“Thanks.”
“Good night, then,” Donald said. Picking up his medical bag, he headed toward his bedroom.
“Thank you for the medical care.”
“I’ll send you my bill in the morning.”
“Donald?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think our father was murdered because he was about to expose corruption within the force?”
His brother sighed. “Good night, Ian.”
Bacchus twitched his tail and sniffed the air, then followed Donald into his bedroom.
Left alone, Ian sat staring into the flames of the fire in the grate before retiring to his bedroom. He lay awake for some time, Madame Veselka’s words running through his head. Ghosts ill-treated do not rest easy. Secrets long buried cry for the air of truth. Look to your dreams . . .
He found himself standing in front of Waverley Station. It was nighttime, and he was looking for someone. He turned to see a tall man approaching, dressed in a long green robe, wearing a holly wreath on his head. In his hand was a flaming torch. Ian recoiled when he saw the torch, but as the man drew nearer, he realized it was Brian the blind beggar. Ian took a step forward, but as he did, his friend began to dissolve into a mist in front of his eyes. Within moments, there was nothing left of him but a thin wisp of white smoke.
Ian awoke with a start, surprised to find himself in his own darkened bedroom. He lay for a while pondering the meaning of the dream, until finally sleep claimed him once more.
CHAPTER FORTY
Early the next morning, Ian stopped at the office of the Scotsman. When he asked to see Jed Corbin, he was directed to a cubicle by the window. Walking through a cloud of cigarette smoke, past men in shirtsleeves hunched over their work, Ian spied Corbin scribbling away furiously at his desk, buried in piles of reference books, periodicals, loose paper, and broadsheets. At his elbow was an ashtray full of cigarette butts.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” the reporter said, removing a stack of magazines from a nearby chair. “Have a seat. Just give me two seconds to finish this sentence, if you don’t mind,” he said, turning back to the notebook in front of him.
Ian perched on the chair, surveying the controlled chaos of the newsroom.
“There—all finished,” Corbin said, laying down his pencil. “Can’t keep inspiration waiting, you know. Now then, what can I do for you?”
“A friend of mine is missing.”
Corbin leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “Oh?”
“A blind beggar by the name of Brian McKinney.”
“Usually sits in front of Waverley Station—erudite chap, on the witty side? Has an amazing sense of smell?”
“That’s him.”
“I know him well.”
“I thought you might.”
“How long has he been missing?”
“I haven’t seen him since Friday, in front of St. Giles. I thought you might have heard something.”
Corbin rested his cigarette on the already overflowing ashtray. Seeing Ian stare at it, he smiled. “Filthy habit, I know. I imagine newsmen smoke even more than coppers. Oiy, Jack!” he called, snapping his fingers at a passing boy. “Tell Cooper I’ve gone out on a story if he asks, eh?”
The boy nodded. “Aye, sir. Anythin’ else?”
“Fetch me a candle, would you?”
The lad disappeared round the corner, returning with a long white taper, which he handed to the reporter.
“Well done,” said Corbin, flipping him a coin. “Buy yourself a bag of sweets.”
The boy caught it deftly and slipped it into his pocket. “Yes, sir!”
“What’s the candle for?” asked Ian.
The reporter winked at him. “I’ll just grab my coat. I have an idea or two of some people who might know something.”
Minutes later, they were striding along Cockburn Street toward Waverley Station.
“Useful fellow, young Jack,” Corbin said as a wagon piled high with winter wheat passed them, pulled by a muscular dapple-gray. The farmer tipped his hat and flipped his whip, which the horse ignored. Not increasing its pace in the least, it plodded on as if bored with the whole affair.
“I believe Jack knows that urchin friend of yours,” Corbin added.
“Derek McNair?”
“Yes. It seems McNair organized a bunch of boys into a club of some kind, a group of—”
“Irregulars.”
“Is that what they call themselves?”
“Actually, I suggested the name when he told me about them.”
“I suppose they’re up to no good.”
“I suspect you could get them to do just about anything if you paid them enough.”
The reporter gave him a sideways glance. “You don’t think I—”
“I know Derek’s sold you information. I don’t suppose you’d balk at using his services for other things.”
“Surely you don’t believe I work outside the law?”
“I think you’d do whatever it takes to pursue a story.”
Corbin shook his head. “How dreary it must be, always suspecting the worst of people.”
“It’s better than being consistently disappointed by them.”
It was a short distance to Waverley, and Ian followed the reporter through the front entrance, past throngs of travelers scurrying in every direction. The steady clatter of leather heels on the polished floors reverberated through the high central dome, softening as it echoed back in a soothing symphony of sound, each footfall blending into the next.
“This way,” Corbin said, leading Ian through a narrow door at the rear of the station. Ignoring the “No Entry” sign, he continued down a series of stairs into an underground corridor.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see,” Corbin replied, pushing open a heavy steel door with a broken lock. A whiff of stale air hit Ian’s nostrils, followed by an even more unpleasant smell—the odor of unwashed human bodies. He followed the reporter into a dark, dank chamber that appeared to be part of an abandoned rail line. Several dilapidated passenger cars sat on rusting rails, some with broken windows, others missing wheels. It was evident they had not been in use for some time.
