Edinburgh Midnight

by Carole Lawrence

  “Ah, Detective Inspector,” she said, “how nice to see you again.” Her voice was warm, but her smile did not extend to her eyes, which were black as coal.

  “I do apologize if this is an inconvenient time.”

  “Not at all. My train does not leave for several hours.”

  “Oh, that’s right—you’re going to Paris, I believe?”

  “Yes, just for a few days.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Please, sit down,” she said, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the burgundy tasseled sofa.

  Wondering why she ignored his question, Ian settled onto the couch, which was rather lower than he expected, so that his knees were folded nearly up to his chest.

  “I see you have long legs. Perhaps you would be more comfortable in the armchair. Vadoma, away!” she said, waving her hand at the cat, who glared at her before slinking off the chair, tail flicking irritably. “She likes to keep watch over visitors. But it does her good not to get her own way all the time. Otherwise, she would be in total control of all her humans,” she added with a smile.

  “What did you call her?” he said. “Va—”

  “Vadoma.” Ian looked up to see Gretchen standing in the doorway, a tray in her hands. “Her name is Vadoma,” she repeated.

  He thought he noticed a flicker of irritation flit briefly across Madame Veselka’s features, but it was so fleeting he couldn’t be sure.

  “Gretchen, dear, how thoughtful of you,” she said. “You’ve brought us coffee.”

  “Yes, Madame,” the girl replied, setting the tray down on the sideboard. “You take it with milk and one sugar, like your tea?” she asked Ian.

  “Yes, thank you. You have a good memory,” he added, wondering what else she might remember.

  After passing them each a steaming cup of coffee, Gretchen set a plate of toast, butter, and jam on the marble coffee table in front of them.

  “Now then, Detective,” said Madame Veselka, sipping her coffee. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m afraid I have bad news. Another of your—guests—has been found dead,” he said, watching closely for her reaction.

  Even in the dim light filtering in through the lace curtains, Ian could see her blanch a shade paler. Her jaw clenched, and her grip on the saucer tightened. “That’s terrible. What happened?”

  Ian told her of the major’s unfortunate demise, leaving out key details such as the fact that he was shot. He did not say that it was almost certainly murder, to see whether the madame might incriminate herself.

  But more surprising was Gretchen’s reaction. “No! It’s—it’s simply not possible,” she said. “Major Fitzpatrick—he was a most vital man. He could not just . . . die. It cannot be!”

  “You neglected to tell us what killed him,” Madame Veselka said calmly, regaining her self-control. “You consider the death suspicious, or you would not be here.”

  She had him there—her conclusion was sound, if obvious. “It appears he was shot with his own gun.”

  “What exactly is in doubt—the fact that he was shot, or the weapon itself?”

  Ian was taken aback by the calm logic of her response. “You sound like a seasoned investigator.”

  “In the old country, Madame was—” Gretchen began, but the medium silenced her with a look.

  “My father was an investigator of sorts,” she said, wiping her mouth delicately with a fine linen napkin.

  “What sort would that be?”

  “Let us simply say I am no stranger to the questioning process.”

  This piqued Ian’s curiosity—the more time he spent with Madame Veselka, the more the mystery surrounding her deepened.

  “How well did you know the major?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “He has been coming here for several years, but I have never seen him outside these walls.”

  Ian glanced at Gretchen, who looked as if she was fairly bursting to say something.

  “And you?” he said. “How well did you know the major?”

  “The s-same as Madame,” she replied, casting her eyes downward, as if afraid to look at either one of them.

  “You have never encountered him outside—”

  “Never!” she interrupted. Even if it was true—which Ian doubted—the fervency of her response aroused his suspicion.

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Gretchen, dear, would you fetch us more coffee?” said the medium.

  “Yes, Madame,” the girl said, with a quick curtsy. Taking the empty pot, she headed toward the kitchen with obvious reluctance. Ian longed to question her further, but not in front of her employer.

