“Right you are, sir,” said the clerk, counting out his change.
Ian was out the door before the clerk had closed the cash drawer. Leaning into a strong wind, he made his way to the station house, arriving just in time for the morning shift change. Sergeant Dickerson came in moments later, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them.
“Forgot me blasted gloves,” he said, settling down at his desk. “Anythin’ new, sir?”
Ian handed him the newspaper Le Figaro.
Dickerson squinted at it. “I don’ speak French. What does it say?”
Ian told him.
The sergeant leaned back in his chair and studied the newspaper. “Assumin’ this is the same perp’trator, how does this help us catch ’im?”
Ian sat across from him. “It tells us some things about him.”
Dickerson frowned. “Per’aps I’m a bit thick, sir, but what, exactly?”
“He gravitates toward large cities. He is comfortable in both Edinburgh and Paris, and doesn’t stand out as unusual or suspicious; he may be employed in some capacity in both places. He is likely to be a man of some means, and rather worldly. He is likely educated, clever, and articulate, and probably speaks French.”
Dickerson scratched his chin. “Beg pardon, sir, but how do ye get all that?”
“Whoever committed these crimes didn’t call attention to himself—at least not enough to alert his victims until it was too late. That means he managed to blend into his surroundings.”
“How d’you know he’s ‘comf’table’ in Paris an’ Edinburgh?”
“Offenders tend to commit crimes where they feel at home, places they know. Someone familiar with Paris and Edinburgh is likely to be worldly and well traveled.”
“But why educated? The Hound and Hare isn’t a place for tha’ kind a bloke.”
“The Hound and Hare aside, someone who can afford to travel between major cities is more likely to have an education and come from a good family. He’s clever and articulate enough to have lured Stephen Wycherly to his death on Arthur’s Seat.”
Dickerson shivered. “I dunno, sir—the more ye talk about this fellow, the less I think we’re likely to catch him any time soon.”
At that moment, a young boy in a square-brimmed cap entered the station house. “Telegram for Detective Inspector Hamilton,” he announced in a thin, reedy voice, holding up a piece of paper.
“I’m Detective Inspector Hamilton,” Ian said, fishing in his pocket for change.
“Ta very much,” said the lad, taking the tuppence.
Ian scanned the message eagerly.
TAKING FERRY TONIGHT. ARRIVE LONDON TOMORROW MORNING. FIRST TRAIN TO EDINBURGH. STAYING AT WAVERLEY HOTEL ON PRINCES STREET. CHIEF INSPECTOR LOUIS GERARD, SURETE NATIONALE.
“Who’s it from?” asked Dickerson, trying to peer over Ian’s shoulder.
“My French doppelganger.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
Ian handed him the telegram. “It seems we’re about to have a visitor.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The second surprise arrived later that day in the person of Bobby Tierney’s sister, Caroline, clutching the business card Ian had left at her flat when he tried unsuccessfully to call on her. Having awakened before dawn, Ian was just contemplating a nap when the duty sergeant ushered her into the room.
“Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton?” she asked timidly, avoiding the stares of constables seated at their desks or standing in small groups in front of the duty-roster board. Ian had to admit they had something to stare at. Miss Caroline Tierney was a young woman of unusual beauty, with white skin framed by lustrous black hair. Her eyes were green as jade, and he imagined many a young man swooned at the thought of kissing those tremulous red lips.
He indicated a chair next to his desk. “Please, take a seat.”
“Thank you,” she replied, a becoming blush spreading across her rosy cheeks. “I must apologize for not coming earlier, but I’ve been very occupied—preparing for Bobby’s funeral, and seeing to his possessions. I’m his only living kin, you see.”
“I’m very sorry about your brother. I won’t take much of your time.”
She dabbed at her eyes with a perfumed lace handkerchief. Ian was struck by how unlike her brother she was—from all accounts, Bobby was a bar brawler and ruffian, whereas Caroline seemed the very picture of feminine propriety.
Ian cleared his throat. “Now, then, Miss Tierney—”
He was interrupted by the appearance of Sergeant Dickerson, who had been filing papers in the back of the station. The sergeant swung around the corner of the glass divider and was nearly at Ian’s desk when their visitor turned to see him. Ian had never seen a person receive an electric shock, but he imagined it would look very much like Sergeant Dickerson’s reaction to Caroline Tierney. His eyebrows shot up, and his mouth dropped open. There was a sharp intake of breath as his entire body froze.
“Meet Miss Caroline Tierney,” Ian said. “This is Sergeant Dickerson,” he told her. “He’s assisting on your brother’s case.”
Caroline extended a dainty hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Dickerson hesitated, and Ian wasn’t sure whether he was going to shake it or kiss it. He appeared utterly unhinged at the sight of her. “P-pleased to meet ye, miss,” he said finally, grasping her hand and giving a deep bow. Releasing her hand, he looked at Ian desperately for help.
“Why don’t you take notes while I interview Miss Tierney?” Ian said.
“Certainly, sir,” Dickerson replied in a voice an octave higher than usual. “Right you are.” He plunked himself down in the chair on the other side of the desk and busied himself writing in his notebook. He printed Interview with Miss Caroline Tierney, then underlined it, pressing so hard on the paper, Ian thought he would tear it.
“You said you were Mr. Tierney’s only family?” Ian asked.
Her green eyes welled with tears, her lips swelling and trembling in a way that made her even more attractive. “Both our parents are gone, you see, so it was only me and Bobby.” She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “And now it’s just me.”
Ian glanced at Sergeant Dickerson, whose own face expressed such misery as he gazed at her that Ian thought it best to snap him out of it.
“Sergeant?”
Dickerson turned to him with an expression like a scolded puppy’s. “Sir?”
“I expect Miss Tierney could use a cup of tea on a raw day like this. Why don’t you—”
“Yes, sir!” Dickerson responded, jumping up from his chair. He paused, frowning. “What about the note taking?”
“I’ll manage on my own until you return.”
“Right you are, sir,” Dickerson said, lurching off toward the tea service in the back of the room.
“Now then, Miss Tierney,” Ian said. “What happened to your parents, if I may ask?”
She looked down at her elegantly gloved hands. “Pa died of a heart attack shortly after the famine, and Ma died of grief.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it.”
“Bobby never got over it. Always angry, he was. There was nothing in County Cork for us anymore, so we came here. One of Bobby’s schoolmates set us up with a flat on the London Road.”
“Near Leith Walk?”