Edinburgh Midnight

by Carole Lawrence

  “Can I help you?” Even her Prussian accent was charming, Ian thought, and it was evident Dickerson felt the same. The sergeant stared at her, his cheeks reddening, as he stammered to find words.

  “We’re—w-with th’ Edinburgh City Police,” he said finally.

  “Yes,” she replied, looking at Ian. “This gentleman is known to me.” Though accented, her English was rather good.

  Dickerson looked at him quizzically.

  “I attended a séance here with my aunt earlier this week,” he explained. “And I apologize for my rudeness,” he told Gretchen. “My behavior was reprehensible.”

  “Yes, it was,” she said, but he thought he saw a slight smile as she turned away. “Please, do come in.”

  They followed her into the opulently furnished sitting room, much the same as Ian remembered, minus the candles. In the dim winter light filtering through the lace curtains, it didn’t have the same aura of mystery. There was no sign of the Persian cat, though the chair he formerly occupied had a thin layer of long white hairs.

  “Madame is in a private consultation at the moment,” said Gretchen. “Please, may I bring you some tea?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Ian, though he could sense Dickerson’s disappointment.

  She cocked her head to one side. “You Scottish do like your tea, I believe?”

  “We do, but—”

  Just then the beaded curtain in the back of the room parted, and Madame Veselka stepped through it. Dressed in a simple blue frock, without the kohl eyeliner and rouge, she looked younger than she had the other night. Her wrists and hands were bejeweled as before, but her manner was less affected than he remembered. If she was surprised to see him, she gave no hint of it.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.” Her accent seemed less pronounced than he remembered.

  “Please forgive me, Madame,” Gretchen said hastily. “I did not care to interrupt your session.”

  “It’s quite all right, my dear,” she replied as a timid-looking young woman carrying an enormous carpet bag emerged from behind the curtain. She wore a dark-blue travel suit and boots that had seen some wear. “Good day, Miss McGundy,” Madame said. “Remember what I told you—at the next full moon.”

  “Yes, Madame,” the young lady said shyly, darting past the men toward the front door. Gretchen reached out to open it for her.

  “At the full moon,” Madame repeated as Miss McGundy slipped through the door. “Now then,” she said, turning her attention to the policemen, “please have a seat. Gretchen, some tea, please.” When the girl hesitated, Madame turned to Ian. “You will of course join me in a pot of tea? You Scottish enjoy your tea, no?”

  Ian was struck by the fact that Gretchen had used nearly the exact same phrase, including the odd grammar. “Yes, thank you,” he said, noting the look of relief on Dickerson’s face.

  “I assume you are not here to apologize,” Madame Veselka said, settling into a white painted wicker chair with plush burgundy cushions.

  “I do indeed owe you an apology,” Ian said. “My behavior—”

  She dismissed him with a wave of her jeweled hand. “I should have realized you were not ready for such a revelation. But when the spirits come, there is little I can do to control what they say.”

  Aware that Dickerson was staring at him, Ian pressed onward. “In any case, I was rude, and I am sorry. But as to the real reason for our visit—” he began, as Gretchen appeared with a tea tray. Dickerson brightened visibly at the sight of a plate piled high with golden flaky pastries.

  “Gretchen is an excellent cook,” Madame said. “What have we today?”

  “Kuchen mit Schlagsahne,” Gretchen replied, setting the tray down on the sideboard.

  “Pastries with whipped cream,” Madame Veselka translated.

  “Shall I be the mother?” Gretchen asked. Ian made note of her slightly erroneous use of the common phrase. “How do you like your tea, Detective?”

  “Milk and one sugar, please,” said Ian.

  Once they were served, Madame leaned back in her chair and sipped delicately at her tea. “Now then, Inspector, as to the real reason for your visit. What is it, pray?”

  Ian looked at Dickerson, who was biting into a pastry, a look of bliss on his face. “We’re here ’bout a murder,” he mumbled through flakes of Kuchen mit Schlagsahne.

