“Nate Crippen was murdered.”
“No kiddin’? How?”
“We found him in the alley next to the pub. His throat was slashed.”
“Good Lord, Ian,” said Donald, his face darkening. “And now you’re in danger as well. I told you to give this up, but evidently you didn’t listen.”
Ian said nothing. He supposed Donald would eventually find out, but he was not going to reveal the detail of the Glasgow smile. It would only support his brother’s already entrenched position.
“Any idea who done it?” said Derek as they approached Grassmarket Square.
“None,” said Ian.
The Saturday open-air market was in full swing as they passed a juggler entertaining a crowd of onlookers. He was thin and wiry, dressed in a tattered tuxedo complete with top hat, his face sporting a jet-black, elaborately waxed mustache and goatee, which made him look a little like popular images of Satan. He caught Ian’s eye as they passed, and gave a little wink. It was like being winked at by the devil.
A sleepy-looking boy in a long white apron was sweeping the front stoop of Edinburgh’s oldest pub, the White Hart Inn, which in a few hours would be filled with heavy-drinking drovers, shepherds, and farmers. It was a long day for the men who rose before dawn to bring their wares to the market, and the pubs lining the Grassmarket would do a brisk trade when the day was done.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Donald said as they turned onto Vennel Street.
“Surely that is obvious from your reaction,” Ian replied tightly.
“Do you expect me to stand silently by as you put yourself in peril?”
“May I remind you danger is part of my profession?”
“This wild goose chase has nothing to do with your job as a policeman,” Donald replied as they passed the Flodden Wall. The wall was one of the city’s oldest, erected in 1513 after a disastrous Scottish defeat at the Battle of Flodden, which resulted in the death of the Scottish king, James IV. “In fact, I doubt DCI Crawford would be pleased to hear you are off chasing phantoms on your own.”
“Clearly they are not phantoms,” Ian said hotly, “as a man is dead.”
“Do you intend to be the next victim?”
“Certainly not,” Ian replied as they stepped aside to let a wagon piled high with hay pass, the broad wheels wobbling on the uneven cobblestones. He breathed in the sweet, musty smell, and was instantly transported to their neighbor’s barn in the Highlands, when he and Donald would sneak over to ride the horses.
“So, Guv,” said Derek. “What’re ye gonna do now?”
“Find out who killed Nate Crippen and why.”
“See here,” said Donald. “Why can’t you just drop all this nonsense?”
“Why are you so anxious to stop me?”
“I should think that would be obvious. I don’t want you to end up in an alley with your throat slashed.”
“I can look after myself.”
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“Do you?”
“Obviously it’s someone able to kill a man virtually under your nose and get away with it.”
They stood at the corner of Keir Street and Lauriston Place, in the shadow of the infirmary’s massive clock tower.
“Guess I’ll be on my way, then,” Derek said, scuffing his shoe against the paving stones. He looked up at Ian, the sun glinting off the red highlights in his mop of hair. With better clothes and a proper haircut, he would be a decent-looking lad, Ian thought.
“Here,” he said, handing the boy some coins. “Buy yourself breakfast.”
“Ta very much,” Derek said, pocketing the money. “Oh, any chance a’ that bath sometime?”
Ian stole a glance at Donald, who exhaled loudly through his nose. “He can come tomorrow night, after Sunday roast at Lillian’s,” he told Ian.
Derek grinned widely, displaying surprisingly pearly teeth. “I like yer aunt—she’s all right by me.”
“I can’t tell you how gratified I am to hear it,” Donald replied drily.
The boy licked his lips. “Sunday roast, eh?”
Donald lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t press your luck.”
“I’ll be off, then,” Derek said. “Sorry ’bout yer informant. That’s a bad break.” He sauntered away, whistling.
Watching his retreat, Donald shook his head. “I still don’t trust that boy.”
“As I told DCI Crawford, it is only necessary that he be useful.”
“How is old Toshy?” Donald said as they walked through the iron gates and up the paved path to the august building.
“That’s what Dr. Littlejohn calls him. How did you—”
“I have my ways, brother—you should know that by now.”
“You would make a splendid investigator.”
“Dr. Bell believes medicine is an investigative science.”
“How is the old blowhard?”
“He’s a brilliant doctor, you know.”
“I’ve no doubt of that.”
“What do you have against him?”
“I just think he fancies himself a bit too much.”
“You might fancy yourself, too, if you were—speak of the devil,” Donald said, as the man himself came striding briskly toward them. His graying hair was as tidy as his trim, athletic figure. Ian put his age as early forties, a man in his vigorous prime.
“Ah, Hamilton—early as usual, I see,” he said, rubbing his hands together. They were well shaped, with long, tapering fingers—the hands of a skilled surgeon.
“Good morning, Dr. Bell,” said Donald.
His subservient manner in Bell’s presence rankled Ian. Feeling his own face redden, he stared down at his feet.
“And good morning to you, Detective Inspector. What brings you to our corner of the city?”
“He’s come to see Conan Doyle,” Donald lied, to Ian’s relief. He had no wish to share his romantic entanglements—or lack thereof—with Dr. Bell.
“I hear you and young Doyle have struck up a bit of a crime-fighting partnership,” said Bell. “Mind you don’t distract him from his medical duties.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ian said, unable to hide a certain coldness in his tone. He was aware Donald was glaring at him, but ignored it.
But Bell seemed to have other things on his mind. If he noticed Ian’s attitude, he did not remark upon it. “I’ve an intriguing case I thought you might find interesting,” he told Donald. “Like to come have a look?”
“I would be delighted,” his brother said. “See you tonight,” he told Ian as he followed the great man down the hall. “Good luck,” he added with a smile before they turned the corner to the corridor leading to the wards.
“Good luck indeed,” Ian muttered under his breath. The morning sun streaming through the tall windows reflected off the polished floors, momentarily blinding him. He blinked, and when he looked up, he saw an angular figure in a crisp white nursing uniform approaching.
“Can I help you, sir?” she said, walking smoothly toward him, her sturdy shoes seeming to glide over the tiled floor. Her snowy white apron and the way she floated down the hall reminded him of the ghostly apparition of his dream.