The cuckoo clock over the mantel chirped the hour as a thin line of sweat trickled down his forehead. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry from anxiety and whisky. He craved another drink, but needed a clear head. He licked his lips and tried to relax, listening to the hollow sound of his own heart beating against the cage of his chest. The room continued to darken as the last of the evening light slid across the windowpanes, and he rose to light a fire in the grate. The flicker of gaslight did little to lift his spirits or warm the chill in the air as he resumed his solitary watch.
A knock at the front door sent a jolt through his body and triggered an intake of breath so sharp he nearly choked. He crept slowly to the door, his hand on the pistol in his pocket, and peered through the peephole. A warm rush of relief flooded his body as he saw the person standing on his front stoop.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, opening the door. “Come in.”
His visitor smiled. “Who were you expecting?”
“No one—never mind. Would you care to join me in a wee dram of whisky?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Now then,” he said, locking the door behind them, “what brings you here on such a cold night?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning dawned bright and clear, and Ian awoke shortly after sunrise. When he emerged from his bedroom, Donald was already humming away in the kitchen while Bacchus kept watch at his feet, scouring the floor for stray bits of food.
“Poached eggs and ham,” Donald said. “Coffee is on the stove.”
“Continue to make yourself this useful, and you may become a permanent fixture,” Ian said, pouring himself a cup of the aromatic black liquid.
“Is it too strong?” Donald asked, breaking an egg carefully over a pan of boiling water and vinegar.
“Just right,” Ian lied. Donald’s coffee was always too thick and bitter, but Ian had no desire to dissuade his brother from his domestic inclinations.
Neither of them mentioned last evening’s discussion. The pale sunlight streaming through the front windows erased the previous night’s dismal mood, and neither of them seemed willing to break the spell of what promised to be a more cheerful day.
“You said last night you have morning rounds at the infirmary today?” Ian said as they sat down to eat.
“Yes,” Donald replied, delicately breaking his poached egg, bright yellow yolk spilling across his plate. “Dr. Bell’s duty to HRH Victoria seems to be at an end, at least for the time being.”
“Mind if I accompany you?”
“Won’t you be late to work?”
“DCI Crawford isn’t expecting me until later. I told him I would be out investigating Elizabeth Staley’s murder.”
“Arthur has a taste for that sort of thing. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you,” Donald said, spreading butter liberally on a piece of bread. “And if you’re lucky, you might run into Nurse Stuart,” he added with a sly smile.
“Is that meant to be clever?”
“I stand by my opinion that there is a mutual attraction.”
“Then you will be gratified to know we are having dinner together tonight.”
Donald leaned back in his chair. “Well, well. Don’t tell me you’re taking my advice at long last.”
“I wouldn’t take too much credit if I were you,” Ian said, reaching for the bramble jelly. “She caught me off guard, and I consented.”
Donald’s mouth hung open. “She caught you—do you mean to say she invited you to dine?”
“Quick on the uptake, you are,” Ian remarked drily.
“Well, goodness me, brother, isn’t that just too topsy-turvy for words?” Donald said, tossing a bit of egg to the cat, who lapped it up greedily.
“See here,” Ian said, “the more you revel in the situation, the less likely I shall be to continue to see her.”
“Blackmail? From my own little brother?”
“Why do you take such keen interest in my private life?”
“I should think that was obvious, as I have none of my own,” Donald replied, his face more serious.
“Oh,” Ian said after a moment. “I see.”
“Vicarious pleasure seems to be all society allows those such as I. So I implore you not to deprive me of that one small consolation.” His voice had regained its jaunty, taunting tone, but Ian sensed the pain behind it.
“Very well,” Ian said, rising from the table. “You may observe, mock me, play the matchmaker—whatever makes you happy.”
“My happiness would involve considerably more than that,” Donald said, mopping up the last of his egg from his plate. “But I shall have to console myself with the glacial progression of your love life. Do try to step it up a bit, won’t you?”
Ian did not reply. Though he was not without sympathy, he found the subject of his brother’s predilections disquieting, and did not know how to respond.
Fifteen minutes later they were seated in the back of a hansom cab as it rattled over George IV Bridge. Congestion was at a minimum at such an early hour, and they soon turned onto Lauriston Place, passing through the infirmary’s wrought-iron gate bordered by its twin stone columns.
After Donald went off to morning rounds, Ian found Conan Doyle in his office, studying a medical textbook, a smoldering pipe by his side.
“Ah, Hamilton!” he said, ushering Ian into the cramped interior, the desk piled high with medical textbooks. “Good of you to come by.”
“Do you not find that an unhealthy habit?” Ian said, pointing to the pipe.
“We all must have our vices, mustn’t we?” Doyle said with a boyish grin. “Surely you have one or two? Or are you all purity and innocence?”
“Innocence, hardly. As to purity, I have been accused of aspiring toward it, but I can assure you I fall far short of it.”
“Quite right, too. Purity is for saints and martyrs. And you don’t strike me as the martyr type.”
“Certainly no one could accuse me of being a saint.”
