ask when interviewin’ witnesses.”

  “Well done, Sergeant. I’ve been considering ways to structure the investigative process.”

  “How so, sir?”

  “I’m working on constructing a chart to keep track of information, and to make sure we don’t leave anything out of the process.”

  “That sounds quite useful, sir.”

  “I’d like to begin tomorrow by making up a list of Miss Staley’s acquaintances, friends, and relatives.”

  “There’s the folks wha’ attended the séances, for starters.”

  “Quite right—we should begin with them.”

  The front door opened and a half dozen uniformed constables shuffled in. The evening shift had arrived.

  Dickerson glanced nervously at the wall clock. “Beg pardon, sir, but I’ve rehearsal tonight.”

  “Get on with you, then.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, gathering up his things.

  “Mind you come in bright and early tomorrow.”

  “I promise, sir,” he said, scurrying out the door.

  The new arrivals nodded to Ian as they gathered round the tea service, as was the custom when starting a shift. Very little business was done in Edinburgh without the accompaniment of a good strong cup of black tea sweetened with plenty of sugar and milk.

  Ian recognized Constable John Turnbull among them, and saw him turn to snigger after Dickerson as he left.

 
; “Have you heard we have a thespian in our midst?” he said, emphasizing the word to make it sound like something shameful. His mouth curled in a sneer, emphasizing the pockmarks on his cheeks.

  “What’s that?” asked Sergeant Bowers, a plain-faced, well-meaning young man with pale pink skin and white blond hair. A favorite of DCI Crawford, he had recently been promoted from constable to sergeant.

  “It means an actor, don’ it?” said Constable McKay. Tall and muscular, he was a little older than the other two and known for his physical prowess and utter fearlessness.

  “Like a theater actor?” Bowers said, stirring a third lump of sugar into his tea.

  “I wasn’t aware there was another kind,” Turnbull remarked drily. “Though why any self-respecting policeman would want to be seen prancing around wearing rouge and tights, I couldn’t say.”

  Ian had an impulse to flatten him. He considered Turnbull the worst kind of scoundrel, one who would mock his colleagues behind their back, then flatter and fawn over his superiors. Ian longed to give him a good thrashing. Grabbing his cloak, he threw it over his shoulders and left the station house before he did something he might regret. A blast of arctic air hit him as he stepped onto the High Street, making him stagger backward. Tugging his cap low over his face, he headed in the direction of the Royal Infirmary, the wind whistling at his back like a pack of angry dogs.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was just past six o’clock, and Fiona Stuart was only halfway through a double shift at the Royal Infirmary, but her feet already hurt, her lower back was sore, and she had a headache coming on. Sighing as she pulled a thermometer from the mouth of a drowsy tram driver, she wiped the sweat from her brow. The driver had come down with a case of influenza, which had swept through the city as the changeable winter weather shot a spasm of illness through Scotland’s capital.

  Colds, catarrh, influenza—the wildly swinging temperatures and damp chill even seemed to increase complaints of lumbago and rheumatism, with beds on all the wards filled to capacity. To top it off, the hospital was shorthanded, as nurses and doctors were felled by the same array of illnesses, so the remaining staff was forced to take on extra shifts.

  “Wha’s it say, then, luv?” inquired the tram driver, before being seized by an attack of coughing.

  “You have a slight temperature,” Fiona replied, thrusting a handkerchief at him. “Cover your mouth when you cough.”

  “Ta very much,” he said, taking it. “Sorry, luv,” he added sheepishly.

  “I’ll be back later,” she said, casting a glance around the ward before leaving. No one seemed to be in dire need of her at the moment, so she headed for the linen closet. She breathed a sigh of relief as she sank into the chair in the corner of the small room. It was just a straight-backed wooden chair, but getting off her feet for a few minutes was inexpressibly delicious. There was a small lounge for the nurses, but Head Nurse Meadows didn’t seem to believe in breaks of any kind, and Fiona had been the recipient of her disapproving glare on more than one occasion. It was much safer in the linen closet. She breathed in the quiet darkness, the sweet smell of cedar and freshly washed cotton sheets, borax and laundry soap.

  She closed her eyes just for a moment . . .

  “Nurse Stuart?”

  Her body stiffened to attention as her eyes flew open. The voice brought her back to consciousness with a sickening thud. Harsh, dry, and stern, it could only belong to one person.

  “Yes, Nurse Meadows?”

  “What on earth are you doing in here?” Meadows stood silhouetted in the doorway, her long sinewy arms crossed, her square-jawed head cocked to one side. Fiona was glad she couldn’t quite make out her facial expression. She had seen it often enough—steely gray eyes narrowed, thin lips pursed, as if she had just consumed a particularly sour lemon.

  “I—I had a headache. I was just resting my eyes.”

  “I trust you are better now.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Fiona lied.

  “Then what are you waiting for? Chop, chop! There are patients waiting.”

