Edinburgh Midnight

by Carole Lawrence

  “Yes, he canceled his lectures this morning. My brother was quite pleased at being able to sleep in for a change.”

  “I can imagine,” Crawford said agreeably, but seemed distracted. “Would you two step into my office for a moment?” Such politeness was odd—the chief rarely asked when he could command.

  Once in the office, he closed the door behind them.

  “I’ve some more specific information regarding that upcoming robbery,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “Oh?” said Ian.

  “It’s supposed to take place late next week—Thursday or Friday,” Crawford said, lowering himself into his chair slowly, wincing.

  “Are you quite all right, sir?” said Ian.

  “Yes, yes,” Crawford replied, waving him off, and Ian wondered if the chief’s own health was the reason for his tardiness this morning. Crawford picked up a piece of string and twisted it between his fingers—his “rosary,” the men called it.

  “How did you come by this information?” asked Ian.

  “Constable Turnbull told me.”

  Ian glanced at Sergeant Dickerson, whose lips were compressed in a frown.

  “Turnbull, sir?” said Ian.

  “Why—do you have a problem with him?”

  “I can’t help wondering where he got it from.”

  “He didn’t care to reveal his source—any more than you did, may I remind you.”

  Ian saw no rebuttal to that. He took a deep breath. “So he could not be certain whether it would be on Thursday or Friday?”

  “No, he couldn’t,” Crawford replied testily. “But I should think you’d be bloody glad to have it narrowed down.”

  “We are, sir,” Sergeant Dickerson interjected. “It’s just—”

  “What?”

  Dickerson shot Ian a desperate glance.

  “We can’t be certain if it’s reliable, sir,” Ian said.

  “Why the bloody hell not?” Crawford exploded, tossing his bit of string on the desk.

  “We don’t know if his source can be trusted.”

  “And yet yours can?”

  “Yes, sir. Exactly.”

  The chief sighed, all the wind going out of him as if from a deflated balloon.

  “Very well, Hamilton—you may ask Constable Turnbull if he’ll share his source with you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, knowing full well that was a useless venture. “Is that all, sir?”

  “Yes. Keep me posted on the Staley investigation, eh?”

  “Will do, sir.”

  When they returned to the main room, Turnbull was nowhere to be seen. Sergeant Dickerson followed Ian to his desk.

  “Wha’s eatin’ the chief, d’you think?”

  “I wish I knew. He does seem distracted.”

  “He seemed t’be in pain.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “I hope it’s nothin’ serious.”

  Ian looked out the window. The sun was slowly creeping behind a cloud, as though trying to escape its task of illuminating a city that, it seemed to Ian, was growing darker by the hour.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was a pity, it really was, you think as the lemony light creeps in through the kitchen curtains, turning the glass on the windows opaque. Some revenge was indeed sweet, but it was too bad the teacher had to die, you think as you put the kettle on. She was culpable, of course, but the least guilty of the lot, and you are glad she is out of the way. It was smart to start with her. If you could eliminate her, you could certainly manage to do the rest of them.

  Gazing out at the small garden below, you contemplate your next move. You are pleasantly surprised at how easy and natural it all felt; it was quite gratifying, after months of careful planning. Of course, you always were a planner; even as a small child, you thought out your actions carefully before embarking on any course of action, even though other children made fun of you, calling you an old fuddy-duddy. Well, what did they know? you think as a secret smile plays across your lips. They couldn’t even contemplate such momentous acts, let alone pull them off.

  The kettle whistle rises from a thin, breathy whisper to a shrill, full-bodied scream. You are grateful she made no such sound, you think as you warm the pot, swirling the water around until the porcelain is warm to the touch, ready to receive the delicate tea leaves. You weren’t sure what it would actually be like, even with all the planning. She might have howled like a banshee, but she didn’t. She made almost no noise at all, just a soft grunt when the blow was struck, the kind of sound you might make stubbing your toe, a startled, muted utterance of pain—but thankfully, there was no screaming.

