“Brings back memories, does it?” said the man, giving a short, sharp cough. His voice sounded damaged, as if someone had drawn a wicker broom over his vocal cords. “We haven’t much time, so I’ll be brief,” he continued. “You have inconvenienced me greatly, you know. You must stop, you really must.”
Again Ian struggled to speak, and the man chuckled softly. “Why not just kill you now, you are thinking? I have my reasons. But even my patience is not eternal. Take care, Detective—get in my way once too often, and even you will not be safe from my wrath. Do not go down the path you so foolishly seek, or you may end up like Nate Crippen. It should be clear now that you cannot trust your sources as you once did.
“Oh, by the way, congratulations on solving my little distraction. It was a pretty puzzle, wasn’t it? And who knew a woman could be so murderous? Your poor sergeant must be quite disillusioned, with his chivalrous notions of femininity. And now I must be going. Pleasant dreams,” he said, and slipped out the door.
Ian fought to remain conscious as the sound of falling timber mingled with the reports of pistol shots, but overcome by smoke and exhaustion, he sank into semiconsciousness. Then he heard the wild, gleeful cries of young boys. Ian wondered if he was hallucinating, but a flash of lightning revealed the source of the sound. Running through the rain toward the building, followed by a band of wild-looking urchins, was Derek McNair. Ian could hardly believe his eyes, but the sound of pattering feet overhead confirmed that Derek had indeed turned up, with his ragged band of Irregulars.
Ian struggled harder to free himself—a gaggle of boys was no match for a gang of bank robbers. Where were Bowers and his men? What could be holding them up? But his vision began to dim—he felt groggy and dizzy, and consciousness became harder to hold onto. He tried to keep his eyes open, but to no avail, and once again, darkness claimed him.
“Sir! Wake up, sir—it’s time to leave!”
He opened his eyes to see the worried face of Sergeant Bowers, his blue eyes crinkled in concern.
“That’s quite a lump on the back of your head, sir.”
“What happened?” Ian said, blinking to clear his vision. His head was indeed throbbing.
“We caught ’em in the act, sir—a few got away, but you were right. The bank was the target, not the jewelry store.”
“What about the fire?”
“Fire department’s come, sir—it’s all in hand.”
“And the boys? Are they all right?”
“What boys, sir?”
“The Irregulars—they were here. I saw them.”
“There weren’t no boys here t’night, sir.”
“But I heard them—I tell you, I saw them!”
“You’ve a nasty blow to your head, sir. Let’s get you outta those ropes, shall we?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
“Looks t’me like ye’ve had a bit of a rough time as well, sir,” said Sergeant Dickerson.
Ian was seated beside Dickerson’s hospital bed the next morning, his face heavily bandaged, after convincing the medical staff he was ambulatory. Having slept like the dead the night before, he rose late and went straight to the Royal Infirmary to check on Dickerson and Crawford, who had both been admitted.
“What you did was very foolish, Sergeant,” said Ian.
“Yes, sir.”
“And very brave.”
“I figured t’take her by surprise, sir.”
“I hope you weren’t trying to prove yourself to me.”
“Course not.”
“Because it wasn’t necessary. I know you’re a stalwart fellow. I hear you’ve already made yourself a great favorite of the nurses,” Ian said as a pretty young brunette slipped into the room, a thermometer in hand.
“Time to check your temperature,” she told Dickerson, who pretended to be bored by the idea, though he clearly enjoyed the attention. When she had finished, she winked at him and left the room.
“I see the reports are not unfounded,” Ian remarked.
“Has Mrs. Nielsen confessed, sir?”
“To everything. Once she started talking, she couldn’t stop. I interviewed her last night at police chambers.”
Dickerson grinned. “After ye foiled the bank robbery.”
“After we did, Sergeant.”
“But I weren’t—”
“You were invaluable in every step of this investigation.”
“So what’d Mrs. Nielsen say, sir? Why’d she do it?”
“After her son took his own life, she blamed it on anyone she considered culpable—Jeremy Fitzpatrick for bullying him, and Major Fitzpatrick for using his influence to shield his son from repercussions. You were right about the timeline—she did lie about when they joined the séance group. And that lie helped put me onto her. Well done, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir. What ’bout Miss Staley? What’d she ever do?”
“Catherine Nielsen felt that as the boys’ teacher, Miss Staley should have done something to stop the bullying.”
“An’ poor Gretchen?” he said, his lower lip trembling.
“She died trying to protect Madame Veselka.”
Dickerson nodded. “She were a good ’un, she were.”
“Yes,” Ian agreed. “She died a heroic death. Once she started, Catherine Nielsen didn’t seem to be able to stop killing. She even tried to poison her own husband.”
“Why?”
“He suspected her. That’s why he came by the station house to see me. She realized he was onto her and tried to kill him.”
“That’s cold, that is,” Dickerson said, shaking his head. “Don’ like t’think women kin do that kinda thing.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ll be all right, sir. Can’t do my part in t’play t’night, though.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Mr. Vincent says he’ll do my role. I’m sure he’ll be better than me.”
“You were excellent as the Second Gravedigger in Hamlet.”
