“I see your lack of education has not prevented you from acquiring the necessary maths skills.”
“Always been good wi’ numbers, Guv. Be right back,” he said, scampering off across the flat, wide expanse of land.
The Grassmarket had a long and bloody history. In addition to being an ancient marketplace, it was the site of public executions for many years. Sir Walter Scott wrote of the terror he experienced as a child, waking on an execution day to see the wooden gallows towering over the square “like the product of some foul demon.” The gibbet was always erected before dawn on the day a prisoner was to die, and was taken away after nightfall. The sight struck fear into the hearts of young Scott and his friends, at a time when a fifteen-year-old boy could be executed for stealing a loaf of bread.
But now Ian watched the people of Edinburgh going about their daily lives—lugging groceries, hawking wares, hanging laundry, exchanging news and gossip, seemingly oblivious of the area’s violent past. A couple of plump housewives in long white aprons stood in front of their homes chatting, elbows resting on their front gates. A pair of smudged toddlers played in the mud at their feet, smearing it on their faces and laughing as they plunged their fat little hands into the muck. Their mothers didn’t seem to notice or care about their offspring’s shenanigans; they seemed grateful the tykes were occupying themselves for the time being.
Derek came loping across the wide expanse of ground, followed by a tall, freckled boy with sandy hair and a long, homely face.
“This here is Danny,” Derek said. “He saw wha’ happened yesterday.”
“What did you see?” asked Ian, as Jed Corbin licked his lips. Normally Ian would not allow the reporter to eavesdrop during an investigation, but as Corbin had brought him the news, it seemed only fair to let him hear what the boy said. Besides, there was still no firm evidence pointing to a crime.
Danny looked down at his feet and kicked at the ground. “I was playin’ gird and cleek wi’ me mates, an’ this load a’ swells comes outta the White Hart, totally blootered.”
“So they were drunk,” said Ian. “Hardly surprising, coming from a pub. What time was this?”
“Round ’bout five.”
“So it was dark already.”
“Yeah, it was like pitch las’ night.”
“Go on.”
The boy looked up at him with bright blue eyes. “Derek said ye’ll pay fer my time, yeah?”
“If you tell the truth. How old were these men?”
“Younger than you. Early twenties, mebbe. They were bein’ loud, an’ swearin’ like the devil. There’s a crowd a folks round, ladies and children, an’ they didn’ like the language these toffs were usin’, tol’ ’em tae cut it out.”
“And did they?”
“Most of ’em, yeah. They just wandered off bletherin’ among themselves. But this one yellow-haired toff jes stands there wi’ a stupid grin on ’is face. Fitzpatrick, his name is—I’d seen ’im plenty a times afore. Eyes red as radishes—totally hammered, he was.” He stopped and looked at Derek.
“Tell them wha’ happened next,” Derek urged.
“Well, I don’ know if he lost ’is balance or wha’, but suddenly there’s a carriage tearin’ ’round the corner, an’ he jes falls forward into its path. Gets trampled ’neath the horses, an’ run over by the wheels—it were an awful mess, wi’ the ladies screamin’ and cryin’.”
“Was it possible he was pushed?” said Ian.
Danny shrugged. “Yeah. It were market Wednesday, an’ there was a big crowd.”
“But you didn’t see anyone push him?”
“Nope.”
“So it could have been an accident?” said Corbin.
The boy nodded. “Like my mum says, whit’s fur ye’ll no go past ye.”
“Let’s assume for a moment it wasn’t an act of fate,” said Ian. “Did you see anything else out of the ordinary?”
“Naw . . . hang on a minute, there was a lady left the crowd right after, seemed tae be in a hurry. Din’ make much of it at the time, but she was walkin’ pretty fast, as if she wanted tae get away.”
“Can you describe her?”
“Like I said, it was dark, an’ one or two streetlamps don’ work.”
“Any details at all you can remember?”
“Medium height, not fat nor skinny.”
“Hair color?”
“Light brown, mebbe?”
