“Oh, just one more thing,” said Ian as she opened the door for them.
“Yes?”
“Why isn’t Mr. Nielsen at work today?”
“The boat is in dry dock, I believe—isn’t that what you said, dear?” she called out to the kitchen.
“Aye,” he said, entering the foyer, wiping his hands with a dish towel. “Making repairs this week. It’s been a harsh winter, hard on the boats.”
“That reminds me—do you know how to tie a stevedore knot?”
The big man laughed. “I learnt every sailing knot there is before I learnt to walk.”
“Why do you ask?” said his wife, frowning.
“Just curious. Thank you again,” Ian said, pulling on his cap. “Please contact me if you think of anything of interest,” he added, handing them his card.
“Like what?” said Mr. Nielsen, scratching his head.
“I have had cases turn on a seemingly insignificant detail.”
“That leaves rather a wide field,” his wife remarked.
“I leave it to your judgment,” said Ian. “Good day.”
Out in the street, Sergeant Dickerson seemed bursting to speak as they approached St. Paul’s, the church’s new building still under construction.
“Out with it, Sergeant,” said Ian. “What’s on your mind?”
Dickerson kicked at a pebble, sending it skittering into the gutter. “It’s naught, sir.”
“I don’t want you to explode in front of my eyes. Come along, now.”
“It’s jes . . .”
“What?”
“Well, sir, I jes don’ think Gretchen is the type a’ girl who’d . . . you know.”
“Exactly what kind of girl would you expect her to be?”
“I mean, she’s so young an’ innocent, like.”
“Sort of like your sister?”
Dickerson reddened. “That’s not wha’ I meant.”
“It’s a common misconception that women do that kind of thing because they want to, Sergeant.”
“Why else would they?”
“Because they must. They have no other options, come from poverty, know no other life, are uneducated, have a family to support, and don’t believe they’re worthy or capable of anything else. They turn to the world’s oldest profession because there will always be men who want ‘that sort of woman.’ And sadly, that isn’t likely to change.”
Ian’s parents had fairly traditional attitudes, but Aunt Lillian and Uncle Alfie were decidedly more progressive, and Ian had always been attracted to their liberal views and sense of social justice. Lillian was a member of the National Society for Women’s Suffrage, and volunteered at various charities. Ian loved his mother, but he admired Lillian, and over the years had absorbed her political and societal philosophies.
Dickerson didn’t respond as they turned south on Carrubber’s Close.
“Well, Sergeant?” Ian said finally. “What is it?”
“Kin I speak freely, sir?”
“Always.”
“Sometimes ye kin be . . .”
“What?”
“Well . . . a bit arrogant, t’be honest, sir.”
“I see,” Ian said tightly. Dickerson’s words stung. Ian wasn’t sure what he had expected to hear, but not this.
“Ye said I could—”
“And I meant it. Thank you for letting me know.” Arrogant? Do other people feel that way? he wondered.
His head spun a little as they walked in silence, the sun glinting off the windows of the buildings on either side of the narrow close. Ian glanced over at Dickerson to see the expression on his face, but the reflected sunlight momentarily blinded him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
As he walked, Ian was haunted by the image of Nate Crippen, lying with his throat cut in a back alley. Questions swarmed through his head like a hive of angry bees. What did Crippen know that made someone so anxious to silence him? If he didn’t act alone in setting the fire, who else was involved? And who had tipped that person off that Crippen was about to talk to Ian? Other than Rat Face and Derek, Ian knew of no one else who was aware of the meeting, apart from his brother. Rat Face had gone to such extremes to ensure their first meeting was private; surely he was too clever to slip up now. Had Derek succumbed to the temptation to boast to his friends, inadvertently bragging to the wrong person?
