Downstairs, the smell of beef and root vegetables simmering on the stove made him quite faint with hunger. A glance at his watch revealed that it was half past two. Following the aroma of beef stew, he found Mrs. Sutherland in the kitchen, standing over a cast-iron pot of promising capaciousness. She turned as he entered the room, the color leaping to her cheeks as she saw him.
“Have any luck?” she asked, stirring the pot.
“I’m afraid not. Mr. Wycherly was very orderly, wasn’t he?”
“He was a model tenant, poor dear,” she said, stooping a little to taste a bit of stew, scooping it out with a ladle and blowing on it before taking a sip. She made a pensive face. “More sage,” she declared, striding over to the spice cupboard.
“What happened to his puppy? I found the leash upstairs,” Ian said, holding it up.
“He’s in the laundry room for now,” she said, plucking the bottle of sage from the spice shelf. “But he can’t stay there. Bacchus will tear him apart if he ever gets into the room.”
Ian pictured the cat hurtling its bulk at the offending canine, claws flying.
“Would you like to have him?” Mrs. Sutherland asked, shaking a liberal amount of sage into the stew, the herb’s pungent fragrance filling the air.
“I can’t take care of a dog,” Ian said.
“I’ll take ’im,” said a voice behind them.
They turned to see Sergeant Dickerson standing in the doorway, quite out of breath.
“Sergeant?” said Ian. “What are you doing here?”
“We ’ave a suspect, sir,” Dickerson replied. “He’s at station house. Thought you might like t’know.”
“What are we waiting for?” Ian said, already halfway down the hall. “Come along, Sergeant! Thank you, Mrs. Sutherland!” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll be back for the dog later!”
They were out on the street before the landlady had replaced the lid of the sage bottle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“How did you manage to locate me?” Ian asked as he strode along Leith Walk, Sergeant Dickerson scurrying to keep up with him.
“I went along t’Miss Harley’s house, and she mentioned you were tryin’ to locate a letter Mr. Wycherly had received. I thought it were th’ most logical place t’look.”
“Excellent reasoning, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dickerson replied, grabbing his hat as a gust of wind attempted to lift it from his head.
“Now, what’s this about a suspect?” Ian said, sidestepping a vegetable cart piled high with root tubers—potatoes, turnips, carrots, and parsnips. The cart’s wooden wheels clattered on the paving stones as the vendor labored up the hill toward the Grassmarket. “Have you arrested someone?”
“Not as yet, sir, but I thought ye might like t’interview him.”
At the intersection of Leith Walk and the London Road, they hailed a hansom cab and soon were rattling into the heart of the city.
“Who is this person, and why is he a suspect?” Ian asked as the cab wheels splashed through puddles of melted snow and ice.
“Turned himself in,” Dickerson replied. “Just showed up unannounced and said he were the Holyrood Strangler.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“He said he wanted t’speak with you.”
“Curious,” Ian mused. “I wonder how he knew who I am.”
“It were in th’ papers, sir,” Dickerson replied, turning to stare out the window at a gaggle of schoolgirls in plaid skirts and white blouses, their legs thin in black woolen stockings.
“Sergeant!” Ian said sharply.
“It’s naught like that, sir—that’s my sister’s school, and I were just tryin’ t’see if I could spot her.”
“My apologies. How old are you?”
“Twenty-three, sir.”
“And your sister?”
“Pauline just turned fourteen. I try t’look after her, y’see.”
“Very commendable. Which paper published my name?”
“The Scotsman, sir. Said you were lead investigator in t’case.”
The cab pulled up in front of police headquarters, and Ian paid the driver while Dickerson alighted from the cab and opened an umbrella. The rain had started again—a thin, perfunctory drizzle washing away the remnants of snow still clinging to the cobblestones.
An air of expectation greeted them inside. Evidently word had gotten around, and eyes followed them as Ian and the sergeant entered the main room. Threading through the desks and filing cabinets, they proceeded down the narrow hallway toward the holding cells. The floorboards creaked as they entered the cellblock, containing a dozen or so cramped but relatively comfortable compartments.