  Fiona fought to keep from yawning as she followed Nurse Meadows out of the closet. She could feel Meadows’ eyes on her as she walked away, down the long corridor toward the wards. Fiona didn’t believe the woman ever slept. Or if she did sleep, it was with one eye open, like the hundred-eyed watchman Argus from Greek mythology. She was like a bat, or a spider, or some as yet undiscovered species of nocturnal lizard.

  As she rounded the corner, turning right toward the accident and injury ward, she was surprised to see a familiar face.

  “Hello, Miss Stuart,” said Ian Hamilton.

  Taken unawares, she was unable to suppress the look of delight that flashed across her features. “Good afternoon, Detective,” she said, carefully composing her face into a neutral expression. “What brings you here today?”

  “I’ve come to see Conan Doyle. Have you any idea where I might find him?”

  “Of course,” she replied, disappointment digging a little hole in her stomach. There was of course no reason he would be there to see her, considering how she had treated him in the past. “Follow me,” she said, striding briskly down the polished corridors.

  Fiona Stuart had determined at an early age that men would not rule her life. She had watched too many women succumb to marriages with men they did not like. While she understood the allure of comfort and security, she chafed against the notion that a woman’s place was in the home, resenting the inequities that made it difficult for a woman to make her own way in the world. She had watched helplessly year after year as her mother struggled beneath her father’s will, shrinking to a diminished version of herself, until finally taken by consumption, the ultimate wasting disease.

  Fiona did not hate men, but she did not trust them, and had resolved never to put herself at their mercy if she could help it. Her mother’s memory trailed her like a sad ghost, appearing whenever she felt the temptation of sexual attraction. Though she had felt the pull of Ian’s personality from the first moment she saw him, she had no intention of falling for the handsome detective.

  But she imagined his warm breath on her neck and heard his firm, light tread as he followed her down the hall. Warring emotions surged in her breast. She was grateful that so long as he was behind her, her face could not betray her feelings. She did not want to reach their destination, where she would have to leave him. She longed for the corridor to stretch on forever. But they reached Doyle’s tiny office all too soon, and he came to the door in response to her knock.

  “Hello,” he said, smiling in his broad, open way.

  Fiona liked Conan Doyle—most people did. He was kind and unaffected and had a way of making you feel as if you were important. She sometimes wished she were attracted to him—she sensed Doyle was a man who would never treat a woman badly. But she was much more drawn to Detective Hamilton’s moody restlessness. He was like an opaque lake, and she was intrigued by his unexplored depths.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” Hamilton said. “You mentioned you had something to show me.”

  “Ah, yes!” Doyle said. “Indeed I do.”

  “If this is an inconvenient time—”

  “Not at all—come in, please. Would you care to see as well, Nurse Stuart?”

  “Thank you, but I must attend to my duties,” she replied. How she would have loved to stay and observe whatever crime-solving techniques the two men were collaborating on, but she had patients waiting, and Nurse Meadows was not of a forgiving disposition. A second reprimand in one day would almost certainly end in unpleasant consequences.

  She walked away from the two men reluctantly. In spite of Conan Doyle’s generous offer, she was keenly aware of the gap between them—she was just a nurse, whereas he was no doubt on his way to an illustrious career as a doctor in one of the finest medical institutions in the world. As a woman, she had limited options, and the thought pierced her like a scalpel cutting into her flesh. While the two men discussed the
latest exciting developments in medicine and crime solving, she would be taking temperatures, emptying bedpans, and cleaning up vomit.

  After attending to patients in the accident and injury ward, she returned to the linen closet to get sheets for the tubercular ward. Since it had been discovered some years ago that the disease was contagious, some of the nurses were frightened to go near the patients. Fiona Stuart disdained such fear. She took precautions, of course, as she had while nursing her mother through her last illness, and would not be dissuaded from doing her duty now.

  As she gathered fresh linens from the supply closet, she thought of the courage of her hero and mentor, Sophia Jex-Blake, who took on the Scottish medical establishment nearly single-handedly—and nearly won. But not quite. After an ugly fight, Jex-Blake was finally able to matriculate into the medical school at the University of Edinburgh, though she was not allowed to graduate. Forced to get her degree in Berlin, she returned to Edinburgh as Scotland’s first female physician. Fiona worshipped her, and volunteered at her clinic for women whenever possible.

  Carrying an armload of fresh sheets, Fiona walked to the end of the hall and turned right into the corridor that led to the tubercular ward. Seeing Detective Hamilton emerge from Doyle’s office, she hastened her steps to catch up. As they neared the front door, she called to him.

  “Detective?”

  He turned and saw her. “Hello again,” he said with a smile, which made her stomach do a little dip.

  She took a deep breath. “May I have a word?”

  “Certainly. What can I do for you?”

  She looked down at her sagging black stockings, her shoes scuffed and in need of polish. Her feet hurt, and she was hungry. “The fact is,” she said, “I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “For being utterly beastly to you.”

  “Oh?”

  “During your last case, I was rude and unmannerly.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  She glanced at his face for any hint of sarcasm, but his expression gave little away. Still, she had the unsettling feeling he was mocking her.

  “The fact remains, my behavior was unwarranted and unbecoming.”