  Madame Veselka exchanged a glance with Gretchen. It was hard to tell for certain in the dim light, but Ian thought the girl’s face went a shade paler, and she bit her lip.

  The medium turned to Ian. “What has that to do with us?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you the victim was one of your clients.”

  Madame’s grip tightened on the arm of her chair, but when she spoke, he thought she deliberately tried to sound casual.

  “We call them guests, not clients.”

  “One of your guests, then.”

  “Indeed? Who is the unfortunate person?”

  “Elizabeth Staley.”

  There was a clattering sound as the teaspoon slipped from Gretchen’s fingers and fell to the floor. “Oh, dear, I am most sorry, Madame!” she said, stooping to pick it up.

  “No harm done, my dear,” the medium replied kindly. “Gretchen was rather fond of Miss Staley, and this is quite a shock, as you can imagine.”

  “I am sorry to bring you this news.”

  “How was she—”

  “The results are not yet official, but it appears she was bludgeoned.”

  Gretchen gave a little squeak and clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “Oh, dear,” said Madame Veselka. “This is most distressing.”

  Ian looked at Sergeant Dickerson, who was digging into his second pastry. “Your notebook, Sergeant?”

  “Right—sorry, sir!” he said, hastily extracting it from his pocket.

  “How long has Miss Staley been coming here?”

  “Sechs—six months,” Gretchen blurted out.

  “Surely not that long,” Madame Veselka corrected her. “Isn’t it more like four months?”

  “Perhaps you are right, Madame. Yes, of course,” the girl replied, looking away. “Not more than four months. But she has not missed a week, I think.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might wish her harm?”

  The medium shook her head. “I know very little of her, apart from the fact that she has a dead sister—she came to me desperate to contact her.”

  “Did she have any success?”

  “She did, I am glad to say.”

  “Which explains her continuing presence month after month.”

  Madame Veselka frowned. “There is no guarantee that those on the other side will cooperate, Inspector. I explain that to all my guests.”

  “And yet you seem to have an impressive success rate.”

  She fixed him with a critical stare, and he noticed for the first time how large her dark eyes were, the irises almost as black as the pupils. “You have made your position clear, Mr. Hamilton,” she said icily. “However,” she continued, leaning into him, “you cannot hide forever. What happened the other night was no fluke, I can assure you.”

  Sergeant Dickerson frowned and bit the tip of his pencil. “Wha’ is she on about, sir?”

  “Nothing of import, Sergeant,” Ian replied.

  “Is there a record book of your—guests?” Dickerson asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Could you make us one?” said Ian.

  “I suppose so. I have a good memory for people.”

  “I would like a list of your current and recent guests as soon as you can manage.”

  “Certainly. I’ll have Gretchen bring it to you.”

  “How long have you been in Edinburgh?” said Ian.

  “Let me think . . . it’s going on seven years, now, isn’t it, Gretchen?”

  The girl nodded vigorously as she refilled Madame’s teacup. “Ja, sieben Jahre.”

  “And Gretchen has been with you the whole time?” the sergean
t said, writing in his notebook.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without her,” she replied with a sigh. “More milk, please, dear,” she added, and Gretchen scurried over with the cream pitcher.

  “She came over with you from . . . ?” said Ian.

  “Europe,” Madame Veselka answered with a smug little smile.

  The cat that ate the canary, Ian thought. “Could you be more specific?” he said, knowing it was a lost cause.

  “Here and there. We both moved around a lot.”

  Dickerson was undeterred. “But you were born where?”

  “I am Russian, and Gretchen is from a Prussian family.”

  “May I ask what is your surname?” Ian said to Gretchen.

  “Mueller,” she replied softly. “It is German for—”

  “Miller,” said Ian. “I have a little German.”

  “A common enough name,” Madame said, sniffing.

  “Did Miss Staley socialize with any of your other guests—outside of your séances, I mean?” said Ian.

