Ian padded back to his own room, feeling somehow less lonely, comforted by the presence of others in his flat. Climbing beneath the bedclothes, he stared out the window at the inky December night. A few months ago, sharing his living quarters with anyone else would have filled him with dread; a year ago it would have been unthinkable. Yet here he was, comforted by the presence of three other sentient beings in his home. (Donald had debated the issue of whether Bacchus was indeed sentient, though the cat seemed to prefer him to Ian, which Donald claimed only proved the contrary nature of felines.) Ian gazed at the emerging moon as it struggled bravely through the clouds, before he finally fell into a thankfully dreamless sleep.
He awoke to the aroma of bacon and coffee. Throwing on a spare dressing gown, he went through to the dining room to find Derek and his brother feasting on coddled eggs, black bread with jam, and thick slices of bacon.
“Good morning,” Donald sang out. “I’ve just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
“What makes you so blasted cheerful today?” Ian said, sitting across from Derek, who was stuffing his face as fast as he could.
“’E’s jes foun’ out classes are off t’day,” the boy muttered through a mouthful of bread, a bit of jam dangling from his chin.
“Really? Why?” Ian said, pouring himself some coffee.
“Conan Doyle stopped by a while ago to say Dr. Bell is attending to the Queen and has canceled all his morning lectures.”
“The Queen?”
“Yes, didn’t you know? Dr. Bell is HRH Victoria’s personal surgeon whenever she’s in Scotland.”
“Another reason for his arrogance, I suppose,” Ian said, pouring cream in his coffee.
“He’s not as bad as all that. Doyle gets on with him famously.”
“Conan Doyle gets on with everyone.”
Disappointed at hearing he had missed his friend, Ian looked at the hall clock. “Good Lord, it’s after nine. I’m late! Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You were sleeping so peacefully. And you didn’t ask me to wake you.”
“Blast,” Ian muttered, gulping down the rest of his coffee.
“At least have some breakfast,” Donald called after him as he hurried back to the bedroom to get dressed.
Ten minutes later he was more or less ready, though the stubble on his cheeks was evidence of his hasty ablutions. Grabbing a slice of bacon, he shoved it between two slices of bread before throwing on his cloak.
“You’ll get indigestion!” Donald called after him as he rushed out the door.
It was not far to police chambers, but as he was late, Ian hailed a cab and was soon dashing up the stairs two at a time. He found Sergeant Dickerson already at his desk, engrossed in a pile of papers.
“Studying more investigative techniques, Sergeant?” Ian said, sitting at his own desk.
“Actually, sir, I were jes workin’ on my lines fer the play,” he said, slipping the papers into a drawer. “You weren’t here yet, an’ I had a few minutes t’spare. Sorry, sir.”
“I’m the one who should apologize for being late.”
“Everythin’ all right, is it, sir?”
“The fact is, I overslept.”
Dickerson shook his head. “You’ve been workin’ too hard as usual.”
“Not hard enough, I should think—I don’t have any useful leads on who killed Miss Staley.”
“It’s only been a day, sir. Have you interviewed other people what attend séances?”
“That’s precisely what we’re doing today. We’ll start with Madame herself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring your notebook. Have you seen DCI Crawford?” Ian said, glancing in the direction of his office.
“I don’ believe he’s come in yet, sir.”
That struck Ian as odd, but he said nothing. He hoped Crawford’s wife had not taken a turn for the worse.
“Never mind,” he said. “Come along.”
It wasn’t far to Blackfriars Street, just the other side of South Bridge. When they arrived at Madame Veselka’s residence, the front rooms were dark and quiet, and Ian thought no one was at home. But when they knocked, a light went on in the back of the flat. Quick footsteps were followed by the sound of heavy bolts sliding in the front door, which opened to reveal the medium’s young servant, Gretchen. She wore an apron over a plain gray frock, her blond braids wound around her head. Even in such unassuming attire, there was something attractive and fresh about her. Her skin glowed with the vitality of youth, her pink cheeks sprinkled with a light dusting of freckles and her cornflower-blue eyes bright and inquisitive.
“Can I help you?” Even her Prussian accent was charming, Ian thought, and it was evident Dickerson felt the same. The sergeant stared at her, his cheeks reddening, as he stammered to find words.
“We’re—w-with th’ Edinburgh City Police,” he said finally.
“Yes,” she replied, looking at Ian. “This gentleman is known to me.” Though accented, her English was rather good.
Dickerson looked at him quizzically.
“I attended a séance here with my aunt earlier this week,” he explained. “And I apologize for my rudeness,” he told Gretchen. “My behavior was reprehensible.”
“Yes, it was,” she said, but he thought he saw a slight smile as she turned away. “Please, do come in.”
They followed her into the opulently furnished sitting room, much the same as Ian remembered, minus the candles. In the dim winter light filtering through the lace curtains, it didn’t have the same aura of mystery. There was no sign of the Persian cat, though the chair he formerly occupied had a thin layer of long white hairs.
“Madame is in a private consultation at the moment,” said Gretchen. “Please, may I bring you some tea?”
“Thank you, no,” said Ian, though he could sense Dickerson’s disappointment.
She cocked her head to one side. “You Scottish do like your tea, I believe?”
“We do, but—”
Just then the beaded curtain in the back of the room parted, and Madame Veselka stepped through it. Dressed in a simple blue frock, without the kohl eyeliner and rouge, she looked younger than she had the other night. Her wrists and hands were bejeweled as before, but her manner was less affected than he remembered. If she was surprised to see him, she gave no hint of it.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Her accent seemed less pronounced than he remembered.
“Please forgive me, Madame,” Gretchen said hastily. “I did not care to interrupt your session.”
“It’s quite all right, my dear,” she replied as a timid-looking young woman carrying an enormous carpet bag emerged from behind the curtain. She wore a dark-blue travel suit and boots that had seen some wear. “Good day, Miss McGundy,” Madame said. “Remember what I told you—at the next full moon.”
“Yes, Madame,” the young lady said shyly, darting past the men toward the front door. Gretchen reached out to open it for her.
“At the full moon,” Madame repeated as Miss McGundy slipped through the door. “Now then,” she said, turning her attention to the policemen, “please have a seat. Gretchen, some tea, please.” When the girl hesitated, Madame turned to Ian. “You will of course join me in a pot of tea? You Scottish enjoy your tea, no?”