Looking at the contented faces of his men, Crawford wondered if he alone understood how dire the situation was in Edinburgh. The signs were all there—the spate of burglaries, the brazen actions of petty thieves and pickpockets, flaunting their crimes under the very noses of the constabulary, the police attempts at criminal apprehension gone spectacularly wrong.
And now these most recent murders—involving some bloody foreign medium in some way no one yet seemed to understand. Beyond it all, there was a feeling of disquiet, a sense that all was not well. He could smell it in the air, hear it in the hollow clanging of the clock high atop St. Giles, feel it in the chill wind sweeping in from the Firth of Forth.
Robert Crawford turned back to his office and slung his coat over his shoulders, suddenly aware of the weight of his years. He was weary of it all, and wished he could wash his hands of the whole blasted thing, he thought as he trudged from police chambers down to the street below. He longed to see his Moira, to watch her cooking dinner in their bright kitchen, sitting gracefully in front of the fire, the firelight warm on her face, understanding in her soft brown eyes as she asked him about his day. She alone understood the trials and tribulations of his job, knew the toll it took, and knew how to make everything better with the touch of her soft, cool hands.
From the top floor of a nearby building, a pair of eyes watched closely as he turned the corner onto Old Fleshmarket Close, and toward home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The sun had long since dipped behind Castle Rock when Ian trudged his way back to police chambers, only to be informed both DCI Crawford and Sergeant Dickerson had left for the day. He had walked longer than he realized, aware of neither fatigue nor hunger, nor the passage of time. He had not yet shaken the feeling that haunted him following his visit to Madame Veselka, though he had managed to locate the residence of Miss Bronwyn Davies, number 33 Gloucester Lane, just as Gretchen had said. She was not home, however, and the landlady with whom he left a message seemed of dubious reliability, judging by the fumes she emitted. The alcohol on her breath was so strong Ian felt tipsy just standing next to her. When she tucked his card into her pocket, he could imagine it emerging days or weeks later on washing day, as she scratched her head, pondering why there was a policeman’s card in her skirt.
A copy of the evening edition of the Scotsman was on his desk.
SECOND MEMBER OF SÉANCE SOCIETY FOUND MURDERED IN HIS OWN HOME!
GHOSTLY REVENGE OR SOMETHING EVEN MORE SINISTER?
He sighed and tossed the paper aside. This kind of overwrought journalism was standard, calculated to sell papers rather than create panic among readers. However, if the public did react with hysteria, no newspaper editor in the city would take responsibility, insisting that they were simply doing their duty to report the news to Edinburgh’s citizens.
Leaving the police station, he wandered in the direction of St. Giles, where he saw a familiar figure huddled near the entrance.
“Keeping watch over the faithful, Brian? John Knox would be proud of you,” he said, dropping a coin into the tin cup. John Knox, religious rebel and founder of Scottish Presbyterianism, was probably the most famous minister in the kirk’s history.
“The nearer the kirk the farther frae grace,” the beggar replied, grinning to reveal teeth the color of cobblestones. “What ’ave I done tae deserve half a guinea?”
Ian smiled at Brian’s ability to tell what coin it was by the sound it made as it fell. “You’ve deserted your usual spot.”
“Aye. Time fer a change.”
“I thought maybe you’d found religion.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
“Why did you move from your spot at Waverley Station?”
“Thought it best tae move ’round a bit.”
“Are you in danger?”
“Naw. What kinda thug’d hurt a blind beggar?”
“I’m worried about you, Brian.”
“I’ve looked after m’self all these years,” he said, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck as a gust of wind swooped down on them, scattering snowflakes in tiny tornadoes. “I reckon I kin take care a’m’self.”
“You’ve been threatened, haven’t you?”
“Donnae know why ye’d think that,” he said, suddenly seized with a fit of coughing—a deep, liquid sound, like the gurgling of a fountain.
“That’s a nasty cough,” said Ian.
“Not nearly nasty enough t’take me out, mate.”
“You should go to hospital and let someone examine you.”
“Don’ like doctors much.”
“You might have consumption.”
“It’ll take more than a bit a’ catarrh t’kill ol’ Blind Brian.”
“I know a medical student at the Royal Infirmary. And a nurse as well—”
“That’s more like it,” he said, grinning. “Nurses are all right. She pretty?”
“I think most people would say so.”
“What d’ye say?”
“I suppose she’s pretty.”
Brian laughed. “You’re sweet on her, mate.”
Ignoring his comment, Ian scanned the street for any sign of suspicious characters, but the only people nearby were a young couple pushing a child in a pram and an elderly gentleman being pulled by an Airedale. The terrier lunged eagerly on the leash when he saw Ian, nearly tugging the man from his feet.
“Whoa, Digby!” his owner said, attempting to gain control as the two of them careened down the street in the direction of Holyrood Palace.
“Stupid name fer a dog a’ that size,” Brian muttered when they were out of earshot.
“How do you—”
“He were big enough tae pull a grown man along the street, weren’t he? Though from the sound a’ his voice, that fellow’s a bit past ’is prime.”
Ian shook his head. “You—”
“Please don’ say I see more than people wi’ two good eyes. I don’ see nothin’, mate. What I do is listen. Most people are too busy struttin’ aroond tryin’ tae make an impression. I got nothin’ to prove, so I listen.” He coughed and spat into the street. “Ye’d be surprised how no one takes notice of a blind man sittin’ quietly in th’corner of a pub. Stupid gits. They figure ’cause I don’ see they can say anythin’. So I listen, an’ I hear things.”
“So what have you heard?” Ian said. He could see the street was clear of eavesdroppers, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched. “Have you learned anything about the matter we discussed earlier?”
“’Bout who might be feedin’ ye false information?”
“Yes.”
“I don’ have any specifics yet, but I do know there’s a new feelin’ among the fellows. One I never quite haerd afore.”
“What kind of feeling?”
Brian turned his empty eyes toward Ian, as if he had sight in them, but they looked right past the detective, blank as the night. “Fear,” he said in a low voice. “They all sound scared tae death.”
“Of what?”
“Can’ answer that. I jes hear it in their voices. They’re spooked a’ somethin’.”