“Don’t pursue this, Ian. Leave well enough alone.”
“How can you call the murder of our parents ‘well enough’? What on earth is the matter with you?”
Extricating the cat from his lap, Donald rose from his chair. “I’m tired, and I have early morning rounds tomorrow.”
“What do you know?”
“Leave it, Ian. Take my advice and do not pursue this inquiry.”
Donald looked sad and defeated, even more than when he first appeared on Ian’s doorstep so many months ago. Ian realized any more attempts at conversation would be futile.
“Good night,” said Donald. Wrapping Ian’s dressing gown around his body, he padded off to his bedroom.
Ian sat gazing at the fire for some time. Finally, when the flames had burned down to embers, he, too, retired to bed, no closer to having answers to any of his questions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sitting in the parlor, you study your hands in the lamplight. Turning them over, you gaze with wonder at the finely calibrated bones, tendons, and sinew, all so carefully constructed, capable of so many things. Over the years, your hands have worked, caressed and constructed, mended and molded, most of the time without much thought on your part. Like most people, you took them for granted, pausing to ponder their workings only when something went wrong—a sprained wrist, a banged thumb, a burned forefinger. They were simply an extension of your brain, obeying its commands like a good servant.
But now you regard them with something like awe. Yesterday, these hands fired a gun that killed a man. Even a short time ago, you would not have thought them capable of such an act—would not have believed it lay within your own heart—yet here you sit, a scant day later, contemplating the done deed.
A tingle slides down your spine, burying itself in your groin, as you strive to remember every detail: his nervous manner, the astonished look on his face when he realized he had trusted the wrong person. There was something touching about gazing into someone’s eyes when they are looking back at yours and seeing eternity. The sense of power and inevitability took you off guard, though to your credit, you did not let it get in your way. Your will was resolute, and if the finger that pulled the trigger trembled a little, that only made the conclusion more satisfying. His surprised look turned to one of recognition, as though he understood why he had to die. That was especially gratifying—after all, what was the point of vengeance if the offender had no understanding of his punishment? You almost felt sorry for him—almost, but not quite. He was deserving of his fate, and so much the better if he was aware of it as well.
You pour a little tea from the pot—cold now, the milk congealing on top of the cup in an unappetizing swirl. You rise to put some more coal on the grate. The embers pop and glow, sending faint fingers of flame into the air. You can’t afford to spend much more time contemplating past deeds. There is so much more to be done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The next morning Ian rose at dawn and left before his brother was awake. The mercury had risen overnight, and the air was radically warmer. The springlike temperature was disorienting, and a sullen sun struggled to break through a low cloud cover as he walked toward the station house. As he turned onto the nearly deserted High Street, the quiet was broken by the slow clip-clop of hooves. Cob the milkman perched upon his gently swaying cart, pulled by Timothy, his big chestnut gelding. The milkman tipped his cap, and Timothy swiveled his ears in Ian’s direction as they passed. Returning Cob’s gesture, Ian thought about how horses were able to express so much emotion through their ears. Neither of his parents was keen on horses, but Ian remembered Donald teaching him how to read a horse’s mood from the position of its ears. He sighed, wishing his brother trusted him enough to reveal whatever secrets he carried so close.
As he approached police chambers at 192 High Street, he was surprised to find Jed Corbin leaning against the front door, chewing on a meat pie.
“Morning, Detective.”
“What brings you out so bright and early?”
“I’ll grant you it’s early. Not very bright, though, is it?” the reporter said, glancing at the overcast sky.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Corbin?”
“I propose an exchange of information.”
“You possess knowledge I might find useful?”
Corbin smiled, bits of pie crust clinging to his teeth. “I do.”
“What do you require in exchange?”
The reporter spread his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “Merely a tidbit or two on the Elizabeth Staley investigation—exclusive, of course.”
“And what have you in exchange?”
“Information on the death of Major Fitzpatrick.”
Ian tried not to show his surprise, but it was no use. “Indeed?” he said tightly.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Corbin, tossing his leftover crust into the street, where it was seized by a diving seagull that seemed to appear out of nowhere. “Impressive animals,” the reporter said, watching it fly away with its prize. “Perfect opportunists, utterly without scruples.”
“Like journalists?”
Corbin clutched his heart. “You wound me deeply, Detective.”
“What is this information you refer to?”
“The major received a visitor at approximately nine p.m. the night before his charwoman discovered his body.”
“Who was this visitor?”
“Alas, that’s as much as I know.”
“How did you come by this information?”
Corbin smiled. “A journalist never reveals his sources.”
“And a policeman never comments on an ongoing investigation,” Ian replied curtly. “Good day, Mr. Corbin.”
As he turned to leave, the journalist grabbed his sleeve. “We had an agreement!”
“I agreed to nothing,” Ian said, extricating himself, “but answer me one question and I shall consider your request.”
“That’s not good enough. I want an assurance on your part.”
“Very well—if you answer truthfully, I shall give you something to put in your paper.”
“What is your question?”
“How did you find out about the major’s death?”
“I had you followed.”
“By whom?”
“A young fellow in my employ. It isn’t against the law, you know.”
“Interfering with a police investigation is.”
“I assure you, it is not my intent to interfere, only to obtain information.”
“Here is something for you, then. Elizabeth Staley was undoubtedly murdered.”
“How?”
“A blow to the head.”
“With what object?”
“I have already given you two details, which is more than I promised.”
Corbin sighed. “Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.”
“You are no beggar, Mr. Corbin—you are much more like that seagull you admired so much.”
“Any journalist who fails to seize opportunity will never be successful.”
“Nor will any policeman who blindly trusts the press.”
Corbin smiled. “You strike me as a man whose trust is hard to come by.”