Seated on the bunk in the first one was a small, rather elderly man in a tweed hunting jacket. He looked up and smiled expectantly when he saw Ian.
“Detective Inspector Hamilton, I presume?”
“And you are . . . ?”
“Whitaker Titterington the Third.”
“I see,” said Ian as Sergeant Dickerson let them both into the cell, opening the thick metal gate and clanking it closed behind them.
“Please, won’t you sit down?” inquired Whitaker Titterington III, indicating a chair in the corner of the cell.
Ian complied, leaving Sergeant Dickerson standing rather stiffly by the door, as if he expected the prisoner to leap up and flee at any moment. “So, Mr. Titterington, you claim to be responsible for the death of Mr. Robert Tierney on the night of Friday last?”
“I am indeed.”
“Do you mind answering a few questions?”
“Are you going to hold me overnight?” he asked eagerly.
“If we find it necessary.”
“Oh, it is most necessary, I assure you.”
“Perhaps you can tell me how and why you came to kill Mr. Tierney.”
“Certainly. It was during a bar fight.”
“Over what, exactly?”
“He insulted me.”
“What did he say?”
“He called me a henpecked bantam cock.”
“And so what did you do?”
“Well, I killed him.”
“How, exactly?”
Titterington looked down at his shoes. “I, uh, strangled him.”
“With your bare hands?”
“Yes.”
Ian rose from his chair. “Mr. Titterington, I should arrest you for lying to a policeman and wasting our time, but since you seem to be so keen to be incarcerated, I’m going to let you off with a warning.” He turned to Sergeant Dickerson. “Would you be so kind as to let this gentleman go so he can return home?”
The sergeant blinked twice, then unlocked the metal cell gate and swung it open.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Titterington,” said Ian.
“Oh, no, this isn’t right at all,” their visitor said, wringing his hands. “I’m a cold-blooded killer! Think of the ravage I could wreak upon society, the innocent lives I could destroy!”
“Feel free to return if the urge to kill strikes you again.”
The little man continued to protest. “But—”
“Good day, Mr. Titterington,” said Ian as the sergeant led him away.
Ian closed the cell door behind him and made his way back through the corridor to the main room of the station house, where Dickerson was waiting.
“I’m sorry, sir, I thought—”
“There are a great many crackpots in this town, and a few will inevitably confess to crimes they did not commit. Apart from hardly being capable of strangling someone like Robert Tierney, he doesn’t even know what method the killer used.”
“Right—he didn’t know there were ligature involved,” Dickerson answered sheepishly.
“Now you see the value of keeping certain details from the general public.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Ian laid a hand on his shoulder. “Never mind, Sergeant—live and learn, eh?”
“But why would
he confess t’crime he didn’t commit?”
“A desire for publicity, perhaps, to be thought of as more dangerous and grander than he is. He might wish to escape a nagging wife, or debts—or any number of unpleasant situations.”
“But to risk bein’ hanged, sir?”
“I suspect he didn’t really think it through. He probably thought the real criminal would be caught before the hangman’s noose reached his own neck.”
Dickerson shivered. “I still don’ get why bloke’d do sommit like that.”
“There are all sorts in this world, Sergeant.” Ian yawned and stretched. “I’m going home. Why don’t you do the same? It’s been a long day.”
“Thank you, sir—good night, sir.”
“Good night, Sergeant.”
Ian left the station house, ignoring the amused looks from the other constables, who had observed Mr. Titterington’s abrupt exit.
“He looks like a ruthless killer, all right,” murmured one of the beat cops.
“Can’t believe you let him go,” said another. “Cold-blooded murderer if ever I saw one.” Several others snickered and looked away.
Let them have their fun, Ian thought. He suspected this killer would not be a wild-eyed, drooling monster. When he did catch the strangler, they might all be in for a surprise.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ian stepped into the street and drew his cloak closer before turning in the direction of his flat.