Brushing these thoughts aside, he attempted to concentrate on the case at hand. The lack of obvious suspects was compounded by the absence of motive. Nothing seemed to connect the two victims, except the fact that they both attended Madame Veselka’s séances. He needed to dig deeper into their pasts, but there was so little time. The clock was ticking, and he feared their killer might be stalking other members of the séance group—even, God forbid, Aunt Lillian. His heart contracted at the thought that her safety might be in his hands.
The sun had long since ducked behind Castle Rock when Ian and Dickerson reached police chambers. The sergeant, who had maintained a moody silence during the walk, went to fetch a cup of tea, just as the door to the station house swung open, and Ian heard a familiar voice. Standing next to the desk sergeant, buoyant energy radiating from him like a spring breeze, was Arthur Conan Doyle.
“Ah, there you are, Hamilton!” he said, striding over to Ian’s desk. “I was afraid I might be too late to catch you.”
Ian smiled; it was impossible to react in any other way to Doyle’s presence. “You’re a welcome sight. What brings you here?”
“Mendelssohn,” Doyle replied, producing a pair of tickets from his waistcoat pocket. “They are doing his Scottish Symphony and Hebrides Overture, along with some Gypsy airs by Sarasate, with the composer himself as soloist. We’ve just enough time to get there if we leave now—we shall have to dine afterward, I’m afraid.”
“But my work—”
“Surely you are allowed one night off! To be honest, you look as though you could use it.”
“Well, I must admit—”
“That’s the spirit!” Doyle cried. “Fetch your coat and we’ll hail a cab straightaway.”
Moments later Ian was seated beside his companion in the back of a hansom cab as it rattled along the High Street, the chestnut gelding trotting at a vigorous pace upon the urging of his master, whom Doyle had promised half a guinea if he made good time.
“I was handed these tickets by Dr. Bell himself just as I was leaving the infirmary,” Doyle said. “He had quite forgotten he’d purchased them until he discovered them in his waistcoat pocket. He had another engagement, so he gave them to me.”
“It is encouraging to hear that he’s human after all,” Ian remarked drily.
“You mustn’t be too hard on him. After all, the man is a genius, and certain allowances must be made. I know he can be rather full of himself, but one must expect a degree of arrogance in men of talent.”
“I was accused of being arrogant myself today,” Ian said. “By my sergeant, of all people.”
Doyle sighed. “He doesn’t much care for me.”
“Why on earth not?”
“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he regards me as a rival.”
“Good Lord. What on earth for?”
Doyle laughed. “You have no idea how much he admires you, do you?”
“I’m afraid you have an exaggerated idea of his regard for me. After all, he just informed me that I am arrogant.”
“He is angry at you.”
“Whatever for?”
“For allowing me into your confidence on your cases. He sees that as his role alone.”
“I shall have to have a chat with him.”
“That would only make things worse. I fear the only thing that would satisfy him would be putting an end to our friendship.”
“I have no such intention.”
“I am glad to hear it. Well, here we are,” he said, as the cab jolted to a stop. “I would say our driver has earned his fare,” he remarked as they alighted into a light drizzle.
At the interval he and Doyle joined the crowd of people enjoying drinks in the lobby bar. After ordering a glass of whisky, Ian was taken aback to see another familiar face among the crowd. At first he thought he must be mistaken, but there was no mistaking the abundant red locks and green eyes. Dressed in a jade velvet frock with matching hat, Fiona Stuart was hard to miss. Panicked, he tried to duck behind a marble column, but it was too late—she had seen him. He half hoped she would ignore him, but he should have known better. After a quick word to her companion, a slim youth with a cherubic face surrounded by blond curls, she clasped her hat tighter to her head and strode firmly in his direction.
“How surprising to see you here, Detective Hamilton,” she said frostily. “I did not take you for a music lover.”
“Miss S-Stuart,” he stuttered. “Allow me to beg your forgiveness—”
“What on earth happened to your face?” she said, peering at the cut on his cheek, which still smarted as though it was a fresh wound.
