“Thank you for your assistance—it was invaluable.”
“I’m glad I could be of some use.”
“I’ll keep you apprised of our progress on the case,” Ian called after him as he walked away, then turned in the direction of Dr. Littlejohn’s office. He always experienced a sadness in the aftermath of Conan Doyle’s leaving. Hardly the most sociable of men, Ian was not used to the feeling, but suspected most people experienced the pull of Doyle’s easy charm and good-natured personality.
His friend was right—Littlejohn was indeed in his office nestled in the clock tower overlooking the entrance to Lauriston Place.
“Come in, come in,” he called in response to Ian’s knock. “Ah, it’s you!” he said when Ian entered the room. “Close the door, close it—it’s frightfully drafty up here.”
Ian complied—like many of the stone buildings in Edinburgh, this one did seem to hold in the cold, even on warm days. The office was as he remembered it—cluttered, somewhat cramped, but with the pleasing atmosphere of a place of study, a retreat from the hustle and bustle of the city. Bookshelves of medical texts lined one wall; on a second bookcase were jars of what appeared to be laboratory specimens. Seated behind his desk, Littlejohn beckoned Ian to sit on the only available spot, a wooden bench half covered with medical texts. “Just move those aside, move them,” Littlejohn said with a wave of his hand. “Can’t seem to ever put anything away properly,” he added. “Too time-consuming, you know. I need a clerk. You know of anyone? Anyone at all?”
“I can’t think of anyone at present,” Ian said, perching carefully on the bench next to a heavy tome of Gray’s Anatomy. It was open to an illustration of a skeletal human hand, each bone neatly labeled. He wondered who the hand holding the gun that killed Major Fitzpatrick belonged to. He was fairly certain it did not belong to the major.
“You’re one of Toshy Crawford’s men,” Dr. Littlejohn said, leaning back in his chair. He had grown a rather bushy white mustache since Ian last saw him; this had the effect of softening his face, which could appear quite stern in repose. His broad, high forehead, boarded by soft silver hair, suggested the impressive intellect within. “Let me see, let’s see. Detective . . .”
“Hamilton.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Neat job you did on that last case—neat job indeed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“How is old Toshy?”
“He’s well, thank you.”
“I hear Joseph Bell sorted out his wife’s health.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it. Good man, Toshy—no good at cards, but a stout fellow. Now then, what can I do for you?”
Ian told him of the major’s puzzling death.
“May I see the bullet?”
Ian pulled it from his pocket and handed it to the doctor.
“And you say it matches the caliber of the service revolver?”
“Yes.”
“What was the victim’s name again?”
“Major George Fitzpatrick.”
“About fifty or so, medium height, athletic build?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Littlejohn laid the bullet carefully on his desk. A glint of sunlight from the window behind him illuminated the brass on the projectile, giving it a golden glow. “Which side of the head was the wound?”
“The right side.”
The doctor fixed his deep-set eyes on Ian. “Major Fitzpatrick could not possibly have killed himself. Not possible.”
“Why not?”
“I treated him for an injury sustained in Afghanistan. Took a bullet to the right shoulder.”
“He was your patient?” Ian asked, his heart beating faster.
“As a result of that injury, George Fitzpatrick was unable to raise his right arm that far. He would have been physically incapable of shooting himself in the head.”
Ian stared at the doctor, then past him to the city beyond. Somewhere, in those dark and desperate streets, a murderer wandered freely among its unsuspecting citizens.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“My dear Detective Hamilton, how absolutely divine to see you! Have you come to grace us with your talent again?”
Ian stood in the doorway of the rehearsal hall of the Blackfriars Street Masonic Lodge, home to the Greyfriars Dramatic Society, as Clyde Vincent hurried down the aisle toward him. After spending the afternoon interviewing the major’s neighbors, without gleaning much useful information, Ian had come to intercept Sergeant Dickerson at his evening rehearsal.
Clad in a forest-green riding jacket and crimson cravat, the theater director looked dapper as always. Laying a hand on the detective’s shoulder, he clasped Ian’s hand warmly with the other. “You do look well, I must say—put on half a stone or so since last we met, I think?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Ian replied with a smile. “My aunt is always trying to fatten me up.”
“Don’t listen to a word he’s saying!”
Ian turned to see Lillian charging onto the stage from the wings.
“Aunt Lillian! What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” she said, arms crossed. She was unusually well turned out, looking very smart in an attractive blue-and-gold paisley dress with matching jacket.
“Your aunt has graciously agreed to take publicity photographs of our little production,” Vincent explained. “And play a small role as an added bonus.”
“You didn’t tell me about this,” Ian said to her.
“Surely I donnae have to tell ye everythin’ I do?” she replied, her Glaswegian roots creeping into her voice as usual when she was wrought up.
“It’s just as well you’re here. I have something very important to impart to you.”
“Well? What is it?”
“I’d like to speak in private. Would you please excuse us?” he asked Mr. Vincent.
“By all means, dear boy. There’s a little office just inside the front entrance—you won’t be disturbed there.”
