Edinburgh Midnight

by Carole Lawrence

  Shaking off an impulse to reassure him, Ian decided it was better to keep Mr. Metcalf a little off balance. “Is this your place of residence, sir?” he asked sternly.

  “Yes—I live in the ground-floor flat,” Nigel Metcalf said, opening the door so that Ian had a good view of the foyer.

  “Would you mind answering a few questions?”

  “Not at all—come in, please.”

  The flat had the look of university student digs—a football jersey tossed over a chair, textbooks open on the table, exam books on the sideboard.

  “Are you a student, Mr. Metcalf?”

  “Yes, I’m preparing to enter the medical school next autumn.”

  Had this been a casual conversation, Ian might have mentioned his brother, but he merely nodded.

  “I was up all night studying for an exam,” he added.

  “I won’t keep you much longer,” Ian said, looking around the flat. A pair of women’s kid gloves lay on the mantelpiece.

  Seeing Ian’s gaze on the gloves, Metcalf took a step forward. “Those belong to my girlfriend. She left them here two days ago.”

  “I see,” Ian replied, sounding as if he didn’t. In fact, he thought the gloves far too expensive to be the property of a poor charwoman, but wished to keep pressure on Metcalf as long as possible. People said things they didn’t mean to when they were on edge, betraying themselves in all sorts of little ways.

  “I say, would you care for some tea? I could do with a cup,” Metcalf said, nervously rubbing his hands together.

  “Thank you,” Ian said, realizing that he was a bit faint from hunger, having had nothing to eat or drink since before dawn.

  He was glad when Metcalf reappeared with raisin scones and plenty of fresh butter. The student listened carefully to his questions about the upstairs tenant, then shook his head.

  “I can’t say I’ve ever met him. I do hear the front door opening sometimes, in the middle of the night.”

  “And you hear him go upstairs?”

  “I’m usually too sleepy to notice.”

  “What about last night, when you were up studying?”

  He shook his head. “I heard nothing all night—mind you, I was fairly engrossed in my anatomy textbook.”

  “And you have lived here how long?”

  “It’ll be just over a year this month. I had rooms nearer the university, but saw this advertised for an even lower price, so I took it.”

  “And no one moved in or out during that time?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  “What about the flat below the top floor? Who lives there?”

  “Used to be a nice old lady, but she moved out a few months ago, and no one’s come to take her place.”

  “And your landlord?”

  “Away on the Continent somewhere. I send my check in every month to a law office in Lyons. I can give you that address if you like.”

  Further questioning brought no useful information, and when Ian knocked on the door of the top-floor flat, there was no response. As he turned away from the door to the flat, Ian felt a sudden bone-chilling cold, but there was no source of drafts that he could see. He headed back down the stairs, anxious to leave, though he could not say why.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Metcalf,” Ian said, putting on his cloak.

  “I wish I could have been more helpful,” he replied. “Hang on a minute. There was one thing. I don’t know if it will be of use, but—”

  “Yes?”

  “Once as I arrived home from studying, I saw a policeman leaving the building.”

  “When was this?”

  “Perhaps a month ago.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “It was late at night, and I didn’t get a good look at him, but he wore a uniform.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me about him?”

  “He was slim—like you, only not so tall.”

  “Anything else, such as facial hair or hair color?”

  Metcalf bit his lip. “I’m not certain, but I think he may have had bad skin.”

  “How so?”

  “Pitted—you know, pockmarked.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Metcalf,” Ian said. “You have been very helpful.”

  Wrapping himself in his cloak, he left the building.

  From a perch high atop Calton Hill, unseen, a pair of eyes watched as he turned onto Greenside Row and toward the city below.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  After a bite to eat at a public house near the base of Calton Hill, Ian headed toward his next destination, the Royal High School. The building was hard to miss, rising from its stone terrace on Regent Road, with its heavy Doric columns and neoclassical architecture. Modeled after a temple in Athens, it was a much-praised structure, but Ian had never cared for it. The sun was fleeing a darkening sky, and fog wrapped itself around his ankles as he trudged up Regent Road.