Doyle leaned back in his chair, stretching his athletic form. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“I have a case involving blood evidence and thought it might be instructive to design a series of experiments involving bloodstains.”
“Capital idea! Medicine moves forward through experimentation, yet the science of forensics lags far behind.”
“I know of only one case in which blood evidence was presented in court.”
Doyle leaned forward. “Do tell, dear fellow!”
“It may strike you as rather obvious, but still—”
“I’m all ears.”
“In 1514, a London merchant by the name of Richard Hunne was found hanging in his jail cell, and at first it was deemed to be suicide. But the presence of large amounts of blood in the cell indicated something more sinister.”
Doyle smiled. “That is the clumsiest attempt at covering up a murder I have ever heard of.”
“It was worse than that. The noose was too small to fit over his head, his hands showed signs of having been tied, and there were multiple other clues leading to a verdict of murder.”
“Still, the presence of blood is common at so many crime scenes, and yet no one has made a discipline of studying it.”
“Precisely. I propose a series of experiments that will begin to throw a scientific light upon the subject.”
Doyle puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “There are some intriguing advances in forensics on the continent. Have you heard of Alphonse Bertillon?”
“The French policeman who pioneered the use of photography to identify criminals?”
“The same! He is working on a system of physical measurements to identify miscreants.”
“That is exactly the kind of scientific precision lacking in forensics.”
“I should be glad to—” Doyle began, but a commotion in the hall outside interrupted him. They could hear a woman’s shrill voice just outside the office.
“He’s deid,
I tell ye! Deid as a doornail!”
Doyle rose quickly and opened the door. In the corridor stood a short, dark-haired, middle-aged woman. She wore a white apron over a plain black frock and was clearly distraught. Two nurses were attempting to soothe her, which caused her to protest more loudly.
“Calm yourself, now, dearie,” said the older nurse.
“I found him this mornin’ when I come in t’clean ’is hoose,” she wailed. “Lyin’ there in ’is study!”
“Found whom?” said Doyle.
“The major!” she cried, clinging to his sleeve. “Saints preserve us—gun still in ’is hand, bluid everywhere!”
“Take me to him,” said Ian. She looked at him wildly, terror in her large brown eyes. “Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton, Edinburgh City Police,” he explained.
Her body relaxed somewhat, but she clutched his arm with a clawlike grip. “Mary, Mother of God! Will ye come wi’ me?”
“I will.”
“God bless ye, sir,” she said, not releasing her grasp on his arm. “I’m fair puckled!”
“It’s no wonder you’re short of breath,” he said, gently removing her hand. “You’ve had quite a shock. I’ll fetch a cab straightaway.”
Her lip trembled and tears spurted from her eyes. “Per’aps we should bring a doctor along,” she said, wringing her hands.
“I’ll go,” Doyle offered.
“But you’re—” Ian began.
“I have no classes until this afternoon. And I’m quite capable of assisting in reviving a wounded man, if he is still alive. This hospital can ill spare a proper doctor for such a task.”
Ian turned to the charwoman. “Do you think he may still be alive, Mrs.—”
“McMillan,” she said. “That’s why I come t’hospital straightaway, y’see, in case there was still life in the poor man.”
“You did the right thing,” said Ian. “Come along—there’s no time to waste!”
The Royal Terrace flat was on the ground floor, and Mrs. McMillan let them in with trembling hands, dropping the keys twice before she managed to open the door. Ian sensed a preternatural stillness as they entered the well-furnished rooms, and as they approached the study, he smelled something even more disturbing. It was an odor all too familiar to him—thick, acrid, and unmistakable.
It was the smell of blood.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I’m afraid he’s beyond the surgeon’s art,” Conan Doyle said, kneeling next to the body sprawled out on the plush blue Oriental carpet. The top of the victim’s head was blown off, but the face was mostly intact. He was clad in a crimson dressing gown, and a service revolver lay next to his right hand.
“I know this man,” Ian said. “He is—was—in my aunt’s séance group.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. McMillan whimpered, wiping her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “The major was fond of his séances. Ne’er missed a session. Oh, he was a bonnie lad. I don’ know what cause he had t’kill his poor self.”
“It appears to be a single gunshot wound to the side of the head,” said Doyle.
“That’s odd,” Ian remarked. “Why aim for the side of his head? Surely the front would be easier?”
“It might have slipped,” said Doyle, straightening up and brushing off his trousers. “Sometimes people intent on committing suicide lose their courage at the last minute. I’ve even heard of people missing altogether.”
“But a military man?”
“I’ll admit it seems unlikely.”
The blood had soaked deeply into the carpet, and was mostly dry. Ian examined the pistol, which had one round missing from an otherwise full chamber. The bullet was lodged in the far wall, at approximately head level for a man the height of the major. Either he had shot himself—albeit clumsily—or the killer had attempted to make it look like suicide. Pulling a pair of tweezers from his pocket, Ian carefully extracted the bullet and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.
“That’s clever,” Doyle remarked.
“What?”
“Carrying tweezers with you.”
“You never know when they’ll come in handy. Has rigor mortis set in yet?”
“Yes,” said Doyle. “The limbs are entirely stiff.”