  “I know very little of what goes on outside of here, I’m afraid. I wish I could be more helpful,” she said, rising, “but I have a private consultation arriving any minute, and I must prepare myself.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Ian said, handing Gretchen his teacup.

  Sergeant Dickerson stood up, a cascade of pastry crumbs tumbling to the floor like sailors deserting a sinking ship. “Here’s my card if y’think of anythin’ else.” Gretchen stepped forward and took it, handing it to the madame. “Ta very much fer tea an’ cakes.”

  “She really was anxious to speak with you, you know,” Madame Veselka told Ian, laying a heavily jeweled hand on his arm.

  He recoiled from her touch and mumbled something about being late for another interview.

  “You should not be afraid,” she murmured softly as they headed toward the door. Ian tried to cover his discomfort with a cough, which fooled no one. He could sense Dickerson’s curiosity as they put on their coats.

  The ever-helpful Gretchen saw them out, and as they turned to leave, she stepped onto the stoop.

  “I saw Miss Staley speaking with the major after the session. I could not make out what they were saying, but I had the feeling they knew each other.”

  “Thank you, Miss Mueller,” Ian said, wondering why she was reluctant to tell them in front of her employer. “If you think of anything else, please contact me—anytime,” he added, handing her his card.

  “Danke schön.” She slipped it into her apron pocket. “I must go,” she said, and slipped back inside, closing the door behind her.

  “What do you think of Madame Veselka?” Ian asked as they walked north on Blackfriars Street.

  “She’s a close one, she is,” Dickerson replied as they passed the United Presbyterian Church. It was built in 1871, but its sharply steep gables and tall, narrow windows evoked the city’s medieval past. Though not a believer, Ian loved churches, and it was one of his favorites.

  “Did you note her response when we mentioned the murder?”

  “No, sir.”

  “She asked what that had to do ‘with us’—not ‘with me,’ but us.”

  “An’ what would be the significance of that, sir?”

  “It implies a closer relationship with Gretchen than simply mistress and servant.”

  “Wha’ d’ye think that would be?”

  “That is a very good question, Sergeant,” Ian said as they turned the corner onto the High Street.

  “What were all that ’bout someone wantin’ to speak wi’ you, sir?”

  “Just a fanciful notion she has about a dead person trying to contact me.”

  “Did it happen at séance, sir?”

  “As DCI Crawford would say, it’s all bosh and bunkum.”

  “Is it, sir?”

  “It is indeed,” Ian said as they sidestepped a wagon full of potatoes and turnips wobbling unsteadily up the High Street, pulled by a sleepy-looking chestnut mare. But a tiny seed of doubt began to sprout in his mind, making him wonder how much longer he could trust his own beliefs about anything.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They passed Bell’s Wynd, where a thinly dressed girl in a dingy frock and tattered shawl was selling watercress from a weather-beaten basket. Ian fished a half crown from his pocket and gave it to her. Her eyes widened as she looked up at him.

  “Ye’ve made a mistake, sir—”

  “It’s no mistake.”

  “I haen’t got enough change fer—”

  “No change.”

  “It’s a farthin’ for one bunch a’ cress, sir—”

  “I don’t want any cress.”

  “But sir—” She held the money out to him, her hand trembling.

  “Please,” Ian said, closing her fingers over the money. “Keep it.”

  “At least tae’ one, sir,” she said, thrusting a bunch of cress at him.

  “Very well,” he said, his hand closing on hers. It was thin and frail as a baby bird, the fingers like icicles beneath the thin woolen gloves. He whipped his scarf from his neck and wound it around hers. “Thank you,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze.

  They walked on, her shrill voice trailing after them.

  “Oh, thank ye, sir! God bless ye!”

  “Here, Sergeant,” Ian said, handing him the cress. “Does your sister like cress?”

  “She does—thank you, sir.”

  They continued in silence, though Ian had a feeling Sergeant Dickerson was bursting to say something. As they neared police chambers, a familiar voice rang out from behind them through the clear wintry air. “Is it true, Detective?”