  Upon informing the hall monitor of his arrival, he was escorted into the office of the rector, James Donaldson. A tall, long-faced man with a receding chin and keen, gentle eyes, Donaldson was a prominent citizen—a Fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, classical scholar, and theologian. When Ian entered, the great man rose from behind his desk and came around to shake his hand. He did not appear pleased to see Ian.

  “Please, Detective Inspector,” he said, “do sit down.” His voice was educated, but with remnants of the twisting, narrow vowels of the northeast—Aberdeen, perhaps.

  Ian complied, taking a chair opposite his desk, while Donaldson remained standing, leaning against the front of his wide oak desk. “Now, then,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

  “I’ve come about a former student of yours, Jeremy—”

  “Fitzpatrick?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “What’s he done now?” Donaldson asked with a sigh.

  “I take it he has a history of problems, then?”

  “He’s a bully, a real ne’er-do-well. Surly fellow. If it weren’t for his father, I would have expelled him, quite frankly.”

  “Major Fitzpatrick?”

  “The fellow’s a decorated war hero. Took a bullet in Afghanistan. We made . . . allowances, you might say. Terrible business about his death. Have you caught the culprit yet?”

  “That’s why I’m here, sir. Do you think his son is capable of—”

  “Killing his own father? Good Lord, I hope not. He’s an unpleasant boy, but—good Lord,” he repeated. “That’s just unthinkable. Why, it’s inhuman.”

  “I see a lot of things in my line of work you might find inhuman, yet all of them are committed by people.”

  Donaldson shook his head. “Your faith in the human race must be stretched rather thin at times.” He returned to sit behind his desk, and Ian noticed an ornately carved cuckoo clock hanging on the wall over him. At that moment the doors to the clock swung open and a wooden bird duly appeared, chirping the hour in its eerie mechanical voice.

  “Ah,” said the rector. “Four o’clock. Time for my constitutional. Will you join me in a wee glass, Detective?”

  Ian hesitated. He rarely drank while on duty, but the bottle Donaldson pulled from his desk drawer was Glenkinchie, a single malt he was especially fond of.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, licking his lips.

  “It’s a bit of an oddity, that clock,” Donaldson said with a smile. “It was a present from an especially devout Jesuit monk who found something of value in my writings. Made it himself at his monastery in Switzerland.”

  “I understand you are quite a renowned theologian.”

  “I dabble in theology,” Donaldson replied, handing him a tumbler of whisky. “Education is my true calling.”

  The whisky burned Ian’s throat before releasing its subtle aroma of peat and smoke and good, clean earth. He felt his shoulders relax as he savored the faint floral bouquet, soft and sweet as a Highland summer.

  “Good, isn’t it?” Donaldson said.

>   Ian nodded, taking another sip. He wanted to finish his glass and have another, to drink until the images in his head softened and faded like the swirling mist outside the window.

  Donaldson leaned back in his chair. “‘A now-and-then tribute to Bacchus is like the cold bath, bracing and invigorating.’”

  “Robert Burns?”

  “A sensible man as well as a great poet.”

  “My commanding officer would be delighted. He is a particular admirer of Burns.”

  “DCI Robert Crawford, isn’t it?”

  “You know him, sir?”

  “Our paths have crossed. His wife is a fine woman.”

  “He is devoted to her.”

  “Quite rightly.” Donaldson took a sip of whisky and sighed. “I suppose young Fitzpatrick’s problems started when his mother died. A boy needs his mother. Miss Staley did what she could, but—”

  “Is that Elizabeth Staley, by any chance?”

  “Yes. She was Jeremy’s teacher at the time.”

  “I knew Miss Staley was a teacher, but did not realize he was her pupil.”

  “Good Lord, do you think her death and the major’s are related?”

  “It is entirely possible.”

  “Miss Staley was an excellent teacher. Poor woman. She did what she could with young Jeremy . . . and then there was the Nielsen child’s suicide.”

  “Lucas Nielsen?”

  “Why, yes. Jeremy bullied him ruthlessly, and he eventually killed himself.”

  “His parents told me—”

  “That it was an accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “They were deeply ashamed—insisted on calling it an accident.”

  “I believe there was an investigation.”

  “Certainly. The manner of death was labeled Undetermined, but we all knew Lucas Nielsen had taken his own life by climbing up to the roof and jumping off.”

  “Boys can do dangerous things to show off. Perhaps he was—”

  “Lucas Nielsen was no daredevil. He was a timid boy.”

  “Is there any chance he was pushed?”

  “He left a note. But his parents didn’t tell anyone about it until the investigation was over. They claimed he told them he was going to do it ‘on a dare.’ The police didn’t know any different, and certainly nothing could be proved, so that was that.”

  “It wasn’t featured prominently in the papers.”

  “The Nielsens did what they could to bury the story. I believe it cost them some money. I would have expelled Jeremy Fitzpatrick then and there, but his father pleaded with me, and he only had another year remaining, so . . . I told him he had no more chances left, and that seemed to put him straight, at least until he left school.”

  “You were quite convinced Lucas was a suicide?”

  “Mr. Nielsen showed me his note later, and it was quite sad. I don’t believe his wife knew he told me about it.”

  “Could it have been forged?”

  “Miss Staley claimed it was his handwriting.”

  “She was his teacher as well?”

  “He and Jeremy were in the same class together.”

  Ian sat back in his chair, his head spinning. Lucas Nielsen, Elizabeth Staley, Major Fitzpatrick . . . What were the chances their deaths were not related?

  “Is something wrong, Detective?”

  “No, sir. I was just . . . thinking.”

  “Care for another wee dram?”

  “Thank you, but I—”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” Donaldson said with a wink.

  “Is there anything more you can tell me about Miss Staley? Or Lucas Nielsen and Jeremy Fitzpatrick?”

  Donaldson leaned back, stroking his chin in a gesture than reminded Ian of DCI Crawford. “Miss Staley was a gifted teacher, devoted to her students, especially the troubled ones. If she couldn’t get through to the Fitzpatrick boy, I suppose no one could.”

  “Would you say they had a special connection?”

  “I do know that she was one of the few people he confided in after his mother’s death.”

  “How did his mother die?”

  “Terrible thing, really. She fell down the stairs.”

  Ian felt as if a bolt of lightning had shot through his body. If there was one thing he knew about criminals, it was that they tended to repeat their behaviors, especially the ones that worked. Elizabeth Staley had died the same way as Jeremy’s mother. But why would Jeremy kill his own mother?

  “Did Jeremy get on with his mother?”

  “As far as I know. I only ever met her once. Nice woman, very pretty. Quite elegant, you know. The major was devastated by her death.”

  “And Lucas Nielsen? Was he close to Miss Staley?”

  “She tried to help him, to stop the bullies from picking on him. He was a sensitive child, you know, an artistic nature and all that. Played the piano rather well. Once Jeremy set his sights on Lucas . . . well, he was sneaky. Bullied him when no one was looking. As I said, an unpleasant sort of boy.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Donaldson,” Ian said, rising. “You have been more helpful than you know.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t care for another glass?”

  “Thank you, but I really must be going.”

  Out in the street, Ian flagged down a hansom cab. The driver was a lively fellow of middle years he recognized, having been his passenger a number of times.

  “Evenin’, sir,” the fellow said, tipping his hat. “Where to?”

  “The Hound and Hare, if you please. How have you been, George?”

  “I’ll nae complain, sir. Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye.”

  “I suppose you’re right—what’s meant to happen will indeed happen,” Ian said as he climbed in. George was fond of colorful Scottish slang, but there seemed something eerily prophetic in his words on this still, misty night. Whatever was meant to happen, Ian feared, might be something he was entirely unprepared for.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The carousing at the Hound and Hare was just picking up steam when Ian arrived. He could hear drunken hoots and hollers from the pub as he climbed out of the cab.