  And then she dropped like a stone, hitting the floor hard, tumbling right down the stairs. That was another surprise—you had thought she might fight back, cry, beg, plead for her life, but luckily that blow was well aimed and so hard it felled her immediately. By the time she hit the bottom step, she was dead.

  You hadn’t planned to do it on the stairs, but when she headed to the cellar to fetch the jam, it all felt so right. How easy to make it look like she had simply fallen—and you enjoyed adding a few little touches, like the spilled basket of laundry. It all felt so unreal and a little thrilling, like putting together the set for a stage play.

  Yes, you think as you inhale the sweet, stringent aroma of the leaves, stirring the golden-brown liquid in the pot, it was thrilling. Unexpectedly, strangely exciting. It wasn’t just the accomplishment of revenge—that was gratifying—but it was more than that. It was heady, electrifying, and it took your breath away.

  The sun makes a final pass across the window, moist from the steaming kettle, the garden outside embraced in a soft mist, like a scene in a dream. You take a deep breath as you pour your tea, watching the milk cut through the golden brew. You realize now what it was you felt.

  It was the feeling of complete, unfettered freedom, and you wanted more.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I’d like to show you something,” Ian told Sergeant Dickerson as they shared a midafternoon pot of tea. Neither had eaten since breakfast, but Hamilton barely seemed to notice.

  “Yes, sir?” Dickerson said, stuffing another biscuit into his mouth to quell his grumbling stomach. He was always amazed by DI Hamilton’s endless obsession with his work. He struggled to keep up, but in truth he often longed to spend more time with his younger sister, to say nothing of his pretty girlfriend, Caroline Tierney. But lately it seemed his whole life revolved around the station house. He wanted to be a good policeman but sometimes resented DI Hamilton’s single-minded devotion to duty, wondering why the detective didn’t seem to have other interests in his life.

  Ian put down his mug of tea and went to the supply closet, where he dug out an artist’s easel.

  “I have in mind a kind of murder chart,” he said, taking up a soft lead pencil. On the left side of the blank paper clipped to the easel, he wrote Suspects. “Now then, what does each suspect need in order to be the actual killer?”

  Dickerson felt put on the spot. He tried to imagine what answer Hamilton was looking for. He struggled to think, but his mind suddenly felt filled with cotton. He looked at the detective, who was waiting patiently, long arms crossed, his deep-set gray eyes keen.

  “Uh . . . a reason t’kill?”

  “Excellent!” Hamilton exclaimed. “Well done.” He turned and wrote Impetus above and to the right of Suspects. “What else?”

  Feeling emboldened, Dickerson relaxed. “I s’pose they’d need . . . sommit t’do th’deed with. A murder weapon, like?”

  “Exactly!” Hamilton crowed, and wrote Method on the far side of the board, across from Impetus. “A gun, a vial of poison, a fireplace poker—”

  “Or a hammer.”

  “Precisely. That leaves only one more essential element.”

  Dickerson swallowed his remaining bit of biscuit and scratched his head. Detective Hamilton could be cloudy and close, but now he looked happy as a child with a new toy. The sergeant w
anted to extend this good mood, but even more he craved Hamilton’s approval. “Uh . . . can y’give me a hint?”

  “In order to kill someone, generally you have to come into proximity to them.”

  “That’s a good point, sir.” He wasn’t entirely sure what “proximity” meant but was not about to admit it.

  “So that means the killer needs to have—”

  Dickerson squinted at the board, as if the answer lay there.

  “Opportunity!” Ian exclaimed, writing the word on the board.

  “I see, sir,” Dickerson said, disappointed at failing to come up with the answer.

  “So we have Impetus, Opportunity, and Method,” Hamilton continued, underlining them.

  The sergeant gazed longingly at the empty biscuit tin, wishing it would magically transform into a steak and kidney pie.

  “. . . which means every viable suspect must have all three,” Hamilton was saying. Dickerson struggled to absorb what the detective was saying, but thoughts of a meat pie vied for his attention.

  “Are you quite all right, Sergeant?” Hamilton said, staring at him.

  “Yes, sir. It’s just—”

  “What?”

  “Well, I’m hungry, sir.”

  “Why didn’t you say so!” The detective fished some money from his pocket and handed it to him. “Why don’t you get us both a couple of meat pies?”

  Dickerson didn’t have to be asked twice. “Thank you, sir!” he said, sprinting from the station so fast he neglected to put on his overcoat. Out in the street, he immediately regretted it as the icy December air hit him full in the face. Though it was only midafternoon, the sun was sinking rapidly toward the horizon, and there was already an evening chill in the air. Blowing on his hands, he headed toward the pie seller in front of St. Giles.

  “G’day, Sergeant!” the man called out cheerfully upon seeing one of his most loyal customers. “What’ll it be t’day? No more steak and kidney left—all I’ve got at this hour is mutton or bridie pies.” He was tall and thin as a scarecrow, with a voice shrill and sharp as a pennywhistle. He always wore the same moth-eaten scarf around his neck in winter, and no matter the weather, was unfailingly cheerful.

  “Two—no, three bridies, please,” Dickerson said, anxious to fill his empty stomach with as much food as possible. He was especially fond of bridie pies, said to be named after a midcentury pie seller by that name. He would have ordered yet another, but didn’t want Hamilton to think him a glutton.

  “Three pies it is,” the pie man said, handing him a steaming paper bag.

  “Ta very much,” Dickerson said, handing him the coins. “Keep the change, mate,” he added, his mouth filling with saliva as he headed back toward the police station.

  As he neared the building, he thought he saw someone in a policeman’s uniform duck into the entrance to Parliament Square. The growing darkness made it hard to make out the man’s features, but the heavy shoulders and rolling gait resembled Constable McKay’s. Quickening his steps, Dickerson turned right at the intersection, walking rapidly until he had passed the Mercat Cross. He peered down the street, but there was no sign of anyone. The street ran alongside the eastern edge of the cathedral before taking a sharp right turn to run directly behind it. There was no one in sight before the turn, so he decided to give up his pursuit, turning his steps back in the direction of the police station.

  When he arrived, Hamilton seemed to barely notice he had been gone, ignoring the pie Dickerson placed on his desk. There was something inhuman about the detective, he thought as he munched his pies, savoring the buttery crust and minced beef and onion filling. Studying his board, Hamilton’s eyes shone with the familiar gleam the sergeant knew so well. When he was deep in a case, nothing else seemed to matter.

  Beneath the word Suspects, he had written Mme. Veselka, Gretchen, and Major, drawing a line across the board beneath each name.

  “Are they all suspects, then, sir?” Dickerson asked as he gulped down his first pie.

  “Until they are eliminated. Of course, her killer may be completely unrelated to the séance group, but it’s as good a place to start as any.”

  “Don’ ye need another column fer alibi, then?”

  Hamilton stopped what he was doing, and for a moment Dickerson was afraid he was irritated. But he clapped his hands enthusiastically. “Well done, Sergeant!” Dickerson breathed a sigh of relief as Hamilton applied himself writing Alibi on the far right side, creating a new row for each suspect.

  “That’s the stuff,” he said, laying down his pencil and admiring his handiwork. “Between us, we’ll get the job done—eh, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dickerson replied, starting in on his second pie.

  “Ah,” Hamilton said, as if seeing the pies for the first time. “What have we today?”

  “Bridie pies, sir,” the sergeant mumbled through a mouthful of flaky crust and savory spiced meat. He sighed with contentment—the second pie tasted even better than the first.

  “Oh! I nearly forgot,” said Ian. “There was a young man at the séance. I believe my aunt said he was the major’s son. Can’t recall his name—James, Jerry—”

  “Jeremy,” said a woman’s voice behind them. “Jeremy Fitzpatrick.”

  Dickerson turned and saw Gretchen Mueller standing near the desk sergeant’s station. Dressed in a hooded crimson cloak, bright yellow braids wound like thick pretzels around her head, she looked like something out of a fairy tale.

