“Doyle has been enlightening me on the study of graphology,” Ian told Sergeant Dickerson.
The sergeant frowned. “Graph-whatagee?”
“It’s the study of handwriting. Invented by a Frenchman by the name of Jean Michon.”
“Actually, the Chinese have known of it for centuries,” Doyle pointed out. “They believed a person’s handwriting was a key to his character.”
“So what does it tell ye ’bout the person what wrote the note? Assumin’ they’re the killer, a’ course.”
“Excellent point, Sergeant,” Ian said. “We cannot assume the writer of the note was indeed the murderer.”
“Agreed,” said Doyle. “But how likely is it the major received a threatening letter and was soon after slain by someone else?”
“I’ll admit it’s improbable,” said Ian. “However, Hamilton’s Third Rule of Investigation states—”
“Never leap to conclusions,” Dickerson finished for him.
“Well done, Sergeant.”
Doyle smiled and wiped his brow. He found Hamilton’s endless drive to organize and formalize crime-solving procedures admirable, and a tad intimidating. Ian Hamilton was the most intense man he had ever met, and he was drawn to the detective’s passion, and, truth be told, a little frightened of it. Like anything powerful, it had a potential dark side, and something about the detective made Doyle want to protect him, mostly from himself. “How many laws are there?” he asked.
“Ten, at present,” Hamilton replied. “But it is an evolving list.”
“Well, shall we assume for the moment the person who wrote it was the killer, and do our best to analyze the note?”
“By all means.”
Doyle turned back to study the document. Hamilton stood beside him, peering at it with a look of intense concentration on his clean-cut features.
“Well?” the detective said after a moment. “What do you make of it?”
“The writing itself is rather flowery and feminine—you see this loop here on the ‘Y,’ and that flourish on the capital ‘I’?”
“Which would indicate the writer is a woman?”
“But you see how firmly the pencil was pressed to the paper?”
“I did observe that. It is quite forceful, which seems at odds with the notion of the writer as female.”
“What if the person writin’ it were tryin’ to disguise their identity?” Dickerson suggested.
“Interesting theory,” said Hamilton. “But what are the chances the letter writer is familiar with the relatively new science of graphology?”
“Not much, I s’pose,” Dickerson said sulkily, drumming his fingers on the desk.
Doyle was fairly certain the sergeant did not like him, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. He resolved to try to make him an ally rather than an enemy. “Still, it’s a very good observation,” he said cheerfully, but Dickerson slumped in his chair and continued drumming his fingers.
“The language itself strikes me as rather masculine,” Hamilton said. “It’s very direct.”
“And very personal. Do you think it likely the letter writer was someone the major knew?”
“It’s certainly someone who knew him. Whether or not that is reciprocal, it is hard to say.”
“Why write a note if yer going t’kill a man?” said Dickerson. “Wouldn’t it just put him on ’is guard?”
“It would indeed, Sergeant—well said,” Hamilton replied. “Which means the intent was to terrorize, to create fear in the victim.”
“Major Fitzpatrick was a military man,” Doyle said. “He was used to danger.”
“Yes, but observe the language of the note. ‘You will pay for your crimes. I’ll come for you when you least expect it.’ Not only is it personal, but it is aimed at striking fear into the victim’s heart. ‘When you least expect it’—what man alive would not feel trepidation at those words?”
Doyle crossed his arms. “Do you really think it likely a woman could pen such words?”
“I have met some murderous women in my line of work.”
Doyle nodded. “Yes, your last homicide case made me reassess my view of the weaker sex.”
“Not so weak, if y’ask me,” said Dickerson. “Ever seen a woman in labor?”
“Indeed,” Hamilton agreed. “I wonder how many men would willingly endure the pain of childbirth?”
“It might cut down vastly on overpopulation,” said Doyle.
“What if the firm pressing of the pencil to paper is an indication of the writer’s level of anger?” Hamilton suggested.
“Which could also account for the forceful nature of the message,” Doyle agreed. “What other clues did you glean from the note?”
“The paper itself is uninstructive,” said Ian. “A common type, found at most stationers.”
“The fact that it was written in pencil rather than ink could be significant.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know, but it is worth noting.”
The front door to the station house opened to admit a man that Doyle instantly surmised was DCI Crawford. Hamilton had given brief descriptions of him, but it was more his attitude of authority, combined with the effect his entrance had on the men in the station house. There was an electricity in the air, and an aura of general anxiety and alertness. Sleepy constables straightened their uniforms, put down their teacups, took their feet off desks, attempting to look busy doing paperwork or tidying up. He smiled—it mirrored the response of his fellow medical students when Dr. Bell entered a room.
“Good morning, sir,” said Hamilton. His attitude toward Crawford was relaxed and more informal than Doyle would have expected; he seemed to fear the chief less than his fellow officers did.
“How’s the investigation going? And who the bloody hell is this?” Crawford said, pointing to Doyle.
“This is Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Ah, Doyle!” Crawford said, breaking into a smile. “You’re Dr. Bell’s right-hand man.”
“Well, I would hardly say that,” Doyle answered modestly.
“Amazing chap. He saved my wife’s life, I’m sure of it. Nobody could seem to figure out what ailed her. Bell took one look at her, asked a few questions, and came up with a diagnosis, just like that!”
“That sounds like him,” Doyle said, smiling.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Crawford said, shaking his hand warmly. “A true pleasure. What are you staring at?” he said to Sergeant Dickerson, who was glowering at them.
“Nothin’, sir.”
“Then wipe that look off your face. You look as if you’re about to murder someone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Carry on, men,” Crawford said, lumbering into his office. He reminded Doyle of a big, red-haired bear.
Doyle felt waves of enmity from the sergeant. He wished there was something he could do or say, but was beginning to suspect Dickerson regarded him as competition in his relationship with Detective Hamilton. Doyle had no wish to occupy that role but did not know what he could do about it. Ian Hamilton exuded a charisma that not only drew people to him but made them want his approval. Doyle himself was not immune to it, and on more than one occasion caught himself seeking Hamilton’s approbation. Even Crawford was slightly deferential to him. Though he tried to maintain his gruff façade, Doyle could see Crawford’s admiration and affection for Hamilton.