  “I would be appreciative of anything you can tell me about the major,” he said.

  “He was retired from the military—apparently from a rather illustrious career, though he was quite modest about it.”

  “How did you know it was illustrious?”

  “He was mentioned quite often in the papers.”

  “His wife is deceased—are there any other family members you know of?”

  “Only his son, Jeremy, the young man you met at the séance.”

  Ian cursed himself for neglecting to speak with him that night. The sullen young fellow had barely said a word to anyone all evening, but still, Ian regretted missing the opportunity. “Do you have any idea where I can find him?”

  “I regret I do not.”

  “Were you aware of anyone who might wish to harm the major?”

  She hesitated, and Ian wondered whom she was protecting.

  “No,” she said finally, making an elaborate show of buttering her toast. “As I said, I knew little about him, other than he lost his wife some years ago.”

  “And Jeremy?”

  “I never had the feeling he cared much for the spirit world.”

  “Did he always attend séances with his father?”

  “No, and when he did, I had the feeling it was so his father could keep an eye on him.”

  “Why would he need watching?”

  “You saw him yourself—would you not say he appears to be a somewhat troubled youth?”

  “The list of attendees you provided doesn’t include any addresses.”

  “I do not keep personal information on my guests,” she said, dabbing at her face with a flowered handkerchief. The aroma of gardenias floated into Ian’s nostrils.

  “Miss Davies lives on Gloucester Lane.” Ian turned to see Gretchen enter the room with a fresh pot of coffee. “I accompanied her home once when she was feeling unwell.”

  “Do you happen to know what number?”

  “Number thirty-three, I think,” she said, pouring the madame more coffee. “I’m not entirely certain.”

  “Thank you,” he said, looking at Madame Veselka, whose face bore the rigid look of someone trying to hide any emotional response.

  “Don’t you usually meet on Friday nights?” Ian asked.

  “Every other week,” she said. “We—” She abruptly stopped speaking as her head fell forward, her chin resting on her chest.

  Ian leaned forward. “Madame Vesel—”

  Her head snapped upright, and she stared straight ahead, face rigid, her eyes wide and unblinking. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out, as if she were a fish gasping for air. Still staring at the opposite wall, she spoke in a low, thrilling voice. “Be careful, Bear. Things are not as they seem. Hidden secrets have yet to come out.”

  Ian stared at her, panic rising in his throat as he heard a voice that somehow reminded him of his beloved mother. That was replaced by hot anger, fury at the medium for seeking to deceive him in such a shameless and cruel way. He rose from the chair and took a step toward her, bending down to help, when a hand grabbed his wrist. He looked up to see Gretchen, her face stern, grasping his arm in a viselike grip he would not have thought her capable of.

  “Madame is in a trance!” she hissed. “Do not disturb her!”

  He took a step backward and slowl
y extracted his arm from her hold.

  “It is dangerous to interrupt her in the middle of a visitation,” she whispered hotly. “You do not want to be responsible for what might happen.”

  Ian stood, hands at his sides, not because he believed her, but because he did not wish to alienate two people who might prove key to his investigation. Together they watched as the medium passed a hand over her face, then shuddered. Again her head fell to her chest, and she became quiet. She remained that way for so long Ian thought she might have fallen asleep, but then she shivered again and slowly raised her head.

  “Are you all right, Madame?” Gretchen said, kneeling at her side.

  She stared at the girl as if she were a stranger, blinked several times, then stretched and heaved a great sigh. “Was I out long?”

  Ian stifled an impulse to roll his eyes, but Gretchen took the medium’s hand in hers.

  “Not long, Madame—no more than a few minutes.”

  Madame Veselka turned to Ian. “My apologies, Detective—I have no real control over the spirit world, and occasionally they visit me at the most inconvenient times.”

  “Never mind; I was nearly finished. Thank you for your time,” he said, throwing on his cloak.

  She looked at him curiously. “She told me the earrings were stolen before the fire.”

  “What?”

