Edinburgh Midnight

by Carole Lawrence

  “Good morning, sir,” said Hamilton. His attitude toward Crawford was relaxed and more informal than Doyle would have expected; he seemed to fear the chief less than his fellow officers did.

  “How’s the investigation going? And who the bloody hell is this?” Crawford said, pointing to Doyle.

  “This is Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  “Ah, Doyle!” Crawford said, breaking into a smile. “You’re Dr. Bell’s right-hand man.”

  “Well, I would hardly say that,” Doyle answered modestly.

  “Amazing chap. He saved my wife’s life, I’m sure of it. Nobody could seem to figure out what ailed her. Bell took one look at her, asked a few questions, and came up with a diagnosis, just like that!”

  “That sounds like him,” Doyle said, smiling.

  “It’s an honor to meet you,” Crawford said, shaking his hand warmly. “A true pleasure. What are you staring at?” he said to Sergeant Dickerson, who was glowering at them.

  “Nothin’, sir.”

  “Then wipe that look off your face. You look as if you’re about to murder someone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right. Carry on, men,” Crawford said, lumbering into his office. He reminded Doyle of a big, red-haired bear.

  Doyle felt waves of enmity from the sergeant. He wished there was something he could do or say, but was beginning to suspect Dickerson regarded him as competition in his relationship with Detective Hamilton. Doyle had no wish to occupy that role but did not know what he could do about it. Ian Hamilton exuded a charisma that not only drew people to him but made them want his approval. Doyle himself was not immune to it, and on more than one occasion caught himself seeking Hamilton’s approbation. Even Crawford was slightly deferential to him. Though he tried to maintain his gruff façade, Doyle could see Crawford’s admiration and affection for Hamilton.

  “The next order of business is to interview more members of the séance group,” the detective said, tucking the note away in his desk.

  “I must get back to the infirmary, or Bell will have my head,” said Doyle. He noticed Sergeant Dickerson visibly brighten at the news of his departure.

  “Thank you for your help,” said Hamilton.

  “It was my pleasure,” Doyle said, fetching his coat. “I should like to hear how you are progressing, if you don’t mind.”

  “By all means,” the detective replied, seeing him to the door.

  As he left the building, Doyle had the unaccountable feeling he was being watched. He looked up and down the High Street but saw nothing suspicious, only the usual parade of people. No one seemed to be paying him any heed, apart from the beggar he had conversed with earlier, who greeted him as he passed.

  “G’day, then, Mr. Doyle.”

  “How did you know it was me?” Doyle asked, dropping a few coins into his cup.

  “Your smell.”

  “I wasn’t aware I had one.”

  “Everyone does. In yer case, it’s a combination a’ lime shavin’ lotion an’ rubbin’ alcohol. Can’t mistake that—and a wee hint a’ formaldehyde.”

  “How do you know what formaldehyde smells like?”

  “I used t’work in the morgue. It’s not a smell ye ferget.”

  Doyle laughed. “By Jove, you’re a wizard!”

  “A dog would know you by yer smell, an’ I’ve jes developed mine, is all.”

  “You should use that ability to help Detective Hamilton on his cases.”

  “Oh, I help him, mate, don’ ye worry.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it. Have a round on me,” Doyle said, tossing another coin into the cup.

  “You’re a scholar an’ a gentleman,” said Brian, grinning to show teeth much in need of dentistry.

  “Take care of yourself,” said Doyle. “There are bad people about.”

  “Don’ worry ’bout me, mate,” the beggar called after him.

  Instead of walking west in the direction of the castle—the shortest route to Lauriston Place—Doyle turned his steps in the opposite direction, ducking into Old Fleshmarket Close, heading south. He crept slowly down the narrow passage, smelling straw and mildew, listening for footsteps behind him, but heard nothing. Somewhere a dog barked. It was only after he passed the Advocates Library, where the lane widened, that he finally lost the sensation of being watched. He was fully aware he might be imagining the whole thing, yet a shiver ran down his spine as he contemplated who might be observing him, and why.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Who are we goin’ t’see?” Sergeant Dickerson said as he loped down the High Street after Ian.

