“Do you still want to see young Arthur?”
“I do.”
At that moment the object of their conversation came striding toward them. “Your brother tells me you’re looking for me,” he said to Ian.
“Yes,” Ian replied, heartily relieved to see him. The air felt clearer when Conan Doyle was around; a sense of calm descended at the sight of his friend’s smiling face.
“Hello, Nurse Meadows,” Doyle said. “You’re looking fresh as a summer breeze.”
“Go on with your blather,” she said, but her cheeks glowed, and she even giggled—Ian would have thought such a sound was foreign to her very nature. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it—I’ll tell Nurse Stuart you stopped in,” she added with a nod to Ian, pivoting crisply on her well-leathered heel.
“Fine woman,” Doyle said, watching her retreat. “Runs the nursing staff like a general. She’s terrifying, of course, but her efficiency is astonishing.”
Ian laughed. “How do you do it, Doyle?”
“What?”
“Charm everyone you meet?”
“Don’t know what you mean, old boy.”
“Nurse Meadows. She nearly ate my head off, but she adores you.”
“You exaggerate, dear fellow.”
“And you are too modest. But that’s part of your appeal.”
“Enough of this nonsense,” Doyle said, clapping Ian on the back. “By the way, what happened to your face?”
“I scratched myself in my sleep.”
“It must have been a beastly dream.”
“Care to revisit a crime scene with me?”
“I suppose I could play hooky for an hour or two. What’s the plan?”
“I have a theory.”
“‘Lead on, spirit.’”
They stepped out of the infirmary as a cloud passed over the sun, leaving half the city in shadow.
CHAPTER THIRTY
William “Billy” Dickerson poured his third cup of tea that morning and paced the station. It was gone ten o’clock. He had been waiting for DI Hamilton for over an hour. He didn’t know whether to be worried or irritated by the detective’s tardiness. He stood before the window, gazing down on the populace of Edinburgh trudging up and down the High Street. Everyone in Edinburgh seemed to be trudging, slogging, or plodding, as if life in the city had so drained the vigor from their limbs that there was barely any left over, certainly not enough to skip, bounce, or prance. Even the horses conserved their energy, the cobblestones ringing with their ponderous steps.
The sergeant watched a pair of massive gray Percherons pull an omnibus in the direction of the Grassmarket. Their muscular necks strained as they lugged the vehicle up the incline, the street rising steadily from its origin at Holyrood Palace to Castle Rock. Dickerson was afraid of horses, but he did admire the powerful but docile French draft horses. His uncle had owned one, and it was the only horse he had ever felt comfortable enough to touch, even creeping into the barn to pet him at night.
“Gazing down on the hoi polloi, Sergeant?”
He turned to see Constable Turnbull, his fleshy mouth pulled into a smile. The sergeant pitied the constable, with his heavily pockmarked face, though Dickerson always felt off balance around him, as if he was expected to say or do something but was never quite sure what. He knew DI Hamilton loathed the man and that the feeling was mutual. But Dickerson was still peeved at the detective over the way he had treated poor Gretchen. Hamilton could be high-handed, a character flaw Dickerson had ample opportunity to observe. He also felt Hamilton ignored him when he pointed it out, and that rankled him most of all.
He smiled at the constable. “How many a’ them down there d’you think are criminals?”
Turnbull’s smile widened, emphasizing the deep pits in his skin. “Any man is capable of crime under the right circumstances.”
“Ye really believe that, do ye?”
“Wouldn’t you be capable of killing a man if he were threatening, say, your sister?”
Dickerson frowned. Did the constable know about his sister, or was he just making a lucky guess? “If her life were in danger, a’ course.”
“Well, there you are—I rest my case.”
“But that don’ mean—”
“How about a little something to go with that tea? I stopped by Daily Bread on the way here,” Turnbull said, walking to his desk in the corner of the room. Dickerson followed him uncertainly. He was hungry, having neglected his usual stop at the bakery so he would be on time to meet Hamilton. And now the detective was over an hour late.
