“Yes, Sergeant?”
“A gentleman come in early this mornin’ an’ asked tae see ye.”
“Did he give his name?”
“I asked ’im, but he said he’d come back later.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Tall, powerful lookin’, with strong hands. Broad shoulders, like an ox. Oh, an’ he had an accent.”
“What kind of accent?”
“Foreign—Dutch, maybe.”
“Could it have been Norwegian?”
“Might be—I’m not so good with accents an’ all.”
“Thank you, Constable,” said Ian, and was out the door before Bowers could utter another word.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Ian was not entirely pleased to see the familiar figure of Jed Corbin striding toward him as he descended the steps from the station house. The reporter’s face was red from exertion, and he appeared to be out of breath.
“Good morning,” he began, but Corbin cut him off.
“I’m afraid it’s bad news,” he said, breathing heavily.
“What is?”
“It’s the Fitzpatrick boy.”
“Jeremy—the major’s son?”
“Yes. He’s dead.”
A bolt of shock and disappointment shot through Ian. His chief suspect—dead. “What? H-how?” he stammered.
“Apparently he was run over by some swell in a speeding carriage near the Grassmarket.”
“When?”
“Late last night.”
“Why am I hearing of this only now?”
“I only just found out, and came to you straightaway.”
“Why did no one file a police report?”
“It seems to have been an accident.”
“Were there witnesses?”
“Everything I know is secondhand. I’m heading down there now if you would like to come.”
Without answering, Ian shot his hand into the air and flagged down the very next passing cab.
“The Grassmarket,” he said as Corbin scrambled in after him, “quick as you can.”
When they alighted from the cab, the scene at the Grassmarket appeared to be that of a typical Thursday morning. Residents shuffled sleepily down the streets, yawning, tired from the festivities of the previous day. A low, flat hollow beneath the rising granite of Castle Rock, the Grassmarket had been a marketplace since the Middle Ages. It was still littered with remnants of yesterday’s midweek open-air market, animal droppings, straw fallen from drovers’ carts, bits of twine and string, discarded sweets wrappers. As Ian gazed across the wide expanse, his eye caught a cloth bag of marbles fallen from some lad’s pocket. As he bent to pick it up, another hand snatched it away. He straightened up to see the grimy, soot-streaked face of Derek McNair.
“I’ll tae’ that, if ye don’ mind,” the lad said, pocketing the marbles. “Finders keepers, an’ all that.”
“Have you been following me?”
“Nope. Jes so happens I’ve a meetin’ wi’ me lads nearby, an’ I saw ye drive up in a hurry. What’re ye investigatin’?”
Ian exchanged a glance with Corbin. The reporter knew Derek—the Scotsman had paid him for information on more than one occasion—but didn’t trust him to keep a secret any more than Ian did.
The boy seemed undeterred by their reticence. “Is it ’bout the fella what fell under the carriage yesterday?”
“What do you know about that?” said Ian.
He shrugged. “Me mate saw it all. Tol’ me ’bout it this mornin’.”
“Which mate is that?”
“Danny.”
“Does he have a last name?”
“Danny O’Leary. Lives wi’ his mum over yonder,” he said, pointing to a small, two-story house with dormer windows. “She works fer the family what lives there. He’s one a th’lucky ones—got a proper home, even if it is servant quarters.” He said this with no hint of self-pity; it was a simple statement of fact.
“Can you fetch him?” asked Corbin.
“A’ course. I’m seein’ ’im anyhow.”
“He’s one of your ‘Irregulars’?”
“Yep. Today’s our weekly meetin’.”
“The lad shows real initiative, doesn’t he?” Corbin asked Ian.
“If that’s what you call a group of miscreants to assist him in his somewhat shady endeavors.”
“We ain’t miscreaints,” the boy said, frowning.
“Street urchins, then.”
Derek crossed his arms. “Look, Guv, do ye wanna talk wi’ Danny or not?”
“I do indeed, and I’m willing to reward him for his time.”
Derek grinned. “My cut is ten percent—no, make that twenty.”
“I see your lack of education has not prevented you from acquiring the necessary maths skills.”
“Always been good wi’ numbers, Guv. Be right back,” he said, scampering off across the flat, wide expanse of land.
The Grassmarket had a long and bloody history. In addition to being an ancient marketplace, it was the site of public executions for many years. Sir Walter Scott wrote of the terror he experienced as a child, waking on an execution day to see the wooden gallows towering over the square “like the product of some foul demon.” The gibbet was always erected before dawn on the day a prisoner was to die, and was taken away after nightfall. The sight struck fear into the hearts of young Scott and his friends, at a time when a fifteen-year-old boy could be executed for stealing a loaf of bread.
But now Ian watched the people of Edinburgh going about their daily lives—lugging groceries, hawking wares, hanging laundry, exchanging news and gossip, seemingly oblivious of the area’s violent past. A couple of plump housewives in long white aprons stood in front of their homes chatting, elbows resting on their front gates. A pair of smudged toddlers played in the mud at their feet, smearing it on their faces and laughing as they plunged their fat little hands into the muck. Their mothers didn’t seem to notice or care about their offspring’s shenanigans; they seemed grateful the tykes were occupying themselves for the time being.
Derek came loping across the wide expanse of ground, followed by a tall, freckled boy with sandy hair and a long, homely face.
“This here is Danny,” Derek said. “He saw wha’ happened yesterday.”
“What did you see?” asked Ian, as Jed Corbin licked his lips. Normally Ian would not allow the reporter to eavesdrop during an investigation, but as Corbin had brought him the news, it seemed only fair to let him hear what the boy said. Besides, there was still no firm evidence pointing to a crime.
Danny looked down at his feet and kicked at the ground. “I was playin’ gird and cleek wi’ me mates, an’ this load a’ swells comes outta the White Hart, totally blootered.”
“So they were drunk,” said Ian. “Hardly surprising, coming from a pub. What time was this?”
“Round ’bout five.”
“So it was dark already.”
“Yeah, it was like pitch las’ night.”