“It’s late,” he said, throwing off the covers. “Come along, let’s get us both some breakfast.”
As his feet touched the floor, there was a rapid knocking at the door. Cursing, he threw on his dressing gown and opened the door to see a wild-eyed Sergeant Dickerson, his face still creased from sleep. The disarray of his uniform suggested he had dressed with some haste.
“Dickerson,” Ian said. “I thought this was your day off.”
“Ye’d better come right away, sir.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a young lad—done same as t’others.”
“Where?”
“Warden’s Close, sir, just off the Grassmarket.”
“Have you seen the body?”
“No, sir—I came here straightaway soon as I heard.”
Ian let loose a low curse. “Fetch a cab—I’ll be out directly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Five minutes later, Ian was out the door, leaving behind a disappointed and hungry cat. Resigned to fend for himself, Bacchus slunk out of the kitchen in search of a live breakfast. Luckily for him, Edinburgh had no shortage of vermin, four-footed or otherwise.
The fetid stench of rotting cabbage assailed Ian’s nostrils as he alighted from the hansom cab, striding past the brace of patrolmen guarding the crime scene. Edinburgh was an odiferous city, and the recent thaw had brought out its less savory smells. A crowd of people had gathered, craning their necks trying to peer into the alley. Several individuals, employees of the Daily Bread, wore white bakery aprons. Ian recognized several other onlookers as newspaper men.
“Is it another victim of the strangler, Detective?” one of them called out.
“What can you tell us about the victim this time?” said another.
“How long before you lads catch him?”
Ian ignored them, striding down the narrow wynd leading to the rear of the bakery. The victim lay on his back behind discarded household items, some rusty old bedsprings, and a cracked butter churn. Only the boy’s legs were visible from where he stood; he was clad in oversized boots and undersized trousers. Ian turned to the sergeant.
“Who found the body?”
“Daft Lucy, sir.”
“Where is she now?”
“Waiting for you at the station house, sir. She were fair upset, so Constable Bowers took her there fer a cup o’ tea.”
“That’s all we need—a delusional madwoman as a witness.” Ian took a step toward the body as the pounding in his head intensified. When he saw the fair hair and familiar face, a groan escaped him.
“Oh, no,” he moaned. “No, no, no.”
“What is it, sir?” Dickerson asked, his freckled face crinkled in concern. “You know this boy?”
Ian knelt beside the body and gently brushed the blond hair from the high forehead, the skin cold and white as ivory in death. “His name is Freddie Cubbins.”
“Looks to be a street Arab.”
“Quite right, Sergeant.” He bent over the boy and gently searched his grubby clothes. He found it right away, slid neatly into the left vest pocket: the ace of diamonds. He held it up for Dickerson to see.
The sergeant peered at the card and frowned. “He’s changed suits, sir.”
“He’s started a new hand.”
“Why d’you suppose he did that?”
“He’s going for another straight flush.” Ian slipped the card into his own pocket and gazed at the dead boy lying on the cold, hard cobblestones. “‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“It’s from The Tempest.”
“Shakespeare’s last play, weren’t it?”
“And by God, I swear this will be this murderer’s last victim. Mark my words, Sergeant.”
But even as his words were drowned out by the sounds of the city around him, he doubted his own ability to make them come true.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Henry Standish Wright awoke early Sunday morning from an uneasy sleep—if sleep you could call it—and stared at the ceiling. He felt hungover, yet had imbibed not a drop the night before. Following another sold-out performance at the Theatre Royal, he had crawled into bed, exhausted in mind and body. But sleep failed him, as it had so often recently, and he spent a wretched night wrestling with what was left of his conscience.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, with its silk sheets and lush brocade spread, setting his feet upon the deep, plush carpet. The luxurious surroundings only deepened his misery, reminding him of his own unworthiness. Others in this town had barely a crust of bread and a cup of foul water for supper, while he dined on oysters and beef Wellington, spending more in a day than they would earn in a year.