“Fancy a bit of Selkirk bannock, Sergeant?” Turnbull asked, pulling out a waxed bakery bag.
“Don’ mind if I do,” Dickerson said, saliva springing into his mouth as he gazed at the sweet buttery treat.
“Help yourself,” Turnbull said, handing it to him. “There’s more than enough for two.”
“How did you know?” Dickerson asked, biting into the luscious loaf sweetened with raisins and currants.
Turnbull chuckled. “Just a lucky guess. It is one of their specialties.”
Chewing contentedly, Dickerson felt his anger at Hamilton drain away. Hunger had put an edge on his temper, but each bite of Selkirk bannock softened his irritation. He would have made a good breakfast for his sister that morning, but she was staying over at a friend’s house. He hadn’t slept well—he never did when Pauline was out of the house. He felt his obligation to take care of her keenly, but tried not to burden her with it, so when she asked if she could sleep over at Molly’s, he said yes, even though everything inside him wanted to say no.
“That went down a treat,” he mumbled through a mouthful of bread. “Ta very much.”
“My pleasure,” said the constable, leaning back in his chair, regarding the sergeant.
There was something unsettling in the way Turnbull looked at him. Technically Dickerson was the constable’s superior officer, but somehow he never felt like it. If anything, Turnbull treated him as an inferior, and Dickerson never seemed to have the gumption to object. Now he felt the man’s steady gaze upon him, which made him uneasy.
“Speaking of criminals,” said Turnbull, “any success in the hunt for the false informant?”
His question caught the sergeant off guard, making him choke on his pastry. Coughing violently, Dickerson reached for his tea just as Detective Hamilton entered the station house. Seeing the sergeant and Constable Turnbull together, he frowned as he whipped off his cape, tossing it onto the rack and striding toward them.
“Good morning, Detective,” Turnbull said smoothly as Hamilton approached, a scowl on his handsome face, which was marred by a thin red wound on one cheek.
“Constable,” he replied with a curt nod. “Are you quite all right?” he asked Dickerson, who nodded, still unable to speak, the bread still lodged in his windpipe.
Hamilton gave a short, sharp rap with his fist on the sergeant’s back, between his shoulder blades, causing the morsel to pop from his mouth onto the floor. Dickerson gave two more coughs, then inhaled deeply.
“Better now?” said Hamilton.
“Yes—thank you, sir,” he replied sheepishly. He had meant to give the detective a piece of his mind about being so late, and now here he was, humbled by this embarrassing situation. There would be no reprimand; as usual, Hamilton had the upper hand.
“Where have ye b-been, sir?” he sputtered, giving one final cough to clear his lungs.
“Visiting a crime scene.”
“Have ye told DCI Crawford yet ’bout my part in the Dickens play, sir?” he asked, knowing full well Hamilton had not.
“I meant to, but I’m afraid it slipped my mind,” the detective said rather more breezily than Dickerson thought appropriate. After all, he had given the sergeant his word, and a promise broken, no matter how small, irked Dickerson, who saw it as further proof of how lightly Hamilton held him in regard.
“Ah, there you are,” the detective said as Arthur Conan Doyle entered the station house. Manly an
d tall, with an athletic, graceful build, Conan Doyle represented everything the sergeant was not.
Dickerson crossed his arms and pursed his lips in displeasure. Bad enough that Hamilton had kept him waiting, but now to show up with Doyle—that really was too much. He knew it was small of him, but he bitterly resented Hamilton’s friendship with the medical student. They made jokes he didn’t understand, laughing together in ways that, as the detective’s subordinate, he wasn’t able to. They spoke with the same crisp consonants, whereas Dickerson was keenly aware of his heavy Lancashire accent. Doyle and Hamilton were equals, companions, friends. And no matter how much time he spent with Hamilton, how much danger they faced together, he would always be less than that.
He sighed and turned away, catching Turnbull’s gaze. The constable made a face, rolling his eyes in a comic way, and Dickerson experienced a rush of relief—he had an ally.
