“Yes, I think the major mentioned that at one point,” said Lillian. “Jeremy didn’t come to the séances very often, but when he did, his father seemed a bit nervous about it.”
“Wasn’t the major there trying to contact his wife?” said Ian.
“Aye, and he spoke to her on more than one occasion,” Lillian said, collecting the soup bowls. “She seemed like a lovely person. So refined and genteel.”
Ian and his brother exchanged looks, but Lillian was already on her way to the kitchen.
“Let us help,” Ian offered.
“Pish tosh,” she said from the doorway. “I may be no spring chicken, but I’m perfectly capable of serving supper to my favorite nephews.”
“You mean your only nephews,” said Donald.
“Only and favorite,” she replied, disappearing into the kitchen.
“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’” said Ian when she was gone.
Donald smeared butter on a piece of thick, crusty bread. “I suppose you think that’s proof your theory is correct.”
“Just look at her! She’s even been curling her hair.”
“Do you know the fellow’s name?”
“I’ll ask Dickerson tomorrow.”
Donald took a bite of bread and chewed thoughtfully. “Why don’t you stop by rehearsal this week and have a chat with him, see what he’s all about?”
“I’ve other matters to attend to, you know.”
“Surely you can spare a few hours for your favorite aunt,” Donald replied with a wink.
Ian smiled. “Favorite and only.” His hand went to the cut on his face, which had begun to itch.
“Don’t scratch it!” Donald commanded. “You’ll only make it worse.”
Ian sighed and poured himself some more sherry. Lately Lillian had taken to drinking it, and while he preferred single malt whisky, he had brought a bottle of her favorite cream sherry. He wondered if her new preference was also related to the Greyfriars Dramatic Society.
“Are you making any progress on your hunt for your false informant?” Donald asked.
“It’s extremely tricky. I don’t want to tip off the fact that the department suspects someone.”
“Not to mention the possibility of getting your reliable sources in trouble.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s a heavy responsibility to lay on you.”
“‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,’” Ian murmured as his aunt returned with a steaming platter of lamb surrounded by mint and fresh cress.
“Have one of you recently been elevated to royalty?” she asked, putting it on the table. The aroma of roast lamb and mint set off a spasm of saliva in Ian’s mouth.
“I believe my brother was speaking metaphorically,” said Donald.
Lillian raised an eyebrow. “‘The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.’”
“Well done, Auntie,” said Donald, with a wink at his brother.
“Still writing poetry, aren’t you?” she asked Ian.
“He is,” Donald said. “I catch him at it late at night.”
“Speaking of being late,” said Ian, “we can’t stay too long because I promised Derek he could come over tonight for a bath.”
“Why don’t you bring him some food as well?” asked Lillian.
“That’s very kind, thank you.”
“Ach, there’s plenty of food.” She picked up a long, gleaming knife, its blade shining silver in the gaslight. “Now then, who wants to carve?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ian arrived at police chambers to find the morning edition of the Scotsman on his desk, its lurid headline splayed across the front page.
MAN FOUND WITH THROAT SLASHED BEHIND POPULAR EDINBURGH PUB!
WHO KILLED NATE CRIPPEN?
COULD IT BE THE WORK OF GLASGOW GANGS?
He looked up to see Jedidiah Corbin standing over him.
“Are you responsible for this literary masterpiece?”
The reporter shrugged. “It sells papers.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Corbin?”
“Please, after all we’ve been through together, call me Jed.”
“I suppose you’ve come to collect the favor I owe you.”
“Maybe I just like your company.”
“Maybe I recognize horse shite when I hear it.”
Corbin lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t expect such vulgarity from you, Detective.”
“I’m rather busy, Corbin—what do you want?”
“A detail or two on the Crippen killing would be nice,” he said, taking out a small notebook.
“Such as?”
“Is it true he was found with a Glasgow smile?” When Ian hesitated, Corbin made a note on his pad. “I’ll take that as a yes. Do you suspect Glasgow gangs are behind it?”
“That’s what your paper says.”
“I’d like to know what you think.”
“I’m as baffled as you are.”
“There’s a rumor you were to meet with him the night he died.”
“You shouldn’t pay too much attention to rumors.”
“And you should learn to be a better liar.”
“My brother said the same thing.”
“What were you meeting Crippen about?”
“Good day, Mr. Corbin,” Ian said, turning to the pile of paperwork on his desk.
“Ta very much,” the reporter said, slipping on his coat. “I got what I came for.”
“I can’t tell you how gratified I am to hear that.”
“See you around, Detective,” Corbin said with a tip of his hat, and sauntered out of the station house.
DCI Crawford stuck his head out of his office. “A word, Hamilton?”
“Yes, sir,” Ian said, his heart sinking as he followed the chief into the room.
“What about this Crippen fellow?” said Crawford, sitting heavily behind his desk, the chair groaning beneath his weight. Ian thought he had put on a stone or two—too many lamb dinners, no doubt. Crawford loved roast lamb with mint jelly, and loved to boast how his wife cooked it with carrots, neeps, and tatties.
“Sir?” Ian said, taking the chair opposite him.
“Bit of a thug, wasn’t he?”