Retracing his steps through the chilly entrance hall, Ian found the office. It was dark inside, but the door was unlocked, opening with a creak when he turned the knob. Lighting the wall sconces, he turned to see his aunt standing in the doorway. Framed by the door, the soft yellow light on her face, she suddenly looked twenty years younger. Perhaps it was the blue dress, or the gaslight—and was she wearing rouge on her cheeks? There was something different about her, a subtle change in spirit that gave her a youthful air.
“What is it you wanted to tell me?” she said, taking a step into the room. It was a cramped little office, with a few filing cabinets, a dusty desk, and several chairs scattered about. It smelled of pine oil and shag tobacco.
“Close the door. This is for your ears alone.”
She did as he bade and perched upon one of the chairs, watching him expectantly.
“How well do you know Major Fitzpatrick?”
“I encountered him only at the séances. We have no relationship outside Madame Veselka’s. Why do you ask?”
“He was found dead this morning.”
Her sharp intake of breath told him the news took her by surprise.
“Wh-who found him?”
“His charwoman, a Mrs. McMillan. Do you know her?”
She shook her head, and he noticed that she had curled the edges of her hair in delicate ringlets. “Was it—” she began, then faltered.
“He died of a single gunshot wound. It was made to look like a suicide, but I have evidence suggesting it was in fact murder.”
Another intake of breath, this time followed by a long exhale. “Do you have any suspects?” she asked quietly.
“Not yet. It goes without saying that you yourself are in danger.”
“Does it indeed?”
“What?”
“Go without saying?”
“Please, Auntie,” he said earnestly, pulling a chair up to sit opposite her. “Just this once, listen to me.”
“Two members of your séance group have been murdered! Can you not see what that portends?”
“Who on earth would want to kill an old goose like me?”
“Who would kill a retired army major? Or a middle-aged spinster living alone on a quiet street in New Town? Both of them seem to have led exemplary lives, yet they were targeted for murder. And the only thing uniting them so far is the fact that they both attended the same séances! How can you have no care at all for your own safety?”
Aware that his voice had risen in volume, Ian stood up and paced the room. He was agitated, frustrated at his aunt’s stubbornness. “Really,” he continued. “I cannot believe that you would even think to contradict me!”
“Your father didn’t care for people disagreeing with him, either.”
“Why on earth would you bring my father into this?” he exploded. “This has nothing to do with the past! Why must you insist on being so thickheaded and stubborn?”
“Thickheaded, is it?” she replied stiffly, rising from her chair. “I should think you know something about that,” she added, sweeping from the room before he could stop her.
His forehead burning with impatience and rage, he kicked the chair she had recently vacated, sending it crashing across the room. “Damn,” he muttered. “Bloody stubborn woman!” Although already he could see part of the blame was his, he felt put upon and unfairly treated. He could hardly believe she did not take his warning seriously. What could she be thinking?
He wanted to go home and stew in solitude, but he needed to tell Dickerson of this latest development. Closing the office door behind him, he slipped into the rehearsal hall just in time to see the opening scene between Scrooge and his nephew. He stood in the back watching quietly as the actors recited their lines, scripts in hand, moving about the stage somewhat tentatively as they endeavored to remember their blocking.
The actor playing Scrooge was a rosy-cheeked older gentleman with a fine head of white hair, somewhat stouter than Ian imagined the character to be, but he was a handsome fellow with a strong voice and an amusing way of peering over his old-fashioned spectacles at the fellow playing his nephew. It had always struck Ian as strange that Dickens had failed to give the nephew a name, but the energetic young actor did not seem to care. He played the scene with great vigor, as if he, not Scrooge, were the main protagonist of the story. When his uncle asked why he got married, he uttered his response, “Because I fell in love,” with an ironic, humorous swoon that made several of the other actors sitting in the audience laugh. Not to be outdone, the actor playing Scrooge growled out his next line with such utter contempt and disgust that he brought forth an even louder roar of laughter.
“Because you fell in love!”
Ian was impressed with how the actor managed to impart the line with a sense of pathos and loss beneath the contempt, so that it was clear he was covering a chasm of past injury. Yet there was nothing sentimental about it; his anger was so fierce that it nearly compensated for the pain. Almost, but not quite. There was something familiar in the old actor’s attitude, he thought. It reminded him of someone . . . At that moment, he caught a glimpse of his aunt watching the scene from the wings. Leaning against a curtain pulley, she wore an expression he had only seen on her face when she spoke of Uncle Alfred. Her eyes were soft, a half smile on her face, and nothing else in the world seemed to exist for her except the scene being played out on the stage. At that moment he knew the reason for her fine dress, the curls in her hair, the rouge on her cheeks. She was in love with the gentleman playing Scrooge!
Perhaps that accounted for her stubborn behavior as well—he knew from experience as a detective that one strong emotion can beget another. His heart beat a pang of envy as he watched her, utterly absorbed in the characters on stage. What a sweet feeling it must be, he thought, being so enamored of another. Suddenly he had a strange nagging feeling he had forgotten something . . . Miss Stuart! It was Thursday, the night they were supposed to meet. It had completely slipped his mind. Fumbling, he pulled out his pocket watch—it was after eight! He had missed their assignation by over an hour.
But he still had not done what he came to do. Scanning the actors sitting in the audience, he spied Sergeant Dickerson. Walking softly to where the sergeant sat, he leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“Wha’s that, sir?” Dickerson said.
“Come with me,” Ian repeated.
The sergeant sprang from his chair and followed him into the drafty front hall.
“Wha’s the matter, sir?”
Ian told him of the major’s death.
“I were wonderin’ where ye’d got to all day. So he were murdered, then?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Related, y’think, sir?”
“It would be very odd indeed if they are not.”
“Does the chief know yet?”
“I left a message at police chambers before coming here.”
“Wha’ do we do next, sir?”
“Meet me at the station house tomorrow, bright and early.”
“Will do, sir,” Dickerson said, turning to go.
“And Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell my aunt she has good taste.”
Dickerson cocked his head to one side. “Sir?”
“She’ll know what I mean.”
“If you say so, sir,” Dickerson replied dubiously. He walked away shaking his head.
Wrapping his cloak around him, Ian pulled open the heavy front door. A blast of arctic air hit him square in the face, making his eyes water. Putting his head down, he pushed into the wind.
CHAPTER TWENTY
There was no sign of Fiona Stuart at Le Canard. Ian inhaled the bewitching aroma of fennel-roasted potatoes and duck with cherry sauce while the svelte, haughty maître d’ informed him that a young lady had indeed been there, sitting alone for some time, seemingly waiting for someone, though any man who would abandon such a femme charmante surely must be a fool or a cad. He wasn’t one to judge, of course, but only a man without morals or sense would act with such orgueil déplacé. Such a man would naturally deserve whatever he got, though hopefully the belle femme had the sense to drop such a careless suitor like the ordure he was.
Ian spoke enough French to know ordure, loosely translated, meant “piece of filth.” Lifting one perfectly groomed eyebrow, the maître d’ let it be known that no Frenchman would dream of treating a woman so shabbily, let alone one such as her. Finally he produced a note written on the back of the restaurant’s card.
Sorry you were delayed—the next one is on you.
It was unsigned, though the tone and firm handwriting left no doubt as to its author. He slipped the note into his waistcoat pocket under the disapproving eye of the maître d’, who shook his head and clicked his tongue dismissively. Ian couldn’t quite bring himself to thank the man, so he nodded and winked, which confused the Frenchman completely. The bewildered look on his face was gratifying.
After leaving the restaurant, Ian was approaching West Bow Street when he became aware of someone following him. He turned around to see Derek McNair.
“Miss me, Guv?” Dressed in his usual mismatched, oversized clothing, the boy at least looked warm. He was clad in a navy-blue woolen coat over a green fisherman’s jumper that hung down nearly to the tops of his rubber Wellies. With the bright-red scarf wrapped tightly around his scrawny neck, he reminded Ian a little of the young lad playing Tiny Tim in A Christmas Carol.
“So, d’ye miss me?” he repeated, scurrying to catch up.
“Indescribably.”
“Missed ye, too,” he said, chewing on something; Ian did not care to know what.
“I can’t tell you how gratified I am to hear it.”
They walked in silence, their breath coming in white puffs as they passed beneath the streetlamps.
Finally Derek said, “Don’ ye wan’ t’know what I got t�
�tell ye?”
“I assume you’ll get to it in good time.”
The boy shook his head. “Yer an odd duck, so help me.”
“Whereas you are the picture of middle-class propriety.”
Derek let out a guffaw. “Ha! Anyways, I got a message from tha’ fella Rat Face.”
Ian stopped walking. “Yes?”
“He says t’meet ’im tomorrow an’ he’ll take ye t’this chap Nate.”
“Where?”
“Hound an’ Hare, five o’clock.”
“I assume he gave you something for your service?”
“Contributions are always welcome, mate.”
“Here’s half a guinea.”
“I’d sooner have a whole. Assistants like me are hard t’find.”
“You are not my assistant.”
“I got a coupla helpers m’self, y’know, an’ they need payin’ as well.”
“Do you now?”
“I’m an enterprisin’ lad.”
“How many are there in your band of ruffians?”
“We prefer t’think of ourselves as . . .”
“As what, exactly?”
“Sorta like an army, y’know?”
“And you’re the general?”
“I guess ye could say that.”
“If you were part of the military, you’d definitely be irregulars.”
“Right, then, Guv—call us the Irregulars.”
“Here’s a guinea, then, for you and your ‘Irregulars.’”
“Ta very much, Guv!” Derek said, tipping his moth-eaten blue watch cap. Seeing they were nearing Victoria Terrace, he added, “Y’think I might have another bath sometime?”
“If it’s all right with my brother.”
“Don’ think he likes me much.”
“He just needs time to get used to you,” Ian said, stopping at the staircase to the terrace.
“Well, good evenin’ to ye, then,” Derek said a little wistfully.
“Come by in a couple of days and we’ll get you that bath.”
“Right y’are—I’ll be off now,” he said with another tip of his hat, and disappeared into the darkness.
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