“Sorry,” Doyle told Hamilton. “I stopped to put a few coins in a beggar’s purse, and we got to chatting a bit. Interesting fellow—former military man. Lost his sight in Afghanistan.”
“That’ll be Brian. Don’t make the mistake of believing everything he tells you.”
Doyle threw back his head and guffawed. Even his laugh was athletic, Dickerson thought peevishly.
Constable Turnbull stood and stepped forward. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Constable John Turnbull.”
Doyle grasped his hand in a hearty handshake. “Arthur Conan Doyle. I’m a medical student at—”
“Oh, yes—I believe I know your father. He lives at Sciennes Place, I think?” A cloud passed over Doyle’s face, and he took a step backward, but Turnbull was undeterred. “Such a pity he’s—”
Hamilton stepped forward. “Excuse me, but I have an urgent case to attend to, and—”
“Of course,” Turnbull replied evenly. “Pardon me for wasting your time. That’s a nasty cut on your face—you really should have it seen to.” And with a last look at Doyle, he turned and sauntered away.
There was an awkward silence, which Doyle broke with a good-natured chuckle. “What say you we get on this? I have to return to the infirmary by midafternoon.”
“What are ye doin’?” said Dickerson.
“Analyzing this note,” Hamilton replied, handing it to him.
Frowning, the sergeant read it.
You will pay for your crimes
I’ll come for you when you least expect it
“Where’d ye get this?” he said.
“From the major’s flat.”
“But y’already searched his place—”
“Ah, but we neglected to look in the coal scuttle.”
“Why on earth would it be in th—”
“Detective Hamilton had a theory that the major, thinking himself in danger, would hide the threatening note in a place his assailant would not think to look,” Doyle said triumphantly.
“So if the worst did happen, he would leave behind evidence that might help us track down his killer.”
“Oh,” said Dickerson glumly, wondering why Hamilton hadn’t included him in this venture, instead of Doyle, whom he loathed more and more.
“Sergeant, would you be so kind as to fetch the murder chart from the closet?”
“Murder chart—I say, that sounds intriguing,” Doyle said, rubbing his hands together expectantly.
Dickerson headed to the supply closet, passing by Turnbull’s desk. The constable winked at him, giving a conspiratorial smile that made Dickerson queasy. But he was also flattered—Turnbull had a following among the other officers, a group of cronies of which he was definitely the leader. And now he wanted to enlist Dickerson in his coterie, which was gratifying. DI Hamilton could be terse and demanding; those in Turnbull’s crowd were looser and seemed to have fun both during working hours and afterward. With Hamilton, approbation could be hard to come by, which made Turnbull’s praise all the more seductive. Who did Hamilton think he was, anyway? He needed to be taught a lesson, taken down a notch or two—it would serve him right.
As he passed Turnbull’s desk, William Dickerson nodded and smiled at the constable. It was only a smile, he told himself, but even then, he had a feeling the consequences might be more than he bargained for.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Conan Doyle studied the note pinned to the board before him.
You will pay for your crimes
I’ll come for you when you least expect it
“No doubt it is an important piece of evidence,” he said. “I hope I can be of some use in analyzing the person who wrote it.” He looked at Hamilton for his reaction. He appreciated being consulted in the detective’s cases, and did not want to appear arrogant. But his friend exhibited keen interest; his gray eyes shone with excitement, and his lean body had the contained energy of a retriever on a scent.
“Doyle has been enlightening me on the study of graphology,” Ian told Sergeant Dickerson.
The sergeant frowned. “Graph-whatagee?”
“It’s the study of handwriting. Invented by a Frenchman by the name of Jean Michon.”
“Actually, the Chinese have known of it for centuries,” Doyle pointed out. “They believed a person’s handwriting was a key to his character.”
“So what does it tell ye ’bout the person what wrote the note? Assumin’ they’re the killer, a’ course.”
“Excellent point, Sergeant,” Ian said. “We cannot assume the writer of the note was indeed the murderer.”
