A copy of the evening edition of the Scotsman was on his desk.
SECOND MEMBER OF SÉANCE SOCIETY FOUND MURDERED IN HIS OWN HOME!
GHOSTLY REVENGE OR SOMETHING EVEN MORE SINISTER?
He sighed and tossed the paper aside. This kind of overwrought journalism was standard, calculated to sell papers rather than create panic among readers. However, if the public did react with hysteria, no newspaper editor in the city would take responsibility, insisting that they were simply doing their duty to report the news to Edinburgh’s citizens.
Leaving the police station, he wandered in the direction of St. Giles, where he saw a familiar figure huddled near the entrance.
“Keeping watch over the faithful, Brian? John Knox would be proud of you,” he said, dropping a coin into the tin cup. John Knox, religious rebel and founder of Scottish Presbyterianism, was probably the most famous minister in the kirk’s history.
“The nearer the kirk the farther frae grace,” the beggar replied, grinning to reveal teeth the color of cobblestones. “What ’ave I done tae deserve half a guinea?”
Ian smiled at Brian’s ability to tell what coin it was by the sound it made as it fell. “You’ve deserted your usual spot.”
“Aye. Time fer a change.”
“I thought maybe you’d found religion.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
“Why did you move from your spot at Waverley Station?”
“Thought it best tae move ’round a bit.”
“Are you in danger?”
“Naw. What kinda thug’d hurt a blind beggar?”
“I’m worried about you, Brian.”
“I’ve looked after m’self all these years,” he said, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck as a gust of wind swooped down on them, scattering snowflakes in tiny tornadoes. “I reckon I kin take care a’m’self.”
“You’ve been threatened, haven’t you?”
“Donnae know why ye’d think that,” he said, suddenly seized with a fit of coughing—a deep, liquid sound, like the gurgling of a fountain.
“That’s a nasty cough,” said Ian.
“Not nearly nasty enough t’take me out, mate.”
“You should go to hospital and let someone examine you.”
“Don’ like doctors much.”
“You might have consumption.”
“It’ll take more than a bit a’ catarrh t’kill ol’ Blind Brian.”
“I know a medical student at the Royal Infirmary. And a nurse as well—”
“That’s more like it,” he said, grinning. “Nurses are all right. She pretty?”
“I think most people would say so.”
“What d’ye say?”
“I suppose she’s pretty.”
Brian laughed. “You’re sweet on her, mate.”
Ignoring his comment, Ian scanned the street for any sign of suspicious characters, but the only people nearby were a young couple pushing a child in a pram and an elderly gentleman being pulled by an Airedale. The terrier lunged eagerly on the leash when he saw Ian, nearly tugging the man from his feet.
“Whoa, Digby!” his owner said, attempting to gain control as the two of them careened down the street in the direction of Holyrood Palace.
“Stupid name fer a dog a’ that size,” Brian muttered when they were out of earshot.
“How do you—”
“He were big enough tae pull a grown man along the street, weren’t he? Though from the sound a’ his voice, that fellow’s a bit past ’is prime.”
Ian shook his head. “You—”
“Please don’ say I see more than people wi’ two good eyes. I don’ see nothin’, mate. What I do is listen. Most people are too busy struttin’ aroond tryin’ tae make an impression. I got nothin’ to prove, so I listen.” He coughed and spat into the street. “Ye’d be surprised how no one takes notice of a blind man sittin’ quietly in th’corner of a pub. Stupid gits. They figure ’cause I don’ see they can say anythin’. So I listen, an’ I hear things.”
“So what have you heard?” Ian said. He could see the street was clear of eavesdroppers, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched. “Have you learned anything about the matter we discussed earlier?”
“’Bout who might be feedin’ ye false information?”
“Yes.”
“I don’ have any specifics yet, but I do know there’s a new feelin’ among the fellows. One I never quite haerd afore.”
“What kind of feeling?”
