“Mr. McAllister,” Ian said, leaning on the dirty counter, “do you mean to tell me I am the only member of the Edinburgh City Police to drop by your charming establishment?”
The resetter bit his lip, pretending to think. He was not a very good actor, however, and was entirely unconvincing. “Come t’think of it, there was a fella last week. Didnae have a uniform on, but smelt like a copper. He were pretendin’ tae shop, but I could tell he were jes snoopin’ ’round.”
“Did you get his name?”
“No, but I’d know the fella if I saw ’im agin. Skinny, smiles a lot, but slimy, like. Face like spoilt milk.”
“Pockmarked, you mean?”
“Aye. Terrible pitted skin. Ye know ’im?”
“Thank you for the information. Good day, Mr. McAllister.”
“Always glad to be a’ service,” the pawnbroker said as Ian and Dickerson left his crowded shop.
Out on the street, Dickerson sneezed.
“Are you coming down with something?” asked Ian.
“Jes allergies. It were dusty as the grave in that place,” he said, trotting after Ian. “Where we goin’ now?”
“To find my friend Brian McKinney,” he replied, flinging his arm in the air to signal a passing hansom.
“That blind beggar fella?” Dickerson said as it slid to a stop on the slippery cobblestones.
“He’s the one who told me about the theft, and I’ve never known him to be wrong yet.”
“Wonder wha’ happened this time.”
“Someone is feeding him false information,” he said as Dickerson climbed inside.
“Where to, sir?” asked the cabbie.
“St. Giles, fast as you can. There’s an extra shilling in it if you make good time.”
The man grinned. “I’ll take th’ Cowgate. High Street is crowded this time a’ day.” Ian was barely seated when the cabbie flicked his whip, and the hansom lurched forward with a jerk.
“Afore this is over, ye’ll line the pockets a’ every cabbie in town,” Dickerson remarked as they rattled over the snowy streets. The flakes were flying faster now, thick and heavy, as people scurried along, some holding umbrellas, the rest rushing to reach their destination before getting totally soaked. Some held newspapers over their heads; others pulled up their coat collars and ducked their heads inside like turtles; still others trudged along hunched over, hands in their pockets. The citizens of Edinburgh were no strangers to misery and, like most Scots, took pride in their ability to withstand privation and adversity. A December snowfall was hardly the worst fate, though that was small comfort for the unlucky ones who had gone out ill prepared for Edinburgh’s unpredictably moody weather.
“Sounded like he were describin’ Constable Turnbull,” Dickerson said as they turned south onto St. Mary’s Street.
“Indeed. And if I were you I’d mind what you say around him.”
Dickerson shifted uneasily in his seat. “He’s not tha’ bad.”
Ian let the remark pass, though he was troubled at the thought of the sergeant falling under the spell of a man he regarded as untrustworthy.
There was no sign of Brian in front of St. Giles, so Ian instructed the cabbie to continue on to Waverley Station. The ride to the train station was short, and the man tipped his hat when Ian paid him.
“Don’t get too spoiled,” Ian told Dickerson as they alighted from the cab. “Today I’m in a hurry and the weather is bad.”
The impressive five-story building was even more imposing shrouded in falling snow, and Ian couldn’t help admiring it as they hurried past the line of cabs to get to the main entrance. Each of the building’s five stories was different in size and design, breaking the square symmetry of its heavy stonework, culminating in a top floor with a magnificent mansard roof.
Ian looked for Brian in front of the station, but the beggar was nowhere to be seen. Thinking he might have gone inside to escape the inclement weather, Ian passed the throng of passengers waiting for cabs, and stepped into the cathedral-like interior, with its ornate glass ceiling culminating in the central round dome. The quality of sound inside the station was like nowhere else. At once diffused and magnified, it was as if a thousand voices were blending into a massive collective conversation, unintelligible but somehow vastly comforting.
“No sign of ’im, sir?” said Dickerson as they roamed the marbled floors, weaving in and out of groups of people from all walks of life.
“I’m afraid not,” Ian said, a sinking feeling worming its way into his consciousness.
“Beg pardon, sir, but isn’t it possible he gave ye false information on purpose?”
“But why would he do that now, after being so reliable all these years?”
“Don’ know, sir, but isn’t it possible?”
Ian had to admit the sergeant was right, but if he couldn’t trust Brian, whom could he trust? Ian felt a creeping dread as they stood, immobile and directionless, lost amid the rush of people who knew exactly where they were going.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
By the time Ian and Dickerson left Waverley, snowflakes were tumbling from the sky as if in a race to reach the ground. There wasn’t a cab to be had, so they trudged through the gathering gloom to police chambers. Ian nipped into a shop to buy umbrellas, but by the time they arrived at the station house, their feet were thoroughly soaked. Lounging on the steps beneath a torn umbrella, looking surprisingly dry and comfortable, was Derek McNair. Dressed in his usual assortment of mismatched clothing, he had topped it off with a broad-brimmed oilskin hat.
“Where ye been?” he said as they approached. “I’ve been waitin’ fer ages.”
“Strange as it may seem, I don’t arrange my schedule to suit your convenience,” Ian replied as the boy followed them up the stairs.
“Don’ ye wanna know why I’m here?”
“I’m guessing there’s a cup of tea and a tin of biscuits involved.”
“I won’ say no—ta very much.”
“You might as well come in,” Ian said, holding the door open for him.
The boy entered the station house as if he were walking into a grand ballroom. “Hiya, mate,” he said, tipping his cap as he sauntered past the desk sergeant.
“Now then,” he said, perching on Ian’s desk, “’bout that tea.”
“I’ll fetch it, sir,” said Sergeant Dickerson.
“So what momentous news do you bring me?” asked Ian, as McNair sat swinging his legs back and forth.
The leg swinging stopped. “Momen—what? Wha’ ye usin’ fancy words fer, mate?”
“Important news.”
“He wants t’meet ye again,” Derek said, lowering his voice.
“Who does?”
“Who’d ye think? Rat Face.”
“He communicated that to you, did he?”
“A’ course he did. I’m yer go-between, ain’t I?”
“Did he say when and where?”
“Tonight, five o’clock. Same place as the first time.”
“The stables?”
“Aye.”