“You should not be afraid,” she murmured softly as they headed toward the door. Ian tried to cover his discomfort with a cough, which fooled no one. He could sense Dickerson’s curiosity as they put on their coats.
The ever-helpful Gretchen saw them out, and as they turned to leave, she stepped onto the stoop.
“I saw Miss Staley speaking with the major after the session. I could not make out what they were saying, but I had the feeling they knew each other.”
“Thank you, Miss Mueller,” Ian said, wondering why she was reluctant to tell them in front of her employer. “If you think of anything else, please contact me—anytime,” he added, handing her his card.
“Danke schön.” She slipped it into her apron pocket. “I must go,” she said, and slipped back inside, closing the door behind her.
“What do you think of Madame Veselka?” Ian asked as they walked north on Blackfriars Street.
“She’s a close one, she is,” Dickerson replied as they passed the United Presbyterian Church. It was built in 1871, but its sharply steep gables and tall, narrow windows evoked the city’s medieval past. Though not a believer, Ian loved churches, and it was one of his favorites.
“Did you note her response when we mentioned the murder?”
“No, sir.”
“She asked what that had to do ‘with us’—not ‘with me,’ but us.”
“An’ what would be the significance of that, sir?”
“It implies a closer relationship with Gretchen than simply mistress and servant.”
“Wha’ d’ye think that would be?”
“That is a very good question, Sergeant,” Ian said as they turned the corner onto the High Street.
“What were all that ’bout someone wantin’ to speak wi’ you, sir?”
“Just a fanciful notion she has about a dead person trying to contact me.”
“Did it happen at séance, sir?”
“As DCI Crawford would say, it’s all bosh and bunkum.”
“Is it, sir?”
“It is indeed,” Ian said as they sidestepped a wagon full of potatoes and turnips wobbling unsteadily up the High Street, pulled by a sleepy-looking chestnut mare. But a tiny seed of doubt began to sprout in his mind, making him wonder how much longer he could trust his own beliefs about anything.
CHAPTER TWELVE
They passed Bell’s Wynd, where a thinly dressed girl in a dingy frock and tattered shawl was selling watercress from a weather-beaten basket. Ian fished a half crown from his pocket and gave it to her. Her eyes widened as she looked up at him.
“Ye’ve made a mistake, sir—”
“It’s no mistake.”
“I haen’t got enough change fer—”
“No change.”
“It’s a farthin’ for one bunch a’ cress, sir—”
“I don’t want any cress.”
“But sir—” She held the money out to him, her hand trembling.
“Please,” Ian said, closing her fingers over the money. “Keep it.”
“At least tae’ one, sir,” she said, thrusting a bunch of cress at him.
“Very well,” he said, his hand closing on hers. It was thin and frail as a baby bird, the fingers like icicles beneath the thin woolen gloves. He whipped his scarf from his neck and wound it around hers. “Thank you,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze.
They walked on, her shrill voice trailing after them.
“Oh, thank ye, sir! God bless ye!”
“Here, Sergeant,” Ian said, handing him the cress. “Does your sister like cress?”
“She does—thank you, sir.”
They continued in silence, though Ian had a feeling Sergeant Dickerson was bursting to say something. As they neared police chambers, a familiar voice rang out from behind them through the clear wintry air. “Is it true, Detective?”
Ian responded without turning around. “If you’ve heard it, it’s probably not true.”
“It’s from a reliable source.”
Ian continued walking as an out-of-breath Jedidiah Corbin hurried to catch up to him.
“You’re a hard man to find,” he said, panting as he matched Ian’s stride.
“It depends on who’s looking. You really should see to your fitness, Corbin—you’re quite winded.”
“I’ve run all the way from Cockburn Street.”
The High Street sloped uphill steadily from Holyrood Palace to Edinburgh Castle, the grade becoming steeper as it approached the castle.
“That isn’t such a great distance,” Ian remarked.
Cockburn Street was the location of the offices of the Scotsman, Edinburgh’s premier newspaper, and Jedidiah Corbin was their star crime reporter. Even shorter than Sergeant Dickerson, he was thin and wiry as a whippet, with close-cut dark hair and small, keen eyes that missed little. Now those eyes darted from Ian’s face to the notebook Sergeant Dickerson was carrying.
“I’ll reveal what I know and you can tell me if I’m on the right scent,” he said. “Agreed?”
“What have you heard?” asked Ian as they approached the station house.
“There’s been a murder.”
“This is Edinburgh. There’s always a murder. You’ll have to be more specific.”
“A teacher. An attempt was made to make it look like an accident.”
Ian stopped walking. “Where did you—?”
Corbin smiled. “Your reaction answers my question. Is Dr. Littlejohn being brought in on the case?”
“If he is, no doubt you’ll be the first to know.”
“A fine doctor,” the reporter said. “Though he does have that odd habit of repeating himself—”
“DCI Crawford will decide what facts are to be released to the public,” Ian said, opening the door to 192 High Street. “And now if you will excuse us—”
“I’ll be in touch,” Corbin called after them as Ian and Dickerson entered the building.
“Y’don’ like ’im much, do ye, sir?” said the sergeant as they trudged up the stairs.
“He’s just doing his job.”
“Are y’gonna tell ’im wha’s happenin’?”
“That’s entirely up to DCI Crawford,” Ian replied, swinging open the double door leading to police chambers.
No sooner had they reached their desks than DCI Crawford charged out of his office, waving a piece of paper.
“The autopsy report is in,” he said, thrusting it in front of Ian. “Elizabeth Staley was killed by a heavy blow to the head. Dr. Bell says it was inconsistent with a fall down the stairs—in fact, he’s rather convinced the murder weapon was a hammer, or something like it.”
Ian studied the report. Under “Manner of Death,” it read, Homicide by Person or Persons Unknown.
“You were right,” said Crawford. “Now you just have to find out who did it.”
“The fact that we didn’t find the weapon suggests it was planned.”
“So the killer may have brought it with him.”
“Or her,” Ian added.