Dickerson brightened. “Ye really think so, sir?”
“Indeed I do. Everyone said so.”
“Quite right, too.”
They turned to see DCI Crawford standing at the door, his left arm in a sling.
“How are you, sir?” said Ian. “I was afraid we’d lost you there for a moment.”
Crawford grunted. “Giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel hasn’t done me in yet.”
“Well done, sir.”
“Henry V,” Crawford said, smiling broadly. “Are you sure you’re quite all right, Hamilton?”
“Never better, sir.”
“Bowers tells me you were hallucinating a bit at the end. Thought you saw a gang of street urchins or something.”
“Apparently I wasn’t as conscious as I thought.”
“Have you seen this?” Crawford asked, handing him the morning edition of the Scotsman.
CLEVER POLICE RAID FOILS OUTRAGEOUS BANK ROBBERY
CRIMINAL GANG MEMBERS CAPTURED IN LATE NIGHT SKIRMISH
The article gave a detailed report of the evening’s events, with a byline attributing it to Jed Corbin.
“I guess he came back to the bank after taking you to hospital,” said Ian. “It’s not far.”
“Bowers gave me a report this morning. There were over half a dozen captured at the scene, but some escaped. The odd thing is there were members of different known gangs, and a few new faces as well.”
“Wish I’d a been there,” Dickerson said wistfully.
“Was Constable Turnbull on the scene?” asked Ian.
“Apparently he never turned up,” said Crawford. “But he wasn’t on duty at the time.”
“Some of the lads put in an extra shift that night,” Ian pointed out, glancing at Sergeant Dickerson, who looked away. “Sergeant Dickerson, for example—”
“Well, they couldn’t have done it without you,” said the chief.
“Or the tip from Derek McNair and his friends.”
Crawford
looked around, then lowered his voice. “Still no idea where the false leads are coming from?”
“Not as yet, sir.” Ian had an impulse to tell him about his strange visitor in the boiler room, but had not yet had time to ponder who he was, and did not want to share the information with Crawford here in public, where anyone could be listening. He wasn’t entirely sure the whole thing wasn’t a hallucination induced from the blow to his head. Catherine Nielsen had disavowed any knowledge of the man, and, given her willingness to divulge everything in her confession, Ian believed her. There was so much he didn’t yet understand.
“In the meantime, sir, might I suggest a play to take your mind off everything?” he said.
The chief tugged at his whiskers and glanced out at the hallway. “If they let me out of here. What about you, Sergeant? I suppose they’ll put on your understudy, eh?”
“Mr. Vincent, the director, will do it, sir.”
“It’s no fun being on the sidelines, is it? Much better to be in the heat of the action, eh?”
“I expect they’ll manage without me, sir.”
“I suppose they always do,” the chief said with a sigh. “Manage without one, I mean . . . no one’s really irreplaceable, are they?”
“I think some people are, sir,” said Ian. “Maybe in some way, everybody is.”
Crawford stared at him. “Too deep for me, Hamilton—what I really want right now is a glass of whisky and a decent lamb chop. Have you had the food here? It’s dreadful.”
“I don’ think it’s so bad,” Dickerson remarked.
“You’re welcome to it, then,” Crawford muttered, shuffling out of the room. “I’m going to see if I can’t get someone to spring me from this place.”
“Good luck, sir,” said Ian, as Fiona Stuart appeared in the doorway.
“Hello there,” she said.
“Hello,” Ian replied. “What are you doing tonight?”
“What did you have in mind?”
CHAPTER SIXTY
A few hours later, Ian and Fiona were seated next to each other at the Greyfriars Dramatic Society’s production of A Christmas Carol. Fiona was in an unexpectedly chatty mood.
“This is much more fun than seeing a matinee,” she said as the lights went down on the stage. Later, she whispered, “He’s very good, isn’t he?” as they watched Alistair McPherson as Scrooge display great terror in his scene with Jacob Marley’s ghost, cowering at the sight of his rattling chains. The actor playing the ghost was beautifully costumed, all in gray, so in the dim lighting he was only half visible.
The production spared no expense, with wonderfully convincing stage effects—the audience gasped at the entrance of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. He was well over eight feet tall, dressed in a tattered shroud hiding his face, with long, pointed fingers. Ian realized the effect had been created by putting the actor on stilts and fastening extensions to his fingers, so they appeared to have long, knifelike nails.
When the children playing Ignorance and Want appeared, Ian was reminded of the little cress girl at the intersection of Bell’s Wynd, and the cruelties of a society that allowed children to huddle on cold street corners without proper food or a warm fire to come home to. At the end, when Tiny Tim cried, “God bless us, everyone!” Ian was surprised to find his eyes welling up at the sight of the poor Cratchit family celebrating Christmas with the newly reformed Ebenezer Scrooge.
The curtain was lowered to tremendous applause, and the actors took three curtain calls each.
“I say, that was rather well done, don’t you think?” said Conan Doyle, coming up to Ian and Fiona as the house lights went on.
“Yes, excellent,” Ian agreed.
