Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1)

by Carole Lawrence

  Lillian rose to clear the table. “Well, I’d better keep my nose clean so you don’t haul me in for questioning.”

  Ian rolled his eyes. “I should have said nearly everyone—obviously not you, Auntie.”

  “Under the right circumstances, I’ve no doubt I’d be capable of killing someone.”

  Before he could respond, there was an urgent pounding at the door.

  “My goodness,” his aunt said. “Perhaps that is the prodigal nephew returning already.”

  “Stay where you are,” said Ian, bounding to the door. He peered through the window to see a bedraggled Sergeant Dickerson, rain dripping from the end of his nose, hatless, in a long yellow sou’wester.

  “Ta very much, sir,” he said when Ian opened the door to let him in. His cheeks and nose were ruddy, and he was quite out of breath.

  “How did you know where to find me?” Ian asked.

  “Since ye weren’t to home, I thought t’look for ye here,” he replied, rubbing his hands together.

  “Well done, Sergeant. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.”

  Dickerson responded with a violent sneeze. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said, pulling a damp handkerchief from the pocket of his oilskin coat.

  “Goodness—you’ll catch your death out there,” said Lillian.

  “It’s just allergies, mum,” Dickerson replied.

  “Come in and stand by the fire,” she said.

  “I don’ want to drip all over your carpet. I’m soakin’ wet.”

  “Nonsense,” Lillian insisted. “It’s just an old rug, for heaven’s sake.”

  “What was so urgent that you needed to find me?” Ian asked Dickerson.

  “Well, sir—”

  “Take off that wet coat and come have a hot bowl of soup,” Lillian interrupted.

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay, mum,” Dickerson said as she pulled at his elbow. “I’ve just come to tell DI Hamilton that—” He paused and looked at Ian.

  “Go ahead, Sergeant. Whatever it is, I’m sure my aunt is up to hearing it.”

  The sergeant’s response was interrupted by an even more violent sneeze. He blew his nose loudly into the handkerchief.

  “Well?” said Ian. “It must be important if you came out on a night like this.”

  “I’m afraid there’s been another murder, sir.”

  “Good heavens!” said Aunt Lillian.

  “What happened?” Ian asked.

  “I was just about to leave fer the night, when Long Jamie rushes into t’station, shoutin’ that someone’s been murdered in Lyon’s Close.” He paused, glancing nervously at Lillian.

  “Go on, Sergeant,” Ian urged. “I presume you asked him why he believed the man was murdered.”

  “I did, aye. An ’e just says that the man’s eyes was buggin’ all outta his head, red an’ swollen like. So I’m thinkin’ that’s what the eyes look like on someone who’s been strangled.”

  “So you came straight here?”

  “Straightaway, sir, after I dispensed a coupla constables to keep watch over the body.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Lillian,” Ian said, “but I must go.”

  “Ach, get on with ye—no need to apologize,” she replied, drawing her shawl around her thin shoulders. “But you could use a hot bowl of soup and a mustard plaster, young man,” she said to Dickerson. “You’ll catch your death if you don’t take care.”

  “Yes, mum,” the sergeant replied, trying unsuccessfully to stifle another sneeze. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, wiping his nose with the now very soggy kerchief.

  “Perhaps my aunt is right,” Ian ventured. “You’ll be of no use to anyone if you contract pneumonia.”

  “If it’s all the same t’you, sir, I’d like ta go wi’ ye to view the body.”

  “Very well, if you insist.”

  “At least take a fresh handkerchief,” Lillian said, fumbling through her pockets. “Here you are,” she said, extracting a clean embroidered handkerchief, neatly folded. The hand-stitched monogram, in gold thread, read LRG. “My initials,” Lillian explained as she handed it to him. “Lillian Rose Grey.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t, mum. It’s much too fine.”

  “Just take it, Sergeant,” Ian said, “so we can be on our way.”

  Dickerson turned beet red. “Thank you, mum,” he mumbled, stuffing it into his pocket.

  This time they were luckier in finding a cab and soon were seated in the back of a hansom, rattling through rain-slickened streets.