They were also clearly inhabited. Some sported makeshift curtains; others had laundry lines strung from them; the smell of cooking arose from several others. Ian thought he detected the creamy aroma of colcannon from the rearmost car.
“How do you know about this place?”
“I’m a reporter. It’s my job to know things.”
“How long has this been here?” Ian said, as several pairs of eyes peered at him from lifted curtains.
“The railways abandoned this area approximately a year ago. Some of these cars have been there longer than that, obviously. But for the most part, the community is less than a year old.”
A large man of about fifty with a scruff of gray hair stepped from one of the cars. He was dressed in a green sou’wester, thick woolen scarf, and rubber boots, the type a fisherman might wear. “Who’re ye lookin’ for, mister?” he asked as two younger men came up behind him, both very fit looking. Ian thought they might be the man’s sons.
“Detective Hamilton, Edinburgh City Police,” Ian replied.
“Well, then, Detective Hamilton, Edinburgh City Police,” the man echoed in a heavy Irish brogue, “what can we do fer ye?”
Jed Corbin stepped forward and held out some coins. “We’re looking for Brian McKinney.”
The man looked at the money and licked his lips. “Blind Brian, is it?”
“The same.”
The man seized the coins and smiled, revealing a mouth with as many gaps as teeth. “Why didn’ ye say so?” he said, waving off his companions, who took a step backward. “Ye’ll find ol’ Brian’s digs jes over yonder.” He pointed to a passenger car still sporting most of its green paint. “Be sure t’knock, now—he don’ much care fer bein’ disturbed sudden like.”
“Thank you,�
� said Corbin, heading toward the green car.
Ian followed, keenly aware they were being watched not only by the three men but by other eyes peering from behind curtains as they passed.
They knocked on the dented door of the green car, but were met with silence. Ian peered inside and saw only darkness.
“Can’t see a thing in there,” said Corbin.
“What need has a blind man of an oil lamp?” said Ian.
“Maybe he’s not in.”
They knocked a second time, with the same result. Calling his name produced no response. Ian tried the door, which was unlocked. Pushing it open slowly, they stepped inside. Corbin produced the candle from his pocket and lit it, holding it aloft as the two men made their way through the interior of the car.
“I see why you thought to bring the candle,” said Ian.
The moment they stepped into the rear of the chamber and saw the crumpled form upon the makeshift bed, it was clear something was amiss. The air was heavy with the smell of death. Kneeling beside his friend, Ian discovered rigor had not yet left his limbs. He detected no smell of putrefaction, and there were no flies, so the body could not have lain there for long. There were no obvious signs of violence. Nothing in the room appeared to be disturbed, and there was no blood visible on the body. Ian stood up and looked at Corbin, whose face was grim. Neither man spoke for a time.
Then Corbin said gently, “Good Lord. Do you suspect—”
“May I use your candle?”
“Of course.”
With only the flame of a single candle, Ian did his best to investigate the tidy but cramped dwelling. There was a portable gas stove, and his search produced a box of matches but no candles. He supposed visitors—if there were any—brought their own. He found nothing of obvious interest. There were a few changes of clothes, toiletry items, cans of food, a few tins of nuts, some fruit, and half a loaf of bread. A shelf held a dozen books or so in braille, including works by Robert Burns and Robert Louis Stevenson. It was the simple existence of a man whose life Ian had seldom contemplated. Yet confronted with it here, he felt a deep sense of sadness. It was uncomfortable peering into his friend’s life, doubly so now that he was past explaining or defending it. Ian felt like an intruder. He had encountered death before, but he seldom knew the victim. This was different—more personal, a strange and unwelcome intimacy.
Returning to the bed, he examined the scene more closely. A feather pillow lay next to McKinney, but there was none beneath his head. Holding the candle close to the dead man’s face, Ian looked closely at it, and found what he was looking for. A single down feather clung to his lips. Ian lifted it carefully and slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat.
“What is it?” asked the reporter.
“Very possibly evidence.”
“So you think it was—”
“It seems a strange coincidence, does it not?”
“But who—”
“I believe an autopsy is in order. Could you lend me a hand?”
They lifted the body, made easier by the stiffness of his limbs, and carried him gently from his makeshift home. The effort hurt Ian’s injured shoulder, as well as his sore ribs, and he suppressed a groan as they carried their burden from the railcar. He was somewhat taken aback to see a crowd had gathered, as motley an assortment of ragged and forlorn individuals as he had ever seen. There must have been a dozen or more—young mothers with babes in their thin arms, children clad in ill-fitting garments that looked as if they had been purchased from a rag picker, even a few elderly people who hardly looked strong enough to survive the winter. The haunted look in their eyes was all too familiar to him.
But he had a job to do. He and Corbin carried poor Brian past the throng of his neighbors. The big man who had greeted them stepped forward from their ranks—he was evidently the closest thing they had to a leader.
“Poor ol’ Brian,” he said, shaking his head. “Was it the drink that got him, then?”
“I see no evidence to suggest that,” Ian replied. Looking over the assembled company, he said, “Did any of you see anyone visit Mr. McKinney in the past day or so?”
