Ian peered at him, unsure whether he was lying or not. He knew from experience the boy was a damned good liar, but couldn’t see what he had to gain in this instance, so decided to believe him.
“In a manner of speaking,” he said. “It relates to my parents’ death.”
“Blimey,” Derek said, his eyes wide. “An’ you’re thinkin’ they was murdered, right?”
“Yes. And this has confirmed my suspicion.”
He began walking in the direction from whence they had come, and the boy fell into step beside him. Snow swirled around them as the dull December sky finally made good on its threat of pending precipitation.
“What’d he tell ye?”
“The less you know, the better. I’d rather not get you mixed up in this.”
“But I’d like t’help.”
“It’s not safe. There are unsavory characters involved.”
“I’m as unsavory as they come, Guv.”
“Alas, if only that were true. There are dark players in this game, and I’d rather not put you at risk.”
“Wha’ about Rat Face?”
“He can take care of himself.” But even as he said the words, they sounded hollow.
Snow continued to gather as they walked, so Ian flagged down a hansom cab.
“Come along,” he said when Derek hesitated. “I’ll drop you off.”
“Ta very much, but—”
“What?”
“Don’ really know where I’m goin’ yet. My usual lodgings ain’t so good when it’s snowin’.”
Ian imagined what his “usual lodgings” consisted of—the back lot of a deserted building, a church doorstep, a grate beneath the eaves of a pub.
“I’ll drop you at my flat. Tell my brother you’re staying the night.”
The boy didn’t have to be asked twice. In half a second he had climbed in next to Ian, rubbing his hands against the cold. They rode in silence for a few minutes, then Derek cleared his throat. “D’ye think . . .” he began with unaccustomed shyness.
“What?”
“Might I ’ave a bath?”
“Yes,” Ian replied. “You may have a bath. And if you don’t steal anything and are very, very well behaved, you may have a small sip of whisky.”
“Now yer talkin’!” Derek crowed, his bravado restored.
After letting the boy into the empty flat—Donald being no doubt still at school—Ian instructed him to lock the door behind him and let no one in. He then returned to the waiting cab and continued on to the High Street police station.
He found Sergeant Dickerson scribbling away at his desk. DCI Crawford was not in his office.
“He went t’take ’is wife t’see Dr. Bell,” said Dickerson when Ian asked. “He wants a report tomorrow on the murder of yer aunt’s friend.”
“Did he say anything about the autopsy?”
“He said Dr. Bell agreed t’do it.”
“But that would be Dr. Littlejohn’s province.” Dr. Henry Littlejohn was Edinburgh’s police surgeon, and as such was responsible for autopsies in cases of suspicious deaths.
“He said Bell wants t’do a demonstration lecture fer students.”
Ian frowned. Public autopsies had been common in Edinburgh until the notorious Burke and Hare murdered victims whom they then sold to Dr. Joseph Knox for dissection. His public lectures drew large crowds, but after William Burke was hanged in front of twenty thousand people and publicly dissected the next day, the practice was banned, and autopsies were done in private.
Medical school students and doctors still regularly attended dissections, though Ian was not keen on the idea of Dr. Bell using Elizabeth for a demonstration. He did not like the man, though he admired his skill and deductive powers. He could still remember the icy, analytical look in Bell’s eyes when he autopsied the poor prostitute murdered during Ian’s last case. The physician possessed a coldness that repelled Ian—perhaps because he sensed the potential for the same trait within himself.
“What have you there?” Ian asked, glancing at Dickerson’s papers.
“I’m jes writin’ down questions t’ask when interviewin’ witnesses.”
“Well done, Sergeant. I’ve been considering ways to structure the investigative process.”
“How so, sir?”
“I’m working on constructing a chart to keep track of information, and to make sure we don’t leave anything out of the process.”
“That sounds quite useful, sir.”
“I’d like to begin tomorrow by making up a list of Miss Staley’s acquaintances, friends, and relatives.”
“There’s the folks wha’ attended the séances, for starters.”
“Quite right—we should begin with them.”
The front door opened and a half dozen uniformed constables shuffled in. The evening shift had arrived.
Dickerson glanced nervously at the wall clock. “Beg pardon, sir, but I’ve rehearsal tonight.”
“Get on with you, then.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, gathering up his things.
“Mind you come in bright and early tomorrow.”
“I promise, sir,” he said, scurrying out the door.
The new arrivals nodded to Ian as they gathered round the tea service, as was the custom when starting a shift. Very little business was done in Edinburgh without the accompaniment of a good strong cup of black tea sweetened with plenty of sugar and milk.
Ian recognized Constable John Turnbull among them, and saw him turn to snigger after Dickerson as he left.
“Have you heard we have a thespian in our midst?” he said, emphasizing the word to make it sound like something shameful. His mouth curled in a sneer, emphasizing the pockmarks on his cheeks.
“What’s that?” asked Sergeant Bowers, a plain-faced, well-meaning young man with pale pink skin and white blond hair. A favorite of DCI Crawford, he had recently been promoted from constable to sergeant.
“It means an actor, don’ it?” said Constable McKay. Tall and muscular, he was a little older than the other two and known for his physical prowess and utter fearlessness.
“Like a theater actor?” Bowers said, stirring a third lump of sugar into his tea.
“I wasn’t aware there was another kind,” Turnbull remarked drily. “Though why any self-respecting policeman would want to be seen prancing around wearing rouge and tights, I couldn’t say.”
Ian had an impulse to flatten him. He considered Turnbull the worst kind of scoundrel, one who would mock his colleagues behind their back, then flatter and fawn over his superiors. Ian longed to give him a good thrashing. Grabbing his cloak, he threw it over his shoulders and left the station house before he did something he might regret. A blast of arctic air hit him as he stepped onto the High Street, making him stagger backward. Tugging his cap low over his face, he headed in the direction of the Royal Infirmary, the wind whistling at his back like a pack of angry dogs.
CHAPTER NINE
It was just past six o’clock, and Fiona Stuart was only halfway through a double shift at the Royal Infirmary, but her feet already hurt, her lower back was sore, and she had a headache coming on. Sighing as she pulled a thermometer from the mouth of a drowsy tram driver, she wiped the sweat from her brow. The driver had come down with a case of influenza, which had swept through the city as the changeable winter weather shot a spasm of illness through Scotland’s capital.