  “Is Long Jamie still at the station house?” Ian asked, peering out the window as they careened around the corner of Niddry Street. A couple of merrymakers swerved their way down the High Street, on a Friday night pub crawl, an Edinburgh tradition that even the foulest weather couldn’t dampen.

  “Yes, sir,” Dickerson replied. “I left one of the lads in charge of ’im. Poor fella looked quite shaken.”

  “I want to interview him after we have a look at the crime scene.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, with another shuddering sneeze.

  Ian regarded him with a mixture of sympathy and impatience. “Perhaps you should reconsider accompanying me.”

  But Dickerson remained steadfast. “I’m keen t’ave a look at the poor chap what was killed, sir.”

  “But I thought you found dead bodies . . . disturbing.”

  Dickerson straightened his shoulders and gave his nose a mighty blow. “Th’only way to overcome a fear is to face it, innit?”

  “Good on ye, Sergeant,” Ian said as they pulled up in front of Lyon’s Close. “Though I’m not sure it’s worth risking pneumonia.”

  Ian paid the driver and approached the two waterlogged constables keeping watch over the body, which they had draped with an oilcloth. After dispatching one of them to the coroner’s office, Ian took a lantern and knelt down to examine the victim.

  He recognized the man immediately. “This is Kerry O’Donohue,” he said. “He was brought up a few months ago on charges of licentious behavior in public. I believe he was fined and released the next day.”

  “What exactly were he accused of, sir?” Dickerson asked, bending over the body.

  “Sodomy,” said Ian.

  Dickerson cleared his throat. “Might we regard that as potential clue, then?”

  “We might indeed,” Ian replied, turning his attention to the dead man. He remembered seeing Kerry O’Donohue in the police station—a spirited, strikingly handsome fellow, with yellow ringlets and cheerful blue eyes. The inert form lying on the sodden ground was a sad remnant of that energetic lad, all the life drained from his staring eyes. Upon closer examination, petechial hemorrhaging was clearly visible—the tiny red blotches indicative of burst blood vessels in the eyes. Kerry’s open collar displayed the deep purple indentations of ligature strangulation.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Ian said, handing the lantern back to the constable.

  “What about the, uh, playin’ card, sir?” asked Dickerson. “Shouldn’t we look for it?”

  “Good idea. Please do.”

  Dickerson swallowed hard. “Right you are, sir.” He bent over the body, swaying unsteadily. Clearing his throat, he reached for the coat pocket of the dead man. His hand never found its mark—before he could touch it, his legs gave way, and he crumpled slowly toward the cobblestones.

  “Damn,” Ian muttered, reaching out to catch him. Lowering the sergeant to the ground, he turned to the bemused constable. “I’m afraid he’s not well—seems to have contracted a case of influenza.”

  The policeman took a few steps away from them. “Hope it’s not cholera. Nasty stuff, that is.”

  “Different symptoms,” Ian replied, patting Dickerson’s cheeks. “Come along, now, Sergeant—wake up.”

  Dickerson’s eyes fluttered. “I—I do apologize, sir,” he said, struggling uncertainly to his feet.

  “Think nothing of it,” Ian replied, with a glance at the constable, who had backed off to a safe distance. “You should be in
bed with that influenza of yours.”

  “But I—oh, right,” Dickerson answered, catching on. “I am feelin’ a bit worse.”

  “Never mind,” said Ian. Bending over the body, he sniffed at it, inhaling deeply.

  “What on earth is he doin’?” said the constable, scratching his head.

  “Shh,” replied the sergeant. “He’s workin’.”

  Ian rifled through the dead man’s pockets. Sure enough, there it was, in the left breast pocket—sodden but unmistakable. He withdrew it and held it up to the lantern.

  “Is it the five of clubs, sir?” asked Dickerson.

  “Aye,” Ian replied. “It is indeed.”

  The constable stared at the sergeant as if Dickerson were bewitched. “How on earth did you know that?”

  Dickerson shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “The look on that poor constable’s face!” Ian said as they sat in the back of a hansom cab. The driver put the horse into a brisk trot, its hooves resounding smartly on the paving stones, a counterpoint to the rain pelting onto the vehicle’s roof.

  “Poor chap did seem spooked,” the sergeant replied. Ian was beginning to reevaluate Dickerson; the man had more guile than he had given him credit for. “Figured I needed t’regain fella’s respect after faintin’ dead away like that. Ta very much for coverin’ for me, sir.”

  “It’s the least I could do, after making you search the dead man’s pockets. I forgot about your . . . aversion.”

  “Bloody embarrassin’.”

  “We all have something, Sergeant. No one is without their Achilles’ heel,” Ian said, thinking of his brother’s drinking and his own aversion to fire and enclosed spaces. “Yours is a very natural revulsion, actually.”

  “Sometimes I wonder why I became policeman, bein’ as how I can’t stand being ’round dead folks,” the sergeant mused, staring out the window.

  “Why did you join the force?”

  “I s’pose I were after security for me an’ my sister, sir.”

  “Pauline, is it?”

  “Aye, that’s her—my little Pauline. She’s all I have in t’world.”

  “What happened to your parents?”

  “They were taken by cholera when we were young, sir.”

  “Who took care of you?”

  “I were fourteen when they died, old enough to support us both. Worked in’t mines till I saved enough to get away. I always wanted to live in proper city, so we came here.”

  “You brought up your sister?”

  “Aye. It’s been just two of us for long time now.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the way. Ian felt a newfound respect for the chubby sergeant, as well as envy. He didn’t have anyone to look after—there was Lillian, of course, but she looked after him more than the other way round. Ian supposed he should feel lonely, but he didn’t—he loved his solitude. Did that mean he was abnormal? He had had a chance to look after Donald, and yet had chased him off within a couple of days. Guilt and shame wrung a sigh out of him as he gazed out the window.

  “Y’all right, sir?” said Dickerson.

  “Yes, thank you.” Ian had no desire to discuss his personal problems with the sergeant. Lillian was his one true confidant, but there were things he wouldn’t reveal even to her.

  They arrived at a nearly deserted station house, its only occupants a sleepy desk sergeant and Long Jamie, who appeared quite agitated. He leapt to his feet when he saw them, wringing his thin hands.

  “Did ye find the poor fella?” he asked. “Right where I said ’e was?”

  “He was there all right,” Ian replied. “Do you mind answering a few questions, Mr. McKenzie?”

  “Call me Jamie—everyone does,” the leerie replied. “I don’t s’pose I might have another cup o’ tea, seeing as how I’m gonnae stick around fer a while?”

  “Certainly,” said Ian. “Sergeant, would you be so kind?”

  “Right away, sir,” said Dickerson, ducking behind the glass partition in the back of the room.

  “Please, have a seat,” Ian said, indicating a chair opposite his desk. The lamplighter folded his stork-like body into the wooden chair, crossing his long legs. Ian reckoned they were close to the same height, but that he weighed at least two stone more than Jamie, who was so excessively lean that his right cheekbone jutted out from his face, sharp as a razor. The left one was caved inward, giving his face a lopsided look. He did not seem to be in any discomfort from it, however, and gazed at Ian with his good eye, which was large and brown.

  “Now then, if you would tell me everything you observed, leaving out no detail, no matter how insignificant,” said Ian, pulling a notebook from the desk drawer.

  “Well, I was gaein’ aboot me rounds—just startin’ out—when I sees what I took tae be a drunkard lyin’ in the alley.” He shuddered and clasped his hands together, leaning forward. “I stepped a bit closer and saw ’twas a poor dead fella. I dain’t like the look of ’im, so I hightailed it ’ere straightaway. That reminds me—I were so taken back, I dropped me lamp-lighting pole. D’ye have it, by chance?”

  “No, but we’ll get it back to you.”

  “That’s a first—I never let go a’ me pole afore.”

  “So you didn’t disturb the body in any way?”

  “Not me, no—I couldna git away fast enough.”

  “Did you notice anything else?”

  “Such as wha’?”

  “Perhaps something out of the ordinary?”

  The lamplighter scratched his head, causing white flaky bits to float from his scalp and settle on his shoulders. “Naught out a th’ordinary, no . . . Hang on a minute, there was one thaing.”

