“Did you see him speak to anyone while he was here?”
The bartender twisted his rag around the inside of a beer mug as he considered the question. Ian imagined the interior of the glass when he finished, filthier than before his ministrations. He had an aversion to dirt and disorder, something Lillian teased him about. He did his best to hide it from his fellow officers in the Edinburgh City Police, where anything could be a target of ridicule. Personal quirks were best kept to one’s self.
“It wa’ crowded, always is of a Friday,” said the barkeep. “He spoke wi’a fellow I ’adn’t seen afore. Can’t say fer sure wha’ aboot.”
“Can you describe the man?”
“Dadn’t get much of a look. Pale eyes, I ’member that.”
Ian pulled out the playing card Derek McNair had given him and held it up for the bartender. “Have you ever seen this card before?”
Peering at it, the man shook his head. “Nay. That’s from a right strange deck o’ cards, mate.”
“And you’ve never seen it before?”
“I tol’ ye already, I nair seen it afore. I’m no’ likely ta ferget a card lak that.”
The door was flung open, and Sergeant Dickerson burst into the pub. The handful of patrons who were settled in for an early lunch glanced up apprehensively at the sight of a uniformed policeman.
“Beg pardon, sir,” Dickerson panted, “but thought you might like t’know the victim has been identified. His name is—”
“Tell you what, Sergeant,” Ian said, gripping him firmly by the arm, “why don’t you and I take a stroll outside?”
He drew the baffled policeman to the front door and pushed him through, closing it behind him. The cooler outside air seemed to ease the incessant throbbing in his head. The wooden wheels of a passing vegetable seller’s cart threw a spray of water from a nearby puddle at them, and Ian pulled the constable beneath the eaves of the pub. A feeble sun struggled to poke out from a dense cloud cover, but the rain had stopped—for now, at least.
“S-sir?” stammered Dickerson, his blue eyes wide.
“I imagine the patrons trying to enjoy their meal would appreciate not hearing the details of last night’s murder. But more to the point, it’s best not to reveal that information to the general public until we’ve had a chance to notify the poor blighter’s family.”
“Sorry, sir,” said the sergeant. He looked as if he were about to cry. Ian figured he was about twenty-four years of age, but his pale complexion and ginger hair made him appear even younger. He remembered his own first year or so on the force, and laid a comforting hand on the sergeant’s shoulder.
“Never mind—just remember next time, will you?”
“Right you are—sorry, sir.”
“So what is his name, then?”
“Oh, right!” the sergeant exclaimed, flustered. He extracted a notebook from his pocket. “His name is Robert Tierney. His sister identified the body. Saw ’is picture in the paper an’ all, y’know.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“She said he lived on the London Road.”
“Well done,” Ian said. “After we’re through here, we’ll—”
He was interrupted by an explosion of activity from within the pub—loud, angry yelling followed by the sound of chairs and tables being overturned. The door banged open, and Derek McNair shot through it, followed by an elderly man with a napkin still tucked into his shirt collar. It fluttered beneath his chin like a deranged clerical garment as he charged after the escaping street urchin, who dashed toward the heart of Old Town as fast as his thin legs would carry him.
“Stop, thief!” the man cried, waving a fist in the air. Seeing Hamilton and the sergeant, he yelled, “That boy picked my pocket!”
Ian and Sergeant Dickerson gave chase, but Derek ducked into the twisting warrens of alleys and wynds leading down to the Lawnmarket. Finding anyone in that maze was next to impossible. Ian and Dickerson gave it their all before admitting defeat and trudging back up the hill to the pub. The irate customer stood waiting, the white linen napkin still dangling beneath his chin like a flag of surrender.
“That wretched urchin stole my wallet!” he sputtered.
“If you’d like me to, I can accompany you to the station where you can fill out a report,” Sergeant Dickerson said, panting heavily from the burst of exertion. Ian too was out of breath, and his headache had returned.
The old gentleman’s face turned scarlet. “No, I do not want to fill out a ‘report’! I want my bloody wallet back—now!”
“How much was in it?” Ian inquired, fearing the elderly fellow might succumb to a fit of apoplexy.
He glared at Ian. Startled wisps of hair stood up from his nearly bald pate, wind-borne like small gray sails. “Ten shillings tuppence.”
“Very well, here you are,” Ian said, fishing money from his pockets. Counting out that amount, he handed it to the bewildered gentleman.
“I can’t take this,” the man said.
“Think of it as a loan,” said Ian, “pending the return of your wallet.”
“When it’s found—if it’s found—there’ll be no five quid and change in it,” Sergeant Dickerson muttered, but the man grinned, showing a broad set of teeth as gray as his hair.
“You are a scholar and a gentleman, sir, and I am forever indebted to you,” he said, giving a little bow.
The bartender emerged from the pub, his face scarlet. “I’ll gae the blighter a skelpit lug!”
“You’ll have to catch him before you can cuff his ears,” the elderly man remarked dourly before following him back into the building.
Dickerson shook his head, still breathing heavily. “You can’t cover fer that little ruffian forever. I’ve seen ’is kind afore, and—”
“Please, Sergeant, not now,” said Ian. His head ached, his legs were wobbly, and he yearned for the sanctuary of his flat—to close the curtains, lock the door, and be alone.
He headed toward the pub as Dickerson muttered something under his breath. Ian spun around. “Tell me something, Sergeant.”
Dickerson’s eyes widened, his face slack. “Yes, sir?”
“Have you had occasion to live on the streets?”
“Well, no, sir—”
“Then do me the favor of allowing me to conduct this investigation in my own way.”
“A’course, sir—sorry, sir.”
Ian marched back into the pub, leaving the sergeant standing in the street amidst the clatter of horses’ hooves and the call of fruit vendors and vegetable peddlers.
“Get your fresh cress—two bunches a penny!”
“Figs—plump and ripe! Figs for sale!”
“Neeps an’ tatties—freshest in the land!”
After a moment, Dickerson brushed himself off, straightened his uniform, and followed Hamilton back inside the Hound and Hare.
From across the crowded street, another pair of eyes watched—seeing yet unseen, taking advantage of the anonymity a city like Edinburgh could provide.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN