Ian went straight from the Hound and Hare to the morgue to examine Bobby Tierney’s body. The smooth, even bruise on the neck indicated ligature strangulation. Carefully measuring the ligature mark, Ian noted that it was exactly the same as on Stephen Wycherly’s neck, just under an inch wide. The deep purple indentation was regular and smooth, which meant the weapon used was not a belt or anything with a buckle or a pattern that could be transferred onto the skin.
Tierney was powerfully built—even in death, his muscular body seemed to bulge with menace. Edinburgh was full of Bobby Tierneys—angry young Irishmen with nothing much on their minds except getting pissed and pummeling somebody. And yet someone had gotten the better of him—rather quickly, by the look of it. Examining the body closely, Ian found no indication of a prolonged struggle, no other bruises, cuts, or contusions.
Looking at Tierney’s face, the skin chalky white in the pale light streaming in from the tall windows, Ian felt hollow inside. Here was youth, strength, vitality—reduced to a lump of flesh on a slab in a damp city morgue. His initial exhilaration at being the lead detective in the case melted as he pondered the mystery of who would take such a life—not only who, but also how and why. Tierney was a bar brawler, the kind of man who might be on the receiving end of a beating, if he was unlucky enough to meet his match, but this was something different. Whoever killed him had done it quickly, coldly, and, Ian suspected, had come prepared. Was Bobby targeted, or simply unlucky?
Ian pondered the question as he headed to his meeting with George Pearson at the White Hart Inn, a venerable establishment just north of the Grassmarket. Popular with both students and dons at the University of Edinburgh, the White Hart was Edinburgh’s oldest public house, dating back to the early 1500s, though it was allegedly much older.
The din of voices was as thick as the smoke hanging in the air of the saloon bar when he spied Pearson sitting alone in the far corner, a pint at his elbow. He was engrossed in a thick book with an ancient-looking green leather cover, his prominent eyes appearing even larger behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
The clientele at the White Hart was as varied as the conversation. Ian wove his way past tables of people, catching snippets of conversations on politics, sports, business, and love. In addition to university students and professors, the darker corners of the room were occupied by courting couples. A few barristers in crisp suits hovered over a table near the bar, arguing amidst a thick blue haze of tobacco.
Pearson spotted Ian through the crowded room and waved him over. “I say, I rarely come here on Saturday—it’s rather an assault on the ears, isn’t it?” Pearson observed as Ian took a seat across from him.
“It is a bit loud.”
“What happened to you?” the librarian said, indicating Ian’s head.
“I had occasion to test the law of gravity. I am happy to report it is intact.”
The librarian gave one of his curious, high-pitched giggles. “Allow me to buy the first round. What are you having?”
“Same as you—heavy ale, is it?”
“Coming right up,” Pearson said.
Ian watched the librarian shoulder his way to the bar. A young couple at the next table with a small white terrier at their feet smiled at Ian, their faces soft with the flush of young love. Would they look back on the sweetness of this day years hence and wonder how it had evaporated so quickly? Sweeping dark thoughts aside, he watched Pearson weave through the crowded tables.
Pearson was a strange fellow, but Ian saw his potential as a resource. Ian’s first instinct was to distrust his enthusiasm—but there was something endearing about him, an innocence and complete lack of guile. Of course, he wanted a little too much to be of assistance—Ian would have to prevent the librarian from inserting himself too deeply into his investigation.
Pearson returned with two foaming pints, setting them on the thick oak table before sliding his bulky form into his seat. To say he was stocky would imply an athletic build; it would be more apt to call him pudgy. Everything about him suggested softness: his white hands with their dimpled knuckles, his round cheeks, and full lips. Even his eyes were soft as a doe’s—large, round, and golden brown, with thick lashes. He carried himself with the air of one unaccustomed to physical exertion, his belly protruding, sunken in the chest.
“So,” he said, placing a pint in front of Ian, “I brought you a nice selection from my personal library. Perhaps you think I’m foolish—”
“‘A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.’”
Pearson beamed. “As You Like It, act five, scene one! Pardon me for saying so, but I wouldn’t have expected a policeman to be conversant in the works of the Bard.”
“My mother was a schoolteacher, and my father rather fancied himself an amateur actor.” Ian didn’t mention his own literary ambition; it might sound pretentious to a librarian.
“You used the past tense. Your parents are . . . ?”
“Both dead.”
“Mine as well.”
“What did you bring me?” Ian said, gulping down some ale, cool and bitter and tasting of the earth. He wanted to avoid a personal discussion—naturally wary of intimacy, Ian liked to keep his worlds separate. And the subject of his parents’ death had sharp, pointed edges he did his best to avoid.
“I thought we might begin with this one,” said Pearson, extracting a book from a leather satchel at his feet. He opened it, gently turning the pages. No lover caressed a woman with more tenderness than George Pearson touching the pages of his book. He gazed at it, his eyes glistening. “I found this in a secondhand bookshop in London. It’s quite rare—I doubt the chap knew what he had.”
Ian looked at the frontispiece, the title engraved in a florid script. Inside the Criminal Mind, by Guillaume de La Robert.
“He was a colleague of the great Fran?ois Vidocq. This is the book I mentioned yesterday.”
“What makes it so unusual?”
“It is practically impossible to find any extant copies. As for the rest—well, perhaps you’d better have a look at it and tell me what you think. I hope it doesn’t disappoint you.”
“‘Expectation is the root of all heartache.’”
“Ah—that quote is of doubtful attribution, I’m afraid. Many ascribe it to the Bard, but it doesn’t appear anywhere in his works.”
“You are a fount of information, Mr. Pearson.”
“In all modesty I must remind you I am a reference librarian,” Pearson said, reaching into his satchel. “I brought some other books as well.”
“Why don’t we just stick with this one for now?”
“As you wish,” Pearson replied, sounding a bit put off.
“I do want to see the others,” Ian assured him, “but I doubt I’ll have much time for reading.”