  Ian leaned forward. “What?”

  “The smell a’ cigarette smoke. It struck me at the time, because there were no one else aboot, and it were already rainin’—but there it was, hangin’ in the air, like someone just ’ad a smoke. And it weren’t the usual, either—it were thicker, sweet and heavy, like.”

  “Did you ever smell this particular tobacco before?”

  “It smelled expensive. Might ’ave come across it once or twice in the New Town, I s’pose, outside the fancy homes.”

  “Thank you—you’ve been very helpful,” Ian said, rising from his chair.

  “Wha’ about m’tea?”

  “Just comin’ up, sir,” said Sergeant Dickerson, rounding the corner and balancing a tea tray with three mugs and a plate of biscuits. “Thought you might do with some as well, sir,” he said, laying it out on the desk. “It promises to be a long night.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Ian sighed. When he was hard on a case, he often considered food and drink unwelcome distractions, and had no desire to engage in idle chitchat over tea.

  Taking the cup the sergeant offered, Ian snagged a couple of gingersnaps, stuffing them into his pocket. He intended to walk home; something about the forward motion seemed to loosen a part of his brain.

  “Well, I’m off,” he said, gulping down the last of his tea so quickly, he nearly scorched his throat.

  “I’m free t’go, then?” Long Jamie asked, clearly disappointed.

  “Please provide Sergeant Dickerson with your address in case we need to interview you further.”

  This seemed to cheer the lamplighter up. “I will, ye can rest assured,” he said, nodding vigorously. “Any time o’ day or night, ye kin count on Long Jamie.”

  “See you tomorrow, Sergeant,” Ian said, heading toward the door.

  “Uh, sir . . . ?” Dickerson said, scurrying after him.

  “What is it?”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “Need I remind you that criminals don’t take holidays?”

  Dickerson shuffled his feet, looking miserable.

  “What is it, Sergeant?”

  “It’s my only chance to spend time with my Pauline, an’ I—”

  “Very well, if you must take the day off—”

&nb
sp; “Per’aps just the mornin’?”

  “I’ll see you here at one o’clock promptly.”

  “Thank you, sir—ta very much indeed.” Seized by a sudden fit of sneezing, he pulled the monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes when he was through.

  “Get to bed, Sergeant—take my aunt’s advice and put on a mustard plaster. And see that you get him out of here,” he added with a nod toward Long Jamie, who was inspecting the photographs on the bulletin board of wanted criminals.

  “Leave it t’me, sir,” Dickerson said, beaming.

  Hamilton threw his cloak over his shoulders and pushed open the heavy oak door, which closed behind him with a decisive thud.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The walk home provided no hoped-for insight; Ian came up with a dozen theories and discarded them all. His mind kept spinning around the smell of expensive tobacco, and the aroma he had detected on the corpse, most certainly opium. Opium dens in Edinburgh were seedy establishments catering to the down-and-out as well as the city’s Asian population, who were more likely to smoke cheap tobacco. Where might he find a place catering to a clientele favoring costly tobacco?

  When he arrived at Victoria Terrace, sitting on his doorstep was George Pearson. “Mr. Pearson,” Ian said, “what are you doing here?”

  The librarian leapt to his feet. “I have some information that may interest you.”

  “You could have left me a note,” Ian replied, unlocking the door.

  “I don’t trust that form of delivery when something is important. As a reference librarian, I know information can disappear more easily than you might imagine.” Eyes shining, he stood on the doorstep expectantly, like a big round puppy.

  “Come in, why don’t you?” Ian sighed, tossing his keys on the foyer table. A plaintive meowing, followed by loud purring, greeted him as Bacchus darted into the room and rubbed against his leg.

  “I say—you have a cat?” Pearson said. “But you didn’t before.”

  “Things happen, Mr. Pearson,” Ian replied, “sometimes without being wished for.” He hoped the librarian would take his meaning, but it fell short of the target.

  “He’s quite a handsome fellow,” Pearson said, scratching the cat behind the ears. Bacchus responded by wrapping himself around the librarian’s shins.