George Frederick Pearson, chief reference librarian at the University of Edinburgh, was a collector. What he acquired was immaterial—books, bottles, bric-a-brac, beer coasters—but part of his brain seemed specifically designated for this task. It began at an early age, when he brought home bits of string, discarded tea tins, and broken pieces of pottery from rubbish bins. His mother initially regarded this eccentricity with fond indulgence, but after a couple of years during which he squirreled away items in various corners of his room, she began to grow concerned. One day after finding a stash of outdated market flyers underneath his bed, she marched out to the street where he was playing with his friends and demanded an explanation for his excessive acquisitions. He could give her none that satisfied her. He hardly understood it himself; it was something he felt compelled to do.
She marched right back into the house and promptly threw all of his treasures into the rubbish bin, which only cemented his compulsion. What was formerly a desire became a desperate need as objects assumed a role of absurd importance to him. That day haunted him for the rest of his life. Waking or dreaming, he could see his mother on her hands and knees, digging through his beloved possessions, stray strands of hair clinging to her sweaty forehead, the sleeves of her gingham frock rolled up to the elbows, her face flushed with determination and rage.
He wished never again to be the cause of such destructive fury. So he hid his compulsion, living alone in his cluttered flat on Princes Street, while employed at the university library. He never dreamed that his “hobby,” as he called it, might be of use to anyone else.
Until a rainy Friday in February, when the only visitor in the reading room was a studious-looking young man with a pile of curly black hair and eyes that were slate gray in the dim glow of the gaslight. George approached him and coughed discreetly.
“May I be of service, sir?” They were roughly the same age, but George treated all visitors to the library with the same courteous formality.
The young man cocked his head to one side and studied George, which made him a bit uncomfortable. As it was seasonably raw weather, he was dressed in a thick blue jumper with shoulder patches, rather than his usual three-piece suit. Born and raised just outside London, he liked Edinburgh because the Scots were less formal than the British—though his English dialect was not always well received in some quarters.
“Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton,” the man said. “Do you have any books on crime investigation?”
George extended his hand. “George Pearson, chief reference librarian. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Hamilton’s handshake was firm, his hand strong. “May I ask if this relates to a particular case?”
“A potential case, perhaps.”
Hamilton’s speech was educated, and though it displayed hints of an early life in the Highlands, it was definitely Edinburgh, possibly Royal Terrace. George was very good with accents. His posh inflections made George relax a bit—well-heeled Scots tended to be less anti-English.
“Anything in particular?” said George.
“I’m interested specifically in strangulation.”
George kept his expression neutral, but he was intrigued, being something of an amateur crime buff. “From a medical perspective or a forensic one?”
“Both, if possible.”
“We’ll begin with science, then. Right this way.”
George led his visitor to the five hundred stacks. “Here’s something you may find helpful,” he said, sliding a book from the shelf. “Uses of Science in Examining Crime Scene Evidence. Translated from the French. The author was an associate of Fran?ois Vidocq, the great French criminologist.”
“That alone is a recommendation,” Hamilton said, taking the book.
“I see you have heard of him.”
The detective smiled. “I have copies of everything he wrote.”
“I see,” George said, envy forming a knot in his stomach. To have a complete set of anything was the collector’s ultimate dream. “Perhaps I can be of further assistance? I have a rather interesting collection of crime books myself. At my flat, I mean,” he added. Panic swept over him, leaving his knees weak—he had not invited anyone to his residence for a decade. “I can perhaps bring you some tomorrow,” he said, “if that is convenient.”
“That is very kind of you. In the meantime, I will take this one, please.”
“Certainly,” he said, leading the way to the lending desk. On the way, they passed the rack of newspapers with all the daily broadsheets, and the detective’s eyes lingered on the front-page headline of the Scotsman:
TRAGEDY ON ARTHUR’S SEAT—YOUNG MAN TUMBLES TO HIS DEATH. SUICIDE OR MURDER? WILL EDINBURGH’S OVERWORKED POLICE FORCE INVESTIGATE?
George coughed again discreetly. “Right this way, sir.” Hamilton followed silently, apparently lost in thought. He said nothing as George entered the title of the book in his ledger, in his careful, spidery script. He wrapped the book in brown paper and held it out to the detective. Just before letting go of the book, George said softly, “Is this regarding the death of that young man found in the park?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to talk about an ongoing investigation,” Hamilton replied, a little too quickly.
George nodded. “Of course,” he said, finally releasing his hold on the tome. “Still, it did seem an odd incident,” he added, pretending to busy himself arranging papers. “Very curious, if you ask me.”
“I suppose so,” the detective said, tucking the book underneath his arm.
“Well-dressed young men are not given to tumbling from well-trodden paths in the middle of the afternoon.”
Hamilton regarded him suspiciously. “How did you know he was well dressed?”
“Why, it’s in all the papers, sir—you could hardly avoid reading about the story if you tried. He appeared to be wearing office attire, if I’m not mistaken. Curious thing, that.”
Hamilton stared at him. “How do you know that?”
“His photograph was in all the papers.”
The detective frowned. “I should have known. If a Welshman can be bribed by a policeman, I suppose he can be bribed by a newsman.”
“I’m part Welsh,” George said, frowning.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just—”
A couple of other patrons seated at the long oaken tables looked up from their reading with disapproval. A sharp-faced woman in an absurd hat resembling a parrot gave a loud, “Shush!”
“The person who murdered him has all the answers,” George remarked casually, though he felt anything but casual. His stomach churned with excitement—he hadn’t felt this alive in years.
“Perhaps,” Hamilton murmured, standing motionless, the book still tucked under his arm. The sharp-faced woman gave another loud, “Shush!” He regarded her with surprise, as if only just realizing where he was. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Pearson.”