“Are you all right, Madame?” Gretchen said, kneeling at her side.
She stared at the girl as if she were a stranger, blinked several times, then stretched and heaved a great sigh. “Was I out long?”
Ian stifled an impulse to roll his eyes, but Gretchen took the medium’s hand in hers.
“Not long, Madame—no more than a few minutes.”
Madame Veselka turned to Ian. “My apologies, Detective—I have no real control over the spirit world, and occasionally they visit me at the most inconvenient times.”
“Never mind; I was nearly finished. Thank you for your time,” he said, throwing on his cloak.
She looked at him curiously. “She told me the earrings were stolen before the fire.”
“What?”
“The earrings. They disappeared before the fire.”
“Madame Veselka,” Ian said coldly, “I don’t know what you are playing at, but it won’t work. I shall continue my investigation, and if it points to you, I can assure you, you will be brought to justice. And,” he continued, “if you continue digging into my personal life, it will not go well for you.”
“I only relay messages as they are given to me.”
“I am warning you—”
“And I am warning you, Detective Hamilton. Do not take these things lightly. The spirits do not always communicate, but when they do, they will not be silenced until they have been heard.”
“I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you believe in all this folderol,” he said, donning his cap. “But do not make the mistake of believing that my patience is endless. Thank you again for the coffee,” he said to Gretchen.
Turning on his heel, he strode to the front door, opened it, and did not stop walking until he had gone a quarter of a mile or more. His heart pounded and spots danced before his eyes as he tried to calm himself. He was angry at the medium for working so hard to unbalance him, and angrier at himself for letting her words upset him. For in truth, he was rattled—he needed to be alone and sort out what had transpired.
And so he did what he so often did when his head was muddled, his emotions unsettled, his world suddenly confusing and unmanageable. Wrapping his cloak around his body, he set out to roam the streets of Edinburgh until he calmed down and was able to make sense of a case that threatened to unravel into a thousand disconnected, meaningless threads.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Detective Chief Inspector Robert Crawford stood at his office window gazing down on the sweep of humanity trudging along the cobblestones of High Street. One of the city’s main thoroughfares, it harbored every type of inhabitant one could imagine, from the wealthiest nobles to the most wretched of beggars. Sooner or later, if you lived in Edinburgh, you would find yourself on High Street, whether riding in a fancy brougham pulled by a pair of fine horses with braided manes, or lugging a turnip cart in worn-out boots and a threadbare coat too thin for Scottish winters. Princes Street housed the fancy shops, where the fashionable shopped and dined, but High Street was the heart of the city. Chimney sweeps rubbed shoulders with rich ladies from the Continent prowling the wool shops that lined the street’s western third; counts and earls on their way to Holyrood Palace for a royal audience bumped elbows with beggars and brigands.
Today a light snow dusted the cobblestones, making them slippery and treacherous for people and horses alike as they threaded their way through the thicket of Friday traffic. Crawford watched as a couple of raggedly dressed boys darted in front of a slow-moving omnibus, just missing being trampled by the brace of dapple-grays pulling it.
On this dreary December day, seized by a wistful mood, the chief found himself taking stock of his life. Things at home were looking up, thanks to the ministrations of Dr. Joseph Bell, under whose care his beloved wife, Moira, was improving daily. But the situation at work could not be said to be anything short of dire. The city’s criminals were running rampant, emboldened by the recent fiascos in which Crawford and his men failed to stop two major thefts. The criminal underworld seemed organized and unified in a way it never was before.
Turning back to his desk, he sighed at the sight of a half-finished cup of tea that had been there since morning, now cold. He doubted his own ability to set things right—something was indeed rotten in Denmark, as DI Hamilton would say, and he could only hope that with Hamilton’s help, he would be able to sort out a vexing and troubling situation.
There was a knock on the door.
“Yes?” he barked, determined to keep up a stiff front of confidence and competence, though he felt neither.
The door opened to admit Sergeant Dickerson, a man Crawford was coming to like more and more. This warm regard was aided by the fact that the little fellow was like a miniature replica of himself, with his red hair and fair, freckled skin, which made Crawford feel fatherly and a little protective. He and Moira had no children of their own, but he imagined that if he had a son, the boy would look somewhat like William Dickerson, who was about the right age—though no doubt shorter than any member of the Crawford clan.
“’Scuse me, sir. I were wonderin’ if ye’d seen DI Hamilton?”
“Not since this morning, Sergeant. You have something to tell him?”
“I did th’interviews he requested, and I’d like t’give report, but . . . well, sir—” He hesitated, biting his lip.
“Yes?”
“I’ve got t’go, y’see.”
“Go on, then, if your shift is over.”
“I’d like t’stay late, but—”
“What? Come out with it, man.”
“I’ve got rehearsal.”
“Doing another Shakespeare play, are you?” Crawford said, stroking his whiskers. He wouldn’t admit it to Hamilton, but he had quite enjoyed the production of Hamlet he and Dickerson had appeared in—that is, until everything imploded.
“No, sir—it’s Dickens this time.”
“Dickens?”
“Yes, sir—A Christmas Carol.”
“Well, get on with you, then.”
“Yes, sir—thank you, sir,” said the sergeant, backing out of the room like a servant not allowed to turn his back on his master.
“You were quite good in the last one,” Crawford added, in a rush of warm feeling toward the sergeant.
“Very kind of you t’say so, sir.”
“Do you want to leave a message for Hamilton if I see him?”
“Just that I’ll be in early tomorrow, if ye don’ mind, sir.”
“Good man. Before you go, any progress on the investigation you’re doing for me?”
“Not so’s I’m aware, sir.”
“Time is of the essence, Sergeant.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Now get along with you—mustn’t be late.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” the sergeant said, continuing to back up until he had fully cleared the door to Crawford’s office.
Afterward, the chief stood watching men come and go as the day shift gave way to night in the station house. They wandered in one by one, shaking snow from their overcoats, greeting their fellow officers on the way out, sitting at their desks, or rummaging around the tea station to see whether there were any biscuits left in the tin. A few of the lads had tried to brighten up the place with sprigs of holly and evergreen boughs, and someone had brought in mistletoe and hung it over the entrance to Crawford’s office. He appreciated the joke—Robbie Crawford wasn’t entirely without humor, though at times he felt this job had knocked a lot of it out of him. Still, he took it in stride with good humor—anything to lighten the mood in what lately was feeling like a discouraging profession.