  “The earrings. They disappeared before the fire.”

  “Madame Veselka,” Ian said coldly, “I don’t know what you are playing at, but it won’t work. I shall continue my investigation, and if it points to you, I can assure you, you will be brought to justice. And,” he continued, “if you continue digging into my personal life, it will not go well for you.”

  “I only relay messages as they are given to me.”

  “I am warning you—”

  “And I am warning you, Detective Hamilton. Do not take these things lightly. The spirits do not always communicate, but when they do, they will not be silenced until they have been heard.”

  “I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you believe in all this folderol,” he said, donning his cap. “But do not make the mistake of believing that my patience is endless. Thank you again for the coffee,” he said to Gretchen.

  Turning on his heel, he strode to the front door, opened it, and did not stop walking until he had gone a quarter of a mile or more. His heart pounded and spots danced before his eyes as he tried to calm himself. He was angry at the medium for working so hard to unbalance him, and angrier at himself for letting her words upset him. For in truth, he was rattled—he needed to be alone and sort out what had transpired.

  And so he did what he so often did when his head was muddled, his emotions unsettled, his world suddenly confusing and unmanageable. Wrapping his cloak around his body, he set out to roam the streets of Edinburgh until he calmed down and was able to make sense of a case that threatened to unravel into a thousand disconnected, meaningless threads.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Detective Chief Inspector Robert Crawford stood at his office window gazing down on the sweep of humanity trudging along the cobblestones of High Street. One of the city’s main thoroughfares, it harbored every type of inhabitant one could imagine, from the wealthiest nobles to the most wretched of beggars. Sooner or later, if you lived in Edinburgh, you would find yourself on High Street, whether riding in a fancy brougham pulled by a pair of fine horses with braided manes, or lugging a turnip cart in worn-out boots and a threadbare coat too thin for Scottish winters. Princes Street housed the fancy shops, where the fashionable shopped and dined, but High Street was the heart of the city. Chimney sweeps rubbed shoulders with rich ladies from the Continent prowling the wool shops that lined the street’s western third; counts and earls on their way to Holyrood Palace for a royal audience bumped elbows with beggars and brigands.

  Today a light snow dusted the cobblestones, making them slippery and treacherous for people and horses alike as they threaded their way through the thicket of Friday traffic. Crawford watched as a couple of raggedly dressed boys darted in front of a slow-moving omnibus, just missing being trampled by the brace of dapple-grays pulling it.

  On this dreary December day, seized by a wistful mood, the chief found himself taking stock of his life. Things at home were looking up, thanks to the ministrations of Dr. Joseph Bell, under whose care his beloved wife, Moira, was improving daily. But the situation at work could not be said to be anything short of dire. The city’s criminals were running rampant, emboldened by the recent fiascos in which Crawford and his men failed to stop two major thefts. The criminal underworld seemed organized and unified in a way it never was before.

  Turning back to his desk, he sighed at the sight of a half-finished cup of tea that had been there since morning, now cold. He doubted his own ability to set things right—something was indeed rotten in Denmark, as DI Hamilton would say, and he could only hope that with Hamilton’s help, he would be able to sort out a vexing and troubling situation.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes?” he barked, determined to keep up a stiff front of confidence and competence, though he felt neither.

  The door opened to admit Sergeant Dickerson, a man Crawford was coming to like more and more. This warm regard was aided by the fact that the little fellow was like a miniature replica of himself, with his red hair and fair, freckled skin, which made Crawford feel fatherly and a little protective. He and Moira had no children of their own, but he imagined that if he had a son, the boy would look somewhat like William Dickerson, who was about the right age—though no doubt shorter than any member of the Crawford clan.

  “’Scuse me, sir. I were wonderin’ if ye’d seen DI Hamilton?”

  “Not since this morning, Sergeant. You have something to tell him?”

  “I did th’interviews he requested, and I’d like t’give report, but . . . well, sir—” He hesitated, biting his lip.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve got t’go, y’see.”

