Firmly convinced the fire was set deliberately, Ian transferred his fierce ambition to pursuing criminals, his determination so dogged that some on the force found it extreme. Now he saw an opportunity to prove himself worthy of his new rank. He didn’t just suspect Wycherly’s death to be murder—he willed it so. As a writer, Ian believed he had a keen eye for the truth, the ability to see through the masks people wore. He believed writers and policemen shared the knack of seeing the darker side of their fellow man. It was not always a gift, he knew—and once you had it, you could not turn your back on it.
Eyes trained upon the ascending ridge of rock, he tried to imagine how a would-be murderer could drag someone up there against his will. It would be nearly impossible, especially if the victim was a muscular fellow in his twenties. No, Ian thought, it was more likely he knew his attacker. They had gone up together on some pretext; young Wycherly had been taken unawares and pushed to his death. Ian imagined his last moments, hands clawing the air as he fell, the face of his killer the last thing he saw before death.
He shivered and drew his cloak around his shoulders. Made of good Scottish wool, it had been sheared from shaggy Highland sheep, woven on Borders looms, and sold in the High Street shops lining Edinburgh’s famed Royal Mile. A gift from his aunt Lillian, it bore the green-and-blue Hamilton clan hunting tartan. And now, standing upon these ancient hills as his ancestors had for centuries, he was wrapped in a cocoon of his aunt’s love. The rest of his family gone, it was just the two of them now, alone in a tremulous and tumultuous city.
Ian turned to gaze at the skyline below as a lone crow wobbled across the horizon. Gaslights sprinkled throughout the town shone bleakly in the dim light as night surrendered reluctantly to a feeble gray sunrise. Edinburgh’s heavy stone buildings loomed over narrow cobblestoned streets so tortuous and twisted, they seemed to double back on themselves. Ian did not like the city, longing for the wide sky and soaring hills of the Highlands he knew as a boy.
He squinted up at the dim outline of the craggy hilltop, often likened to a sleeping lion. Perhaps the crime hadn’t even been planned—the killer might have acted on impulse. But what kind of man—or woman—pushed someone from a great height on impulse?
Ian yawned as he trudged toward the sleeping city below, past the Nelson Monument, its tipsy inverted-telescope design listing downhill like a drunken sailor. Several things bothered him about the suicide theory—not the least of which was the statement Wycherly’s landlady gave Wednesday evening, declaring firmly that her tenant was neither depressed nor despondent. If this was a murder made to look like a suicide, Ian thought, he was just the man to get to the bottom of it.
CHAPTER TWO
Detective Chief Inspector Robert Lyle Crawford glanced up from the pile of papers on his desk at the young man standing before him, then down at the report he was reading, attempting to concentrate. Finally he gave up, leaned back in his chair, and glared at his subordinate.
“Must you stand there gaping like an idiot, Hamilton, when you can see I’m busy?”
“I’m afraid my face looks naturally idiotic in repose, sir.”
“Very amusing,” Crawford grunted. “Aren’t you just the closet wit?”
“‘Better a witty fool than a foolish wit,’ sir.”
Crawford narrowed his eyes. He disliked it when Hamilton quoted Shakespeare—it reeked of insubordination. “Well, what is it?”
“It’s about the death of young Wycherly, sir. The one who fell from—”
“What about him?”
“I’d like to pursue an investigation into his death.”
Crawford gazed dolefully at the already cold cup of tea at his elbow. He had much on his mind: his wife, Moira, had taken sick, and he was desperately worried about her. He found it hard to concentrate on his job. Outside, the slow clop of horses’ hooves signaled the milkman making his Thursday morning rounds, the wheels of his cart creaking as they rattled over the uneven cobblestones. He twisted a piece of string between his thumb and forefinger, a nervous habit. “I suppose you have come up with a theory?”
“Not as yet, sir.”
Crawford threw his meaty hands into the air. “Then why do you insist on wasting my time?”
He knew his reaction was overwrought, and not really about Hamilton, but he couldn’t help himself. His voice rang off the high-ceilinged rafters, bouncing off the heavy oak beams of the High Street police station. A few of the uniformed constables on the other side of the glass that separated his office from the central room looked up from what they were doing. A couple of the younger policemen glanced at each other apprehensively. DCI Crawford was noted for his temper and booming voice, and it sounded as though DI Hamilton had stepped into a tongue-lashing.
“I respectfully request an autopsy, sir,” Hamilton replied.
“On what grounds?”
“Suspicious death,” he said, thrusting a form at his superior officer.
DCI Crawford studied it gloomily. Sighing, he slapped the paper down on his desk on top of the others and wiped a hand across his oily forehead. He was a tall, portly man with small blue eyes and a florid complexion. What little hair was left on the top of his head was made up for by an abundance of ginger muttonchop whiskers, so long they touched his shirt collar. As detective chief inspector, he oversaw the work of a dozen detectives, but none was as troublesome as Detective Hamilton. He was a Highlander, as were most of the others on the police force, and too much like his father before him. The Hamiltons were a stubborn lot and didn’t know when to leave well enough alone.
“How long have you been a detective inspector?”
“Going on six months now, sir. But I’ve studied every case in our files, past and present.”
Crawford rubbed his eyes. “I’ll just bet you have. And I s’pose you’re eager to have a case of your very own, eh?”
“Well, sir, I—”
“What evidence do you have to prove your murder theory isn’t a load of bosh and bunkum?”
“There was no suicide note, sir.”
“I don’t suppose every poor bugger who offs himself takes the time to write a note.”
“The victim had recently brought home a puppy.”
“A puppy, is it? And you know this because . . . ?”
“His landlady, sir, a Mrs.”—Hamilton pulled a notepad from his pocket—“Sutherland. I spoke with her yesterday, after his body was found in the park. She rents rooms on Leith Walk, and Mr. Wycherly was her tenant. According to her, he had just acquired a puppy.”
“Quite commendable of him, but I don’t see what—”
“A man contemplating suicide is hardly likely to get a dog.”
“And you’ve ruled out the possibility it might be an accident, have you?”
“My aunt used to climb Arthur’s Seat regularly, sir.”
“Good on your aunt for being so fit, but I don’t see how that—”
“A well-coordinated young man doesn’t just tumble from a trail tame enough for elderly women to stroll on—sir.”
DCI Crawford crossed his arms. “A young man under the influence of whisky may do any number of unlikely things, Detective.”
“There was no indication he had been drinking.”
“I admire your initiative, but the coroner’s office is overworked as it is, and we can’t—”