“Do you know the fellow’s name?”
“I’ll ask Dickerson tomorrow.”
Donald took a bite of bread and chewed thoughtfully. “Why don’t you stop by rehearsal this week and have a chat with him, see what he’s all about?”
“I’ve other matters to attend to, you know.”
“Surely you can spare a few hours for your favorite aunt,” Donald replied with a wink.
Ian smiled. “Favorite and only.” His hand went to the cut on his face, which had begun to itch.
“Don’t scratch it!” Donald commanded. “You’ll only make it worse.”
Ian sighed and poured himself some more sherry. Lately Lillian had taken to drinking it, and while he preferred single malt whisky, he had brought a bottle of her favorite cream sherry. He wondered if her new preference was also related to the Greyfriars Dramatic Society.
“Are you making any progress on your hunt for your false informant?” Donald asked.
“It’s extremely tricky. I don’t want to tip off the fact that the department suspects someone.”
“Not to mention the possibility of getting your reliable sources in trouble.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s a heavy responsibility to lay on you.”
“‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,’” Ian murmured as his aunt returned with a steaming platter of lamb surrounded by mint and fresh cress.
“Have one of you recently been elevated to royalty?” she asked, putting it on the table. The aroma of roast lamb and mint set off a spasm of saliva in Ian’s mouth.
“I believe my brother was speaking metaphorically,” said Donald.
Lillian raised an eyebrow. “‘The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.’”
“Well done, Auntie,” said Donald, with a wink at his brother.
“Still writing poetry, aren’t you?” she asked Ian.
“He is,” Donald said. “I catch him at it late at night.”
“Speaking of being late,” said Ian, “we can’t stay too long because I promised Derek he could come over tonight for a bath.”
“Why don’t you bring him some food as well?” asked Lillian.
“That’s very kind, thank you.”
“Ach, there’s plenty of food.” She picked up a long, gleaming knife, its blade shining silver in the gaslight. “Now then, who wants to carve?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ian arrived at police chambers to find the morning edition of the Scotsman on his desk, its lurid headline splayed across the front page.
MAN FOUND WITH THROAT SLASHED BEHIND POPULAR EDINBURGH PUB!
WHO KILLED NATE CRIPPEN?
COULD IT BE THE WORK OF GLASGOW GANGS?
He looked up to see Jedidiah Corbin standing over him.
“Are you responsible for this literary masterpiece?”
The reporter shrugged. “It sells papers.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Corbin?”
“Please, after all we’ve been through together, call me Jed.”
“I suppose you’ve come to collect the favor I owe you.”
“Maybe I just like your company.”
“Maybe I recognize horse shite when I hear it.”
Corbin lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t expect such vulgarity from you, Detective.”
“I’m rather busy, Corbin—what do you want?”
“A detail or two on the Crippen killing would be nice,” he said, taking out a small notebook.
“Such as?”
“Is it true he was found with a Glasgow smile?” When Ian hesitated, Corbin made a note on his pad. “I’ll take that as a yes. Do you suspect Glasgow gangs are behind it?”
“That’s what your paper says.”
“I’d like to know what you think.”
“I’m as baffled as you are.”
“There’s a rumor you were to meet with him the night he died.”
“You shouldn’t pay too much attention to rumors.”
“And you should learn to be a better liar.”
“My brother said the same thing.”
“What were you meeting Crippen about?”
“Good day, Mr. Corbin,” Ian said, turning to the pile of paperwork on his desk.
“Ta very much,” the reporter said, slipping on his coat. “I got what I came for.”
“I can’t tell you how gratified I am to hear that.”
“See you around, Detective,” Corbin said with a tip of his hat, and sauntered out of the station house.
DCI Crawford stuck his head out of his office. “A word, Hamilton?”
“Yes, sir,” Ian said, his heart sinking as he followed the chief into the room.
“What about this Crippen fellow?” said Crawford, sitting heavily behind his desk, the chair groaning beneath his weight. Ian thought he had put on a stone or two—too many lamb dinners, no doubt. Crawford loved roast lamb with mint jelly, and loved to boast how his wife cooked it with carrots, neeps, and tatties.
“Sir?” Ian said, taking the chair opposite him.
“Bit of a thug, wasn’t he?”
“So I hear.”
“Any idea who killed him?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
“You have enough on your plate already—the Crippen case should go to someone else.”
“I’d like to look into it myself, sir.”
Crawford frowned. “You have a personal interest in it?”
“I have some potential leads.”
The chief ran a hand through his thinning ginger hair. “I’ll give you a week. If you haven’t solved it by then, Detective McCaskill takes over.”
“He’s a good man, but—”
“See here,” Crawford said, pulling at his whiskers, “we need to sort this out before this jewelry store business, or we could have a disaster on our hands.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Do you, Hamilton? Because I’m beginning to wonder.”
“I do, sir.”
“We can give the séance case to someone else, you know—that would give you more time to concentrate on—”
“Don’t do that, sir.”
“Constable Turnbull is quite keen on becoming a detective. He and Dickerson could—”
“Please, sir.”
“What’s the matter?” Crawford said in response to the expression on Ian’s face. “He’s a bright lad.”
“It’s not that, sir.”
“What, then?”
At that moment there was a knock on the door.
“What is it?” Crawford called.
The door opened to admit Sergeant Bowers, his blue eyes worried. No one liked interrupting the chief in the middle of a meeting.
“Yes, Bowers?” said Crawford.
The sergeant cleared his throat, his pink, round cheeks deepening to scarlet. “I’ve brought your, uh, poultice, sir.”
“Thank you, Bowers. Just leave it there.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, producing a paper bag, which he deposited on the desk before turning to hurry from the room. The label on the bag read “R. E. Wellington, Chemist,” the name of a popular pharmacy on the High Street.