“You’re looking especially well, Miss Stuart,” he added, tipping his hat to Fiona. “And your aunt, Hamilton—hope you don’t mind my saying so, but she looks ten years younger,” he said, rubbing his hands together in his hearty way. “How’s that slash on your cheek?”
“Not too bad,” Ian replied, though it throbbed constantly. “Have you seen DCI Crawford?”
“He’s still in hospital. He claims he’s chafing to be released, but I suspect he stayed in to keep Sergeant Dickerson company.”
That seemed uncharacteristic, Ian thought, but maybe Ebenezer Scrooge wasn’t the only one having a spiritual reformation this Christmas season.
“Well, I’m due at surgery, I’m afraid,” said Doyle. “I just got word Dr. Bell is doing an emergency appendectomy and I’m to assist. No rest for the wicked.”
“Good luck with the surgery,” Ian said as his friend hurried from the room. He turned to see Donald coming toward him.
“They acquitted themselves especially well, don’t you think?” his brother said. “Good evening, Nurse Stuart—you are looking particularly resplendent, if I may say so.”
“In my nurse’s uniform?”
“It suits you.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.”
“That performance was far better than I expected, truly,” said Donald.
“Yes, it was very good,” Ian agreed.
“Lillian just told me there’s to be a celebration at her house, and we’re invited.”
“I’ll have to beg off. I’m afraid I’m all in.”
“You’ll have to tell her yourself,” Donald said. “I’d sooner disappoint the Queen than Aunt Lillian. It seems you got quite sliced up,” he added, peering at Ian’s bandaged cheek.
Ian shrugged. “It could have been worse.”
“At least it’s on the same side as your earlier cut. That’s probably going to scar, you know.”
“You can pretend it’s from a duel,” said Fiona.
“A bragging scar,” Donald added, referring to their popularity among German fencing students, who proudly sported facial wounds as examples of manly courage. He turned to Fiona and gave a small bow. “Good to see you, Miss Stuart.”
“And you,” she said. “I like your brother,” she told Ian when Donald was safely out of earshot.
“I do, too—most of the time. What do you say we have that dinner together at last?”
“I thought you were tired.”
“There are different kinds of fatigue. What do you say?”
“I just have to pop home to change. I had to come straight from hospital tonight—can’t very well turn up at Le Canard dressed like this, can I?”
“I suppose not.”
“Can I meet you there in, say, forty minutes?”
“You’re not thinking of standing me up, are you?” he asked with a sly smile.
She rolled her eyes. “Hopefully we’re past that.”
As Fiona made her way from the room, Aunt Lillian approached from the stage.
“What’s this I hear about you not coming to our party?”
“I’m just—”
“Ach, I see,” she said, pointing to the retreating figure of Fiona Stuart. “‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.’”
“Since when did you take to quoting—”
She patted his arm. “It’s quite all right. If anyone understands, I do.” She turned toward the stage, where Alistair McPherson stood smiling at her, holding a single red rose. “He was good as Scrooge, wasn’t he?”
“Very. You have excellent taste.”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and bustled away, quick as a schoolgirl. Apparently being in love conquered the stiffness of arthritis, at least for a time. He was happy for her.
In fact, he thought as he left the building, he was rather happy with everyone. As he walked, with the city spread out before him like a flower, Ian realized that just as Ebenezer Scrooge had begrudged others his money, he had withheld his feelings. He was as stingy with his emotions as Scrooge was with his pennies; could it be that he was having the same kind of change of heart as Dickens’ famous miser? If a fictional character could have a spiritual awakening, surely he could as well. It was simply a matter of perspective, of seeing things differently.
The circumstances of his life had not changed, but perhaps he had. Like Scrooge, surely he could let go of the memories that haunted him. Perhaps choosing to live differently was even more courageous than facing bullets.
The sound of Christmas carols floated across the darkened landscape, and Ian was suddenly filled with a warm regard for his fellow man; the unexpected surfeit of emotion made his throat swell and his eyes burn.
He had not gone far when he saw the familiar figure of Derek McNair approaching. There was something different in his stride—his usual bounce was gone, and though his expression under the streetlamp was difficult to read, Ian thought he looked chastened.
“Hello, Master McNair.”
“Evenin’, Guv.”
“What brings you out tonight?”
“Got sommit fer ye,” he said, digging a piece of paper from his pocket.
“Who gave you this?”
“Fella I never seen afore. Ugly, like, wi’ a face that looks like it’s been knocked around.”
“You weren’t by any chance near the Bank of Scotland last night?”
“What, durin’ the robbery an’ all? I wish I had, Guv—heard ye took ’em by surprise. Well, ain’t ye gonna read that?”
“You haven’t by chance read it first, have you?”
“Me? Naw—I can’t read, Guv.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Well, only a bit. An’ why would I read a note meant fer you?”
“You don’t seriously expect an answer to that.”
“Read it, would ye?”
“Why, are you expecting a reply?”
“Jes read it, mate!”
Standing beneath the light of the streetlamp, Ian complied, and the words chilled his heart.
Did you ever stop to think how the Nielsens found out about the séances? Have fun with that.
PS You’ll never find the girl. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll take care to stay out of my way from now on.
Edinburgh Midnight Page 30