“Right, Guv!”
“Tell him to bring along a couple of constables,” Ian added, tossing him a coin. “Quick as you can!”
“Right-o!” Derek said, scampering off toward the police station.
Ian took to his heels in the opposite direction. It wasn’t far to Blackfriars Street, and as it was near the end of the workday, cabs would be in short supply.
In less than ten minutes he was at the ramshackle tenement where Madame Veselka lived. He thought he heard voices coming from inside, but his knock on the front door brought no response, so he went around to peer in the front window. The French lace curtains were drawn, and a heavy drape had been pulled over them, preventing him from seeing inside.
Returning to the front door, he knocked loudly and announced himself.
“Edinburgh City Police! Open this door!”
When no response was forthcoming, he threw himself against the door, splintering the termite-ridden wood, sending spears of pain through his injured shoulder and ribs. Tumbling into the foyer, he got to his feet and hurried to the parlor, where he found Madame Veselka cowering in a corner, Catherine Nielsen holding a knife to her throat. He recognized it as the long knife she had used to cut the Dundee cake, and it looked even more lethal now.
“Not one step farther!” she hissed as Ian entered the room. “Stay where you are!”
“Put the knife down, Mrs. Nielsen,” he said calmly.
“Just as soon as I slit the throat of this liar.”
Madame Veselka sobbed, tears running down her face, leaving salty streaks on her plump cheeks. “G-Gretchen—she killed p-poor Gretchen!”
“She deserved it,” Catherine Nielsen muttered through gritted teeth. “Stupid girl.”
“Where is she?” said Ian.
“I-in the b-bedroom—she was trying to protect me,” the medium whimpered.
Ian made a move, but was stopped by Catherine Nielsen’s voice, sharp as the steel blade in her hand.
“I said stay where you are!”
“Are you unhurt?” he asked the medium.
“I’m all right,” she replied. “Poor G-Gretchen . . .”
“What did they do to you that deserves death?” he asked Catherine Nielsen.
“Madame was going to rat me out—said she saw it all in a ‘vision,’ and knew I was guilty! She tried to convince me to turn myself in—ha! That’s a laugh—turn myself in! Why on earth would I do that?” she said, her eyes wild. Ian wondered if she had ingested something—she seemed positively demented. She brandished the knife, flailing it in the air.
Afraid she was about to kill Madame Veselka, he took a step toward her. In an instant, she sprang at him, slashing him across the face with the knife. He reeled backward and fell to the ground, looking up just in time to see Sergeant Dickerson barrel into the room and launch himself at Catherine Nielsen. She was ready for him, and plunged the knife into his side. He grunted with pain but tackled her to the ground, the knife still in his body.
Ian got up, blood spurting from his face, and wrestled Catherine away from the injured sergeant. She shrieked and fought like a lioness, with such fierce strength that he could barely contain her, scratching at his injured cheek with her nails. He finally managed to get her under control, wrapping her hands behind her back.
“Handcuffs, Sergeant!”
Groaning, Dickerson rolled onto his side and extracted a pair of cuffs from his uniform. Ian took them and fastened them round Mrs. Nielsen’s wrists. Wiping the blood from his face with his free hand, he pulled her down onto the couch. “If you so much as move a muscle, I’ll tie your feet as well,” he told her. “Can you keep an eye on her?” he asked Madame Veselka, helping her to her feet.
“I’ll kick her bloody teeth in,” she muttered, staggering toward the couch.
“No! Just watch her,” Ian commanded. “She’ll face punishment later.” He knelt beside Sergeant Dickerson, who was breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead. “Steady on, Sergeant. Let’s have a look at that wound, shall we?” he said, gently examining where the knife protruded from the sergeant’s side. There wasn’t as much blood as he expected, but he knew if he pulled out the knife Dickerson might bleed to death. “We’d best get you to hospital. Where are those constables I asked you to bring along?”