Brian turned his empty eyes toward Ian, as if he had sight in them, but they looked right past the detective, blank as the night. “Fear,” he said in a low voice. “They all sound scared tae death.”
“Of what?”
“Can’ answer that. I jes hear it in their voices. They’re spooked a’ somethin’.”
“Have you any more knowledge of the jewelry theft, such as when exactly it’s to happen?”
Brian shook his head. “Not yet. I’m not sure they’ve decided on th’exact date.”
“Do you know which gang is to pull it off?”
“That’s the funny thing, see.”
“What is?”
“From what I’ve haerd, they might be in on it t’gether.”
Ian’s face darkened. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Bad enough ye’ve got t’keep tabs on what each of ’em are up to. If they’ve banded together, it’s twice as worse, right?”
“Yes,” Ian said, though what he was thinking was that his friend’s remark didn’t begin to describe the chaos in store for the citizenry of Edinburgh.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was a little past five when Ian arrived at the Hound and Hare. The crowd was just beginning to work itself into the usual Friday night frenzy, as dockworkers mixed with drovers, draymen, and drunkards. Of all the working-class pubs in Edinburgh, the Hound and Hare was the most volatile, and the most unpredictable. Under the influence of alcohol, fast friendships and fistfights sprang up like mushrooms after a spring rain. It was hard to tell what would set a man off—one night he might overlook crude remarks about his sister, only to pound his best mate the next over an offhand comment about his dog. It all depended on how the drink hit him, and how much of it he had.
Into this rough and raucous melee Ian stepped, wary and prepared for anything. The air reeked of cheap tobacco and cheaper whisky, sweat and desperation, aggression and despair. If you weren’t ready for a brawl, you didn’t drop into the Hound and Hare on a Friday. It was a fighting man’s pub, and the barkeeps looked as if they were born of gorillas crossbred with rhinos. Tonight was no exception. Big, beefy, and bullet-headed, the giant behind the bar sported a perfectly bald pate, so shiny it looked as if it had been waxed, and a single gold earring in his left ear. From the tattoos of an anchor on one forearm and a mermaid on the other, Ian surmised he was a seagoing man. Sailors often made good barkeeps, skilled at dealing with drunkards.
Ian ordered a pint of ale, then slipped past a table of dockers engaged in a loud game of rummy. He spied Rat Face sitting at a table in the far corner, sipping nervously from a glass. When he saw Ian, his thin face twitched, and his liver-colored lips spread into what he probably fancied was a smile, but was more like a grimace.
Ian crossed the room in a few strides and slid into a chair opposite him.
Rat Face leaned back and studied the detective. “I wasn’t sure you would show.”
“Nor I you, and yet here we are,” Ian said, taking a long swig of ale.
Rat Face did likewise, wiping his mouth delicately with a monogrammed handkerchief. “I thought this an appropriate meeting place, since this is where we first met. And to think at the time I had no idea how our friendship would blossom.”
Ian ignored the remark, thinking that Terrance McNee would be behind bars if he hadn’t proved himself so useful to the police. McNee knew this and was just rubbing it in.
“What is that?” Ian asked, pointing t
o his glass, which smelled of orange peel and ginger.
“Ah, this?” he replied, his face resuming the rather grotesque imitation of a smile. “It’s purl—old-fashioned, I know, but I grew fond of it some years back when a lady friend introduced me to it.”
Ian tried to imagine Terrance McNee, a.k.a. Rat Face, with a woman, but gave it up as a bad job. He knew purl was a concoction of gin, ale, sugar, and spices that was popular during Dickens’ time, but had never seen anyone drink it.
“Where are we meeting this Crippen fellow?” he asked, looking around. He knew a fair number of the men in the room, several with criminal records, but the name Nate Crippen had been new to him when McNee first uttered it.
“First we have a small business matter to attend to,” Rat Face replied, licking his lips.
“How much?”
“Would you be able to swing say, half a crown?”
Ian fished a coin from his pocket, wondering why McNee wasn’t asking for more.
“Many thanks,” his companion said, gazing at the coin fondly. “Would you like to see a trick?”
“I don’t—”
“Our assignation won’t occur for a few minutes yet.”
“Very well, go ahead.”
“I—oh, wait, you have something behind your ear,” Rat Face said. His right hand shot out and plucked an object from the side of Ian’s head—a half crown piece. “I think you forgot this—hang on, there’s another,” he said, moving his other hand around to behind Ian’s left ear. “Ah,” he said, pulling forth another half crown, “they look better together, don’t you think?”
“You are very gifted at sleight of hand, Mr. McNee. I only hope you are as good at producing people out of thin air.”
“Let’s find out, shall we?” said his companion, downing the last of his drink.
Ian gulped down the remainder of his pint and followed him back through the crowded pub. The sound level had increased by half, and smoke swirled in thick waves all around them.
“Oiy, Detective!” a voice bellowed from across the room.
Ian turned to see a familiar face.
“Why, hello, Jimmy!” he said, as two muscular arms enveloped him in a crushing hug. Once he was released, he looked up into the smiling face of Jimmy Snead, thief, street fighter, rogue, and Ian’s most loyal follower.
“Fancy seein’ you here,” the big man said. “Hain’t seen ye fer ages!”
“What have you been up to, Jimmy? Keeping your hands clean?”
Snead grinned and cracked his knuckles. “Th’only thaing these hands hae done in th’past eight months is good, honest labor. Workin’ the docks now—ain’t I?” he said, with a nod at Rat Face.
“Yes, indeed.” The small man chuckled nervously. “Quite a reformed character these days, heh heh.”
The two of them had sustained a formidable crime partnership in the past, stealing and fencing stolen goods, and Ian doubted that Jimmy was as reformed as all that, but kept his thoughts to himself.
“Lemme buy ye a wee dram,” Jimmy declared, starting toward the bar.
“First I’ve some business to attend to,” Ian said. “But maybe later?”
“A course, whatever ye say,” Snead replied, sounding disappointed. “Police work, is it?”
“In a way,” said Ian.
“Well, let me nae stop ye—get on wi’ye,” Jimmy said, giving Ian a slap on the back that nearly winded him.
“See you later,” said Ian, following Rat Face from the pub.
A blast of wintry air hit them as they emerged into the night, making Ian’s eyes water. Flicking away the tears, he followed McNee through the wynd along the side of the pub. The last time he had walked this alley was to fight Jimmy Snead, at their first meeting, earning his affection by—just barely—besting him.
“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” said Rat Face, as though reading his mind. “I have to say, my money was on Snead. To hear him talk, you’re the only person to beat him in a fair fight. He never stops talking about the police detective who gave him a good thrashing.”
“When is Crippen due to show?” Ian said as they entered the small dirt yard behind the pub. It reeked of onions and rotting vegetables; a bin in the corner overflowed with rubbish.
“Any minute now,” Rat Face said, looking around nervously.
They stood for a moment side by side, their breath forming white puffs that quickly dissipated in the frosty air. Ian glanced back at the lighted windows of the pub, smoke pouring from its single chimney. The din inside could be heard from where they stood—bursts of laughter shot into the air like gun blasts.
Rat Face pulled his scarf closer around his scrawny neck. “If he fails to show, I will naturally refund—hang on a minute,” he said, taking a step toward the back of the yard.
“What is it?” said Ian.
“There—what’s that?”
Peering through the darkness, Ian could just make out a shape on the ground in front of the fence. “Just a pile of rubbish, I should think,” he said, already moving toward it. His steps quickened as he got closer, his stomach filling with acid as he realized what he was looking at.
“What is it?” Rat Face said, a few steps behind him. “It’s not—”
“I’m afraid it is,” Ian said, looking down at the form on the ground.