“So that means he died—”
“At least four hours ago, possibly earlier.”
Ian turned to Mrs. McMillan. “The door was locked when you let yourself in?”
“Indeed, sir. Nothin’ seemed out of the ordinary till . . .” She turned away, overcome.
“You’ve had a terrible shock,” Conan Doyle said. “How about a cup of tea?”
“Oh, thank you, sir. I’ll make a pot.”
“Nonsense. Show me the kitchen and I’ll make it.”
“Yes, sir—right this way, sir,” she said, leading him toward the kitchen.
Left alone, Ian examined the study. The windows were covered by heavy drapes, another indication the crime had taken place the previous evening. Most sunlight-deprived Scots would throw their curtains wide open on such a beautiful day as this. But the drawn drapes suggested that it was night the last time the major drew a breath in this room. Ian thought the curtains could also indicate something more sinister—that he feared for his life and was hiding from a potential threat.
The room appeared to be extremely organized and tidy, as one might expect from a military man. Everything seemed to be in its place, with no sign of a struggle. The desk contained the usual collection of bills and bank statements, correspondence and legal documents. Nothing that suggested the major was in imminent danger—in fact, it was all quite unremarkable.
Conan Doyle entered the room carrying a tea tray, followed by Mrs. McMillan, clucking and fussing over him.
“Really, sir, ye should’ve let me do that,” she said as he set the tray on a handsome mahogany sideboard. Whatever else the major’s life may have been, he had money, Ian thought. “I’ll pour, sir,” the charwoman said, hovering over the tea service.
“Nonsense,” said Doyle, leading her over to the wing chair by the fireplace. “You sit down and rest.”
“Most kind o’ye, sir,” she said, wiping her eyes with her somewhat soggy handkerchief.
Ian accepted a cup of tea and biscuit gratefully—it had been some time since breakfast. Perching on the window seat, he tried to think of what he might have missed. Mrs. McMillan seemed as thirsty as he was, finishing her cup in one long swallow.
“Have some more,” Doyle said, reaching for the pot.
“I’ll get it, dearie,” she said, rising from her chair.
As she did, Ian noticed a slip of white paper poking out from the seat cushion. Carefully extracting it from the chair, he saw that it was a plain white envelope. It was empty, but Major Fitzpatrick was printed on the front in block letters.
“What have you there?” asked Doyle.
“I’m not certain,” said Ian. “But it does strike me as a curious anomaly in the home of a man who appears to have prized orderliness. Am I right, Mrs. McMillan? Did the major like a tidy home?”
“Goodness me,” she said. “So he did. I ne’er did see a man so regular in his habits. Why, a single pen out of place could set him off.”
“Do you recognize this envelope?” he asked, handing it to her.
“No, sir,” she said. “I don’ believe I seen it before.”
“Any idea who could have written it?”
She shook her head. “My readin’ isn’t good as some people’s, but I can see it’s his name there. Anyone could’ve writ it, sir.”
“Just so,” Ian agreed. “Anyone could have. But someone did, and I mean to find out who it is.”
“Do you think it’s related to his death?” said Doyle.
“I find it curious that it was wedged into the cushion of this armchair, when all indications are that neither the major nor this good lady would be likely to leave it there so carelessly.”
“His fav’rite chair, that is,” Mrs. McMillan said. “He could
sit there by the hour, smokin’ his pipe or reading.”
“Perhaps he was sitting in this chair when he was interrupted by someone or something, leaving the envelope behind.”
“But what about the contents of the envelope?” asked Doyle. “Any sign of that?”
“No,” said Ian. “Which is also curious.”
“Might he have burned it?” Doyle asked, glancing at the ashes in the grate.
“Perhaps. Another possibility is that whoever killed him took it with them.”
“Because it was incriminating?”
“Precisely. But they failed to notice the envelope in the cushion of the armchair. Did the major seem anxious or distracted when you saw him last?” Ian asked the charwoman.
“Not so’s I noticed, sir.”
“When were you last here?”
“Yesterday mornin’, sir. I come in most days, as the major likes everything just so, y’see.”
“So whatever arrived in this envelope must have come in the past twenty-four hours,” said Ian.
“Assuming its contents are related to his death,” said Doyle.
Ian held up the envelope. “This is either a coincidence or a clue. Your mentor Dr. Bell claims there are no coincidences in medicine. I believe the same to be true in crime solving. Therefore, I shall regard this as a clue.”
An examination of the rest of the flat provided no additional information, and after dropping Mrs. McMillan off at her flat, Ian told the cabbie to take them back to the medical school.
“Are you going to call on Dr. Littlejohn?” asked Doyle as the cab turned onto Lauriston Place.
“It’s protocol to report any suspicious death to the police surgeon,” Ian said. “But I know he’s a busy man.”
“You should be able to just catch him in his office,” Doyle said as they alighted from the cab.
“Would you care to join me? He may have some medical questions I am ill-equipped to answer.”
“I’m afraid I must get back to my duties. Dr. Bell is probably wondering where I am. And I have a chemistry class this afternoon.”
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