His loins tingled at the thought of pressing his own face against this stranger’s handsome one, the hint of menace making him even more intriguing. Kerry was not immune to the allure of danger—he was not entirely averse to “rough trade,” and had enjoyed more than one furtive, furious encounter in alleyways with the city’s less savory citizens.
This stranger was hardly a member of that class—he was dressed as a gentleman, his black frock coat woven from the finest gabardine, black boots polished to a high sheen. Kerry recognized quality when he saw it, and knew his companion had spent more on his wardrobe than Kerry made in a year. He had the hands of a gentleman, too—smooth and well cared for, so unlike Kerry’s own, weathered and rough from years of working the docks at Leith.
“So what’s yer name, then?” he ventured, hoping the man wouldn’t find his accent off-putting—not that his origins were any secret. Even if he had wanted to hide his Dublin roots, it would have been impossible; as his ma always said, the map of Ireland was stamped all over his broad, freckled face.
“I’m Harold,” the man replied.
Kerry laughed and signaled the bartender for another pint. “Ye don’t look like a Harold.”
“And what does a Harold look like, pray tell?”
“Not the likes of you.”
“So, what’s your name—something equally unconvincing?”
Kerry took a long swallow of ale before answering. “Brian.”
Harold—if that was his name—smiled. “You don’t look like a Brian, so I suppose we’re even.”
“D’you want to go to the back, then?” said Kerry, with a glance toward the far corner of the room. A narrow passageway led to a secluded chamber where all manner of sin and debauchery could be had—for a price. A slim young Adonis with chestnut curls emerged from the hallway on the arm of an older, dignified gentleman. The younger man’s eyes were glazed over, his stare vacant and dreamy. The older man’s cheeks were glowing, his eyes shining with lust and pride.
Harold glanced at them and shook his head. “No, I prefer somewhere more . . . private.” He drew a pack of playing cards from his frock coat and fanned them wide with a single smooth gesture. “Pick a card.”
Kerry tilted his head to one side. His brain was already fogging as the noise in the room blended into an impressionistic soup of sound. The rise and fall of voices, the clink of glassware, the shuffle of leather soles, all combined to form a background hum, a cocoon that enclosed him in the moment, as if his arms were woven to his sides, encased in silk. He stared at the perfect semicircle of cards.
“Go ahead,” Harold said. “Any card.”
Kerry reached forward and plucked a card from the group. It was the five of clubs. “What now?” he said. “Are you going to guess which one it is?”
Harold laughed. “No—it’s for you to keep.”
“What for?”
“Just for the fun of it.”
Kerry knit his brow and studied the card. Five skeletons grinned up at him; two of them wore fezzes, their bony limbs askew as they danced jauntily upon the face of the card. “This is an unusual design, so it is,” he said.
Harold laid a hand on his shoulder, and Kerry felt the heat of it through his woolen frock coat. “You’re an unusual man.”
The back of Kerry’s neck tingled with the possibilities of the evening ahead. His companion radiated confidence, with none of the shame or diffidence Kerry had seen in other denizens of the Owl’s Nest. He exuded something else, too, thick as musk and even more intoxicating: danger. The slow, deliberate movements, the way he looked at Kerry, studying him as one might examine a dissected body upon a laboratory table—it all made the young Irishman’s knees go wobbly. His head swam and he felt dizzy.
“What d’ye have in mind, then?” he said as the sweet, sickly smell of opium drifted in from the narrow corridor leading to the back room. “Sure you don’t want ta go to th’back?”
“Quite sure,” Harold replied, taking his elbow. “Why don’t we leave this den of iniquity and find somewhere more secluded?”
Kerry shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned, though he felt anything but. Spots danced before his eyes, and his cheeks burned with the heat of desire and adventure.
“I’ve got this covered,” Harold said, tossing a few coins onto the bar. “Come along, let’s go.”
Kerry slid off his stool, a bit unsteady on his feet, but Harold’s firm hand on his arm guided him across the room, through the door, and into the night.
CHAPTER FORTY
“Very well, I shall simply wait until he returns,” snapped Chief Inspector Louis Valeur Gerard, crossing his arms over his compact torso. He had appeared early Friday morning at the Edinburgh police station, asking to speak with Detective Hamilton, who hadn’t yet arrived. Sergeant Dickerson’s attempts to placate the Frenchman met with firm Gallic resistance. The sergeant stood, hands dangling helplessly at his sides as he tried frantically to think of something to appease Gerard’s mounting displeasure.
“Per’aps you would like a cup of tea—”
The French policeman gave a dismissive wave of his hands, elegantly clad in impeccable white gloves. “Non, merci—I do not see how you British can drink of this—this dishwater you seem to so much enjoy. Why do you not enjoy the far superior café, eh?”
“We do enjoy coffee, but it’s more expensive and harder to come by,” Dickerson explained. “And I’d advise you not t’call the lads here ‘British.’ They’re most of them Highlander Scots, and they won’t take kindly to it.”
A frown spread over Gerard’s long face. With its high cheekbones, heavy-lidded eyes, and protruding lips, it was a caricature of a classic Gallic countenance. “Hmm!” he said, pulling at the thin mustache that emphasized the thickness of his lips. “Scottish people are also British, are they not?”
“It’s a bit more complicated,” Dickerson replied. Feeling a sneeze come on, he tried to stifle it, but it exploded from his nose just as DI Hamilton entered the station house.
“Are you quite all right, Sergeant?” Hamilton said, hanging up his cloak.
“I’m ’fraid I might be allergic to dogs, sir.”
Hamilton frowned. “Dogs?”
“I took Prince—that’s the dog at Mrs. Sutherland’s—home wi’ me, remember?”
“Perhaps not the wisest thing if you’re allergic.”
“I’ll get used to it, sir,” Dickerson replied, stifling another sneeze.
“Which reminds me, I don’t recall requesting a feline companion.”
Dickerson felt himself redden. “Beg pardon, sir, but you mentioned having a mouse problem, and I thought—”
“Never mind; I know it was well intentioned.”
“Yes, sir. Meanwhile, this is Inspector Gerard—”
“Chief Inspector Louis Valeur Gerard,” the Frenchman interrupted, stepping forward. “à votre service.”
“Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton,” Ian said, extending his hand. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”
“No journey can be pleasant when such sauvages are abroad,” Gerard replied sternly, giving his hand a stiff shake.