He rose stiffly and dragged himself to the water closet; after doing his business, he sat at the vanity next to the poster bed with its grand canopy of plump, laughing cherubs and elegant, winged angels. He stared at his own reflection, shocked at the haunted eyes looking back at him. Here was no fat pink cherub or angel—it was the face of a man pursued by devils. He alone could help end this nightmare, yet he was too weak.
He remembered his brother as a boy, and how sweet and gentle he had been while their mother still lived—like any other boy, really, with his little stick hobbyhorse he was so proud of. He recalled the games they had played together—tag and four corners and mumblety-peg. He had tried to protect his brother from their father’s anger, falling upon them like bitter rain. But his brother was always defiant, drawing more than his share of whippings. The enforced boxing matches in the backyard only served to deepen his rebellious spirit. The more Henry tried to shield him from his father’s rage, the heavier his father’s retribution, seemingly inexhaustible after their mother’s death.
Henry had escaped to school, but no such luck for his brother, who stayed behind to work in their father’s chemist shop. In the long hours behind the counter, he developed his skill at card manipulation, delighting customers with his tricks. During that time, the rumors had also started—that he was “different,” bullying younger children and responsible for missing cats and dogs. It wasn’t something they ever talked about, but somehow Henry knew what his brother was, and perhaps even why. When he came home from school that first spring, Henry saw in his brother’s eyes a cruelty he had never noticed before.
Henry pulled on his dressing gown and padded into the sitting room, with its grand chandelier and French Empire furniture. His head ached with the weight of memories. He looked longingly at the sideboard with its gleaming bottles of liquor, steeling himself against temptation. It was important to keep his mind clear. On the carpet in front of the door was the daily newspaper. It appeared each morning, slid beneath his door by a member of the hotel staff, one of many working tirelessly to make his stay comfortable. He leaned over to pick it up, groaning as the bones of his stiff spine protested wearily. The headline slammed into his brain like a rifle shot.
TERRIBLE CRIME IN THE GRASSMARKET—BOY MURDERED!
HOLYROOD STRANGLER STRIKES AGAIN—YOUNGEST VICTIM YET
He sank to his knees and buried his head in his hands, trying to drive his brother’s words from his mind, to no avail. Over and over the phrase repeated itself in his head. Oh, there was so much evil in a man . . .
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
“I’ve had just about enough of this bosh and bunkum!” DCI Crawford declared, spewing spittle into the surrounding air. Ian took a step backward to avoid the spray, wincing as the droplets landed on his face. “A mere child this time? Good Lord, why can’t we catch this bastard?”
Ian was silent. Answering the chief during one of his tirades was not advisable—best to wait for it to run its course.
“Well?” Crawford bellowed. “And where the bloody hell is Dickerson?”
At that moment the door to the office swung open, and Sergeant Dickerson burst in, clutching a newspaper, flushed and out of breath. Ian was surprised to see him enter the office without knocking.
Crawford looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to chide the sergeant for being late or for neglecting to knock. “What took you so long?” he demanded.
The sergeant thrust out the newspaper he held, his hand trembling.
“What’s this?” Crawford said, frowning.
“It’s Chief Inspector Gerard, sir,” Dickerson said, pointing to a boldface headline on the front page.
TRAGIC DEATH AT WAVERLEY STATION!
MAN CRUSHED BY TRAIN
ACCIDENT OR SUICIDE—OR SOMETHING DARKER?
“Good Lord,” Crawford said, scanning the article. “That was just hours after we last saw him.” He looked at Ian. “Do you think . . . ?”
Ian nodded, his face grim. “I think it’s a likely explanation.” He scanned the article. No one claimed to have seen anything, according to Constable McKee, the officer on duty.
“Get McKee in here and grill him,” Crawford said. “See if he knows anything.”
