“That’s right.”
Ian scribbled London Road/Leith Walk in the notebook. That meant that the two victims lived very near each other. “And how was it working out for you?” he asked.
“Bobby could always find work on the docks, and I’m a decent typist. Between us, we made a go of it, I s’pose.”
“Pardon me if this is too personal, but you sound quite well educated,” Ian remarked.
“Our mother was a schoolteacher. Our home was never lacking in books. Guess I took to them more than Bobby did, bless his soul.”
Sergeant Dickerson came wobbling toward them with a heavily laden tea tray. He had managed to find a tin of biscuits and some crystallized ginger.
“Here we are,” he said, nearly toppling everything as he leaned over the desk.
“How very kind of you,” Caroline said.
“I’ll pour, shall I?” he said, wiping the sweat from his palms and loosening his shirt collar. Irritated, Ian bit his lip. He supposed Miss Tierney was used to having an effect on men, but Dickerson’s reaction was extreme.
“Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your brother, Miss Tierney?” Ian asked as Dickerson handed her a mug of tea.
She smiled sadly. “It’s rather a question of who wouldn’t want to, I’m afraid. My brother had a habit of finding trouble. After a while, trouble had a habit of finding him.”
“Is there anyone your brother had a disagreement with recently?”
She sipped delicately at her tea and rested the mug in her lap. “He often came home with battle scars but spoke little about them.”
“Did he have a sweetheart?”
“He had a girl back in Ireland, but she tired of his drinking. He truly cared for her, I believe, but couldn’t seem to control his love of the bottle.”
“And your brother’s friends, Miss Tierney? What were they like?”
“Most of his ‘friends’ were angry young men with a chip on their shoulder.”
“More tea, Miss Tierney?” Sergeant Dickerson asked, reaching for the pot without taking his eyes off her. The tray wobbled dangerously as his sleeve caught on the edge before tumbling to the ground with a crash. The pot smashed to smithereens, biscuits rolling across the floor toward all corners of the room. The sergeant leapt to his feet, his face crimson. “I’m so sorry! Are ye all right?”
“Quite all right, thank you,” Caroline replied. “All the tea spilled on the floor.”
“I think we can conclude this interview for now,” said Ian, rising from his chair. “If you think of anything else, Miss Tierney, please get in touch with me.”
“Certainly, Detective Inspector,” she replied, rising gracefully and pulling on her cloak. “Thank you for the tea.”
Dickerson muttered something in response as he bent to pick up the shattered pieces of crockery. A few of the other officers snickered as he scurried to collect the escaped biscuits.
After escorting Miss Tierney from the station house, Ian returned to a crestfallen Dickerson.
“I’m sorry, sir. That were most clumsy,” he said, sweeping up the remaining pieces of the broken teapot.
“Perhaps we can take a lesson from this, Sergeant.”
Dickerson looked up from his whisk broom and dustpan. “Wha’ might that be, sir?”
“Objectivity is the first rule of crime solving. A good investigator must never allow the interview subject to put him off his game.”
Dickerson stopped sweeping. “What’re you implying, sir?”
“We’ll speak no more of this, Sergeant. I have no wish to embarrass you further.”
Without replying, Dickerson returned to his task, his jaw set. Ian felt for him, but he couldn’t allow his sympathy to eradicate the natural barrier between them—or worse, relax the standards required of a police officer. Dickerson was young, a smitten puppy, but the sooner he learned the importance of discipline and emotional distance, the better for him. Ian, too, had taken note of Miss Tierney’s charms, but she might as well have been a lovely statue as far as his emotional response was concerned. A nagging voice at the back of his head told him that was unnatural, that there was something wrong with him, but he forced his mind onto other things.
Consulting his watch, he saw it was long past time to leave. Aunt Lillian had invited him over for the evening, and he seldom refused an offer from her. He walked quietly to the coatrack, slid on his cloak, and left the station house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A wicked wind whipped in from the west as Ian stood on the narrow pavement, pulling on his gloves. Exhaustion hung on his body like a heavy cloak, but Lillian was his most valued sounding board, and he looked forward to mulling over the case with her.
As he started down the street, he heard a familiar voice.
“Hullo, Guv’nur!”
“Hello, Derek,” he said without turning around.
“I’ve come ta report in,” the boy said, scurrying along beside him.
“Very well,” Ian replied without breaking stride.
“I brought me friend along.”
Ian stopped walking. Next to Derek stood a lanky boy of roughly the same age with fair hair and frank blue eyes.
“This is me mate Freddie what I told ye ’bout.”
“Hello, Freddie.”
“’Lo, mister,” Freddie replied with a glance at Derek, who was clearly the leader of the two. “Is it true you’re the copper what’s catchin’ that mad killer?” Freddie asked, gazing at Ian with wide eyes.
“I’m doing my best,” Ian replied, resuming walking.
“Don’ ye wan’ t’hear what I got ta say?” said Derek, striding to catch up with him.
“Do I have a choice?”
“If that’s the way ye feel, I’ll slip away into the night and darken yer doorstep nae further.”
Ian stopped walking. “‘Darken my doorstep no further’? Where did you pick up that kind of language?”
“Books, Guv’nur,” Derek replied, fishing a battered tome from the depths of his overcoat.
“You can read?” Ian asked, looking at the book’s title. “The Pickwick Papers, by Charles Dickens. You read this?”
“He’s not so bad—writes ’bout fellas like me, y’know,” the boy replied, snatching it and shoving it back into his pocket.
“I am aware of the work of Mr. Dickens.”
“I’ll bet ye went to a swanky school, eh, mister?” said Freddie.
“Not especially. But I did like to read.”
“But you don’ anymore?”
“I have to be somewhere,” Ian said as a gust of wind nearly swept away his hat.
“So do ye wan’ my news or not?” asked Derek.
“If you can keep up with me,” Ian replied, resuming walking.
“I have a message from Mrs. Sutherland.”
Ian stopped abruptly. “Stephen Wycherly’s landlady?”
“The same.”
“What were you doing talking with her?”
“Part a’ my job is ta know where you go, innit?”
Ian frowned. “I don’t remember inviting you to do that.”
“Jes hang on a minute, will ya? So I stops by to see if there’s anythin’ she forgot to tell you, and she tells me there is something. Only she’d rather tell you in person, see? So I says I’ll pass that message along to you.”
“She didn’t say what it was?”