It was the feeling of complete, unfettered freedom, and you wanted more.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I’d like to show you something,” Ian told Sergeant Dickerson as they shared a midafternoon pot of tea. Neither had eaten since breakfast, but Hamilton barely seemed to notice.
“Yes, sir?” Dickerson said, stuffing another biscuit into his mouth to quell his grumbling stomach. He was always amazed by DI Hamilton’s endless obsession with his work. He struggled to keep up, but in truth he often longed to spend more time with his younger sister, to say nothing of his pretty girlfriend, Caroline Tierney. But lately it seemed his whole life revolved around the station house. He wanted to be a good policeman but sometimes resented DI Hamilton’s single-minded devotion to duty, wondering why the detective didn’t seem to have other interests in his life.
Ian put down his mug of tea and went to the supply closet, where he dug out an artist’s easel.
“I have in mind a kind of murder chart,” he said, taking up a soft lead pencil. On the left side of the blank paper clipped to the easel, he wrote Suspects. “Now then, what does each suspect need in order to be the actual killer?”
Dickerson felt put on the spot. He tried to imagine what answer Hamilton was looking for. He struggled to think, but his mind suddenly felt filled with cotton. He looked at the detective, who was waiting patiently, long arms crossed, his deep-set gray eyes keen.
“Uh . . . a reason t’kill?”
“Excellent!” Hamilton exclaimed. “Well done.” He turned and wrote Impetus above and to the right of Suspects. “What else?”
Feeling emboldened, Dickerson relaxed. “I s’pose they’d need . . . sommit t’do th’deed with. A murder weapon, like?”
“Exactly!” Hamilton crowed, and wrote Method on the far side of the board, across from Impetus. “A gun, a vial of poison, a fireplace poker—”
“Or a hammer.”
“Precisely. That leaves only one more essential element.”
Dickerson swallowed his remaining bit of biscuit and scratched his head. Detective Hamilton could be cloudy and close, but now he looked happy as a child with a new toy. The sergeant wanted to extend this good mood, but even more he craved Hamilton’s approval. “Uh . . . can y’give me a hint?”
“In order to kill someone, generally you have to come into proximity to them.”
“That’s a good point, sir.” He wasn’t entirely sure what “proximity” meant but was not about to admit it.
“So that means the killer needs to have—”
Dickerson squinted at the board, as if the answer lay there.
“Opportunity!” Ian exclaimed, writing the word on the board.
“I see, sir,” Dickerson said, disappointed at failing to come up with the answer.
“So we have Impetus, Opportunity, and Method,” Hamilton continued, underlining them.
The sergeant gazed longingly at the empty biscuit tin, wishing it would magically transform into a steak and kidney pie.
“. . . which means every viable suspect must have all three,” Hamilton was saying. Dickerson struggled to absorb what the detective was saying, but thoughts of a meat pie vied for his attention.
“Are you quite all right, Sergeant?” Hamilton said, staring at him.
“Yes, sir. It’s just—”
“What?”
“Well, I’m hungry, sir.”
“Why didn’t you say so!” The detective fished some money from his pocket and handed it to him. “Why don’t you get us both a couple of meat pies?”
Dickerson didn’t have to be asked twice. “Thank you, sir!” he said, sprinting from the station so fast he neglected to put on his overcoat. Out in the street, he immediately regretted it as the icy December air hit him full in the face. Though it was only midafternoon, the sun was sinking rapidly toward the horizon, and there was already an evening chill in the air. Blowing on his hands, he headed toward the pie seller in front of St. Giles.
“G’day, Sergeant!” the man called out cheerfully upon seeing one of his most loyal customers. “What’ll it be t’day? No more steak and kidney left—all I’ve got at this hour is mutton or bridie pies.” He was tall and thin as a scarecrow, with a voice shrill and sharp as a pennywhistle. He always wore the same moth-eaten scarf around his neck in winter, and no matter the weather, was unfailingly cheerful.
“Two—no, three bridies, please,” Dickerson said, anxious to fill his empty stomach with as much food as possible. He was especially fond of bridie pies, said to be named after a midcentury pie seller by that name. He would have ordered yet another, but didn’t want Hamilton to think him a glutton.
“Three pies it is,” the pie man said, handing him a steaming paper bag.
“Ta very much,” Dickerson said, handing him the coins. “Keep the change, mate,” he added, his mouth filling with saliva as he headed back toward the police station.
As he neared the building, he thought he saw someone in a policeman’s uniform duck into the entrance to Parliament Square. The growing darkness made it hard to make out the man’s features, but the heavy shoulders and rolling gait resembled Constable McKay’s. Quickening his steps, Dickerson turned right at the intersection, walking rapidly until he had passed the Mercat Cross. He peered down the street, but there was no sign of anyone. The street ran alongside the eastern edge of the cathedral before taking a sharp right turn to run directly behind it. There was no one in sight before the turn, so he decided to give up his pursuit, turning his steps back in the direction of the police station.
When he arrived, Hamilton seemed to barely notice he had been gone, ignoring the pie Dickerson placed on his desk. There was something inhuman about the detective, he thought as he munched his pies, savoring the buttery crust and minced beef and onion filling. Studying his board, Hamilton’s eyes shone with the familiar gleam the sergeant knew so well. When he was deep in a case, nothing else seemed to matter.
Beneath the word Suspects, he had written Mme. Veselka, Gretchen, and Major, drawing a line across the board beneath each name.
“Are they all suspects, then, sir?” Dickerson asked as he gulped down his first pie.
“Until they are eliminated. Of course, her killer may be completely unrelated to the séance group, but it’s as good a place to start as any.”
“Don’ ye need another column fer alibi, then?”
Hamilton stopped what he was doing, and for a moment Dickerson was afraid he was irritated. But he clapped his hands enthusiastically. “Well done, Sergeant!” Dickerson breathed a sigh of relief as Hamilton applied himself writing Alibi on the far right side, creating a new row for each suspect.
“That’s the stuff,” he said, laying down his pencil and admiring his handiwork. “Between us, we’ll get the job done—eh, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” Dickerson replied, starting in on his second pie.
“Ah,” Hamilton said, as if seeing the pies for the first time. “What have we today?”
“Bridie pies, sir,” the sergeant mumbled through a mouthful of flaky crust and savory spiced meat. He sighed with contentment—the second pie tasted even better than the first.