“That’s very broad-minded of you, Mrs. Sutherland.”
“Perhaps,” she said, scratching Bacchus behind the ears. The cat closed its eyes and purred more loudly, a rumbling engine of contentment. “I was a schoolteacher in my youth, and I saw plenty of children who were—different. Never could bring myself to hate them, so I don’t see as how I should be hating them now.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know how I could contact any of Mr. Wycherly’s acquaintances?”
“Not really. I wish I could be of more help.”
“You’ve been considerably helpful already, Mrs. Sutherland,” he said, to which she blushed and looked away. “One more thing—do you still have any of Mr. Wycherly’s clothing?”
“Only what you saw when you went through his rooms last time you were here.”
“Have you disturbed anything in there?”
“I’ve been so busy with my other tenants, I’ve not run so much as a dust rag through that room.”
“May I have another look?”
“Certainly, Detective—anything you like,” she said, lowering her eyes and blushing. Her hands fluttered to her head as she tidied her hair. Was it possible Mrs. Sutherland was a tiny bit sweet on him? Ian wondered.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor. As before, what struck Ian about Stephen Wycherly’s room was that it was so tidy. The bed was impeccably made, the spread smoothed out with barely a wrinkle on it, and the small writing desk beneath the window clear of clutter. Ian couldn’t help wondering how Wycherly had been able to endure the messy collection of papers in Eugene Harley’s law office. Ian himself liked order; chaotic surroundings gave him a headache.
The closet was no less a model of organization. A brace of brown oxfords nestled next to a sturdy pair of hiking boots. How odd that Wycherly had ascended the summit of Arthur’s Seat in oxfords, leaving the hiking shoes in his closet—he must have been in a terrible hurry. He examined the shoes and each piece of clothing hanging neatly above them before turning to the simple pine dresser along the opposite wall. The neatly folded vests in the second drawer yielded no stray bits of paper—the pockets of all his clothing were empty. Disappointing, perhaps, Ian thought as he closed the dresser drawer, though hardly surprising, considering the young man’s passion for order. Ian himself was given to emptying his pockets upon returning home in the evening; it made him sad to reflect that Stephen Wycherly was a kindred soul.
Further examination of the room was no more rewarding, and as he opened the door to leave, an object hanging on the wall caught his eye. It was a leather dog leash, presumably purchased for the recently acquired puppy.
Downstairs, the smell of beef and root vegetables simmering on the stove made him quite faint with hunger. A glance at his watch revealed that it was half past two. Following the aroma of beef stew, he found Mrs. Sutherland in the kitchen, standing over a cast-iron pot of promising capaciousness. She turned as he entered the room, the color leaping to her cheeks as she saw him.
“Have any luck?” she asked, stirring the pot.
“I’m afraid not. Mr. Wycherly was very orderly, wasn’t he?”
“He was a model tenant, poor dear,” she said, stooping a little to taste a bit of stew, scooping it out with a ladle and blowing on it before taking a sip. She made a pensive face. “More sage,” she declared, striding over to the spice cupboard.
“What happened to his puppy? I found the leash upstairs,” Ian said, holding it up.
“He’s in the laundry room for now,” she said, plucking the bottle of sage from the spice shelf. “But he can’t stay there. Bacchus will tear him apart if he ever gets into the room.”
Ian pictured the cat hurtling its bulk at the offending canine, claws flying.
“Would you like to have him?” Mrs. Sutherland asked, shaking a liberal amount of sage into the stew, the herb’s pungent fragrance filling the air.
“I can’t take care of a dog,” Ian said.
“I’ll take ’im,” said a voice behind them.
They turned to see Sergeant Dickerson standing in the doorway, quite out of breath.
“Sergeant?” said Ian. “What are you doing here?”
“We ’ave a suspect, sir,” Dickerson replied. “He’s at station house. Thought you might like t’know.”
“What are we waiting for?” Ian said, already halfway down the hall. “Come along, Sergeant! Thank you, Mrs. Sutherland!” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll be back for the dog later!”
They were out on the street before the landlady had replaced the lid of the sage bottle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“How did you manage to locate me?” Ian asked as he strode along Leith Walk, Sergeant Dickerson scurrying to keep up with him.
“I went along t’Miss Harley’s house, and she mentioned you were tryin’ to locate a letter Mr. Wycherly had received. I thought it were th’ most logical place t’look.”
“Excellent reasoning, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dickerson replied, grabbing his hat as a gust of wind attempted to lift it from his head.
“Now, what’s this about a suspect?” Ian said, sidestepping a vegetable cart piled high with root tubers—potatoes, turnips, carrots, and parsnips. The cart’s wooden wheels clattered on the paving stones as the vendor labored up the hill toward the Grassmarket. “Have you arrested someone?”
“Not as yet, sir, but I thought ye might like t’interview him.”
At the intersection of Leith Walk and the London Road, they hailed a hansom cab and soon were rattling into the heart of the city.
“Who is this person, and why is he a suspect?” Ian asked as the cab wheels splashed through puddles of melted snow and ice.
“Turned himself in,” Dickerson replied. “Just showed up unannounced and said he were the Holyrood Strangler.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“He said he wanted t’speak with you.”
“Curious,” Ian mused. “I wonder how he knew who I am.”
“It were in th’ papers, sir,” Dickerson replied, turning to stare out the window at a gaggle of schoolgirls in plaid skirts and white blouses, their legs thin in black woolen stockings.
“Sergeant!” Ian said sharply.
“It’s naught like that, sir—that’s my sister’s school, and I were just tryin’ t’see if I could spot her.”
“My apologies. How old are you?”
“Twenty-three, sir.”
“And your sister?”
“Pauline just turned fourteen. I try t’look after her, y’see.”
“Very commendable. Which paper published my name?”
“The Scotsman, sir. Said you were lead investigator in t’case.”