There were murmurs and head shaking among the onlookers. Ian was about to move on when a small girl stepped forward.
“I heard voices,” she said shyly. “It sounded like he were arguin’ with someone.”
“A man or a woman?” asked Ian.
“It sounded like another man.”
“When was this?”
“’Bout six hours ago. We live next door an’ I couldn’ sleep so I got up tae play wi’ my dolly,” she said, holding up a tattered doll in a stained blue dress, with buttons for eyes. “That’s when I heard it.”
“Could you make out what they were saying?”
“Not really. Somethin’ ’bout somethin’ breakin’? Don’ know wha’ they meant, sir.”
“A break-in, perhaps?”
“Could be, sir.”
“You’ve been most helpful,” said Ian. “What’s your name?”
“Suzie McGovern.”
“Thank you, Miss McGovern.”
“If he kilt Brian, I hope ye find him,” said a tired-looking woman who appeared to be her mother. “Brian were a nice fella, so he was.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The large man stepped forward again. In his hand was a lantern. “Ye don’ have t’go out through the station. There’s another way out.”
“There is?” said Ian.
“It leads to an alley. We use it mostly to come an’ go. Attracts less attention that way.”
Ian and Corbin exchanged a glance. They both knew attracting attention was not helpful to their mission.
“Lead on,” said the reporter.
They followed the man down the deserted rail platform, past a few more deserted cars, to where the tracks ended. The wall appeared solid, and there was no door leading to the outside, but their host beckoned them forward. Holding his lantern aloft, he pointed toward a narrow opening where the bricks had been knocked away. A few of them still lay scattered on the ground, chipped and broken. Ian peered at the break in the wall, which was just wide enough to accommodate an average-sized man.
“Think we can make it?” Corbin asked. In the gaslight, Ian could make out prickles of sweat on his forehead. Corbin was not a big man, and even for Ian, Brian’s body was beginning to feel like a deadweight. His shoulder throbbed more insistently, and his ribs felt as though they might give way. Taking a deep breath, he forced his mind away from the pain.
“Steady on,” he said. “We’ll find a cab once we’re outside.”
The reporter nodded. “Let’s carry on, then.”
Ian turned to their guide. “Thank you, Mr.—”
“O’Connor. Niall O’Connor.”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Connor.”
“If someone kilt Brian, ye’ll get ’em, won’ ye?”
“I will do everything in my power.”
The two men lifted their dead comrade and stepped through the narrow opening and into the hazy light of a late December morning.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
DCI Crawford leaned back in his chair and tugged at his whiskers. “An autopsy on a blind beggar? I don’t think so, Hamilton.”
“But sir,” Ian said, “I believe he was killed to stop him from talking.”
“And you’re basing this on something overheard by a child? Who wasn’t even certain what she heard? Let alone whether it had anything to do with his death.”
Ian gazed out the window of Crawford’s office. A light drizzle dotted the panes, in the ever-changing moods of December in Edinburgh. His spirits were sinking along with the weather, and he wished he could just burrow beneath a pile of blankets and hibernate until spring.
“Where is he now?” said the chief.
“At the morgue.”
Crawford sighed. “See here, Hamilton, Dr. Littlejohn is a busy man. I can’t just demand he drop everything to investigate the death of a beg
gar.”
“I wish you would reconsider, sir.”
Crawford reached for his “rosary” and twisted the string absently around his fingers. “This has been a hard winter, and he’s trying to contain a measles outbreak. Not to mention countless cases of catarrh, whooping cough, and tuberculosis. I’m sorry, Hamilton.”
“But I’m quite certain—”
“‘There is no such uncertainty as a sure thing.’”
Ian realized his efforts were useless. When Crawford started quoting Burns, it was time to concede defeat.
“As you like, sir,” he said, and slipped out of the room. Without a word he walked through the main room, through the double doors, and out of the station house. Once on the street, he thrust his arm into the air, ignoring the stab of pain in his shoulder. A hansom cab slid to a stop in front of him.
“Where to, sir?” said the driver.
“Royal Infirmary, quick as you can.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, snapping his whip lightly in the air. The sleek chestnut gelding didn’t need any more urging, and started off at a smart trot, polished hooves clicking on the slick cobblestones.
When they arrived, Ian tipped the driver generously and entered the majestic building, heading straight for the tiny office at the end of the main corridor. When he knocked, the door opened to reveal a familiar face.
“Hamilton!” said Conan Doyle. Dressed in a belted tweed jacket, he looked hale and hearty as ever. His face was ruddy, as if he had just come from a hike on the moors. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“You may change your mind when you hear why I’ve come.”
“Nonsense! You’re welcome here anytime—come in, won’t you?”
It didn’t take long for Ian to explain the situation. Doyle listened intently, puffing on an ornately carved meerschaum pipe.
“So you want me to perform the autopsy?” he said, laying down the pipe.
“Is that an utterly outlandish request?”
“Well, I have assisted in a number of autopsies, and performed a few in my early days as a medical student. I don’t have the same expertise as Dr. Littlejohn or Dr. Bell, but—I’m game if you are. What exactly are you looking for?”
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