The man lay face up, his throat slashed, the wound a gaping red cry of outrage at the hand that inflicted it. But it was the injury to his face that made Ian catch his breath. He had been cut ear to ear, from both sides of his mouth upward in a half moon, the effect being to create a grotesque grin.
“A Glasgow smile,” McNee uttered softly. The term referred to a punishment often meted out to members of criminal organizations who became police informants, ratting out other gang members being one of the worst crimes one could commit. Once a man had suffered the disfigurement, his resulting scars were a sign that he could not be trusted.
The wound was not fatal, but both men knew it for what it was—torture. And a warning to others who might follow in his footsteps.
“Is it—?” Ian said.
McNee swallowed hard and nodded. “Aye. Nate Crippen. God rest his soul, poor bugger.”
Ian bent to examine the body. Crippen’s hands were bound behind his back with a strong piece of rope, securely tied with a simple but effective-looking knot. Both wounds were fresh, which meant it was possible that while the two of them were sipping their drinks inside the tavern, Nate Crippen was meeting his murderer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
An hour later Crippen’s body was on the way to the morgue, and, having examined the crime scene as closely as possible with limited light, Ian couldn’t wait to wash his hands of the Hound and Hare. He intended to return the following morning to take a closer look in daylight, but for now he was glad to be rid of the place. Rat Face had long since scampered away into the night, the fear of God in him that he would suffer the same fate as Nate Crippen. Ian didn’t blame him, but thought of him as the kind of man who managed to slip through hard situations, being far more cunning than the average criminal.
He had one last task to accomplish before leaving. Emerged from that wretched alley, he entered the tavern once more, clutching the rope in one hand. The presence of a dead man behind the pub had barely made an impression on the hard-drinking crowd inside, and the appearance of a detective was only slightly more noteworthy. These were men who stared death in the face every day, either from poverty or violence or both, men who held jobs no one else wanted and worked hours few could survive, in conditions that would horrify the most earnest of social reformers.
Jimmy Snead was nowhere in sight, and Ian received a few hostile looks as he made his way to the bar. Signaling the barkeep with the single gold earring, Ian held out the piece of rope. “Can you tell me what knot this is?”
The giant cocked his head to one side and crossed his arms. “Wha’ makes ye think I’d know a rat’s ass about knots, matey?”
“Those tattoos, for a start,” Ian said, with a glance at his meaty forearms.
“An’ if I do?”
“Is it a sailor’s knot?”
“What if it is? What’s in it fer me?”
“The knowledge that you helped the Edinburgh City Police put away a murderer.”
The man burst into laughter. “Half the fellas in here prob’ly kilt a man at some point.”
“Well?” said Ian, laying a half guinea on the bar. “Do you recognize this knot?”
“It’s a stevedore knot,” the barkeep said, pocketing the money. “Mos’ sailors’d know it, an’ so would any docker.”
“So it’s used by dockworkers?”
“Aye. Stevedore is wha’ them wops call ’em.”
“Which is how the knot got its name?”
“Yer a sharp one, aren’t ye?” the man said with a wink, filling four pint glasses with one swoop under the tap. “Oiy, Angus—here’s yer drinks!” he yelled, sliding them down the bar to a guffawing group of patrons. “Copper here says this one’s on him,” he added, which brought a cheer from them. “Ye’d better clear out afore ye find yerself buyin’ this whole place another round,” he said, leaning toward Ian, his powerful forearms resting on the bar.
Ian did not wait for another invitation to leave—he was glad to be rid of the place, pushing the door open so violently he nearly ripped it from its hinges. Out in the street, it was only when he heard the chiming of the St. Giles clock that he realized he had missed a second assignation that night.
He arrived at Le Canard disheveled and breathless, inhaling the aroma of leeks and potatoes emanating from bowls of creamy soup being served at a nearby table. A feathery dusting of finely chopped chives covered the center of the pale white soup, with swirls of green and gold.
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