“Yes, sir,” Ian said, turning to Dickerson. “Can you handle that while I interview Daft Lucy?”
“Right away, sir.”
Crawford fell back heavily into his chair, the springs creaking beneath his bulk. “Good luck getting anything coherent out of her.”
“Where is she?”
His boss flung a fat thumb toward the back of the station house. “Asleep. The lads gave her some tea and she asked to lie down, so we put her in one of the empty cells.”
“I’ll fetch her before I leave, sir?” Dickerson offered.
“Off you go, then,” Ian said.
The sergeant blinked, rocked back on his heels, and fled the room.
CI Crawford ran a hand through his abundant ginger whiskers, absently twisting a piece of string between his fingers. “Do you have anything at all, Hamilton?”
“We may have an eyewitness.”
“Haul him on down here!”
“He’s promised to come in today. We’re likely to get better results if he comes voluntarily.”
“Who is it?”
“His first name is Peter.”
“And his last name?”
“I don’t have it, but—”
“Why not?”
“I know where to find him, sir.”
Crawford scowled at Ian. “What about the Arthur’s Seat victim—is there a connection?”
“I believe it to be the same killer.”
“Why were the other victims all found in alleys?”
“He lured Wycherly to the top of Arthur’s Seat either to disguise it as a suicide, or, failing that, to make it appear to be a disagreement that turned lethal. He was attempting to use misdirection to confuse us.”
“Why did he not do that with the rest of the victims?”
“He got lazy—or confident. Once he believed he could get away with his crimes, the killings became bolder, more direct. He no longer worked to cover his tracks. And that’s how we’re going to catch him.”
Sergeant Dickerson’s face appeared at the half-open office door. “Excuse me, sir—I fetched Lucy, and she’s ready to speak with you.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Ian.
“I’ll just be off, then,” Dickerson said, holding the door open for Lucy to enter.
Lucy Davenport was long and lean, her weathered face making her look much older than her age, which Ian guessed to be about thirty. She was dressed in a motley pile of clothes heaped on top of one another with no regard to fashion—the layers of tartans alone probably represented half a dozen clans. On her long, thin legs were mismatched woolen stockings, and on her feet a sturdy pair of men’s boots. Strips of flannel wound round her head completely obscured her hair. Her skin being the color and texture of tanned leather, she resembled a demented Eastern shah.
“Hello, Lucy,” Ian said, offering her a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”
She shook her head violently. “Oh, I daren’t, sir—he won’ let me.”
“Who won’t?” Crawford asked.
“I cannot speak ’is name, sir.”
“I see.”
“Can you write it, perhaps?” asked Ian, offering her paper and pen.
“I s’pose so,” she replied, carefully scratching out the letters in spidery capital letters: EVIL SETH.
“Evil Seth?” Crawford said, his shaggy brow furrowed. “Who on earth is that?”
“Is he the one whose voice you hear in your head?” Ian asked her.
Lucy nodded vigorously.
“And he tells you to do things?”
“Mostlah ’e just tells me how bad I am. I’m no’ wicked, am I, sir?”
“No, Lucy, you certainly are not,” Ian replied. “In fact, we were hoping you might help us find the person who killed young Freddie Cubbins.”
“The boy wha’ I found, sir?”
“Yes,” said Crawford. “Did you see anyone hanging around the body when you discovered it?”
“It weren’t no body when I arrived, sir.”
Crawford frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“He were alive when I got there.”
“He was?” The chief inspector could hardly contain his eagerness. Ian hoped he wouldn’t frighten Lucy into silence.
“Aye. I asked who done this, and I believe he tried tae tell me, but the poor bairn had nae mere breath left in him than a tiny wisp o’ air.”
“So did he speak?” Crawford asked, his small blue eyes keen.
“He tried, God rest ’is wee soul.”
“What did he say?”
“It sounded like ‘Madge.’”
“Madge?” Ian repeated.
“That can be short for Margaret,” Crawford said. “I had an aunt Margaret we called Madge.”