  “Jonas and Catherine Nielsen.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “It’s not far—Jeffrey Street.”

  “How d’ye get their address?”

  “Jed Corbin tracked it down for me.”

  “So I guess y’owe him one?”

  “No doubt he’ll find a way for us to repay him,” he said as they swung onto South Bridge.

  “An’ these Nielsens are part a’ the séance group?”

  “Yes, though they weren’t there the night I attended with my aunt. She seems to think they’re respectable people.”

  They walked in silence for a while, Ian lost in his thoughts but aware that Dickerson had gone unusually quiet. He knew the sergeant had a bee in his bonnet, but had neither the time nor the energy to ferret out the reason.

  The Nielsens lived in a well-kept four-story building near the intersection of Jeffrey and Market Streets, close enough to the Waverley train yards that Ian could hear the clacking of metal wheels on the tracks and the shouts of railway workers.

  The landlady looked alarmed upon seeing Dickerson’s uniform, but Ian reassured her—not entirely truthfully—that it was a routine police matter.

  The first knock on the door to the flat brought no response, but after the second one, Ian heard voices from inside. After a moment, the door opened to reveal an attractive woman of middle years, clad in a pale-yellow frock that brought out the highlights in her soft brown hair. She had an oval face, clear skin, and large brown eyes with tragic depths. Even had he not been aware she was a member of the séance group, Ian would have known she had suffered a terrible loss, the kind that leaves a permanent imprint. A little brown-and-white spaniel stood at her feet, wagging its tail.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, her voice a melodic contralto with a faint Nordic accent. “May I help you?”

  When Ian explained why they had come, she did not hesitate to invite them in, leading them through to a simply but tastefully furnished parlor, its most prominent feature being an ornately carved spinet piano. The wood was a deep mahogany and glistened in the soft afternoon light filtering in through damask curtains. Not a speck of dust marred the perfect ivory keys.

  “What a beautiful instrument,” Ian said. “Who in your family plays?”

  Mrs. Nielsen gazed at it sadly. “Our Lucas loved to play. His teachers said he was quite gifted. We couldn’t bear to part with it when we lost him.”

  The cause of her sorrow now clear, Ian said gently, “When did he—?”

  “It will be two years this April. And yet it seems a lifetime.”

  “I am very sorry to hear it.”

  “How did’e die?” asked Dickerson.

  “Fell from de roof of his school,” said a man’s voice from behind them.

  Ian turned to see a man in the doorway. He had not heard footsteps, and it was rather startling to see him there, silhouetted in the hallway light. He was tall and sturdy, with heavy shoulders, and for a brief moment Ian was reminded of the creature in Frankenstein, Mary Shelley’s popular novel. He took a step into the room, and Ian was able to make out his features. His sparse hair was white blond, and his skin had the ruddy sheen of a Scandinavian native. His deep-set eyes appeared to be light blue, and a faint blond stubble adorned his square-jawed face. He was a handsome man, but his powerful shoulders were stooped, and he bore the same air of inconsolable sorrow
as his wife. His voice retained more of the singsong cadences of his Nordic homeland.

  “Jonas, these men have come about the terrible deaths of our séance companions,” said Mrs. Nielsen. “This is my husband, Jonas,” she told them. “Please, gentlemen, won’t you sit down?”

  “Ta very much,” Dickerson replied, settling somewhat gingerly on a delicate-looking rosewood love seat. Ian complied by sitting on a sturdier-looking sofa next to the coal fire.

  “Might we have some tea, Jonas?” she said, taking an armchair opposite Ian.

  “Of course, my dear,” he said, withdrawing silently. In spite of his imposing appearance, Mr. Nielsen was evidently subject to his wife’s wishes.

  “Now, then, how can I be of assistance?” she said, drawing her shawl around her shoulders.

  “Perhaps we can wait until your husband returns,” Ian said. “I should like to hear what he has to say as well.”

  She bent down to pet the spaniel at her feet. “Bandit has been such a comfort—he rarely leaves my side. He misses Lucas, too; sometimes I catch him staring at the corner of the room at night, and I’m certain it’s Lucas.”

  “Have ye, er, made contact wi’ yer son at Madame Veselka’s?” Dickerson asked.

  A soft smile spread over her face. “Many times. It keeps us coming back—though of course we never know when he will appear. Madame is naturally subject to the whims of those who have passed over.”

  “Naturally,” Ian echoed, hoping he was successfully hiding his disdain for what he regarded as nonsense.

  Her husband appeared as silently as before, carrying an enormous silver tray laden with tea and a round cake festooned with almonds. Sergeant Dickerson’s eyes widened at the sight of the sweet treat.

  “Is that Dundee cake?”

  “It is indeed,” Mrs. Nielsen replied. “You’re in luck—today was baking day. I take it you would like a piece?”

  “Yes, please,” said Dickerson, his sullen mood apparently forgotten.

  “Shall I be mother?” said Mr. Nielsen, setting the tray on the oval, marble-topped table.

  “Please,” his wife said, moving a knitting basket from the couch onto the floor.

  “My aunt knits as well,” Ian remarked.

  “It helps calm my nerves,” she replied. “Thank you, dear,” she said as her husband handed her a steaming cup of tea. After pouring everyone else tea, he served himself, lowering his stocky form into the armchair opposite his wife.

  “Now, then, Sergeant, would you like a large piece?” she asked.

  Dickerson leaned forward eagerly, but, catching Ian’s gaze, cleared his throat. “Er, jes a wee bit, thanks.”

  She drew a knife from an ornately carved leather sheath. The blade was long and thin, with an inscription of some kind. The handle appeared to be made of bone.

  “It’s made from the horn of an elk,” she said, noticing Ian’s interest. “A traditional design. It’s been in my family for generations.”

  “Interesting choice for cutting a cake,” he replied.

  “Nothing else cuts quite like it,” she said, deftly slicing off a piece. Ian had to admire the way the knife cut cleanly through the cake—it was indeed a finely made tool.

  Once cake was served all around, Ian explained the circumstances of the deaths of Elizabeth Staley and Major Fitzpatrick, leaving out a few salient details in each case. Mrs. Nielsen listened carefully, pausing only to pet the dog lying at her feet.

  Mr. Nielsen shook his head sadly. “Rotten business. He was a right square chap, the major. Everyone liked him.”

  “Can you think of anyone in the group who might have a reason to harm him? A grudge of some kind, perhaps?”

  “What makes you think the killer came from within our little group?” asked Mrs. Nielsen.

  “Two people are murdered within days of each other, and so far the séance meetings are the only thing they have in common. It would be an odd coincidence if there is not some connection to the meetings.”

  “Ah, but there may be some other factor you are as yet unaware of,” she said, slipping a piece of cake to the spaniel. The dog took the morsel delicately, thumping his tail on the carpet as he licked her fingers gratefully. It struck Ian that her attitude toward the dog was not so different from the way she treated her husband—courteously, but with a sense of noblesse oblige, an easy attitude of authority, as if she were the superior being. He could just as easily imagine her husband at her feet, gratefully lapping up proffered treats.

  “Did you know either of them well?” asked Ian, as Sergeant Dickerson, having finished his first piece, eyed the cake longingly.

  Mr. Nielsen looked to his wife as if awaiting her cue to speak.

  “No,” she replied firmly. “Did we, dear?”

  He nodded in agreement. “Only saw them at the séances.”

  “We didn’t socialize with them or anything like that,” his wife continued, as if the very idea was unthinkable. “Right, dear?”

  “No,” he replied meekly.

  “Would you like another piece of cake, Sergeant?” she asked, picking up the slicing knife. For a moment Ian imagined her wielding it overhead, an evil gleam in her eye . . . but neither of the victims had been stabbed.

  “Yes, please,” Dickerson said, avoiding eye contact with Ian. “Thank ye kindly.”

