As people settled into their pews, he thought of Edinburgh’s citizens who had “taken the gate sae early” through no fault of their own. The mother tending to her babies, surprised by a house burglar, delivered a fatal blow by the panicked thief; the young law clerk, strangled before being flung from the parapet of Arthur’s Seat; the banker poisoned by his rapacious lover. The list went on, and Ian had determined to seek justice for them all, even if he had to wrench it from the jaws of despair itself.
Suddenly aware of someone moving toward him, he turned to see Madame Veselka, all in black except for a large gold pendant upon her heavy bosom, her face half hidden beneath an ornate black-lace veil. She nodded solemnly and slid into the pew to sit next to him. Her unwelcome presence made him squirm in his seat, as the thick scent of her gardenia perfume surrounded him.
Putting her face close to his ear, she whispered, “It’s not over.”
Puzzled, he frowned at her. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Paris?”
She shrugged. “The trip was canceled. Ghosts ill-treated do not rest easy,” she continued, looking at his cheek. “That mark—a reminder of sin and mortality,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Restless ghosts will haunt the living. Secrets long buried cry for the air of truth. Look to your dreams—the answers lie there.”
And with that, she rose and moved to another section of the church. Her words left him feeling shaky and uncertain. Was she trying to throw him off the scent, keep him from investigating her too closely? She spoke of secrets, but what secrets was she hiding? What of the trip to Paris, suddenly canceled at the last minute?
The minister delivered a brief eulogy, after which the audience rose to sing “Nearer My God to Thee.” The rest of the service was traditional and concise, and as the mourners left the church, a lone bagpiper playing “The Minstrel Boy” followed the solemn procession of pallbearers. The eight men carried the coffin slowly toward the churchyard, the women standing outside the gates, as was the custom. Madame Veselka was nowhere to be seen. Surprised not to see the major’s son among the pallbearers, Ian searched the crowd for any sign of him.
At the far end of the churchyard, slouching next to a tall, ornate monument, was a familiar figure. Half hidden by the headstone, Jeremy Fitzpatrick gazed at the crowd of mourners assembled around the deep hole in the ground, watching as the coffin was lowered down. Weaving between the men in their dark clothing, Ian tried to get closer without being spotted. But as he stepped behind a well-dressed fat man in an expensive waistcoat and top hat, Jeremy spied him and took off at a run.
“Damn your eyes,” Ian muttered, sprinting after him across the soggy ground. But the lad had a good head start, ducking through the gate on Old Tolbooth Wynd. Turning right, he ran in the direction of Calton Road. Ian loped after him, but when he reached the intersection, looked on helplessly as Fitzpatrick hopped onto a half-empty tram.
Panting and sweating, Ian watched the horses break away at a brisk trot, the wheels squealing on their metal rails as the tram careened around the corner of Calton Road where it swung north toward Leith Street. He knew the route—the tram ran all the way to Bernard Street in the village of Leith. If the boy disembarked at the port, he could lose himself amid the dockworkers, oystermen, fishmongers, and prostitutes.
Having recovered his breath, Ian wiped the sweat from his brow and turned back in the direction of Old Town.
Jeremy Fitzpatrick had just catapulted to the top of his suspect list.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The sun had already ducked like a retreating thief behind Castle Rock as Ian set out across the sodden landscape of the city for his rendezvous with Rat Face. Avoiding the squalid swamp of Old Town, he walked up Calton Road to the intersection of Princes Street, joining the throngs of well-heeled gentlemen and elegant ladies trolling the expensive shops lining the broad avenue. The Kirk may have banned Christmas in Scotland, but that didn’t stop the merchants of New Town from turning out the shops in their holiday best. Clothiers lined their front windows in red-and-gold trim; bowls of oranges studded with cloves beckoned shoppers to enter festively decorated bakeries and sweets shops; holly wreaths with bright-red bows hung from the front doors of chic haberdasheries.
All the holiday finery made little impression upon Ian as he strode, head down, past the brightly lit shops, the air alive with the smell of fir trees and peppermint. He might as well have been walking through Old Town, with its stench of boiled cabbage and despair, for all the effect his surroundings had upon his churning brain.
Madame Veselka’s words swirled through his head, a confusing jumble of thoughts cascading after them. He tried to concentrate on what he knew was his duty—solving the séance murders—yet his attention was divided, as he felt he was drawing ever nearer to his parents’ killer. It even struck him that there might be some connection, however faint. As for the search for the corruption within the police force, he felt hopelessly overmatched. He was convinced Turnbull was involved, but proving it was maddeningly elusive.
As he passed Jenners Department Store, a grande dame emerged from the building, and he stepped aside to let her pass. Dressed in white ermine and diamonds, she was trailed by a brace of liveried servants buried in a mass of hatboxes, shopping bags, and—of all things—a gilded birdcage. Her nose was tilted upward, lest she be contaminated by the merest whiff of commoners, her face swathed in a cloud of snowy fur.
One of her servants stumbled on an uneven bit of sidewalk and dropped his packages. The grand lady turned on him, her face scarlet with fury.
“Stupid oaf!” she hissed. “Watch where you’re going! Pick all of those up straightaway!”
The lad hurriedly complied, bending over to snatch the precious cargo from the ground. He was hardly more than a boy, slight of build, with a delicate face and a thatch of light-brown hair. Ian put his age at no older than fourteen. No doubt he considered himself lucky to have such a job, while other boys his age toiled in the mills, swept the streets, or loaded cargo on the docks of Leith. And there were unluckier still, boys like Derek McNair, as Ian knew only too well.
Still, as he watched the lad scramble to obey his mistress’ commands, Ian felt anger build in his own breast. He longed to give the haughty woman a piece of his mind. He knew it would be of no use, and would certainly do more damage than good to the poor servant, so he held his tongue. The packages were duly gathered, and the procession continued onward.
As Ian stood aside to let her pass, he pondered the nature of greed and want, both so evident in this jewel of the Scottish Enlightenment, luxury tucked amid horrific poverty and deprivation. Would this great lady, like Ebenezer Scrooge, awake one morning to find herself possessed of an unfamiliar humility, and find her place among the teeming mass of humanity? Would this Christmas season bring any Dickensian enlightenment among the rich of Edinburgh?
He feared not. More likely the city’s privileged who guarded their wealth would, like Jacob Marley’s ghost, wander through eternity dragging a heavy chain fashioned of their own penury and greed. Most people, even when given a chance, did not mend their ways. The criminals he sent down would return to a life of crime straight out of jail. Wife-beaters would continue to beat their wives, repeat offenders would repeat their offenses, and the overprivileged would continue to abuse their servants and hoard their pennies. Only in fiction did enlightenment visit on Christmas Eve in the guise of one’s long-dead business partner.