“It’s nothing, just a slight—”
“Ah, good evening, Mr. Doyle,” she interrupted, seeing him approach.
“Why, Nurse Stuart! What a pleasant surprise! May I buy you a drink?”
“That is most kind of you.”
“What are you having?” he asked, rubbing his hands together heartily, as if scrubbing for surgery.
“A glass of Madeira would be lovely, thank you,” she replied, and he left to fetch it. She turned back to Ian. “Now, then, Detective, you were saying?”
“I fear any attempt at justification for my inexcusable rudeness would only serve to put me in a worse light.”
“Not at all. I should be delighted to hear your explanation. At worst, it should prove amusing. If it’s convincing enough, I may just give you the chance to make it up to me.”
“The fact is, I—”
But they were again interrupted by the arrival of the yellow-haired young man Fiona had been with when she saw Ian.
“Hello, Freddy,” she said as he approached, a frown on his attractive features. He was dressed as something of a dandy, in a light-blue frock coat, matching cravat, and striped trousers. His boots gleamed with polish, and his skin had the sheen of untroubled youth.
“I say, old girl, I was wondering if you had been abducted by Bedouins.”
“I’m so sorry,” Fiona replied, without sounding very contrite. “I saw some friends and got distracted. Allow me to introduce Detective Ian Hamilton, Edinburgh City Police. This is the Honorable Frederick Chillingsworth-Smythe.”
“A copper, eh? How jolly!” he said, shaking Ian’s hand. He had the soft, delicate hands of a man who had never known manual labor. His accent was posh central London, probably Kensington or Knightsbridge. “I say, do you catch a lot of criminals?”
“Not as many as I’d like, I’m afraid.”
“Looks like one of them got you on the cheek with his cutlass,” the young man remarked as Doyle arrived with a glass of Madeira for Fiona.
“Thank you,” she said. “Arthur Conan Doyle, may I present the Honorable Frederick—”
“Oh, blast it all—just call me Freddy,” he said, shaking Doyle’s hand warmly.
“That hardly seems appropriate for a man of nobility,” Doyle remarked.
“Stuff and nonsense—I’m only a baronet. Bottom of the pecking order, don’t you know.”
“How are you liking the concert?”
“Oh, it’s terribly jolly—don’t you agree?”
“Terribly jolly,” Doyle agreed, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. He wasn’t exactly making fun of the young man—he was too kind for that—but was obviously amused.
“That Sarasate is quite the pip, even if he is a foreigner.”
“The Gypsy melodies are wonderfully evocative,” Doyle agreed.
Fiona sipped her Madeira. “This is lovely, thank you—just what the doctor ordered.”
“I’m not a doctor yet,” he replied with a smile.
“Then let us toast to that eventuality,” she said, raising her glass.
As they clinked glasses, Ian noticed a tall, hulking fellow whom he recognized as the young man from the séance, Major Fitzpatrick’s son. Ian was surprised to see him at this very concert, but saw an opportunity.
“Would you excuse me for just a moment?” he said. Stepping away from his companions, he trailed the man discreetly, keeping his eye on the fellow as he wove in and out of the crowd. At first Fitzpatrick seemed ignorant of the fact that he was being followed, but he glanced in Ian’s direction, and they locked eyes. In one smooth movement, he ducked behind a group of people, and by the time Ian had picked his way through the throng of concertgoers, his quarry had vanished.
The bell announcing the end of the interval rang, and he returned to his seat to find Conan Doyle waiting for him.
“Whom were you following?” asked his friend.
“A young man who is going to some lengths to avoid me,” Ian replied as the lights dimmed. He spent the next hour happily lost in the buoyant imagination of Felix Mendelssohn, who could make even Scotland seem like a place of sunshine and promise.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“You really should have that seen to, you know,” said Donald, indicating the cut on Ian’s cheek.