“Manner of dress?”
“Not a fine lady, but not poor, either.”
“Thank you, Danny,” Ian said, fishing some coins from his pocket. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“Ta very much, mister!” the boy said, staring at the money as if it were a mirage that might suddenly vanish.
“Ain’t ye forgettin’ sommit, Guv?” Derek said.
“Here’s your fee,” said Ian, handing him some change. “Just one more question, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” Derek said, pushing his cap up on his head. His thick brown hair was shaggy and in need of a trim.
“Either of you know anything about this Jeremy Fitzpatrick?”
“Oh, sure,” Danny volunteered. “He’s skilamalink.”
“In what way is he shady?” said Ian.
“He were a pickpocket,” said Derek. “Sleekit one, too.”
“But not as talented as you, I’m sure,” Ian remarked.
“Don’ know wha’ ye mean, Guv,” Derek said with a smirk.
“Never mind. Thank you for the information.”
“At yer service,” the boy said, tipping his moth-eaten cap. “Come on, now, Danny, we’ve a meetin’ tae get to.”
They scampered off, leaving the two men to ponder what they had just heard.
“Well,” said Ian finally, “if young Fitzpatrick was pursuing a life of crime, that accounts for his reluctance to speak with me.”
“Could he not still be the murderer?” said Corbin.
“He could indeed,” Ian replied grimly. “Time alone will tell.”
As he gazed at the hustle and bustle of the Grassmarket, Ian felt time was the one precious commodity they could not afford to squander.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“What do you hope to find from examining his body?” Conan Doyle asked Ian as they thundered toward the city morgue in a hansom cab, the horse’s hooves kicking up sprays of water from puddles of melted snow. The mercury had continued to climb throughout the day, and the late-afternoon sun bathed the city in a soft, unreal glow. Ian had managed to shake Jed Corbin by promising to send word of further developments in the case, after which he headed straight to the Royal Infirmary to procure the services of his friend.
“I don’t know,” he replied, “but I hope I recognize it when I see it.”
“Would it not be likely he died from his injuries?”
“Possibly. But I should like to see for myself.”
They arrived just as the last rays of the setting sun settled across the city, illuminating the evaporating rainwater in a milky haze. Even the stern exterior of the morgue lost its ominous air in the gentle light.
The moment he saw Ian, Jack Cerridwen’s face broke into a broad grin. Over the years, Ian had purchased enough whisky for the morgue attendant to earn the Welshman’s undying loyalty. Ian considered it money well spent.
“I’ll bet yer here for th’ fella who came in last night,” Cerridwen said with a knowing wink. “Mr. Fitzpatrick,” he added, consulting his log.
“We are indeed,” Ian replied.
Pushing a strand of stringy dark hair from his eyes, Cerridwen rose and grabbed a lantern. “Right this way, gentlemen,” he said, leading them through the maze of corridors to the room housing the recently deceased.
“It’s rather like the Labyrinth, isn’t it?” Doyle said as he and Ian followed Cerridwen through the dank, poorly lit hallways.
“Let’s hope the Minotaur is not awaiting our arrival,” Ian said as they emerged into the large central chamber, with its tall, thin windows,
the walls lined with marble slabs draped with white sheets. Beneath each sheet was a body, and behind each body was a story, Ian knew, though they were only there to investigate one specific story.
“Here he is, our most recent arrival,” Cerridwen said, leading them to a metal gurney beneath one of the windows. The light outside had already faded, leaving only a faint gray glow. “You’re the first to come—no family members yet.”
“His father is recently deceased,” said Ian. “And his mother died some years ago.”
“Pity,” the Welshman said, shaking his head. “I hate it when there’s no one t’claim them. Well, I’ll leave ye to it, then,” he added, licking his chops hopefully.
“We were in a bit of a hurry today,” Ian said, “but I’ll find a way to show my gratitude in the near future.”
“No problem,” Cerridwen said with forced cheer, obviously disappointed. “Take as long as ye like.”