“Agreed,” said Doyle. “But how likely is it the major received a threatening letter and was soon after slain by someone else?”
“I’ll admit it’s improbable,” said Ian. “However, Hamilton’s Third Rule of Investigation states—”
“Never leap to conclusions,” Dickerson finished for him.
“Well done, Sergeant.”
Doyle smiled and wiped his brow. He found Hamilton’s endless drive to organize and formalize crime-solving procedures admirable, and a tad intimidating. Ian Hamilton was the most intense man he had ever met, and he was drawn to the detective’s passion, and, truth be told, a little frightened of it. Like anything powerful, it had a potential dark side, and something about the detective made Doyle want to protect him, mostly from himself. “How many laws are there?” he asked.
“Ten, at present,” Hamilton replied. “But it is an evolving list.”
“Well, shall we assume for the moment the person who wrote it was the killer, and do our best to analyze the note?”
“By all means.”
Doyle turned back to study the document. Hamilton stood beside him, peering at it with a look of intense concentration on his clean-cut features.
“Well?” the detective said after a moment. “What do you make of it?”
“The writing itself is rather flowery and feminine—you see this loop here on the ‘Y,’ and that flourish on the capital ‘I’?”
“Which would indicate the writer is a woman?”
“But you see how firmly the pencil was pressed to the paper?”
“I did observe that. It is quite forceful, which seems at odds with the notion of the writer as female.”
“What if the person writin’ it were tryin’ to disguise their identity?” Dickerson suggested.
“Interesting theory,” said Hamilton. “But what are the chances the letter writer is familiar with the relatively new science of graphology?”
“Not much, I s’pose,” Dickerson said sulkily, drumming his fingers on the desk.
Doyle was fairly certain the sergeant did not like him, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. He resolved to try to make him an ally rather than an enemy. “Still, it’s a very good observation,” he said cheerfully, but Dickerson slumped in his chair and continued drumming his fingers.
“The language itself strikes me as rather masculine,” Hamilton said. “It’s very direct.”
“And very personal. Do you think it likely the letter writer was someone the major knew?”
“Why write a note if yer going t’kill a man?” said Dickerson. “Wouldn’t it just put him on ’is guard?”
“It would indeed, Sergeant—well said,” Hamilton replied. “Which means the intent was to terrorize, to create fear in the victim.”
“Major Fitzpatrick was a military man,” Doyle said. “He was used to danger.”
“Yes, but observe the language of the note. ‘You will pay for your crimes. I’ll come for you when you least expect it.’ Not only is it personal, but it is aimed at striking fear into the victim’s heart. ‘When you least expect it’—what man alive would not feel trepidation at those words?”
Doyle crossed his arms. “Do you really think it likely a woman could pen such words?”
“I have met some murderous women in my line of work.”
Doyle nodded. “Yes, your last homicide case made me reassess my view of the weaker sex.”
“Not so weak, if y’ask me,” said Dickerson. “Ever seen a woman in labor?”
“Indeed,” Hamilton agreed. “I wonder how many men would willingly endure the pain of childbirth?”
“It might cut down vastly on overpopulation,” said Doyle.
“What if the firm pressing of the pencil to paper is an indication of the writer’s level of anger?” Hamilton suggested.
“Which could also account for the forceful nature of the message,” Doyle agreed. “What other clues did you glean from the note?”
“The paper itself is uninstructive,” said Ian. “A common type, found at most stationers.”
“The fact that it was written in pencil rather than ink could be significant.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know, but it is worth noting.”
The front door to the station house opened to admit a man that Doyle instantly surmised was DCI Crawford. Hamilton had given brief descriptions of him, but it was more his attitude of authority, combined with the effect his entrance had on the men in the station house. There was an electricity in the air, and an aura of general anxiety and alertness. Sleepy constables straightened their uniforms, put down their teacups, took their feet off desks, attempting to look busy doing paperwork or tidying up. He smiled—it mirrored the response of his fellow medical students when Dr. Bell entered a room.
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