  Dickerson leapt from his chair and escorted her past half a dozen policemen, all staring unabashedly. She was not beautiful—her cheeks were chubby, and her eyes too close set—but she was pink cheeked and young and fresh as a loaf of baked bread. It was no wonder the men stared, he thought, scowling at them for good measure, feeling both protective and possessive of her.

  Ian smiled as she approached, but when she saw the murder chart, she blanched and sank into the nearest chair. “Y-you believe I kill this poor woman?” she stuttered.

  “Not necessarily,” Ian said. “We merely haven’t eliminated you as a potential suspect.”

  “B-but I had no reason to vant her dead!” the girl protested, her accent becoming more pronounced. “She gafe money to Madame, vich enables Madame to keep me on as her servant. And I—I barely know poor Miss Staley.”

  “That may be, Miss Mueller,” Ian replied. “But we must consider all people who knew Miss Staley, however casually.”

  “And Madame? Why vould she kill a perfectly good cli—uh, guest?”

  “Please don’ worry yerself,” Dickerson said, impulsively taking her hand. It was warm and moist—her palms were sweating. He felt a rush of sympathy for her and anger at Hamilton for treating her in such a callous manner. “No one’s suggestin’ y’killed her,” he said soothingly. “Puttin’ yer name on t’board is jes formality.” Hamilton pursed his lips in a frown, but Dickerson was not dissuaded. “Now then,” he said. “Wha’ brings y’here?”

  She held up a single sheet of paper. “I brought the list you requested.”

  “Thank you, Miss Mueller,” Hamilton said, taking it from her. “Please thank Madame for us as well.”

  She nodded, but her lower lip trembled. Dickerson took her hand again and squeezed it. “Why don’ I get you a nice cuppa, eh?”

  “No, thank you—I must be returning to Madame’s,” she said, rising from her chair. “She needs her supper early—there is a reading tonight.”

  “At least let me see y’out,” he said, taking her gently by the elbow. He looked back at Hamilton, but the detective was immersed in examining the list.

  After escorting Gretchen out, he returned to find Hamilton studying the murder chart, the untouched meat pie still on his desk. Dickerson sat moodily, arms crossed, staring at his own half-eaten pie, his appetite vanished. After a few minutes, Hamilton stopped what he was doing and picked up the list Gretchen had brought them.

  “This list contains the names of only two persons who were not at last week
’s séance, Mr. and Mrs. Nielsen.” When Dickerson did not reply, Hamilton looked at him. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Not really, sir.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “May I speak freely, sir?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I don’ like the way y’treated young Gretchen.”

  “How so?”

  “She were truly frightened, and—well, ye didn’ seem t’care.”

  “Oh, but I did care.”

  “Ye didn’ show it.”

  “I want her to return to Madame Veselka and tell her we mean business.”

  “Is that any reason t’frighten an innocent young woman?”

  “How do you know she’s innocent?”

  “Well, I—”

  “You assume because she’s young and pretty that she isn’t capable of murder.”

  “It’s not that—”

  “It’s perfectly all right,” Hamilton said with a smile that was too smug for Dickerson’s taste. “You’re only human, and she is appealing.”

  The sergeant felt himself redden, and cursed his light complexion. “Might I remin’ you I’ve already got a lady friend, which is more than you—”

  “Your gallantry does you credit,” Hamilton said, ignoring the slight, which only angered Dickerson more.

  “Look, sir,” he said. “I jes believe in treatin’ people kindly, especially a poor young orphan like her.”

  “What makes you think she’s an orphan?”

  “Why else would she leave her homeland an’ work fer someone like the madame?”

  “I can think of several reasons. One obvious one would be because she’s a criminal fleeing prosecution.”

  That silenced Dickerson at last. He saw the reason in the detective’s argument—Hamilton was always so damned logical—but it hardly placated him.

  “Wha’ever ye say,” he muttered.

  “Look, Sergeant,” Hamilton said, sitting down across from him. “Crime solving isn’t always pretty, and innocent people can get caught up in an investigation. But I will promise you this. If I can clear Gretchen from suspicion, I will, as soon as humanly possible. Very well?”