He entered the kitchen to find Hamilton staring down at a yellow hound mix racing around the room. The dog, less than a year old, was madly cavorting around the kitchen, sniffing in all the corners and trying to lick the detective’s shoes.
“That must be the puppy she were talkin’ about earlier,” Dickerson said. “I near forgot I said I’d take ’im.”
“Meanwhile, would you please remove this animal before it contaminates the entire crime scene?”
Dickerson hastened to obey, scooping the dog up in his arms. The puppy was heavier than it looked; it squirmed and wriggled so energetically trying to lick Dickerson’s face that the sergeant nearly dropped it.
“What shall I do wi’ him, sir?”
“Just get him out of here.”
The sergeant lugged his unwieldy burden down the hall, locating an empty laundry room in the back of the house. He deposited the dog in the middle of the floor and made a break for the door, which the puppy took as an invitation to a jolly game of chase. The dog easily beat Dickerson to the exit; standing in the doorway, it wagged its tail and grinned happily.
“All right, you,” the sergeant muttered. Finding a rope in the cupboard, he tied the dog to the legs of the clothes wringer and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Plaintive yelps followed him down the hall as he retraced his steps, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
As he passed the staircase leading to the second floor, he was greeted by a young Indian man descending the steps. His smooth dark hair gleamed in the gaslight from the wall sconces.
“I say, is there any chance that you chaps could interview me so I could be getting to my classes? I have an exam today.” His accent was educated, with just a hint of his Eastern origins.
“Uh, I’ll see wha’ we can do, Mr. . . . ?”
“Singh. Rabindranath Singh.”
“Jus’ a moment, please, Mr. Singh.” Dickerson ducked into the kitchen, where he found Detective Hamilton sniffing at the half-eaten bowl of soup in front of Mrs. Sutherland. “Excuse me, sir—”
Hamilton silenced him with a wave, then motioned him over to where he stood. “Lend me your nose, would you, Sergeant?”
“Sir?”
“I want you to see if you can smell something.”
“Anythin’ in particular, sir?”
“Give this a whiff.”
Dickerson complied, stepping close enough to Mrs. Sutherland that he could see the whites of the deceased woman’s eyes. His skin felt clammy and his muscles weak as he bent over the table. William Dickerson did not like dead bodies, a fact he contrived mightily to conceal. He willed himself not to faint or otherwise humiliate himself in front of Detective Hamilton.
As he bent over the congealed soup, his stomach lurched, threatening to rebel. He inhaled a faint but distinctive aroma of almonds, bitter at the edges. He turned to the detective. “Smells like burnt almonds, sir.”
“Are you sure, Sergeant?”
Bending lower, Dickerson took another whiff. “Yes, sir—I s’pose that’s what ye’d have t’call it. It’s like almonds, only kinda gone off, like.”
To his surprise, Hamilton clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Well done, Dickerson—well done indeed!”
“Thank you, sir, but what’s this all about?”
“Only certain members of the populace have the ability to detect the distinctive aroma of bitter almonds in cases of poisoning by cyanide salts. Fortunately for us, you are a member of that select group.”
“I see, sir.”
“I immediately suspected Mrs. Sutherland was the victim of foul play, and now, with your help, I hope to prove it.”
There was a knock upon the kitchen door, and Rabindranath Singh poked his head into the room.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I should like to be interviewed as soon as possible.”
“My apologies for keeping you waiting,” said Ian. Dickerson’s triumph seemed to have lightened his mood, and the tightness had drained from his face. “Please come in.”
The tenant complied, but as he stepped into the room, there was a sound like the report of a pistol in the back of the house. All three men instinctively ducked, but as he heard the rapid scurrying of approaching paws in the hallway, Sergeant Dickerson realized the pistol shot was actually the laundry room door banging open. The guilty culprit appeared at the kitchen door, tail wagging, a chewed piece of rope still tied around its neck. The puppy jumped up on Mr. Singh, attempting to lick his face.
Hamilton glared at Dickerson, but there was no real fury in his gaze; the sergeant had scored too big a victory for him to be truly angry.
“Come along,” Dickerson said to the dog.
“Where are you taking him, Sergeant?” asked the detective.
“Well, sir, seein’ as he’s so stuck on me, I thought I’d take ’im home, like I promised.”
“We’re not finished here yet. Put him back where you had him. There’s a leash upstairs you can use—and this time, lock the door, why don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dickerson, picking up the gnawed end of rope dangling from the dog’s collar. “Come along, Prince.”
“That’s not his name,” Mr. Singh offered.
“It is now,” Dickerson called out as he disappeared down the hall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Sit down, for God’s sake—you’re giving me the willies standing there like a bloody statue. Have a drink with me.”
“But sir—”
“First a drink, then you can tell me whatever it is you’re so keen to say.”
“I don’t want—”
“Sit.”
Ian Hamilton complied, settling his lean body in the chair opposite DCI Crawford’s desk. Crawford fished a bottle from the drawer, poured two shots, and handed one to the detective, who looked surprised, but took it. It was early evening, and the station house was quiet, with only the desk sergeant on duty at his post near the front door. Darkness had fallen like a sentence from heaven, with freezing rain thick enough to discourage even the most stouthearted miscreants.
Crawford took a sip of scotch, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat. He settled back in his chair and rested his feet on the desk. Outside, the sky was slinging down sleet in thick, long shafts that caught the light from the gas lamps, shining like the tails of tiny comets hurtling from the night sky. Crawford shivered and took another swig, pointing at Hamilton’s untouched drink.
“Drink up. No use in wasting good whisky.”
Hamilton took a sip, a distracted expression on his maddeningly handsome face. He leaned back in his chair, letting the glass dangle from his hand.
“Now see here,” Crawford said. “The death of young Wycherly’s landlady is not on you.”
“If I had gone to see her last night, instead of going to my aunt’s, she might still be alive.”
“We don’t know yet that any foul play was involved. Didn’t it look to all indications like a heart attack?”
“That’s what I came to tell you, sir. I suspect cyanide poisoning.”
“Because . . . ?”
“There was a distinct aroma of bitter almonds.”
“Which you yourself smelled?”
“Sergeant Dickerson detected it.”
Crawford’s bushy eyebrows furrowed into a frown. “Dickerson? What is so special about him?”