It was Sunday afternoon, and the brothers were seated before the fire at Aunt Lillian’s, while she busied about the kitchen preparing the Sunday roast. In true Scots fashion, neither he nor Lillian mentioned their quarrel several days earlier, though there was an unaccustomed awkwardness between them. Donald’s presence helped—his dry wit and sardonic humor was a welcome distraction from the tension.
“It doesn’t appear to be healing,” his brother added, helping himself to more ginger beer. “Does it hurt?”
“Not really,” Ian lied. The truth was the cut stung as if freshly inflicted. Oddly, the pain from the scars on his back had temporarily receded—perhaps the slash on his cheek prevented him from noticing.
“I’ll give you some balm to put on. It may aid the healing process, but it will certainly help with the pain.”
“I said it didn’t—”
“You really should improve your skill at deception, brother. It won’t do for a detective to be such a pathetic liar.”
Before Ian could respond, Lillian emerged from the kitchen, her face red and sweating, blue eyes gleaming, her cheeks rosier and plumper than usual. There was unquestionably a change in her, which Ian put down to the actor playing Scrooge—but exactly what that meant was far from clear.
“You’re looking right bonnie today, Auntie,” Donald remarked. “Is that a new frock? The crimson trim brings out the rose in your cheeks.”
“Ach, get on wae yer nattering,” she said, deliberately exaggerating her Glaswegian accent.
Ian was amazed—Lillian never bought new clothes, insisting that the old ones were perfectly serviceable “for a woman of her age,” but now she was displaying the airs of a much younger woman. He was both pleased for her and a little bemused. Change in other people was baffling—especially those you thought you knew well.
Lillian placed bowls of cock-a-leekie soup on the dining room table. “Come along, before it gets cold,” she said, taking a seat at the head of the table. When it was just her and Ian on Sundays, they would dine in the parlor, but now the three of them ate in the formal dining room.
“If Alfie were here, he would insist on a prayer,” she said, placing her napkin in her lap. “But since we all
believe in science rather than superstition—” she added, with a glance at Ian.
“I think perhaps we should have a prayer, in honor of Uncle Alfred,” said Donald.
Ian looked at him to see if he was being sarcastic, but he appeared entirely sincere.
Lillian rolled her eyes. “Surely you’re not—”
“No, I mean it. Let’s do one for dear Uncle Alfie.”
“If you insist,” said Lillian, but Ian thought she looked rather pleased. “Some hae meat and cannae eat. Some nae meat but want it. We hae meat and we can eat and sae the Lord be thankit.”
“And God bless Uncle Alfred,” Donald added. “Amen.”
“Why are you suddenly so concerned with Alfred?” said Lillian. “You weren’t that keen on him when he was alive.”
“I loved Uncle Alfie—everyone did.”
“You did put salt in his sugar bowl,” Ian pointed out.
“Only on April Fools’ Day.”
“You were quite the prankster,” Lillian agreed. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
“This soup is delicious,” said Donald. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had better.”
“Don’t try to distract me. It didn’t work when you were a child, and it won’t work now.”
“All right,” he said, putting down his soup spoon. “It sounds as if you have your eye on a fellow who may replace Uncle Alfie, and I’m feeling a bit wistful, is all.”
“What has your brother been telling you?”
“Only that there’s a certain actor in the Greyfriars Dramatic Society—”
“Idle gossip,” Lillian said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Donald smiled. “So you’re not—”
“I’ll hae nae mare o’it!”
“When she starts speaking Glaswegian, it’s time to move on,” said Ian.
“How is your case going?” she asked him.
“I saw a potential suspect at the concert last night, but I let him slip away.”
“Who might that be?” asked Donald.
“Jeremy Fitzpatrick. The late major’s son.”
“Tall fellow, slack-jawed and surly?”
“That sounds like him.”
“I was at school with him briefly, though he was some years below me. Quite impressive on the rugby pitch, if it’s the same fellow. Bit of a bully. I seem to remember he ended up going to Royal High School.”
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