When he was gone, the two of them turned to the dead man on the gurney. Ian experienced the same solemnity he always did in the presence of death, but there was no time to be wasted. Lifting the sheet, he gazed at the young man before them.
In death, Jeremy Fitzpatrick’s face showed none of the surliness it had in life. In fact, he looked rather angelic, with his flaxen hair and pale skin, now gone rather ashen.
“Too young to die like this,” Doyle murmured as he examined the body.
To Ian’s surprise, there were few signs of injury—a bruise here and there, but no obviously broken bones or deep wounds.
“It’s curious,” Doyle said. “It doesn’t appear he was—oh, hello,” he added as he turned the body over.
“What is it?” said Ian, his heart beating faster.
“Take a look,” said Doyle. “There, at the base of the skull.”
Ian looked at the place Doyle pointed to, and saw a small but deep wound, bits of dried blood clinging to the edges.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Hang on a minute,” Doyle said, looking through his medical bag. “Ah, this should do,” he said, grasping a long, thin instrument with a wooden handle. “A surgical probe,” he said, and proceeded to slide it into the wound. It went in nearly six inches before meeting resistance.
“I think we may have the cause of death,” he said, carefully extracting it. “And it would have been nearly instantaneous.”
“What did—?”
“Inserted at this angle, the weapon would have penetrated the brain, causing a massive, fatal hemorrhage.”
“So that means—”
“Jeremy Fitzpatrick was already dead when he fell in front of the carriage.”
“What could have inflicted a wound like this?” Ian said, struggling to comprehend this new information.
“Something long and thin and nearly perfectly round,” Doyle said, studying the wound. “And with a pointed end, I should think.”
“A metal knitting needle,” Ian said abruptly.
“That would do it.”
Ian slapped his forehead. “I’ve been a fool! It was there, right in front of my nose, all the time.”
“What was?” said Doyle.
“There’s no time to waste!” Ian cried. “We must hurry. Are you with me, Doyle?”
“Where are we going?”
“To intercept a murderer.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
“You said something was in front of your nose the whole time,” Doyle said as they rumbled across town in the back of a hansom. He imagined Ian Hamilton spent a small fortune on cabs. He wondered if the Edinburgh City Police reimbursed him. “What were you referring to?”
“Motive,” said the detective. “I was so fixated on evidence I forgot to consider the importance of motive. It might have led me to the solution more quickly.”
“What exactly was the motive?” said Doyle, intrigued.
“Revenge. The source of so much evil. Unfortunately, it is too often sneaky, like a thief in the night.”
Doyle took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together. His palms were sweating. His heart beat faster when he was accompanying Hamilton on a case. Everything took on more importance, urgency, meaning—he felt so alive when he joined the detective in pursuit of a criminal. Medical school was hard, demanding work, but crime solving—he felt useful, like he was really doing something in the service of humanity. He couldn’t help wondering if he would feel the same about medicine once he got his degree, or whether . . . He looked at Hamilton’s sharply etched profile as he stared intently out the window of the cab, as if willing it to go faster. Doyle sighed. He couldn’t imagine being a doctor would be nearly as satisfying as this.
“‘Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind, and makes it fearful and degenerate; think therefore on revenge and cease to weep,’” Hamilton murmured.
“Shakespeare?”
“It is as if he was writing about this killer, who used revenge to soothe grief,” he said as they pulled up in front of their destination on Jeffrey Street. Doyle wanted desperately to ask what he meant, but Hamilton handed the driver some coins and, without waiting for change, sprang from the cab and dashed up the walk to the well-maintained building near the intersection of Market Street.
Doyle caught a whiff of smoke from the train engines at Waverley Station as he followed the detective up to the front door. A woman who appeared to be the landlady answered his knock, and before he knew it, Hamilton had talked his way past her, conveying a sense of urgency that made the good lady back away as he climbed to the first-floor landing, taking the stairs two at a time.
This time his knocking produced a faint reply from within—a man’s voice, sounding very weak.