“Chief put . . . ev’ry spare man . . . on watch at jewelry store,” Dickerson said through clenched teeth. “Tonight’s s’posed t’be . . . big break-in.”
“No more talking—save your strength,” Ian said, trying to figure out what to do next. It was imperative to get Dickerson medical attention, yet he couldn’t leave the madame alone with a killer. The medium hovered over Mrs. Nielsen, swaying a little, looking rather murderous herself. There seemed to be no way out of this predicament.
Then he heard the most welcome sound of his entire life.
“Hamilton! You in there?” It was Conan Doyle.
“In here!” he called.
Doyle appeared at the door, medical bag in his hand. “Good Lord,” he said, kneeling beside Dickerson.
“He needs to go to hospital straightaway,” said Ian. “Can you manage that?”
“You’re bleeding,” Doyle said.
“There’s a girl in the back room. Can you see if she’s still alive?”
Doyle disappeared through the beaded curtain, emerging a few moments later.
“Well?” said Ian.
“I’m afraid we arrived too late to save her.”
Madame Veselka let out a wail like a wounded animal, and lunged toward Mrs. Nielsen.
“No!” Ian commanded, grabbing her arm. “If you can’t do as I say, I’ll have you in cuffs, too!” He turned to Doyle. “Can you get Sergeant Dickerson to the infirmary?”
“Help me get him into a cab. I left one waiting outside.”
“Can we leave you alone for just a moment?” Ian asked Madame Veselka.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, her hands clenched into fists.
“Don’t do anything, or I swear I’ll have you thrown in prison along with her,” he warned. “Just watch her.”
The medium turned back to her captive. “If she so much as twitches, she’ll regret it.”
Mrs. Nielsen looked up with a worried expression, as if she believed the medium’s threat.
“Quickly,” Ian told Doyle. “We haven’t much time.”
“Steady on,” said Doyle, as they lifted the injured sergeant to his feet. Dickerson looked pale and shaken, but remained conscious.
“I don’t know what I’d have done without you,” Ian told his friend as they settled the sergeant into the back of the hansom. “What about Jonas Nielsen?”
“He’s going to make a full recovery,” Doyle said, sitting gingerly next to Dickerson. “The crisis was past, so I thought you could use my help.”
“Thank you, Doyle. Your timing—”
“Get that wound looked after,” his friend said, closing the door behind him.
Ian turned and charged back into the building. A few tenants had gathered in the hallway outside the flat, come to see the source of all the commotion. “Step back—Edinburgh City Police,” he said, brushing past them.
Madame Veselka was true to her word and had not harmed Mrs. Nielsen, however much she wanted to. Promising to return as soon as he could, he left the grieving medium in her flat, escorting Mrs. Nielsen out, a gathering crowd of curious onlookers watching as he walked her from the building. The commotion had also finally attracted the attention of a couple of beat constables, and he handed her over to them, glad to be rid of her.
“Get her to jail quick as you can. Mind—she’s violent,” he said.
Their expressions indicated they didn’t believe his depiction of the respectably dressed middle-aged woman. “I mean it,” he repeated. “Mind you keep an eye on her.”
“Yes, sir,” said the older of the two. “Come along, now,” he said, taking her arm. “We don’t want no trouble, now.”
Watching them disappear into the night
as a light rain began to fall, Ian thought it was far too late for that. Trouble had found its way into the winding streets of the city, and showed no sign of letting up before the night was over.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Detective Chief Inspector Robert Crawford looked up from his desk to see the bedraggled form of Ian Hamilton appear before him like an apparition.
“Good Lord, man, you look like Hamlet’s ghost,” he said, startled at the sight of the detective, his face smeared with dried blood.
“Never mind about that,” Hamilton said, breathing heavily.
“Have a seat—you look like hell.”
“There’s no time.”
“You’re not even supposed to be here. I suspended you indefinitely, remember?”
“I’ve information about the theft—”
“What sort of information?”
“It’s not to be at the jewelers—”
“Where, then?”
“The Bank of Scotland.”
