“Go on.”
The boy looked up at him with bright blue eyes. “Derek said ye’ll pay fer my time, yeah?”
“If you tell the truth. How old were these men?”
“Younger than you. Early twenties, mebbe. They were bein’ loud, an’ swearin’ like the devil. There’s a crowd a folks round, ladies and children, an’ they didn’ like the language these toffs were usin’, tol’ ’em tae cut it out.”
“And did they?”
“Most of ’em, yeah. They just wandered off bletherin’ among themselves. But this one yellow-haired toff jes stands there wi’ a stupid grin on ’is face. Fitzpatrick, his name is—I’d seen ’im plenty a times afore. Eyes red as radishes—totally hammered, he was.” He stopped and looked at Derek.
“Tell them wha’ happened next,” Derek urged.
“Well, I don’ know if he lost ’is balance or wha’, but suddenly there’s a carriage tearin’ ’round the corner, an’ he jes falls forward into its path. Gets trampled ’neath the horses, an’ run over by the wheels—it were an awful mess, wi’ the ladies screamin’ and cryin’.”
“Was it possible he was pushed?” said Ian.
Danny shrugged. “Yeah. It were market Wednesday, an’ there was a big crowd.”
“But you didn’t see anyone push him?”
“Nope.”
“So it could have been an accident?” said Corbin.
The boy nodded. “Like my mum says, whit’s fur ye’ll no go past ye.”
“Let’s assume for a moment it wasn’t an act of fate,” said Ian. “Did you see anything else out of the ordinary?”
“Naw . . . hang on a minute, there was a lady left the crowd right after, seemed tae be in a hurry. Din’ make much of it at the time, but she was walkin’ pretty fast, as if she wanted tae get away.”
“Can you describe her?”
“Like I said, it was dark, an’ one or two streetlamps don’ work.”
“Any details at all you can remember?”
“Medium height, not fat nor skinny.”
“Hair color?”
“Light brown, mebbe?”
“Manner of dress?”
“Not a fine lady, but not poor, either.”
“Thank you, Danny,” Ian said, fishing some coins from his pocket. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“Ta very much, mister!” the boy said, staring at the money as if it were a mirage that might suddenly vanish.
“Ain’t ye forgettin’ sommit, Guv?” Derek said.
“Here’s your fee,” said Ian, handing him some change. “Just one more question, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” Derek said, pushing his cap up on his head. His thick brown hair was shaggy and in need of a trim.
“Either of you know anything about this Jeremy Fitzpatrick?”
“Oh, sure,” Danny volunteered. “He’s skilamalink.”
“In what way is he shady?” said Ian.
“He were a pickpocket,” said Derek. “Sleekit one, too.”
“But not as talented as you, I’m sure,” Ian remarked.
“Don’ know wha’ ye mean, Guv,” Derek said with a smirk.
“Never mind. Thank you for the information.”
“At yer service,” the boy said, tipping his moth-eaten cap. “Come on, now, Danny, we’ve a meetin’ tae get to.”
They scampered off, leaving the two men to ponder what they had just heard.
“Well,” said Ian finally, “if young Fitzpatrick was pursuing a life of crime, that accounts for his reluctance to speak with me.”
“Could he not still be the murderer?” said Corbin.
“He could indeed,” Ian replied grimly. “Time alone will tell.”
As he gazed at the hustle and bustle of the Grassmarket, Ian felt time was the one precious commodity they could not afford to squander.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“What do you hope to find from examining his body?” Conan Doyle asked Ian as they thundered toward the city morgue in a hansom cab, the horse’s hooves kicking up sprays of water from puddles of melted snow. The mercury had continued to climb throughout the day, and the late-afternoon sun bathed the city in a soft, unreal glow. Ian had managed to shake Jed Corbin by promising to send word of further developments in the case, after which he headed straight to the Royal Infirmary to procure the services of his friend.
“I don’t know,” he replied, “but I hope I recognize it when I see it.”
“Would it not be likely he died from his injuries?”
“Possibly. But I should like to see for myself.”
They arrived just as the last rays of the setting sun settled across the city, illuminating the evaporating rainwater in a milky haze. Even the stern exterior of the morgue lost its ominous air in the gentle light.
The moment he saw Ian, Jack Cerridwen’s face broke into a broad grin. Over the years, Ian had purchased enough whisky for the morgue attendant to earn the Welshman’s undying loyalty. Ian considered it money well spent.
“I’ll bet yer here for th’ fella who came in last night,” Cerridwen said with a knowing wink. “Mr. Fitzpatrick,” he added, consulting his log.
“We are indeed,” Ian replied.
Pushing a strand of stringy dark hair from his eyes, Cerridwen rose and grabbed a lantern. “Right this way, gentlemen,” he said, leading them through the maze of corridors to the room housing the recently deceased.
“It’s rather like the Labyrinth, isn’t it?” Doyle said as he and Ian followed Cerridwen through the dank, poorly lit hallways.
“Let’s hope the Minotaur is not awaiting our arrival,” Ian said as they emerged into the large central chamber, with its tall, thin windows, the walls lined with marble slabs draped with white sheets. Beneath each sheet was a body, and behind each body was a story, Ian knew, though they were only there to investigate one specific story.
“Here he is, our most recent arrival,” Cerridwen said, leading them to a metal gurney beneath one of the windows. The light outside had already faded, leaving only a faint gray glow. “You’re the first to come—no family members yet.”
“His father is recently deceased,” said Ian. “And his mother died some years ago.”
“Pity,” the Welshman said, shaking his head. “I hate it when there’s no one t’claim them. Well, I’ll leave ye to it, then,” he added, licking his chops hopefully.
“We were in a bit of a hurry today,” Ian said, “but I’ll find a way to show my gratitude in the near future.”
“No problem,” Cerridwen said with forced cheer, obviously disappointed. “Take as long as ye like.”
When he was gone, the two of them turned to the dead man on the gurney. Ian experienced the same solemnity he always did in the presence of death, but there was no time to be wasted. Lifting the sheet, he gazed at the young man before them.
In death, Jeremy Fitzpatrick’s face showed none of the surliness it had in life. In fact, he looked rather angelic, with his flaxen hair and pale skin, now gone rather ashen.