  “Go on, then, if your shift is over.”

  “I’d like t’stay late, but—”

  “What? Come out with it, man.”

  “I’ve got rehearsal.”

  “Doing another Shakespeare play, are you?” Crawford said, stroking his whiskers. He wouldn’t admit it to Hamilton, but he had quite enjoyed the production of Hamlet he and Dickerson had appeared in—that is, until everything imploded.

  “No, sir—it’s Dickens this time.”

  “Dickens?”

  “Yes, sir—A Christmas Carol.”

  “Well, get on with you, then.”

  “Yes, sir—thank you, sir,” said the sergeant, backing out of the room like a servant not allowed to turn his back on his master.

  “You were quite good in the last one,” Crawford added, in a rush of warm feeling toward the sergeant.

  “Very kind of you t’say so, sir.”

  “Do you want to leave a message for Hamilton if I see him?”

  “Just that I’ll be in early tomorrow, if ye don’ mind, sir.”

  “Good man. Before you go, any progress on the investigation you’re doing for me?”

  “Not so’s I’m aware, sir.”

  “Time is of the essence, Sergeant.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Now get along with you—mustn’t be late.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” the sergeant said, continuing to back up until he had fully cleared the door to Crawford’s office.

  Afterward, the chief stood watching men come and go as the day shift gave way to night in the station house. They wandered in one by one, shaking snow from their overcoats, greeting their fellow officers on the way out, sitting at their desks, or rummaging around the tea station to see whether there were any biscuits left in the tin. A few of the lads had tried to brighten up the place with sprigs of holly and evergreen boughs, and someone had brought in mistletoe and hung it over the entrance to Crawford’s office. He appreciated th
e joke—Robbie Crawford wasn’t entirely without humor, though at times he felt this job had knocked a lot of it out of him. Still, he took it in stride with good humor—anything to lighten the mood in what lately was feeling like a discouraging profession.

  Looking at the contented faces of his men, Crawford wondered if he alone understood how dire the situation was in Edinburgh. The signs were all there—the spate of burglaries, the brazen actions of petty thieves and pickpockets, flaunting their crimes under the very noses of the constabulary, the police attempts at criminal apprehension gone spectacularly wrong.

  And now these most recent murders—involving some bloody foreign medium in some way no one yet seemed to understand. Beyond it all, there was a feeling of disquiet, a sense that all was not well. He could smell it in the air, hear it in the hollow clanging of the clock high atop St. Giles, feel it in the chill wind sweeping in from the Firth of Forth.

  Robert Crawford turned back to his office and slung his coat over his shoulders, suddenly aware of the weight of his years. He was weary of it all, and wished he could wash his hands of the whole blasted thing, he thought as he trudged from police chambers down to the street below. He longed to see his Moira, to watch her cooking dinner in their bright kitchen, sitting gracefully in front of the fire, the firelight warm on her face, understanding in her soft brown eyes as she asked him about his day. She alone understood the trials and tribulations of his job, knew the toll it took, and knew how to make everything better with the touch of her soft, cool hands.

  From the top floor of a nearby building, a pair of eyes watched closely as he turned the corner onto Old Fleshmarket Close, and toward home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The sun had long since dipped behind Castle Rock when Ian trudged his way back to police chambers, only to be informed both DCI Crawford and Sergeant Dickerson had left for the day. He had walked longer than he realized, aware of neither fatigue nor hunger, nor the passage of time. He had not yet shaken the feeling that haunted him following his visit to Madame Veselka, though he had managed to locate the residence of Miss Bronwyn Davies, number 33 Gloucester Lane, just as Gretchen had said. She was not home, however, and the landlady with whom he left a message seemed of dubious reliability, judging by the fumes she emitted. The alcohol on her breath was so strong Ian felt tipsy just standing next to her. When she tucked his card into her pocket, he could imagine it emerging days or weeks later on washing day, as she scratched her head, pondering why there was a policeman’s card in her skirt.