Lillian shook her head. “Surely you don’t think Donald could—”
“I don’t want to, of course! But is it mere coincidence that he shows up at the same time as the—”
“The Holyrood Strangler?”
“Blast the press,” Ian said, biting his lip. “Causing public hysteria with their sensationalistic claptrap.”
“Did Donald mention being on the Continent?”
“He’s not been especially forthcoming about his whereabouts, and I haven’t pressed him.”
Lillian laid down her soupspoon. “Don’t you find it disturbing that we’re sitting here calmly discussing whether your brother is a murderer?”
“As a policeman, I have to believe anyone is capable of anything.”
Lillian rose to clear the table. “Well, I’d better keep my nose clean so you don’t haul me in for questioning.”
Ian rolled his eyes. “I should have said nearly everyone—obviously not you, Auntie.”
“Under the right circumstances, I’ve no doubt I’d be capable of killing someone.”
Before he could respond, there was an urgent pounding at the door.
“My goodness,” his aunt said. “Perhaps that is the prodigal nephew returning already.”
“Stay where you are,” said Ian, bounding to the door. He peered through the window to see a bedraggled Sergeant Dickerson, rain dripping from the end of his nose, hatless, in a long yellow sou’wester.
“Ta very much, sir,” he said when Ian opened the door to let him in. His cheeks and nose were ruddy, and he was quite out of breath.
“How did you know where to find me?” Ian asked.
“Since ye weren’t to home, I thought t’look for ye here,” he replied, rubbing his hands together.
“Well done, Sergeant. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.”
Dickerson responded with a violent sneeze. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said, pulling a damp handkerchief from the pocket of his oilskin coat.
“Goodness—you’ll catch your death out there,” said Lillian.
“It’s just allergies, mum,” Dickerson replied.
“Come in and stand by the fire,” she said.
“I don’ want to drip all over your carpet. I’m soakin’ wet.”
“Nonsense,” Lillian insisted. “It’s just an old rug, for heaven’s sake.”
“What was so urgent that you needed to find me?” Ian asked Dickerson.
“Well, sir—”
“Take off that wet coat and come have a hot bowl of soup,” Lillian interrupted.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay, mum,” Dickerson said as she pulled at his elbow. “I’ve just come to tell DI Hamilton that—” He paused and looked at Ian.
“Go ahead, Sergeant. Whatever it is, I’m sure my aunt is up to hearing it.”
The sergeant’s response was interrupted by an even more violent sneeze. He blew his nose loudly into the handkerchief.
“Well?” said Ian. “It must be important if you came out on a night like this.”
“I’m afraid there’s been another murder, sir.”
“Good heavens!” said Aunt Lillian.
“What happened?” Ian asked.
“I was just about to leave fer the night, when Long Jamie rushes into t’station, shoutin’ that someone’s been murdered in Lyon’s Close.” He paused, glancing nervously at Lillian.
“Go on, Sergeant,” Ian urged. “I presume you asked him why he believed the man was murdered.”
“I did, aye. An ’e just says that the man’s eyes was buggin’ all outta his head, red an’ swollen like. So I’m thinkin’ that’s what the eyes look like on someone who’s been strangled.”
“So you came straight here?”
“Straightaway, sir, after I dispensed a coupla constables to keep watch over the body.”
“Sorry, Aunt Lillian,” Ian said, “but I must go.”
“Ach, get on with ye—no need to apologize,” she replied, drawing her shawl around her thin shoulders. “But you could use a hot bowl of soup and a mustard plaster, young man,” she said to Dickerson. “You’ll catch your death if you don’t take care.”
“Yes, mum,” the sergeant replied, trying unsuccessfully to stifle another sneeze. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, wiping his nose with the now very soggy kerchief.
“Perhaps my aunt is right,” Ian ventured. “You’ll be of no use to anyone if you contract pneumonia.”
“If it’s all the same t’you, sir, I’d like ta go wi’ ye to view the body.”
“Very well, if you insist.”
“At least take a fresh handkerchief,” Lillian said, fumbling through her pockets. “Here you are,” she said, extracting a clean embroidered handkerchief, neatly folded. The hand-stitched monogram, in gold thread, read LRG. “My initials,” Lillian explained as she handed it to him. “Lillian Rose Grey.”
“Oh, I couldn’t, mum. It’s much too fine.”
“Just take it, Sergeant,” Ian said, “so we can be on our way.”
Dickerson turned beet red. “Thank you, mum,” he mumbled, stuffing it into his pocket.
This time they were luckier in finding a cab and soon were seated in the back of a hansom, rattling through rain-slickened streets.
“Is Long Jamie still at the station house?” Ian asked, peering out the window as they careened around the corner of Niddry Street. A couple of merrymakers swerved their way down the High Street, on a Friday night pub crawl, an Edinburgh tradition that even the foulest weather couldn’t dampen.
“Yes, sir,” Dickerson replied. “I left one of the lads in charge of ’im. Poor fella looked quite shaken.”
“I want to interview him after we have a look at the crime scene.”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, with another shuddering sneeze.
Ian regarded him with a mixture of sympathy and impatience. “Perhaps you should reconsider accompanying me.”
But Dickerson remained steadfast. “I’m keen t’ave a look at the poor chap what was killed, sir.”
“But I thought you found dead bodies . . . disturbing.”
Dickerson straightened his shoulders and gave his nose a mighty blow. “Th’only way to overcome a fear is to face it, innit?”
“Good on ye, Sergeant,” Ian said as they pulled up in front of Lyon’s Close. “Though I’m not sure it’s worth risking pneumonia.”
Ian paid the driver and approached the two waterlogged constables keeping watch over the body, which they had draped with an oilcloth. After dispatching one of them to the coroner’s office, Ian took a lantern and knelt down to examine the victim.
He recognized the man immediately. “This is Kerry O’Donohue,” he said. “He was brought up a few months ago on charges of licentious behavior in public. I believe he was fined and released the next day.”
“What exactly were he accused of, sir?” Dickerson asked, bending over the body.
“Sodomy,” said Ian.