“Are you quite all right?” said Doyle.
“I had a bit of a kerfuffle with a pair of gentlemen yesterday evening.”
“I’d say they were hardly gentlemen if they caused you such injuries. It would appear you are in need of medical attention.”
“My brother patched me up last night.”
“Still, why don’t you let me—”
“Thank you, but you’ve done enough for me already,” Ian said, and left the office before his friend could protest further.
Lost in thought, he walked down the long corridor toward the front of the building. Turning the corner toward the waiting room, he came face-to-face with none other than Fiona Stuart.
“Good afternoon, Detective Hamilton,” she said evenly. “It would seem your efforts to avoid me have failed at last.”
He stared at her as if she were an apparition. Clad in a snowy-white nursing uniform, her head framed in a cloud of auburn curls, she was indeed a vision. The hazy afternoon light streaming in through the tall windows created a kind of halo around her, softening the edges of her corporeal form, so she did appear to be almost floating. It took him several moments to find his tongue. Meanwhile, she stood, arms crossed, gazing at him as coolly as if he were a laboratory specimen.
“P-please accept my abject apology,” he stammered finally. “You must think me an utter cad and a bounder.”
“On the contrary, I think of you as neither. I do, however, think of you as someone who is overmatched—though by what, I cannot say.”
“I am indeed over my head at the moment,” he said, relief spurting like sweat from his brow. “But that does not excuse my unforgivable behavior toward you.”
“Nothing is unforgivable—certainly not lapses in social decorum.”
“You are kind to say so.”
“If one were to keep score of every slight in life, one’s friends would be few indeed.”
He stared at her again, momentarily speechless.
“What is it?” she said.
“Forgive me. I am unaccustomed to such wisdom from one so young.”
She cocked her head to one side. “There must be a way of saying that without appearing condescending.”
“Your presence makes a fool out of me,” Ian said, astonished at the words that shot out of his mouth. It was as if he had no control over them.
“You speak of me as ‘so young,’ but I can’t help but think we are much the same age.”
“Perhaps, though I surely lack your wisdom.”
“A fault you can remedy by taking me to Le Canard this evening. My shift ends in two hours.”
“The maître d’ there loathes me.”
“Then this is an opportunity to correct his erroneous impression. It is now three o’clock. I shall be waiting for you there at five o’clock.” And with that, she turned and swept away, the skirts of her uniform skimming across the polished floor with a swooshing sound.
Ian stood watching her, dazed and distracted, nearly jumping out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around to see Conan Doyle, wearing a topcoat and hat.
“It’s only me,” his friend said, smiling. “Were you talking to Nurse Stuart just now?”
“Yes,” said Ian. “I’m afraid I owed her an apology.”
“Which no doubt you remedied.”
“I hope so. Oh, blast!” Ian said. “Would you mind terribly postponing our dinner engagement?”
“Not at all. I’m not nearly as pretty as Nurse Stuart.”
“It’s not that. I—”
Doyle laughed. “She only looks intimidating. She’s only flesh and blood, after all.”
Watching the retreating figure of Fiona Stuart, Ian wasn’t entirely sure his friend was right.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Half an hour later, morgue attendant Jack Cerridwen having been duly placated with a bottle of whisky, Ian and Doyle stood over the prostrate form of Brian McKinney as he lay in the cold and dank chamber where the recently deceased awaited the next stage of their journey. The room was eerily silent, save for the steady drip of a leaky pipe overhead. Ian held a lantern for better visibility, while Doyle selected a pair of tweezers from his medical kit.
Carefully lifting the dead man’s eyelid, Doyle peered at his eye. “There is our first clue as to the manner of death,” he said. “Have a look for yourself.”
Holding the lantern closer, Ian bent over to see what Doyle was looking at. The clouded eyes were unevenly dotted with spots of blood.
“Petechial hemorrhage,” Ian murmured.
“So you know what that points to, then?”
“Strangulation. Could it also indicate smothering?”
“It could. Why do you ask?”
“I found a feather on his face, and a pillow next to his body, yet there was none under his head.”
“Since your friend was blind, there was already some pathology to the eyes, so I’m going to check one more thing.”
“What are you looking for?” Ian asked as his friend made a shallow incision in the dead man’s neck.
“Fracture of the hyoid bone, which would be an indicator of strangulation.”
“There are no marks upon the neck.”
“True enough, though that is not conclusive. Aha,” he said after a moment. “The hyoid is intact, but look what I found lodged in the windpipe.” Carefully lifting them with his tweezers, Doyle held up two goose feathers. “I think your initial suspicion was correct. If I am not mistaken, the murder weapon was indeed a pillow.”
An hour later, Ian and Doyle were in a hansom cab on the way to Le Canard. Taking no chances, he was a full ten minutes early. Doyle had suggested dropping Ian off before continuing on to his rooms near the university.
“I’ll wait here just in case,” his friend said as the driver pulled up in front of the restaurant.
“In case of what?”
“In case Nurse Stuart decides to teach you a lesson.”
“What do you mean?” Ian said, alighting from the cab.
“Just come back out and tell me if she’s there.”
“We’re early.”
“All the same,” said Doyle. “Go on, and close the door, would you? It’s bloody freezing out there.”
The maître d’ favored Ian with one raised eyebrow when he entered, but managed to convey a remarkable range of emotions in that single gesture. Flashing a broad smile, Ian breezed past him into the dining room. A survey of the room failed to locate any sign of Fiona, and he was about to return to the lobby when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw the maître d’ holding a folded piece of paper.
“Mademoiselle left you a note,” he said, his French accent even thicker than before, and Ian wondered if it was fake. He waited until the man returned to his post before opening it. The familiar handwriting was firm as ever.
Emergency at hospital. My apologies—another time, perhaps? (No, I am not trying to teach you a lesson, no matter what Mr. Doyle may say.)
Ignoring the maître d’s inquisitive stare, Ian strode out of the restaurant and into the street, where the cab was waiting, the driver huddled against the cold, his breath visible in white wisps in the frigid air. Ian couldn’t help thinking what a thankless job it was, especially in such weather, resolving to give him a generous tip.