  “Ta very much,” said George when Ian tipped him generously. “Good luck, sir.”

  “Thank you, George—I may need it.”

  “Failing means yer playin’, sir.”

  “Failure isn’t really an option, but thanks just the same.”

  He entered the pub, the reek of cheap tobacco assaulting his nostrils.

  Stray bits of conversation trailed after him as Ian shouldered his way through the crowd.

  “Aye, he’s shot tae fuck!”

  “Dinnae teach yer Granny tae suck eggs, laddie.”

  “I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug, so I will!”

  Ian looked at the hulking fellow offering to cuff his friend’s ears.

  “Hello, Jimmy,” he said.

  A grin broke out on Jimmy Snead’s face. “Hello, mate!” he cried, embracing Ian in a bear hug. “Wha’ brings ye tae this hellhole?”

  “Same thing as you. I need a drink.”

  Jimmy let out a guffaw like the braying of a mule. “There’s better places tae buy a drink.”

  “Seems like you’ve had a few already.”

  “Aye. I’m mad wi’ it,” Jimmy said with a grin. “Totally bladdered.”

  “Hammered, eh?”

  “Aye. I’m wrecked, mate. Oiy, Alan, buy us a drink, won’ ye?” he yelled at a massive bald fellow with a build like a Percheron.

  “Yer already oot yer face, Jimmy!” he called back.

  “Awa’ an bile yer heid!” Jimmy shouted, and the bald man laughed and moved on.

  “His head looks like he’s already boiled it,” Ian remarked.

  Jimmy brayed again, wrapping a long arm around Ian’s shoulders. “Come along, boyo, let’s get ye a wee drink.”

  As Ian followed his friend through the press of bodies, he noticed a muscular, compact man with sun-bleached hair and a weathered face watch
ing him intently from the far corner of the room. His striped trousers and loose-fitting blouse marked him as a sailor. Years of wind and sun had dug deep grooves in his cheeks, and even in December his face had a sunburnt glow. Ian took a step toward him, and the man bolted like a rabbit, slipping through the crowd toward the back door as smoothly as if he was greased.

  Ian took chase, but the bodies seemed to close in around him, and by the time he reached the back alley, his quarry was gone. He looked up and down the narrow wynd leading to the street, but the clatter of wooden wheels and voices obscured any sound of retreating footsteps. Disappointed, he returned to the pub, where Jimmy was waiting for him with a dripping pint of ale.

  “Whair hae ye been?” he said, handing Ian the drink.

  “Do you know the sailor who was sitting over there?” Ian said, pointing to the recently vacated chair.

  “Small but well built, wi’ hair like straw?”

  “Aye, that’s him.”

  “Mos’ likely that would be Sammy. Always stops in ’ere when his ship’s in at Leith docks.”

  “Does he have a last name?”

  “I never haerd it.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Nasty piece a’ work. I once had tae gae ’im a beatin’ fer skelpin’ ’is lady friend.”

  “Why was he slapping her?”

  Jimmy gulped some ale and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Don’ know an’ don’ care. No proper man does that tae a woman.”

  “You’re a prince, Jimmy.”

  “I’m a rascal an’ a rogue, but I’d sooner cut off my hand than raise it tae a female. Why are y’interested in the likes a him?”

  “He may have murdered a man I was looking for.”

  “Oh, aye, Nate Crippen.”

  “His hands were tied with a sailor’s knot.”

  “Plenty a’ them come through this place,” he said, his fingers tracing the grooves in the table where someone had carved a rude word. His fingernails were tobacco stained, the nails dirty and ragged.

  “What have you heard about his death?” said Ian.

  “Ah dinnae ken who done it, but Sammy’s as likely as anyone. He’d a needed help tae do a Glasgow smile, though.”

  “So you know about that?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Somethin’ like that gets around.”