“That went down a treat,” he mumbled through a mouthful of bread. “Ta very much.”
“My pleasure,” said the constable, leaning back in his chair, regarding the sergeant.
There was something unsettling in the way Turnbull looked at him. Technically Dickerson was the constable’s superior officer, but somehow he never felt like it. If anything, Turnbull treated him as an inferior, and Dickerson never seemed to have the gumption to object. Now he felt the man’s steady gaze upon him, which made him uneasy.
“Speaking of criminals,” said Turnbull, “any success in the hunt for the false informant?”
His question caught the sergeant off guard, making him choke on his pastry. Coughing violently, Dickerson reached for his tea just as Detective Hamilton entered the station house. Seeing the sergeant and Constable Turnbull together, he frowned as he whipped off his cape, tossing it onto the rack and striding toward them.
“Good morning, Detective,” Turnbull said smoothly as Hamilton approached, a scowl on his handsome face, which was marred by a thin red wound on one cheek.
“Constable,” he replied with a curt nod. “Are you quite all right?” he asked Dickerson, who nodded, still unable to speak, the bread still lodged in his windpipe.
Hamilton gave a short, sharp rap with his fist on the sergeant’s back, between his shoulder blades, causing the morsel to pop from his mouth onto the floor. Dickerson gave two more coughs, then inhaled deeply.
“Better now?” said Hamilton.
“Yes—thank you, sir,” he replied sheepishly. He had meant to give the detective a piece of his mind about being so late, and now here he was, humbled by this embarrassing situation. There would be no reprimand; as usual, Hamilton had the upper hand.
“Where have ye b-been, sir?” he sputtered, giving one final cough to clear his lungs.
“Visiting a crime scene.”
“Have ye told DCI Crawford yet ’bout my part in the Dickens play, sir?” he asked, knowing full well Hamilton had not.
“I meant to, but I’m afraid it slipped my mind,” the detective said rather more breezily than Dickerson thought appropriate. After all, he had given the sergeant his word, and a promise broken, no matter how small, irked Dickerson, who saw it as further proof of how lightly Hamilton held him in regard.
“Ah, there you are,” the detective said as Arthur Conan Doyle entered the station house. Manly and tall, with an athletic, graceful build, Conan Doyle represented everything the sergeant was not.
Dickerson crossed his arms and pursed his lips in displeasure. Bad enough that Hamilton had kept him waiting, but now to show up with Doyle—that really was too much. He knew it was small of him, but he bitterly resented Hamilton’s friendship with the medical student. They made jokes he didn’t understand, laughing together in ways that, as the detective’s subordinate, he wasn’t able to. They spoke with the same crisp consonants, whereas Dickerson was keenly aware of his heavy Lancashire accent. Doyle and Hamilton were equals, companions, friends. And no matter how much time he spent with Hamilton, how much danger they faced together, he would always be less than that.
He sighed and turned away, catching Turnbull’s gaze. The constable made a face, rolling his eyes in a comic way, and Dickerson experienced a rush of relief—he had an ally.
“Sorry,” Doyle told Hamilton. “I stopped to put a few coins in a beggar’s purse, and we got to chatting a bit. Interesting fellow—former military man. Lost his sight in Afghanistan.”
“That’ll be Brian. Don’t make the mistake of believing everything he tells you.”
Doyle threw back his head and guffawed. Even his laugh was athletic, Dickerson thought peevishly.
Constable Turnbull stood and stepped forward. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Constable John Turnbull.”
Doyle grasped his hand in a hearty handshake. “Arthur Conan Doyle. I’m a medical student at—”
“Oh, yes—I believe I know your father. He lives at Sciennes Place, I think?” A cloud passed over Doyle’s face, and he took a step backward, but Turnbull was undeterred. “Such a pity he’s—”
Hamilton stepped forward. “Excuse me, but I have an urgent case to attend to, and—”
“Of course,” Turnbull replied evenly. “Pardon me for wasting your time. That’s a nasty cut on your face—you really should have it seen to.” And with a last look at Doyle, he turned and sauntered away.
There was an awkward silence, which Doyle broke with a good-natured chuckle. “What say you we get on this? I have to return to the infirmary by midafternoon.”
“What are ye doin’?” said Dickerson.
“Analyzing this note,” Hamilton replied, handing it to him.
Frowning, the sergeant read it.
You will pay for your crimes
I’ll come for you when you least expect it
“Where’d ye get this?” he said.
“From the major’s flat.”
“But y’already searched his place—”
“Ah, but we neglected to look in the coal scuttle.”
“Why on earth would it be in th—”
“Detective Hamilton had a theory that the major, thinking himself in danger, would hide the threatening note in a place his assailant would not think to look,” Doyle said triumphantly.
“So if the worst did happen, he would leave behind evidence that might help us track down his killer.”
“Oh,” said Dickerson glumly, wondering why Hamilton hadn’t included him in this venture, instead of Doyle, whom he loathed more and more.
“Sergeant, would you be so kind as to fetch the murder chart from the closet?”
“Murder chart—I say, that sounds intriguing,” Doyle said, rubbing his hands together expectantly.
Dickerson headed to the supply closet, passing by Turnbull’s desk. The constable winked at him, giving a conspiratorial smile that made Dickerson queasy. But he was also flattered—Turnbull had a following among the other officers, a group of cronies of which he was definitely the leader. And now he wanted to enlist Dickerson in his coterie, which was gratifying. DI Hamilton could be terse and demanding; those in Turnbull’s crowd were looser and seemed to have fun both during working hours and afterward. With Hamilton, approbation could be hard to come by, which made Turnbull’s praise all the more seductive. Who did Hamilton think he was, anyway? He needed to be taught a lesson, taken down a notch or two—it would serve him right.
As he passed Turnbull’s desk, William Dickerson nodded and smiled at the constable. It was only a smile, he told himself, but even then, he had a feeling the consequences might be more than he bargained for.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Conan Doyle studied the note pinned to the board before him.
You will pay for your crimes
I’ll come for you when you least expect it
“No doubt it is an important piece of evidence,” he said. “I hope I can be of some use in analyzing the person who wrote it.” He looked at Hamilton for his reaction. He appreciated being consulted in the detective’s cases, and did not want to appear arrogant. But his friend exhibited keen interest; his gray eyes shone with excitement, and his lean body had the contained energy of a retriever on a scent.