“For God’s sake,” said Ian as an icy gust of air swirled in. “Come in, and close that blasted door!”
Derek admitted Pearson without relinquishing his hold on the doorknob. Once inside, the boy gave the heavy door a mighty shove and stood leaning against it, arms crossed, as though on guard in case Pearson should suddenly make a break for it.
“What is so urgent that you drag me out of bed at this hour?” said Ian.
“I apologize for my untimely entrance,” the librarian replied. “I took you for an early riser.”
“So what is this vital information you have?”
Pearson glanced at Derek and raised an eyebrow. “Who is this young fellow?”
“Master McNair is my houseguest. He was just about to go to the kitchen and put the kettle on,” Ian added with a meaningful look at the boy. Derek frowned, but Ian clasped him firmly by the shoulder and pushed him toward the kitchen. “Please, don’t let us interfere with your tea making. I am sure we are all parched for a cup.”
Derek wrested himself from Ian’s grasp. “But—”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t want to jeopardize our working relationship.”
McNair’s sharp face broke into a wide smile. “Comin’ right up, Guv’nur!” he said, skipping into the kitchen.
“What an odd child,” Pearson commented, watching him go.
“Now then, Mr. Pearson, what coaxed you out of a warm bed at this ungodly hour?”
The librarian pulled a carefully folded newspaper from the pocket of his overcoat. “I was going through the stack of old newspapers, preparing to discard them, when I came across this.” It was a copy of Le Figaro, the French daily.
“This is two months out of date. Why—”
“Look at the article below the fold on the first page,” Pearson urged.
Ian’s eyes fell upon the article’s headline.
LE MYSTéRIEUX éTRANGLEUR A ENCORE FRAPPé!
The librarian read over his shoulder. “It says—”
“I understand French. It’s an article about a mysterious strangler in Paris.”
“Read on,” said Pearson. “You’ll find that the crimes are similar to the Edinburgh stranglings.”
Scanning the article, Ian realized Pearson was right. He looked at the librarian, who was fairly bursting with excitement. “The man you seek may have already committed crimes on the Continent!” Pearson proclaimed.
Derek McNair entered the room, carrying a tea tray piled so high with biscuits and scones, his thin arms could barely support it. “Tea’s up!” he chirped. “I found some boiled eggs, too,” he said, setting the tray on the dining table.
Pearson eyed it greedily. “Why, thank you—don’t mind if I do.”
Lighting the gas in the grate, Ian sat down to the meal McNair had prepared. Sandwiched between his two unwelcome guests, he felt cranky and out of sorts.
“So, what do you think of my discovery?” said the librarian, slathering butter on a scone.
“Many people travel back and forth from the Continent. I don’t see how this helps us locate the perpetrator.”
“You kin talk to the French coppers, fer one thing,” suggested Derek, stuffing his cheeks with raisin scones. “Two heads is better ’an one, innit?”
George Pearson regarded the boy with some alarm, then extended his hand. “George William Pearson, chief reference librarian, University of Edinburgh Library.”
Derek brushed the crumbs from his fingers and shook Pearson’s hand. “Derek McNair, professional pickpocket.”
Pearson giggled. “Your nephew is quite the jokester.”
“He’s not joking. And he isn’t my nephew.”
The librarian gave Ian a puzzled look. “Why on earth has a pickpocket taken up residence with you?”
“He’s leaving today,” Ian replied with a meaningful look at Derek, who frowned and bit his lip. “I just let him stay the night in exchange for—”
“Fer help on ’is case!” the boy declared.
“Indeed?” said Pearson. “What kind of help?”
“Not to be rude,” Ian said, rising from the table, “but I need to report in at the station house. I’m sure you have somewhere to be as well, Mr. Pearson—”
“Not really,” Pearson replied cheerfully, helping himself to a boiled egg. “It’s my day off.”
“Then when you have both finished breakfast, would you kindly—”
“I’ll wash up,” Pearson said genially, “since our miscreant friend here prepared the meal.”
“Much obliged, I’m sure,” Derek mumbled through a mouthful of scone.
Realizing he was outnumbered, Ian turned and headed for his bedroom.
“Oiy—got any more cream, mate?” McNair called after him.
“No,” Ian said, already regretting his decision to let the boy stay the night. No good deed goes unpunished, he thought glumly, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
By the time Ian was dressed and ready to leave, Pearson and Derek were on their second pot of tea. The boy was persuaded to leave through bribery with scones, which he stuffed into his pockets before making his exit. Pearson was more difficult; after trying unsuccessfully to coax case information out of Ian, he finally prepared to make his exit.
“I’ll leave the newspaper, shall I?” he said, lingering at the door. “Just in case you want to have a go at contacting the French police.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pearson.”
Pearson tugged his hat lower and leaned against the door. “You will follow up on this, won’t you?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Pearson’s chubby face fell. “I rather thought you’d find this useful.”
“Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
“You will drop by the reference desk this week?” Pearson said moodily. “I want to know what you thought of that book I gave you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good day, then,” said the librarian, and Ian watched through the window as he trudged toward the steps leading down from Victoria Terrace.
After quickly downing a final cup of tea, Ian slung his cloak over his shoulders, grabbed a hat, and ventured down the steep, narrow staircase. Victoria Street was one of the oldest roads in Edinburgh, looking very much as it had four hundred years ago. Four-and five-story buildings hugged the narrow street as it curved and rose toward Castle Hill, round chimneys poking up from the roofs like candles on a cake.
The city was still slumbering when Ian turned onto Princes Street toward the telegraph office. When he entered, the bell on the door tinkled to announce his arrival. He wasted no time scribbling out his message, handing it to the sleepy window clerk.
INVESTIGATING STRANGLINGS SIMILAR TO PARIS CRIMES TWO MONTHS AGO. ANY ADDITIONAL INFORMATION USEFUL. CONTACT DI IAN HAMILTON, EDINBURGH CITY POLICE.
“I’d like to pay for a reply, please,” he said, sliding the message underneath the brass bars of the window.
“Very good, sir,” replied the clerk, eyes heavy beneath his green visor.
“Have it delivered here,” Ian said, writing out the address of the station house. He handed it to the clerk along with a one-pound note.