“So I hear.”
“Any idea who killed him?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
“You have enough on your plate already—the Crippen case should go to someone else.”
“I’d like to look into it myself, sir.”
Crawford frowned. “You have a personal interest in it?”
“I have some potential leads.”
The chief ran a hand through his thinning ginger hair. “I’ll give you a week. If you haven’t solved it by then, Detective McCaskill takes over.”
“He’s a good man, but—”
“See here,” Crawford said, pulling at his whiskers, “we need to sort this out before this jewelry store business, or we could have a disaster on our hands.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Do you, Hamilton? Because I’m beginning to wonder.”
“I do, sir.”
“We can give the séance case to someone else, you know—that would give you more time to concentrate on—”
“Don’t do that, sir.”
“Constable Turnbull is quite keen on becoming a detective. He and Dickerson could—”
“Please, sir.”
“What’s the matter?” Crawford said in response to the expression on Ian’s face. “He’s a bright lad.”
“It’s not that, sir.”
“What, then?”
At that moment there was a knock on the door.
“What is it?” Crawford called.
The door opened to admit Sergeant Bowers, his blue eyes worried. No one liked interrupting the chief in the middle of a meeting.
“Yes, Bowers?” said Crawford.
The sergeant cleared his t
hroat, his pink, round cheeks deepening to scarlet. “I’ve brought your, uh, poultice, sir.”
“Thank you, Bowers. Just leave it there.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, producing a paper bag, which he deposited on the desk before turning to hurry from the room. The label on the bag read “R. E. Wellington, Chemist,” the name of a popular pharmacy on the High Street.
“Are you quite well, sir?” said Ian as the scent of aromatic herbs wafted through the room.
“Quite well, thank you.”
“What is the poul—”
Crawford twisted a bit of string round his fingers and sighed. “If you must know, I have a case of piles.”
“That sounds painful.”
“Never mind—just see that you catch your man, eh? Go on, then—get all this sorted.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ian, and left the office before Crawford changed his mind.
As he headed for his desk, Ian heard voices coming from the tea station. He turned to see Sergeant Dickerson laughing at something Constable Turnbull had just said. When the sergeant saw Hamilton, he blushed violently, looking confused, but Turnbull laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Dickerson started to laugh, then stopped himself. He said something to the constable, then broke away and walked toward Ian.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” said Ian as Dickerson sat at the desk across from his own.
“Mornin’, sir,” he mumbled, burying his face in paperwork.
An awkward silence ensued, punctuated by the rustle of papers and the steady tick of the wall clock above them.
Resisting the urge to ask what Turnbull had told Dickerson, Ian leaned back in his chair and stretched. “I thought we would go by Gullan’s Close and have a chat with Mr. James McAllister.”
“The resetter? Wha’ d’ye want from him, sir?”
“I’d like to get a confirmation on what my source told me regarding the upcoming robbery.”
“Ye think he’d be likely t’know?”
“I think that as a well-known fencer of stolen goods, he would be on the alert for something like that.”
“I’ll get my coat, sir.”
Ian watched as Dickerson fetched his greatcoat from the rack, carefully avoiding eye contact with Constable Turnbull, who sneered at Ian, as if to say, “I have your man in my pocket.”
“Not if I can help it,” Ian muttered. Throwing on his cloak, he followed Sergeant Dickerson out of the station house.
The bright skies of the past few days had disintegrated into a thick, wet drizzle that veered uneasily between rain and snow; even the weather couldn’t make up its mind what it wanted to do. Dickerson pulled his collar close and stared up at the sky as if the precipitation was a personal punishment meant for him alone. To put him out of his misery, Ian hailed a cab.
By the time they arrived at Gullan’s Close, snow had gained the upper hand, and a thin layer of white settled over the cobblestones, muffling the sounds of people and traffic, softening the sharp edges of a city that seemed at times to be all scrapes and bruises. Gullan’s Close was damp and dingy, and the screech of an alley cat was followed by the sound of scuttling in a nearby trash bin. Ian did not care to think what the cat was chasing, nor did he want to ponder the fate of the animal after its capture.
They descended the narrow stairs to the basement entryway. The same cracked wooden sign hung by a single nail over the door, but an attempt had been made at sprucing up the lettering.
J. R. MCALLISTER, PAWNBROKER
The door was bolted from the inside, and when Ian knocked, they heard sounds very much like the ruckus in the trash bin. Footsteps were punctuated with rattling, crashing, and cursing, as if someone was moving clumsily through a forest of objects. Finally the door opened to reveal the visage of James R. McAllister, pawnshop owner and fencer of stolen goods. A short, powerfully built man, he looked somewhat the worse for wear than the last time Ian had seen him. His face was scratched and bruised, and his small blue eyes were bloodshot. A discolored ring beneath one eye suggested the application of a fist. He sighed when he saw the policemen.
“You, is it? Ach, it’s nae my week. I s’pose ye better come in.”