“That’s absurd! No one would dare try to—”
“I tell you, it is!” Hamilton said, holding onto the front of the desk to steady himself.
“For God’s sake, sit down before you collapse,” said Crawford. “You look like a drowned rat.” Hamilton really did look terrible. His hair was matted, his clothes were half soaked, and there were streaks of blood from the cut on his face.
“We need to move the men you have stationed at Murray and Weston’s over to the bank building on North Bank Street!”
“Where did you get this ‘information’?”
“From someone involved in the burglary—or rather, his son.”
Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “It’s that wretched street urchin of yours, isn’t it?”
“It’s from a friend of his.”
“What makes you think you can trust this intelligence?”
“They spoke of robbing a place with construction in the back of the building. There’s no construction going on at Murray and Weston—”
“But there is at the Bank of Scotland,” Crawford finished for him. “I saw it myself the other day—in the back of the building.” He sighed and tugged nervously at his whiskers. “I don’t know, Hamilton, it’s not much to go on.”
“They also joked about no one believing they would have the gall to take on such a target.”
“If they’re even thinking about it, there must be someone on the inside.”
“Very likely, but we don’t have time to ponder the details—we must act before it’s too late!”
“It’s awfully thin evidence. What if you’re wrong?”
“Then leave a few men at the jeweler’s. But it’s imperative—”
“I hope to God you’re right, Hamilton,” he said, getting to his feet and lumbering to the door.
“I hope so, too, sir.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out. Bowers!” he bellowed.
The sergeant appeared, looking a bit like a scared rabbit, with his pink skin and light eyes. “Yes, sir?”
“Assemble every available man you can—”
“A lot of ’em are over at—”
“Yes, yes, I know—pull them off the watch at Murray and Weston, and—”
“Sir?”
“You can leave a few on guard, just in case.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send them over to the Bank of Scotland on North Bank Street.”
“Sir?” the sergeant said, his eyes wide.
“I’ll explain later. Hamilton and I will meet you there.”
“Yes, sir,” Bowers replied, hurrying off.
“Now,” Crawford said, pulling his coat and hat from the rack. “Let’s go foil a bank robbery, shall we?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The rain had increased to a steady drizzle by the time Ian and DCI Crawford headed out into the night.
“You’d better be right about this one,” the chief said as they settled into the back of a cab.
Ian stared out the window as they turned onto Bank Street. It was a very short distance to their destination, and they were likely to arrive before reinforcements. The ringing of the bells at St. Giles jolted Ian into a realization that tomorrow was Christmas Eve.
“Are you quite sure it’s a good idea for you to come along, sir?”
“And why not?”
“Well, sir, it’s just that—”
“Are you suggesting I’m past it, Hamilton?”
“No, sir; I was just thinking about your, uh, piles—”
“Blast my piles! I’ll have you know I’m as fit as I ever was!”
“I’m sure you are, sir.”
“Let them try to outrun me—I’ll be all over them!”
“Of course, sir.”
“Hmm,” Crawford grunted, as if not convinced Hamilton believed him. “What’s all that blood on your face, then?”
“We’ve arrived,” Ian said as the cab pulled up in front of the massive building, with its ornate Roman baroque façade, and its statue of Victory perched high atop its gold dome. Ian couldn’t help wondering who she would favor tonight.
They promised the driver extra pay if he waited, but there was no sign of Bowers and his reinforcements as they crept around to the back, the hiss of rain shadowing their steps.
“Perhaps we should wait, sir,” Ian suggested as they stood outside the wooden scaffolding surrounding the rear of the building.
“Nonsense,” said Crawford. “I don’t see anything amiss. Best to carry on and find out if we’re on a wild goose chase.”
“But sir—”
“Come along—it’s bloody wet out here,” Crawford said, striding up the wooden ramp leading to the rear entrance. “That’s odd—this door is unlocked,” he said, pushing open the small door, which functioned as a service entrance.