  “You are most welcome,” she replied, sliding a generous piece onto his plate.

  “How did you first come to Madame Veselka’s séances?” asked Ian.

  “We saw a flyer, didn’t we, dear?” she said to her husband.

  “Yes—it was posted in the library,” he replied.

  “That’s right—we saw it on the community board.”

  “And when was that?” asked Ian.

  Catherine put a finger to her lips. “Let’s see, that would have been just about a year ago.” She reached down to pet her dog, who gave a few wags of his tail before stretching out at her feet with a sigh of contentment.

  “Was there a reason you did not attend the last séance?”

  “Jonas was feeling poorly—weren’t you, dear?”

  He nodded. “I had catarrh.”

  “We cured that with a mustard poultice and plenty of nice hot tea, didn’t we?”

  “We did, aye.”

  “And what do you do for a living, Mr. Nielsen?” said Ian.

  “He’s a fisherman,” said his wife. “Works on a trawler out of the Leith Docks.”

  “I come from a long line of seafaring men,” he added proudly. “My grand da Olaf was a fisherman—moved here from Norway when my pa was just a lad. The sea is in my blood.”

  “Is there anything at all you can tell us that might help in our investigation? Anything you saw or heard, something out of the ordinary, perhaps?”

  “Not that I can recall,” said Mrs. Nielsen.

  “What about you, Mr. Nielsen?”

  He looked as if he was about to speak, then, catching his wife’s eye, was silent. He looked down at his powerful, weather-roughened hands with their cracked nails and strong, thick fingers.

  “I can tell you that Madame Veselka is a Gypsy,” said Catherine Nielsen, scratching Bandit behind the ears.

  “How d’you know that?” asked Dickerson.

  “Her name isn’t Veselka. It’s Raglass. Vadoma Raglass.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “I saw it on the frontispiece of a book in her parlor. It was lying open,” she said in response to his raised eyebrow. “When I confronted her, she confessed, and begged me not to tell anyone.”

  “So you kept her secret.”

  “I did not think the less of her because she was a Traveler, as we call them.”

  “That was good of you.”

  Gypsies occupied a strange place in British society. Members of the “respectable classes” were fascinated by their exotic looks and outlandish ways, but they were widely discriminated against as being mostly uneducated and illiterate. Many countries still had laws expel
ling them from their land. It was understandable the medium would wish to hide her Romany roots.

  “And Gretchen Mueller?” said Ian. “What do you know of her?”

  She exchanged a look with her husband, who cleared his throat. “Madame Veselka rescued her, took her in,” he said.

  “Rescued her from what?”

  He looked at his wife, who gave a slight nod. “From a life of sin.”

  “She was a prostitute, you mean?”

  “On the Continent somewhere, not sure exactly where.”

  “So it was before they came here?”

  “Aye. They came to Edinburgh together.”

  “How did you learn this?”

  “We arrived early one day and heard them talking in the next room. They were arguing over something, and the madame threatened to throw her back into the streets.”

  “Naturally we were concerned about the girl,” said Mrs. Nielsen, “so we had a little chat with her before the others arrived, to make sure she was all right.”

  “And was she?”

  “She didn’t seem to take Madame’s threats seriously, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Is she afraid of her employer?”

  “Not that I can see. They seem to have an almost mother-daughter relationship—wouldn’t you agree?” she asked her husband.

  He nodded. “I thought they were family when I first met them.”

  Further questioning did not reveal anything of interest—they claimed to know very little about the other attendees, including Ian’s aunt. He carefully avoided mentioning that he was related to Lillian, or that he had attended the séance the week they were absent.

  After another pot of tea, and a third piece of cake for Sergeant Dickerson, Ian stood up.

  “Thank you for your time,” he said, stretching, stiff from sitting so long.

  “An’ fer tea,” Dickerson added. “That cake were brilliant.”

  “I am delighted you enjoyed it,” Mrs. Nielsen replied, escorting them to the door while her husband tidied up, the little dog trotting behind her.