“Well?” said Ian.
“I’m afraid we arrived too late to save her.”
Madame Veselka let out a wail like a wounded animal, and lunged toward Mrs. Nielsen.
“No!” Ian commanded, grabbing her arm. “If you can’t do as I say, I’ll have you in cuffs, too!” He turned to Doyle. “Can you get Sergeant Dickerson to the infirmary?”
“Help me get him into a cab. I left one waiting outside.”
“Can we leave you alone for just a moment?” Ian asked Madame Veselka.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, her hands clenched into fists.
“Don’t do anything, or I swear I’ll have you thrown in prison along with her,” he warned. “Just watch her.”
The medium turned back to her captive. “If she so much as twitches, she’ll regret it.”
Mrs. Nielsen looked up with a worried expression, as if she believed the medium’s threat.
“Quickly,” Ian told Doyle. “We haven’t much time.”
“Steady on,” said Doyle, as they lifted the injured sergeant to his feet. Dickerson looked pale and shaken, but remained conscious.
“I don’t know what I’d have done without you,” Ian told his friend as they settled the sergeant into the back of the hansom. “What about Jonas Nielsen?”
“He’s going to make a full recovery,” Doyle said, sitting gingerly next to Dickerson. “The crisis was past, so I thought you could use my help.”
“Thank you, Doyle. Your timing—”
“Get that wound looked after,” his friend said, closing the door behind him.
Ian turned and charged back into the building. A few tenants had gathered in the hallway outside the flat, come to see the source of all the commotion. “Step back—Edinburgh City Police,” he said, brushing past them.
Madame Veselka was true to her word and had not harmed Mrs. Nielsen, however much she wanted to. Promising to return as soon as he could, he left the grieving medium in her flat, escorting Mrs. Nielsen out, a gathering crowd of curious onlookers watching as he walked her from the building. The commotion had also finally attracted the attention of a couple of beat constables, and he handed her over to them, glad to be rid of her.
“Get her to jail quick as you can. Mind—she’s violent,” he said.
Their expressions indicated they didn’t believe his depiction of the respectably dressed middle-aged woman. “I mean it,” he repeated. “Mind you keep an eye on her.”
“Yes, sir,” said the older of the two. “Come along, now,” he said, taking her arm. “We don’t want no trouble, now.”
Watching them disappear into the night as a light rain began to fall, Ian thought it was far too late for that. Trouble had found its way into the winding streets of the city, and showed no sign of letting up before the night was over.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Detective Chief Inspector Robert Crawford looked up from his desk to see the bedraggled form of Ian Hamilton appear before him like an apparition.
“Good Lord, man, you look like Hamlet’s ghost,” he said, startled at the sight of the detective, his face smeared with dried blood.
“Never mind about that,” Hamilton said, breathing heavily.
“Have a seat—you look like hell.”
“There’s no time.”
“You’re not even supposed to be here. I suspended you indefinitely, remember?”
“I’ve information about the theft—”
“What sort of information?”
“It’s not to be at the jewelers—”
“Where, then?”
“The Bank of Scotland.”
“That’s absurd! No one would dare try to—”
“I tell you, it is!” Hamilton said, holding onto the front of the desk to steady himself.
“For God’s sake, sit down before you collapse,” said Crawford. “You look like a drowned rat.” Hamilton really did look terrible. His hair was matted, his clothes were half soaked, and there were streaks of blood from the cut on his face.
“We need to move the men you have stationed at Murray and Weston’s over to the bank building on North Bank Street!”
“Where did you get this ‘information’?”
“From someone involved in the burglary—or rather, his son.”
Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “It’s that wretched street urchin of yours, isn’t it?”
“It’s from a friend of his.”
“What makes you think you can trust this intelligence?”
“They spoke of robbing a place with construction in the back of the building. There’s no construction going on at Murray and Weston—”
“But there is at the Bank of Scotland,” Crawford finished for him. “I saw it myself the other day—in the back of the building.” He sighed and tugged nervously at his whiskers. “I don’t know, Hamilton, it’s not much to go on.”
“They also joked about no one believing they would have the gall to take on such a target.”
“If they’re even thinking about it, there must be someone on the inside.”
“Very likely, but we don’t have time to ponder the details—we must act before it’s too late!”
“It’s awfully thin evidence. What if you’re wrong?”
“Then leave a few men at the jeweler’s. But it’s imperative—”
“I hope to God you’re right, Hamilton,” he said, getting to his feet and lumbering to the door.
“I hope so, too, sir.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out. Bowers!” he bellowed.
The sergeant appeared, looking a bit like a scared rabbit, with his pink skin and light eyes. “Yes, sir?”
“Assemble every available man you can—”
“A lot of ’em are over at—”
“Yes, yes, I know—pull them off the watch at Murray and Weston, and—”
“Sir?”
“You can leave a few on guard, just in case.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send them over to the Bank of Scotland on North Bank Street.”
“Sir?” the sergeant said, his eyes wide.
“I’ll explain later. Hamilton and I will meet you there.”
“Yes, sir,” Bowers replied, hurrying off.
“Now,” Crawford said, pulling his coat and hat from the rack. “Let’s go foil a bank robbery, shall we?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The rain had increased to a steady drizzle by the time Ian and DCI Crawford headed out into the night.
“You’d better be right about this one,” the chief said as they settled into the back of a cab.
Ian stared out the window as they turned onto Bank Street. It was a very short distance to their destination, and they were likely to arrive before reinforcements. The ringing of the bells at St. Giles jolted Ian into a realization that tomorrow was Christmas Eve.
“Are you quite sure it’s a good idea for you to come along, sir?”
“And why not?”