“The next order of business is to interview more members of the séance group,” the detective said, tucking the note away in his desk.
“I must get back to the infirmary, or Bell will have my head,” said Doyle. He noticed Sergeant Dickerson visibly brighten at the news of his departure.
“Thank you for your help,” said Hamilton.
“It was my pleasure,” Doyle said, fetching his coat. “I should like to hear how you are progressing, if you don’t mind.”
“By all means,” the detective replied, seeing him to the door.
As he left the building, Doyle had the unaccountable feeling he was being watched. He looked up and down the High Street but saw nothing suspicious, only the usual parade of people. No one seemed to be paying him any heed, apart from the beggar he had conversed with earlier, who greeted him as he passed.
“G’day, then, Mr. Doyle.”
“How did you know it was me?” Doyle asked, dropping a few coins into his cup.
“Your smell.”
“I wasn’t aware I had one.”
“Everyone does. In yer case, it’s a combination a’ lime shavin’ lotion an’ rubbin’ alcohol. Can’t mistake that—and a wee hint a’ formaldehyde.”
“How do you know what formaldehyde smells like?”
“I used t’work in the morgue. It’s not a smell ye ferget.”
Doyle laughed. “By Jove, you’re a wizard!”
“A dog would know you by yer smell, an’ I’ve jes developed mine, is all.”
“You should use that ability to help Detective Hamilton on his cases.”
“Oh, I help him, mate, don’ ye worry.”
“I’m very glad to hear it. Have a round on me,” Doyle said, tossing another coin into the cup.
“You’re a scholar an’ a gentleman,” said Brian, grinning to show teeth much in need of dentistry.
“Take care of yourself,” said Doyle. “There are bad people about.”
“Don’ worry ’bout me, mate,” the beggar called after him.
Instead of walking west in the direction of the castle—the shortest route to Lauriston Place—Doyle turned his steps in the opposite direction, ducking into Old Fleshmarket Close, heading south. He crept slowly down the narrow passage, smelling straw and mildew, listening for footsteps behind him, but heard nothing. Somewhere a dog barked. It was only after he passed the Advocates Library, where the lane widened, that he finally lost the sensation of being watched. He was fully aware he might be imagining the whole thing, yet a shiver ran down his spine as he contemplated who might be observing him, and why.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Who are we goin’ t’see?” Sergeant Dickerson said as he loped down the High Street after Ian.
“Jonas and Catherine Nielsen.”
“Where do they live?”
“It’s not far—Jeffrey Street.”
“How d’ye get their address?”
“Jed Corbin tracked it down for me.”
“So I guess y’owe him one?”
“No doubt he’ll find a way for us to repay him,” he said as they swung onto South Bridge.
“An’ these Nielsens are part a’ the séance group?”
“Yes, though they weren’t there the night I attended with my aunt. She seems to think they’re respectable people.”
They walked in silence for a while, Ian lost in his thoughts but aware that Dickerson had gone unusually quiet. He knew the sergeant had a bee in his bonnet, but had neither the time nor the energy to ferret out the reason.
The Nielsens lived in a well-kept four-story building near the intersection of Jeffrey and Market Streets, close enough to the Waverley train yards that Ian could hear the clacking of metal wheels on the tracks and the shouts of railway workers.
The landlady looked alarmed upon seeing Dickerson’s uniform, but Ian reassured her—not entirely truthfully—that it was a routine police matter.
The first knock on the door to the flat brought no response, but after the second one, Ian heard voices from inside. After a moment, the door opened to reveal an attractive woman of middle years, clad in a pale-yellow frock that brought out the highlights in her soft brown hair. She had an oval face, clear skin, and large brown eyes with tragic depths. Even had he not been aware she was a member of the séance group, Ian would have known she had suffered a terrible loss, the kind that leaves a permanent imprint. A little brown-and-white spaniel stood at her feet, wagging its tail.
“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice a melodic contralto with a faint Nordic accent. “May I help you?”
When Ian explained why they had come, she did not hesitate to invite them in, leading them through to a simply but tastefully furnished parlor, its most prominent feature being an ornately carved spinet piano. The wood was a deep mahogany and glistened in the soft afternoon light filtering in through damask curtains. Not a speck of dust marred the perfect ivory keys.
“What a beautiful instrument,” Ian said. “Who in your family plays?”
Mrs. Nielsen gazed at it sadly. “Our Lucas loved to play. His teachers said he was quite gifted. We couldn’t bear to part with it when we lost him.”
The cause of her sorrow now clear, Ian said gently, “When did he—?”
“It will be two years this April. And yet it seems a lifetime.”
“I am very sorry to hear it.”
“How did’e die?” asked Dickerson.
“Fell from de roof of his school,” said a man’s voice from behind them.
Ian turned to see a man in the doorway. He had not heard footsteps, and it was rather startling to see him there, silhouetted in the hallway light. He was tall and sturdy, with heavy shoulders, and for a brief moment Ian was reminded of the creature in Frankenstein, Mary Shelley’s popular novel. He took a step into the room, and Ian was able to make out his features. His sparse hair was white blond, and his skin had the ruddy sheen of a Scandinavian native. His deep-set eyes appeared to be light blue, and a faint blond stubble adorned his square-jawed face. He was a handsome man, but his powerful shoulders were stooped, and he bore the same air of inconsolable sorrow as his wife. His voice retained more of the singsong cadences of his Nordic homeland.
“Jonas, these men have come about the terrible deaths of our séance companions,” said Mrs. Nielsen. “This is my husband, Jonas,” she told them. “Please, gentlemen, won’t you sit down?”
“Ta very much,” Dickerson replied, settling somewhat gingerly on a delicate-looking rosewood love seat. Ian complied by sitting on a sturdier-looking sofa next to the coal fire.
“Might we have some tea, Jonas?” she said, taking an armchair opposite Ian.
“Of course, my dear,” he said, withdrawing silently. In spite of his imposing appearance, Mr. Nielsen was evidently subject to his wife’s wishes.
“Now, then, how can I be of assistance?” she said, drawing her shawl around her shoulders.
“Perhaps we can wait until your husband returns,” Ian said. “I should like to hear what he has to say as well.”
She bent down to pet the spaniel at her feet. “Bandit has been such a comfort—he rarely leaves my side. He misses Lucas, too; sometimes I catch him staring at the corner of the room at night, and I’m certain it’s Lucas.”