Crawford frowned and picked at his whiskers. “A woman? Come now, Hamilton.”
“May I remind you, sir, of the recent case—”
“Yes, but those were poisonings. Poison is a woman’s business, but surely not this.”
“We must not rule out anything this early.”
“We don’ know what may be missin’ from the house,” Dickerson pointed out. “So the killer could’ve used sommit ’e found there, an’ taken it when ’e left.”
“Good point, Sergeant,” said Ian.
“That nosy reporter from the Scotsman is sniffing around,” said the chief. “Trying to get a scoop.”
“He already knows some of the facts,” said Ian. “I told him you would release information as you deemed appropriate.”
Crawford sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to make an announcement at some point. Until then, it’s all under wraps, eh?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ian could see Constable Turnbull loitering at the tea service area, watching them. When Ian looked in his direction, he slinked around the corner into the back room. Ian suddenly realized how Jed Corbin probably got his information. He considered telling Crawford, but having no proof, decided that would be a mistake.
“You weren’t in this morning when I arrived,” he said. “Is your wife all right, sir?”
“Moira’s health is continuing to improve, thanks to Dr. Bell. I hear he’s attending to the Queen this week,” he added with a conspiratorial wink.
“Yes, he canceled his lectures this morning. My brother was quite pleased at being able to sleep in for a change.”
“I can imagine,” Crawford said agreeably, but seemed distracted. “Would you two step into my office for a moment?” Such politeness was odd—the chief rarely asked when he could command.
Once in the office, he closed the door behind them.
“I’ve some more specific information regarding that upcoming robbery,” he said, lowering his voice.
“Oh?” said Ian.
“It’s supposed to take place late next week—Thursday or Friday,” Crawford said, lowering himself into his chair slowly, wincing.
“Are you quite all right, sir?” said Ian.
“Yes, yes,” Crawford replied, waving him off, and Ian wondered if the chief’s own health was the reason for his tardiness this morning. Crawford picked up a piece of string and twisted it between his fingers—his “rosary,” the men called it.
“How did you come by this information?” asked Ian.
“Constable Turnbull told me.”
Ian glanced at Sergeant Dickerson, whose lips were compressed in a frown.
“Turnbull, sir?” said Ian.
“Why—do you have a problem with him?”
“I can’t help wondering where he got it from.”
“He didn’t care to reveal his source—any more than you did, may I remind you.”
Ian saw no rebuttal to that. He took a deep breath. “So he could not be certain whether it would be on Thursday or Friday?”
“No, he couldn’t,” Crawford replied testily. “But I should think you’d be bloody glad to have it narrowed down.”
“We are, sir,” Sergeant Dickerson interjected. “It’s just—”
“What?”
Dickerson shot Ian a desperate glance.
“We can’t be certain if it’s reliable, sir,” Ian said.
“Why the bloody hell not?” Crawford exploded, tossing his bit of string on the desk.
“We don’t know if his source can be trusted.”
“And yet yours can?”
“Yes, sir. Exactly.”
The chief sighed, all the wind going out of him as if from a deflated balloon.
“Very well, Hamilton—you may ask Constable Turnbull if he’ll share his source with you.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, knowing full well that was a useless venture. “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes. Keep me posted on the Staley investigation, eh?”
“Will do, sir.”
When they returned to the main room, Turnbull was nowhere to be seen. Sergeant Dickerson followed Ian to his desk.
“Wha’s eatin’ the chief, d’you think?”
“I wish I knew. He does seem distracted.”
“He seemed t’be in pain.”
“Yes, he did.”
“I hope it’s nothin’ serious.”
Ian looked out the window. The sun was slowly creeping behind a cloud, as though trying to escape its task of illuminating a city that, it seemed to Ian, was growing darker by the hour.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was a pity, it really was, you think as the lemony light creeps in through the kitchen curtains, turning the glass on the windows opaque. Some revenge was indeed sweet, but it was too bad the teacher had to die, you think as you put the kettle on. She was culpable, of course, but the least guilty of the lot, and you are glad she is out of the way. It was smart to start with her. If you could eliminate her, you could certainly manage to do the rest of them.
Gazing out at the small garden below, you contemplate your next move. You are pleasantly surprised at how easy and natural it all felt; it was quite gratifying, after months of careful planning. Of course, you always were a planner; even as a small child, you thought out your actions carefully before embarking on any course of action, even though other children made fun of you, calling you an old fuddy-duddy. Well, what did they know? you think as a secret smile plays across your lips. They couldn’t even contemplate such momentous acts, let alone pull them off.
The kettle whistle rises from a thin, breathy whisper to a shrill, full-bodied scream. You are grateful she made no such sound, you think as you warm the pot, swirling the water around until the porcelain is warm to the touch, ready to receive the delicate tea leaves. You weren’t sure what it would actually be like, even with all the planning. She might have howled like a banshee, but she didn’t. She made almost no noise at all, just a soft grunt when the blow was struck, the kind of sound you might make stubbing your toe, a startled, muted utterance of pain—but thankfully, there was no screaming.
And then she dropped like a stone, hitting the floor hard, tumbling right down the stairs. That was another surprise—you had thought she might fight back, cry, beg, plead for her life, but luckily that blow was well aimed and so hard it felled her immediately. By the time she hit the bottom step, she was dead.
You hadn’t planned to do it on the stairs, but when she headed to the cellar to fetch the jam, it all felt so right. How easy to make it look like she had simply fallen—and you enjoyed adding a few little touches, like the spilled basket of laundry. It all felt so unreal and a little thrilling, like putting together the set for a stage play.
Yes, you think as you inhale the sweet, stringent aroma of the leaves, stirring the golden-brown liquid in the pot, it was thrilling. Unexpectedly, strangely exciting. It wasn’t just the accomplishment of revenge—that was gratifying—but it was more than that. It was heady, electrifying, and it took your breath away.
The sun makes a final pass across the window, moist from the steaming kettle, the garden outside embraced in a soft mist, like a scene in a dream. You take a deep breath as you pour your tea, watching the milk cut through the golden brew. You realize now what it was you felt.