“Only a certain percentage of the population can detect the scent of bitter almonds in the presence of cyanide salts. Dickerson belongs to that group—I, alas, do not.”
“Even if the coroner proves you right, it’s still not your fault,” Crawford insisted.
Hamilton ran a hand over his forehead and reached for a refill. “I’ll never know what she wanted to tell me.”
“Did the tenants hear anything, see anything?”
“The medical student who resides in the room nearest the front of the house says he thought he heard two visitors. The first one sounded like a child.”
“Any idea who that might be?”
“Not really.”
“How odd,” Crawford commented. “Because I think I know. Oh, aye, I’ve seen him loitering about waiting for you,” he added in response to Hamilton’s look. “You can’t trust boys like him, you know.”
“I don’t have to trust him,” said Ian. “I only have to make him useful.”
“You have some romantic notion of the poor, beaten-down urchin—and no doubt the lad’s life has been hard. If it weren’t for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all, and all that. But you’d best be careful, or—”
“What exactly are you cautioning me against, sir?”
“The wrong mistake can cost you your career.”
“The kind of mistake my father made?”
Crawford downed the rest of his glass and poured himself another. “I had nothing against your father.”
“Then you were in the minority, sir.”
“Look, Hamilton, I don’t see the point of digging up old grievances.” He shook his head and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. Blasted headache—it had been with him all day and was getting worse. “Why don’t you update me on the case?”
“We know a few key elements about our man,” said Ian.
“Such as . . . ?”
“He’s a fellow of some size and strength. Likely educated, perhaps bilingual.”
Crawford took another swig of scotch. “That’s something, I suppose.”
“I have reason to think that his relationship to Mr. Wycherly was of a personal nature.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Strangulation is a very personal way to kill someone. Absent a monetary motive, which we have yet to uncover, it points at something more insidious and disturbing.”
“Revenge, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.”
“And what about this French detective?”
“He should arrive in Edinburgh shortly.”
“Bring him here tomorrow, why don’t you? Show him round the station house, that sort of thing. I’d quite like to meet him myself.”
“Very well, sir.”
Fighting one of his unaccountable urges to giggle, Crawford leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. It wasn’t an especially comfortable pose for a man of his size, but he was trying to show Hamilton that he could be informal and relaxed, even while projecting what he hoped was an aura of gravitas. “‘Man’s inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn,’” he declared.
“Robert Burns, sir?”
How irritating that Hamilton not only recognized the quote, but he didn’t even consider that Crawford himself might have come up with it.
“You know, when I joined the force, I had the same ambition as you,” he said, trying to project a fatherly tone.
Hamilton drew his thick black eyebrows together. “What might that be, sir?”
“To change the world—make things better for the common man; all that bosh and bunkum.”
“What gives you the impression—”
Crawford laughed—a long, somber sound closer to a sob. “Come, now, Hamilton—haven’t I been around long enough to be able to read a man? Take my advice—save yourself some sleepless nights and give up your fancy notions of justice. It will only cause you grief in the end.”
Hamilton stiffened. “Sir?”
“For Christ’s sake, man, can’t you see I’m trying to help you? Loosen up before you burst a blood vessel!” Crawford thought of his wife’s admonitions to avoid becoming overly emotional. Moira insisted it was bad for him, though it was her health he worried about now.
DI Hamilton drained the rest of his whisky in one gulp. Crawford winced—that was no way to treat a decent single malt. He tried not to dwell on what he had paid for that bottle.
Hamilton placed the glass on Crawford’s desk and stood up. “I appreciate your taking me under your wing, sir, but I—”
Crawford banged a fist on the desk. “Under my wing? What do you think this is, a boys’ school? I’m merely offering you some much-needed advice—take it or not.” Aware his reaction was excessive, Crawford leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. “See here, Hamilton, I’ve taken an interest in you.”
The detective frowned. “What are you getting at, sir, if I might ask?”
“Blast you bloody Highlanders and your pigheadedness,” Crawford muttered, shivering as sweat trickled down his shirt collar. “It’s like this, Hamilton. If you throw yourself headlong into this damn job, it will eat you from the inside out. Trust me; I know what I’m talking about. Now, a lot of the lads around here just take it as all in a day’s work. They go home to their fat little wives and snotty-nosed children; they have pensions to look forward to and all the rest of it. You see?”
“What are you suggesting, sir?”
“Get yourself a fat little wife and a couple of snotty-nosed children, Hamilton. Go home at the end of the day like a normal, sane man. Stop prowling the streets at all hours, following dubious information given to you by some ratty little street Arab.” Crawford leaned forward in his chair, until his protruding belly touched the oak desk. “Your father was a Highlander, too.”
Most of the original members of the Edinburgh City Police were Highlanders—Crawford himself was no exception, hailing originally from Pitlochry. He folded his fingers as if in prayer and cleared his throat. “There is a fierce kind of honor up there. Men may be violent and cruel, but they are straight with you. They mean what they say and do what they promise; their words match their deeds.”
“Have you forgotten the Glencoe Massacre?”
“Tut-tut, man—that was centuries ago! And that was the fault of the bloody English.” Hamilton raised an eyebrow, but Crawford waved him off. The detective chief inspector lowered his voice, even though the only other soul in the station house was the duty sergeant, two rooms away. “This place—this city—is not like that. It is dark and close, slippery as an eel. Secrets live within its walls. It has always been thus, Hamilton—neither you nor I nor any man can change it.”
As he spoke, a sheet of rain hurled itself against the windows, rattling the panes, as if trying to break into the station house.
“‘Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires,’” Hamilton murmured.
Crawford groaned. “If you must show off your book learning, Hamilton, at least pick a proper Scottish writer.”
“Yes, sir. ‘Firmness in enduring and exertion is a character I always wish to possess. I have always despised—’”
“‘The whining yelp of cowardly resolve,’” Crawford finished for him. “I know the quote.”
“Then you know it is Robert Burns.”
“Nobody likes a show-off, Hamilton.”