“Help . . . please help.”
“Please open the door!” Hamilton told the landlady, who obeyed, her hands trembling as she turned the key in the lock.
No sooner had the bolt clicked open than Hamilton dashed into the flat, with Doyle close behind. They followed the sound of the voice to a comfortable sitting room, where a middle-aged man lay upon the sofa, groaning and writhing in pain.
“Thank heaven you’ve . . . come,” he groaned upon seeing them.
Doyle knelt beside the stricken man and took his pulse, which was racing and irregular. He was sweating profusely and clutched at his stomach.
“What did she give you, Nielsen?” said Hamilton.
“Not sure . . . could have . . . been rat poison.”
Hamilton turned to his friend, his face taut. “Doyle?”
“That would fit his symptoms,” Doyle agreed. He turned to the landlady, who stood nearby, wringing her hands. “Have you any oil of castor?”
She stared back with wide, frightened eyes.
“There is no time to waste!” said Hamilton.
“And a large basin as well,” Doyle added.
“Now!” Hamilton commanded, and she fled the room.
Conan Doyle turned back to the ailing man, who was doubled over in pain, his breath coming in gasps. “Easy,” he said. “Try to breathe as deeply as you can.”
Nielsen gazed up at the medical student, his eyes glazed with pain, and Doyle’s knees went a little weak at the sight of such torment. He wondered how he could face such suffering day after day as a physician. Luckily, the landlady soon returned with a bottle of castor oil, which she thrust at him with trembling hands. He wasted no time in uncorking it and forcing a large swallow down the patient’s throat. Nielsen gurgled and retched before vomiting an immense amount of fluid, most of which Doyle was able to catch in the basin.
The landlady went pale and turned away, and even Hamilton appeared taken aback by the violence of his reaction. But almost immediately there were signs of relief in the patient. His breath slowed, his face relaxed, and he loosened his grip on his stomach. After a few moments, Doyle gave him another dose, with the same response. It was not pretty, but he hoped he had administered the remedy in time to save Mr. Nielsen.
“Where did she go?” Hamilton asked Nielsen.
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“Madame . . . she went to Madame’s,” he replied weakly.
“Can you stay with him, Doyle?”
“Of course.”
“I must go—thank you, dear fellow,” he said, and with three long strides, was gone.
Doyle turned to the landlady, who was still shaking.
“W-will he be all right, sir?” she asked.
“I believe he will recover. We arrived just in time.”
She burst into tears, and Conan Doyle knew just how she felt.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
When Ian Hamilton emerged onto Jeffrey Street, Derek McNair was perched on the low brick wall lining the street. When he saw the detective, the boy jumped lightly from his spot.
“You owe me fer a cab,” he said, brushing dust from his pants.
“How did you find me?” Ian said, striding in the direction of High Street.
“I got my ways, Guv,” Derek said, scrambling to keep up. “I got some information fer ye.”
“From what source?”
“Billy Striebel—he’s one a’ me lads—overheard somethin’.”
“Overheard where?”
“His da were talkin’ t’a mate.”
Ian stopped walking. “Is his father William Striebel, the safecracker?”
“Tha’s him, yeah.”
“What did Billy hear?”
“His da was knockin’ back a few wi’ his mate, an’ Billy was s’posed t’be in bed, only he wasn’t.”
“What did he hear?”
“Well, his da asked if everythin’ was on, an’ someone said somethin’ ’bout minding the construction in the back.”
“Did he mention where?”
“No, jes that there was construction in the back. An’ someone said somethin’ ’bout how the coppers would never think they’d try somethin’ so bold, like.”
“Are you certain? They said all this?”
“That’s what Billy said. Think it might be useful?”
“It could very well prove vital. Can you do something for me?”
Derek’s face brightened. “Yep!”
“Fetch Sergeant Dickerson and tell him to meet me at Madame Veselka’s straightaway. He knows where it is.”
Edinburgh Midnight Page 28