“Because of the case you’re on?” Pearson said in a low voice, as though someone might be listening in. “The Holyrood Strangler?”
Ian took a long draft of ale, surprised at how much he wanted—needed—it.
“That’s what the press are calling him, but that’s not—”
“I read in the paper there’s been another murder—terrible thing.” Pearson shook his head, but his eyes shone. “Do you think they’re connected?”
“I can’t really comment.”
His face keen with interest, the librarian leaned in so close, Ian could see the broken capillaries on the bridge of his nose. “There’s a madman out there,” he said.
“And I’m going to stop him,” the detective answered confidently.
But the words had a hollow ring. In spite of the crisp, bitter ale, the comfortable background din of voices, the crackling of logs in the fireplace as they shot sparks into the air, to be sucked up the chimney, Ian was seized by an unwelcome thought: he might very well fail to apprehend this killer before he struck again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A crowd had already gathered at the Theatre Royal by the time Lillian Grey climbed out of a hansom cab, clutching her ticket to the night’s event. She was glad she had bought hers in advance when she saw the throng of people at the box office, pushing and craning their necks, some shouting in their fervor to acquire a ticket.
They had little chance, judging by the “Sold Out” sign plastered on the front of the building. Beneath the black-and-white banner was the colorful promotional poster displaying the cause of all the hubbub. It was Saturday night, but that alone would not account for the box-office frenzy. The reason for the mad rush leered down at his fans from the poster, five times larger than life, his perfect teeth and dark lacquered hair reflecting the dazzling white of his shirt collar and raven-black frock coat.
MONSIEUR JACQUES LE COQ, HYPNOTIST EXTRAORDINAIRE!
MASTER OF OCCULT ARTS AND HUMAN HEARTS
ONE NIGHT ONLY
COME IF YOU DARE! (NO CHILDREN OR LADIES PRONE TO FAINTING, PLEASE)
Lillian shook her head at the flowery prose, calculated to titillate—what better way to attract ladies prone to fainting than to caution them against coming? Perhaps this would be an evening to remember after all, she thought as she gathered the skirts of her gown to climb the front staircase. The wicked weather plaguing the city for the past week had lifted. It was a brilliant night, a wide, grinning moon casting its white light on the neoclassical architecture of New Town. The buildings were ghostly in the pallid light, hovering over the gleaming cobblestones as if waiting for something. A shiver slithered up Lillian’s spine as she ascended the wide steps. The theater had been rebuilt just three years ago; the gold trim on its wide columns glittered, the gilt frames on the giant mirrors in the lobby shone, and the plush crimson carpets were deep and soft underfoot.
Inside, the aroma of expensive perfume hung in the air, mingling with the clinking of bracelets and champagne glasses, and the rustle of silk. Patrons bustled about the lobby, purchasing last-minute glasses of spirits or sweets from the refreshment kiosk, their faces glistening with excitement. Lillian was quite caught up in the mood as she picked her way through the crowd to her box seat, in a private booth over the stage. Alfie had been on the board of the Theatre Royal, and everyone had treated her kindly since his death, insisting she keep their box seats. They did not need to insist—Lillian loved the theater and performances of any kind.
What a pity her nephew was unable to join her—he had sent her a message saying that with a strangler loose in the city, he needed to work. All work and no play, that boy, she thought as she settled herself into the red velvet seat. In fact, she was rather put out by his abrupt cancellation, though she would not breathe a word of it to Ian. She was a woman who rarely minced words, but the one impression Lillian Grey wished to avoid giving—even to her own nephew—was that she was a lonely old woman.
Still, she thought as she raised her opera glasses, it was a shame Ian wasn’t here to take in the colorful crowd. They were not all the glittering and glamorous. In addition to Edinburgh’s intellectual and cultural elite in their furs and silks, there were merchants, innkeepers, and bankers, all dressed in their Sunday best. Some of the younger fellows looking miserable, half-choked in stiff white-shirt collars. The back stalls were filling up with a rougher sort—tradesmen, blacksmiths, dockworkers, their hands as rough and callused as their voices, scraped raw by years of wind and salt air. Among the women, Lillian spotted a few who looked like ladies of the night. Their cheeks were too vividly painted, the ribbons in their hair too gaudy, their laughter burst from throats burned by whisky.
The orchestra members finished tuning their instruments as latecomers hurried to their seats. The din of voices dimmed to hushed expectation as the conductor took the podium, resplendent in black tails and white tie. He peered at his musicians sternly, lifting his baton to give the downbeat, and the orchestra struck up a popular march. That was followed by a darkly mysterious waltz Lillian did not recognize. She fancied it was from the Continent—French perhaps.
As the dying strains of the waltz lingered in the air, the heavy crimson curtain covering the stage drew back to reveal a lone figure silhouetted in a single blue spotlight. The crowd sat mute, transfixed, all eyes upon the man standing at the back of the stage, his features obscured by the darkness around him. He took a step forward, and suddenly the stage was illuminated in a flash of brilliant hues—azure, indigo, gold and amber, vermillion and amaranth—all blinding in their intensity. The women gasped, and the men sat up straighter in their seats. By the time the man onstage had taken two more steps forward, he had them.
The spell had begun.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Four pints later at the White Hart, Ian’s intention to leave early had disappeared in a haze of alcohol. Now guilt and remorse seized him—he had canceled an engagement with his aunt, to jabber away with a man he barely knew.
“I regret that I must be going,” he said, rising unsteadily to his feet. He felt fuzzier than usual, perhaps due to his head injury. He suspected it had been unwise to drink with such abandon.
“May I accompany you to your destination?” Pearson said eagerly. “Where are you headed?”
“Just home.”
“Where is that, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Victoria Terrace,” Ian replied, the four pints of Scottish ale washing away any caution he might have had about revealing his address. After all, the man was a librarian, he thought as he donned his cloak.
“Capital! It’s on my way. I’ll walk with you, if that’s agreeable.”