“That were quick,” said a voice behind him. He turned to see Derek McNair standing in the shadows beneath the building’s overhanging eaves.
“When did you get here?”
“I been followin’ you fer a while. Long enough t’get bloody cold—I can ’ardly feel me fingers.” He took a step forward, the gaslight reflecting cold and pale on his dark hair.
Ian frowned. “Why the blazes aren’t you wearing a hat?”
“I ain’t got one.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t stolen one.” Ian plucked the tweed cap from his own head and tossed it at the boy. “Here, put that on.”
“Much obliged, Guv’nur,” Derek replied in mock subservience.
Ian shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the wind cold and sharp on his bare head. He shivered and started off down the street.
“Oiy—wait up!” Derek cried, running after him. “I ain’t told ye why I was waitin’ fer ye.”
“I presume you can walk and talk at the same time,” Ian said without slowing his pace.
“’Course I can,” Derek replied, scurrying along at his side.
“It won’t do, you know—you can’t get away with stealing forever. Sooner or later you’ll get nicked and end up in prison.”
“How else am I ta live?”
“That’s not my concern.”
“So d’you wanna hear what I got ta say or not?”
“I’m not stopping you,” Ian said as he stepped over a pile of horse manure.
“What’s it worth to ye?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“How ’bout a hot meal?”
“Most places are closed now.”
“Yer place, then.”
Ian looked down at the boy, taking in his secondhand coat and threadbare trousers, his filthy face and grubby hands with their blackened nails. There were children like him all over the city, but Derek was here, now. To turn his back on the lad would be worse than hard-hearted; it would be heartless. “Very well,” he said. “You can sleep on the sofa.”
Derek tried to mask his surprise and delight at the offer, but an extra skip in his step gave him away. “I ain’t slept indoors in weeks.”
“You do have family, I believe?”
“My father’s a poor excuse for a da, and I dunno if me mum’s alive or dead. I ain’t seen her in a while.”
“There’s the shelter run by the Sisters of Charity. Why don’t you sleep there?”
Derek kicked at a stray rock, sending it scuttering across the cobblestones. “They’re always gassin’ on about God and faith and little baby Jesus. Makes me head ache.”
Ian had to smile in spite of himself—Aunt Lillian had complained about the nuns’ sanctimonious piety on more than one occasion.
Derek peered at him through lank, greasy bangs, a sly smile on his face. “Sounds like ye’ve had dealings wi’ the sisters, too?”
“My aunt is involved in some of their charitable works.”
“Aye, so she’s told ye what they’re like.”
Ian stopped walking. “Look here, I’ve no doubt you have your reasons for sleeping in the street—that is, if you’re telling the truth.”
“So ’elp me, Guv’nur,” Derek said in a Cockney accent. “Cross me ’eart an’ hope t’die.”
“Why don’t you drop the pathetic-street-urchin act? You’re a clever lad—I’ll wager you can talk posh if you choose to.”
Derek scowled, his face darkening under the layers of grime and dirt. Then he burst out laughing. “By God, I like you, mister! You’re a sharp one, you are.” His accent had disappeared, his enunciation clear and crisp as a university don’s.
“So, what were you so anxious to tell me?”
“I talk better on a full stomach,” he said, resuming his native West Country dialect.
“Very well,” said Ian, and they spent the rest of the walk in silence. Here and there the yellow glow of gaslight shone behind French lace curtains; somewhere a dog barked. The rain had broken, and the sky was dotted with the cold glimmer of distant stars.
“You live here?” Derek said as Ian ushered him into his flat on Victoria Terrace.
“No, I just thought I’d break into the home of a perfect stranger,” Ian replied, throwing his keys on the foyer table.
Derek paused to admire himself in the hall mirror. “This hat looks better on me than it does on you,” he said, pulling the brim lower.
“Keep it,” Ian said.
“Nice cloak,” Derek remarked as Ian hung it up. “Where’d ye get it, a costume shop?”
“It belonged to my uncle.”
Lillian had given Ian the cloak upon Alfred’s death. Made of heavy, good-quality wool, it was old-fashioned, but Ian liked the way it hung all the way to his knees, shielding him from even the wickedest wind. It was rain repellent, and the high collar kept his neck warm. He even liked its quaint look. It made him feel mysterious, and he was touched that Lillian had honored him with her beloved Alfie’s favorite garment.
“Now let’s see about getting you some supper,” he said.
The boy followed him down the front hall to the kitchen, peeking into the parlor as they passed. He reached for the pennywhistle on the side table.
“Leave it,” Ian said.
“Ye play that thing?”
“Don’t touch anything—I don’t like having my things disturbed.”
Derek took in the Persian carpets and silk drapes and whistled softly. “Ye can afford all this on a policeman’s salary?”
Ian smiled. Aunt Lillian, a tireless shopper at jumble sales and estate liquidations, was responsible for much of his flat’s furnishings. “You like lamb chops?”
“Ye bet I do!”
“Right,” said Ian, turning up the gas lamps. “Lamb chops it is.” He took a step into the kitchen—there, sitting on the kitchen counter, was the mouse. It returned his gaze, flicking its tail irritably. It looked decidedly well fed, plump, and sleek.
“A pet mouse!” said Derek. “Yer not so borin’ after all.”
“Go on,” Ian told the mouse. “Go away.”
The mouse sniffed the air.
Ian took a step toward it. “Go away.”
The mouse began industriously cleaning its whiskers.
“GO!” Ian shouted, waving his arms.
With a dismissive shake of its tail, the creature waddled to the other end of the counter and disappeared behind the stove.
“Tomorrow I buy a mousetrap,” Ian muttered.
“So it’s not yer
pet, innit?” said Derek, hopping up to sit on the counter.
“No.”
“Why don’t ye kill it?” he asked, scratching behind his ear.
“Why don’t you go take a bath while I make dinner? There are clean towels in the linen closet, and a bathrobe.”
“Ye have a bathtub?”
“Go along, then.”
He listened for the boy’s retreating footsteps before lighting the gas under the skillet. By the time Derek emerged from the bath, pink and scrubbed, Ian had the meal set out on the carved mahogany table in the parlor. A brace of pewter candlesticks bookended a perfectly browned lamb chop smothered in potatoes and turnips.
“Where’d ye learn to cook?” the boy asked as he stuffed his cheeks full of lamb with neeps and tatties. With his dark complexion and black hair, he looked like a Middle Eastern prince in the oversized Turkish bathrobe.
“My uncle ran a restaurant,” Ian said, opening a bottle of pale ale.
“Lucky you. He still ’ave it?”
“He’s dead.”
“Kin I have a beer?” Derek asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“Oiy!” Ian said, thrusting a napkin at him.
The boy took it. “How ’bout a beer?” he asked, eyeing Ian’s bottle.
“What are you—nine, ten years old?”
“Sixteen.”
“You are not.”
“I’m small fer me age.”
“No, you may not have a beer. You may have a sip of mine.”
“Thanks, mister!” Derek said, gulping it down greedily.
“That’s enough,” Ian said, wresting it from him.
“My da used t’let me drink whenever I wanted.”
“And what a fine specimen of manhood he is. Now then, what did you want to say to me?”
Derek burped loudly. “It’s more in the way of a business proposition.”
“I’m listening.”
The boy put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “It’s like this, see. I got mates, all over town, what could be of help—”
“Who could be of help.”
“Ye get what I’m sayin’, innit? We could be your eyes and ears, so tae speak, an’ keep ye informed about what’s goin’ on.”
“I assume your sudden passion to aid law enforcement comes with a price.”
Derek grinned. “I’m sure we can think a somethin’, Guv’nur.”
Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1) Page 14