“Sir, I think perhaps we should wait,” Ian said, lowering his voice to a whisper as he followed the chief inside. They were met with a series of corridors leading in all directions. Ian turned at the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall.
“What’s that—” Crawford said, his words cut short by the sharp report of a pistol.
He fell heavily, blood spurting from his left side.
Ian threw himself on top of his superior officer, shielding him with his own body, but the footsteps retreated at a run, followed by silence. The rear door creaked open again, and he looked up to see a familiar figure enter.
“Corbin! What on earth—”
“I saw you leaving the police station and followed you here,” said the reporter.
“It’s not safe—”
“You once saved my life, remember? Pulled me out of that wretched house before I was poisoned to death.”
“That—”
“You may have forgotten, but I assure you, I have not,” he said, kneeling beside Crawford. “Let’s see what we have here. It’s not too bad,” he said. “The bullet seems to have caught his shoulder.”
“You need to leave before you get hurt.”
“If you help me get him into that cab, I’ll take him to hospital.”
“Very well,” Ian agreed. The chief was a large man, probably weighing nearly the same as Corbin and Hamilton put together.
Crawford began to regain consciousness. “Hamilton . . .” he said groggily.
“It’s all right, sir—we’re getting you to hospital,” Ian said as they lifted him.
“No . . . must stay and help catch . . .” he said, and passed out again.
“It’s a good job you showed up when you did,” Ian told Corbin as they carried him outside and loaded him into the back of the hansom, the worried driver looking on.
“Mind you don’t get blood all over the seats,” he instructed them.
“We’ll pay for any damage,” Ian said. “Thank you,” he told Corbin.
“Glad to be of service. Mind how you go,” the reporter said, and they drove off, leaving Ian alone in the rain.
There was still no sign of Bowers.
Ian took a deep breath, willing himself to remain where he was. But he was drawn back into the building as if by magnetic force, and before he knew it, was striding back up the ramp and into the arms of danger.
The hallway was once again silent, but the fresh blood droplets on the floor reminded him how deceptive that quiet was. Someone had shot at them, and that person was still somewhere in the building. Ian crept down the hallway in the direction the shot had come from. Reaching the end of the corridor, he took another deep breath and turned right.
Something came down hard on the back of his head. His first impression was that the ceiling had collapsed, but in the brief moment of consciousness as he dropped to the floor, he realized he had been attacked and hit by a heavy object—a police truncheon, perhaps.
And then he felt nothing at all.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
He awoke to the smell of smoke. Panic gripped him, transported instantly to his parents’ basement seven years ago, trapped beneath burning timbers as the house above him erupted in flames. He tried to scream, but found himself bound and gagged, tied to a water pipe. Looking around, he realized he was in the boiler room—just as in the fire that killed his parents, he was trapped in a basement. He looked around the room for something to cut his bonds with, and spied a nail at the base of the opposite wall. Stretching his leg out, he tried to reach it with his toe, but it was too far away. Sweat stung his face, running into the raw wound on his cheek, as the burning smell grew stronger.
He peered desperately at the small window set in the wall above him, as thunder ripped the skies, followed by jagged streaks of white lightning. He strained against his bonds, but they were fastened tightly. Though he was panting and exhausted, hope surged through his breast at the sound of approaching footsteps. Twisting around as much as he could, he looked in the direction of the entrance, as the metal door swung slowly open to reveal a tall, thin figure wreathed in swirling smoke.
“So we meet at last, Detective,” the man said in a hollow, raspy voice.
Ian struggled to speak, but the gag in his mouth prevented him from making any sound other than a muffled groan.
“Don’t try to talk,” the man said. “It will only wear you out.” Nearly as tall as Ian, he wore a long black coat. In spite of the heat from the fire, a thick wool scarf was wrapped around his throat. Ian blinked, trying to make out the man’s features through the swirling smoke, but a wide-brimmed hat was pulled over his eyes, and Ian’s vision was blurry. He fought against the panic gathering in his stomach.
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