  Ian responded without turning around. “If you’ve heard it, it’s probably not true.”

  “It’s from a reliable source.”

  Ian continued walking as an out-of-breath Jedidiah Corbin hurried to catch up to him.

  “You’re a hard man to find,” he said, panting as he matched Ian’s stride.

  “It depends on who’s looking. You really should see to your fitness, Corbin—you’re quite winded.”

  “I’ve run all the way from Cockburn Street.”

  The High Street sloped uphill steadily from Holyrood Palace to Edinburgh Castle, the grade becoming steeper as it approached the castle.

  “That isn’t such a great distance,” Ian remarked.

  Cockburn Street was the location of the offices of the Scotsman, Edinburgh’s premier newspaper, and Jedidiah Corbin was their star crime reporter. Even shorter than Sergeant Dickerson, he was thin and wiry as a whippet, with close-cut dark hair and small, keen eyes that missed little. Now those eyes darted from Ian’s face to the notebook Sergeant Dickerson was carrying.

  “I’ll reveal what I know and you can tell me if I’m on the right scent,” he said. “Agreed?”

  “What have you heard?” asked Ian as they approached the station house.

  “There’s been a murder.”

  “This is Edinburgh. There’s always a murder. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “A teacher. An attempt was made to make it look like an accident.”

  Ian stopped walking. “Where did you—?”

  Corbin smiled. “Your reaction answers my question. Is Dr. Littlejohn being brought in on the case?”

  “If he is, no doubt you’ll be the first to know.”

  “A fine doctor,” the reporter said. “Though he does have that odd habit of repeating himself—”

  “DCI Crawford will decide what facts are to be released to the public,” Ian said, opening the door to 192 High Street. “And now if you will excuse us—”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Corbin called after them as Ian and Dickerson entered the building.

  “Y’don’ like ’im much, do ye, sir?” said the sergeant as they trudged up the stairs.

  “He’s just doing his job.”

  “Are y’gonna tell ’im wha’s happenin’?”

  “That’s entirely up to DCI Crawford,” Ian
replied, swinging open the double door leading to police chambers.

  No sooner had they reached their desks than DCI Crawford charged out of his office, waving a piece of paper.

  “The autopsy report is in,” he said, thrusting it in front of Ian. “Elizabeth Staley was killed by a heavy blow to the head. Dr. Bell says it was inconsistent with a fall down the stairs—in fact, he’s rather convinced the murder weapon was a hammer, or something like it.”

  Ian studied the report. Under “Manner of Death,” it read, Homicide by Person or Persons Unknown.

  “You were right,” said Crawford. “Now you just have to find out who did it.”

  “The fact that we didn’t find the weapon suggests it was planned.”

  “So the killer may have brought it with him.”

  “Or her,” Ian added.

  Crawford frowned and picked at his whiskers. “A woman? Come now, Hamilton.”

  “May I remind you, sir, of the recent case—”

  “Yes, but those were poisonings. Poison is a woman’s business, but surely not this.”

  “We must not rule out anything this early.”

  “We don’ know what may be missin’ from the house,” Dickerson pointed out. “So the killer could’ve used sommit ’e found there, an’ taken it when ’e left.”

  “Good point, Sergeant,” said Ian.

  “That nosy reporter from the Scotsman is sniffing around,” said the chief. “Trying to get a scoop.”

  “He already knows some of the facts,” said Ian. “I told him you would release information as you deemed appropriate.”

  Crawford sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to make an announcement at some point. Until then, it’s all under wraps, eh?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ian could see Constable Turnbull loitering at the tea service area, watching them. When Ian looked in his direction, he slinked around the corner into the back room. Ian suddenly realized how Jed Corbin probably got his information. He considered telling Crawford, but having no proof, decided that would be a mistake.

  “You weren’t in this morning when I arrived,” he said. “Is your wife all right, sir?”

  “Moira’s health is continuing to improve, thanks to Dr. Bell. I hear he’s attending to the Queen this week,” he added with a conspiratorial wink.