“Good morning, Mr. McAllister,” Ian said as they followed him into the cluttered interior of the shop. Objects seemed to sprout from the floor, covering every spare inch of space in the cramped room. A carousel pony with one ear missing leaned against a rusting radiator; a chipped credenza was covered in a motley assortment of bric-a-brac, from dusty wooden spoons to tarnished hatpins. A dressmaker’s mannequin was draped with an array of faded scarves and torn petticoats, next to which sat a black Scottish terrier. The dog gazed at them with bright little eyes, wagging its stub of a tail furiously.
“I see you’ve acquired a dog since we were last here,” Ian remarked. “What happened to your cat?”
“Deid.”
“So you got a dog instead.”
“Aye—helps keep away rats.”
“The animal or human variety?”
McAllister grinned, showing teeth the color of tar. “Both.”
“It looks like you’ve been in a bit of a scuffle.”
The resetter dabbed at a chipped glass vase with a dirty dustcloth. “Don’ know wha’ ye mean.”
“Someone is responsible for the injuries to your face.”
“I tripped.”
“Was that what caused your face to come in contact with a fist?”
“Ach, it’s nae business a’ yers, but it wae a pub brawl,” he said, swabbing at an overhanging cobweb with his cloth. “So wha’ kin I do fer ye?”
“We are in search of corroboration.”
“Corrobawha’?” he said, cocking his head to the side. It was small, set on a short, thick neck, muscular as a mastiff’s.
“We need some information,” Dickerson explained. “’Bout a robbery.”
“Wha’ makes ye think I’d know anythin’ ’bout somethin’ like that?”
“Come, Mr. McAllister,” said Ian. “Let us dispense with the posturing. I’m sure you don’t have time to waste any more than we do.”
His small eyes narrowed. “Wha’ robbery might that be, then?”
“Murray and Weston.”
“On Princes Street?”
“We have information that a major burglary is being planned.”
“When?”
“Within the week.”
McAllister burst into laughter. “Someone’s been pullin’ yer leg, mate.”
“So you haven’t heard of any robbery?”
“No, an’ I’ll tell ye somethin’ else. Only someone wi’ a heid full o’ mince would try to break in there.”
“Why is that?”
“They’ve an alarm system no one’s yet foiled. An’ a coupla hounds they let roam at night.”
“So you’ve heard nothing about such a plan?”
“No, an’ if I did, I’d tell ‘em tae skedaddle aff straightaway.”
“Of course you know if there is such a robbery, your shop will be the first place we visit.”
“So I’ve nae reason t’lie to ye, have I?”
“Thank you,” Ian said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“I hope ye’ll remember that in’t future.”
“Oh, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“You haven’t by chance had a visit from any of my colleagues recently?”
“Coppers comin’ here? That’s a laugh.”
“Mr. McAllister,” Ian said, leaning on the dirty counter, “do you mean to tell me I am the only member of the Edinburgh City Police to drop by your charming establishment?”
The resetter bit his lip, pretending to think. He was not a very good actor, however, and was entirely unconvincing. “Come t’think of it, there was a fella last week. Didnae have a uniform on, but smelt like a copper. He were pretendin’ tae shop, but I could tell he were jes snoopin’ ’round.”
“Did you get his name?”
&
nbsp; “No, but I’d know the fella if I saw ’im agin. Skinny, smiles a lot, but slimy, like. Face like spoilt milk.”
“Pockmarked, you mean?”
“Aye. Terrible pitted skin. Ye know ’im?”
“Thank you for the information. Good day, Mr. McAllister.”
“Always glad to be a’ service,” the pawnbroker said as Ian and Dickerson left his crowded shop.
Out on the street, Dickerson sneezed.
“Are you coming down with something?” asked Ian.
“Jes allergies. It were dusty as the grave in that place,” he said, trotting after Ian. “Where we goin’ now?”
“To find my friend Brian McKinney,” he replied, flinging his arm in the air to signal a passing hansom.
“That blind beggar fella?” Dickerson said as it slid to a stop on the slippery cobblestones.
“He’s the one who told me about the theft, and I’ve never known him to be wrong yet.”
“Wonder wha’ happened this time.”
“Someone is feeding him false information,” he said as Dickerson climbed inside.
“Where to, sir?” asked the cabbie.
“St. Giles, fast as you can. There’s an extra shilling in it if you make good time.”
The man grinned. “I’ll take th’ Cowgate. High Street is crowded this time a’ day.” Ian was barely seated when the cabbie flicked his whip, and the hansom lurched forward with a jerk.
“Afore this is over, ye’ll line the pockets a’ every cabbie in town,” Dickerson remarked as they rattled over the snowy streets. The flakes were flying faster now, thick and heavy, as people scurried along, some holding umbrellas, the rest rushing to reach their destination before getting totally soaked. Some held newspapers over their heads; others pulled up their coat collars and ducked their heads inside like turtles; still others trudged along hunched over, hands in their pockets. The citizens of Edinburgh were no strangers to misery and, like most Scots, took pride in their ability to withstand privation and adversity. A December snowfall was hardly the worst fate, though that was small comfort for the unlucky ones who had gone out ill prepared for Edinburgh’s unpredictably moody weather.
“Sounded like he were describin’ Constable Turnbull,” Dickerson said as they turned south onto St. Mary’s Street.
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