“I, uh—I was looking for someone.”
“I thought perhaps you were seeking treatment for that wound on your cheek,” she said, peering at his face.
“No, I . . .”
“Yes?” she said, tilting her head to one side. Nearly as tall as Ian, she was a handsome woman of about forty, with clear gray eyes set over high cheekbones in an austere face with a firm jaw. Something in those steady eyes told him she was not one to be crossed. Or maybe it was the square set of her shoulders, confident attitude, or commanding contralto. He had heard Donald speak of the infirmary’s fearsome head nurse, and had no doubt that was the very person now confronting him.
“Are you Nurse Meadows?”
Her eyes narrowed. “And how would you come by that information?” The slight lilt in her voice suggested her origins lay across the Irish Sea.
“I’m a friend of Conan Doyle,” he blurted out. Her face relaxed into what was nearly a smile.
“Ah, young Arthur, is it? A fine lad—I know the Doyles from back home.”
“Ireland?”
“Aye. They’re a respectable family there—prosperous and all, you know. Too bad about that father of his,” she said, shaking her head.
“Yes, he’s spoken of the troubles with his father.”
“Such a pity, so it is. Such a fine fellow, to be saddled with a da like that. So you’re after seeing young Arthur? I’ll take you to him.”
“But first, I was wondering—”
“Well?” she said, crossing her arms. “Go on, then, spit it out.”
“Do you happen to know if Nurse Stuart is in today?”
“So that’s the reason for your visit,” she said with a smug smile. “Thought you were hiding something.”
Ian felt himself redden. “Well, I—”
“She’s not on shift today. Just as well—she’s been distracted lately, and now I know why.”
“It’s not really—”
“Do you still want to see young Arthur?”
“I do.”
At that moment the object of their conversation came striding toward them. “Your brother tells me you’re looking for me,” he said to Ian.
“Yes,” Ian replied, heartily relieved to see him. The air felt clearer when Conan Doyle was around; a sense of calm descended at the sight of his friend’s smiling face.
“Hello, Nurse Meadows,” Doyle said. “You’re looking fresh as a summer breeze.”
“Go on with your blather,” she said, but her cheeks glowed, and she even giggled—Ian would have thought such a sound was foreign to her very nature. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it—I’ll tell Nurse Stuart you stopped in,” she added with a nod to Ian, pivoting crisply on her well-leathered heel.
“Fine woman,” Doyle said, watching her retreat. “Runs the nursing staff like a general. She’s terrifying, of course, but her efficiency is astonishing.”
Ian laughed. “How do you do it, Doyle?”
“What?”
“Charm everyone you meet?”
“Don’t know what you mean, old boy.”
“Nurse Meadows. She nearly ate my head off, but she adores you.”
“You exaggerate, dear fellow.”
“And you are too modest. But that’s part of your appeal.”
“Enough of this nonsense,” Doyle said, clapping Ian on the back. “By the way, what happened to your face?”
“I scratched myself in my sleep.”
“It must have been a beastly dream.”
“Care to revisit a crime scene with me?”
“I suppose I could play hooky for an hour or two. What’s the plan?”
“I have a theory.”
“‘Lead on, spirit.’”
They stepped out of the infirmary as a cloud passed over the sun, leaving half the city in shadow.
CHAPTER THIRTY
William “Billy” Dickerson poured his third cup of tea that morning and paced the station. It was gone ten o’clock. He had been waiting for DI Hamilton for over an hour. He didn’t know whether to be worried or irritated by the detective’s tardiness. He stood before the window, gazing down on the populace of Edinburgh trudging up and down the High Street. Everyone in Edinburgh seemed to be trudging, slogging, or plodding, as if life in the city had so drained the vigor from their limbs that there was barely any left over, certainly not enough to skip, bounce, or prance. Even the horses conserved their energy, the cobblestones ringing with their ponderous steps.
The sergeant watched a pair of massive gray Percherons pull an omnibus in the direction of the Grassmarket. Their muscular necks strained as they lugged the vehicle up the incline, the street rising steadily from its origin at Holyrood Palace to Castle Rock. Dickerson was afraid of horses, but he did admire the powerful but docile French draft horses. His uncle had owned one, and it was the only horse he had ever felt comfortable enough to touch, even creeping into the barn to pet him at night.
“Gazing down on the hoi polloi, Sergeant?”
He turned to see Constable Turnbull, his fleshy mouth pulled into a smile. The sergeant pitied the constable, with his heavily pockmarked face, though Dickerson always felt off balance around him, as if he was expected to say or do something but was never quite sure what. He knew DI Hamilton loathed the man and that the feeling was mutual. But Dickerson was still peeved at the detective over the way he had treated poor Gretchen. Hamilton could be high-handed, a character flaw Dickerson had ample opportunity to observe. He also felt Hamilton ignored him when he pointed it out, and that rankled him most of all.
He smiled at the constable. “How many a’ them down there d’you think are criminals?”
Turnbull’s smile widened, emphasizing the deep pits in his skin. “Any man is capable of crime under the right circumstances.”
“Ye really believe that, do ye?”
“Wouldn’t you be capable of killing a man if he were threatening, say, your sister?”
Dickerson frowned. Did the constable know about his sister, or was he just making a lucky guess? “If her life were in danger, a’ course.”
“Well, there you are—I rest my case.”
“But that don’ mean—”
“How about a little something to go with that tea? I stopped by Daily Bread on the way here,” Turnbull said, walking to his desk in the corner of the room. Dickerson followed him uncertainly. He was hungry, having neglected his usual stop at the bakery so he would be on time to meet Hamilton. And now the detective was over an hour late.
“Fancy a bit of Selkirk bannock, Sergeant?” Turnbull asked, pulling out a waxed bakery bag.
“Don’ mind if I do,” Dickerson said, saliva springing into his mouth as he gazed at the sweet buttery treat.
“Help yourself,” Turnbull said, handing it to him. “There’s more than enough for two.”
“How did you know?” Dickerson asked, biting into the luscious loaf sweetened with raisins and currants.
Turnbull chuckled. “Just a lucky guess. It is one of their specialties.”
Chewing contentedly, Dickerson felt his anger at Hamilton drain away. Hunger had put an edge on his temper, but each bite of Selkirk bannock softened his irritation. He would have made a good breakfast for his sister that morning, but she was staying over at a friend’s house. He hadn’t slept well—he never did when Pauline was out of the house. He felt his obligation to take care of her keenly, but tried not to burden her with it, so when she asked if she could sleep over at Molly’s, he said yes, even though everything inside him wanted to say no.