“Is that what he was trying to say, you think?” Ian asked Lucy.
“I don’ rightly know, sir. I just heard ‘Madge,’ or maybe ‘Madgie.’”
“Do you know of anyone named Madge or Madgie?” Crawford asked Ian, who shook his head.
Lucy shrugged. “That’s wha’ I heard, is all. An’ I could get nae mere out o’him. Poor fellow just—” She stopped abruptly and clasped her hands to her ears. “Stop it! Leave me in peace!” she cried in a tormented voice.
The men exchanged looks. “Is Seth bothering you?” said Ian.
“Oh, please!” she wailed, shaking her head from side to side. “Jes’ gae away!”
Crawford heaved his bulk from his chair and opened the door to his office. “Sergeant,” he called out to the desk sergeant on duty, “will you get Miss Davenport something to eat and escort her out?”
“Certainly, sir,” the sergeant replied, hurrying into the DCI’s office. “Come on, miss—let’s see about gettin’ you something t’eat, then, shall we?” he said, taking her gently by the elbow.
Shaking her head fretfully as if trying to dislodge something, she allowed herself to be led from the room.
“I think we’ve taxed her enough,” Crawford remarked to Ian when she was gone.
“What do you make of that? Was the entire story one of her delusions?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Ian. “She seemed very lucid when describing that memory.”
“But what can it mean?”
“Maybe he was trying to say ‘magician,’” Ian suggested.
“Madge. Madgie. Magician.” Crawford pulled at his whiskers. “You think he was killed by a magician?”
“That would explain the cards left on the bodies.”
“By Jove, so it does,” Crawford said. Ian sensed he was trying not to sound too enthusiastic—the chief inspector preferred to lead in the traditional Scottish way, with an eye to everything that could go wrong. That way, as Ian’s father used to say, one was less often disappointed.
“Also,” Ian continued, “the scene described by our witness at the Owl’s Nest would bear out the idea that our killer is someone familiar with cards and card tricks.”
“Then why isn’t he here? Skittish about coppers, is he?”
&n
bsp; “He’s probably also afraid what happened to the others will happen to him if he talks.”
“It’s more likely to happen if he doesn’t talk,” Crawford muttered, pulling on his whiskers.
Ian glanced at the clock on the wall behind Crawford’s desk. It was a few minutes after noon. “He should be here soon—is there a police sketch artist available?”
Crawford frowned. “Keith McGregor is in Inverness, and Samuel Harrison has a bad case of boils. What about that aunt of yours? Can she sketch?”
“As a matter of fact, she won an art prize at school—”
“Tell her the reputation of the Edinburgh City Police is at stake.”
“I usually have Sunday dinner with her. I can go ask her now if you like.”
“Off you go, then. If your witness shows up, I’ll send a constable to your aunt’s to fetch you both.”
“Here’s her address,” Ian said, scribbling it down on a piece of paper.
“And Hamilton,” Crawford added as Ian turned to leave, “you can have anyone else you want—whatever it takes to capture this devil.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“There’s not a man on this force who wouldn’t be proud to be the one to bring him in.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Now get on with you—and tell that aunt of yours to fatten you up, for Christ’s sake. You look like a bloody scarecrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Ian replied. Throwing his cloak around his shoulders, he left the station, striding into the wintry gloom of a pallid February afternoon.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
On the other side of the Royal Mile, the luxurious furnishings of the Waterloo Hotel only served to torment the man pacing the elegant parlor, smoking one cigarette after another. Henry Standish Wright was at a crossroads. He could no longer bear the weight of guilt he had lived with far too long. It was like a physical presence, pushing him down, choking the breath from his body. Fear and loyalty had prevented him from taking action until now, but as he gazed out the frosted panes of the French windows, he felt only horror. He could no longer stand by and watch passively as one young life after another was sacrificed to a dark and distorted desire.
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