Dickerson cleared his throat. “Might we regard that as potential clue, then?”
“We might indeed,” Ian replied, turning his attention to the dead man. He remembered seeing Kerry O’Donohue in the police station—a spirited, strikingly handsome fellow, with yellow ringlets and cheerful blue eyes. The inert form lying on the sodden ground was a sad remnant of that energetic lad, all the life drained from his staring eyes. Upon closer examination, petechial hemorrhaging was clearly visible—the tiny red blotches indicative of burst blood vessels in the eyes. Kerry’s open collar displayed the deep purple indentations of ligature strangulation.
“I’ve seen enough,” Ian said, handing the lantern back to the constable.
“What about the, uh, playin’ card, sir?” asked Dickerson. “Shouldn’t we look for it?”
“Good idea. Please do.”
Dickerson swallowed hard. “Right you are, sir.” He bent over the body, swaying unsteadily. Clearing his throat, he reached for the coat pocket of the dead man. His hand never found its mark—before he could touch it, his legs gave way, and he crumpled slowly toward the cobblestones.
“Damn,” Ian muttered, reaching out to catch him. Lowering the sergeant to the ground, he turned to the bemused constable. “I’m afraid he’s not well—seems to have contracted a case of influenza.”
The policeman took a few steps away from them. “Hope it’s not cholera. Nasty stuff, that is.”
“Different symptoms,” Ian replied, patting Dickerson’s cheeks. “Come along, now, Sergeant—wake up.”
Dickerson’s eyes fluttered. “I—I do apologize, sir,” he said, struggling uncertainly to his feet.
“Think nothing of it,” Ian replied, with a glance at the constable, who had backed off to a safe distance. “You should be in bed with that influenza of yours.”
“But I—oh, right,” Dickerson answered, catching on. “I am feelin’ a bit worse.”
“Never mind,” said Ian. Bending over the body, he sniffed at it, inhaling deeply.
“What on earth is he doin’?” said the constable, scratching his head.
“Shh,” replied the sergeant. “He’s workin’.”
Ian rifled through the dead man’s pockets. Sure enough, there it was, in the left breast pocket—sodden but unmistakable. He withdrew it and held it up to the lantern.
“Is it the five of clubs, sir?” asked Dickerson.
“Aye,” Ian replied. “It is indeed.”
The constable stared at the sergeant as if Dickerson were bewitched. “How on earth did you know that?”
Dickerson shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“The look on that poor constable’s face!” Ian said as they sat in the back of a hansom cab. The driver put the horse into a brisk trot, its hooves resounding smartly on the paving stones, a counterpoint to the rain pelting onto the vehicle’s roof.
“Poor chap did seem spooked,” the sergeant replied. Ian was beginning to reevaluate Dickerson; the man had more guile than he had given him credit for. “Figured I needed t’regain fella’s respect after faintin’ dead away like that. Ta very much for coverin’ for me, sir.”
“It’s the least I could do, after making you search the dead man’s pockets. I forgot about your . . . aversion.”
“Bloody embarrassin’.”
“We all have something, Sergeant. No one is without their Achilles’ heel,” Ian said, thinking of his brother’s drinking and his own aversion to fire and enclosed spaces. “Yours is a very natural revulsion, actually.”
“Sometimes I wonder why I became policeman, bein’ as how I can’t stand being ’round dead folks,” the sergeant mused, staring out the window.
“Why did you join the force?”
“I s’pose I were after security for me an’ my sister, sir.”
“Pauline, is it?”
“Aye, that’s her—my little Pauline. She’s all I have in t’world.”
“What happened to your parents?”
“They were taken by cholera when we were young, sir.”
“Who took care of you?”
“I were fourteen when they died, old enough to support us both. Worked in’t mines till I saved enough to get away. I always wanted to live in proper city, so we came here.”
“You brought up your sister?”
“Aye. It’s been just two of us for long time now.”
They rode in silence the rest of the way. Ian felt a newfound respect for the chubby sergeant, as well as envy. He didn’t have anyone to look after—there was Lillian, of course, but she looked after him more than the other way round. Ian supposed he should feel lonely, but he didn’t—he loved his solitude. Did that mean he was abnormal? He had had a chance to look after Donald, and yet had chased him off within a couple of days. Guilt and shame wrung a sigh out of him as he gazed out the window.
“Y’all right, sir?” said Dickerson.
“Yes, thank you.” Ian had no desire to discuss his personal problems with the sergeant. Lillian was his one true confidant, but there were things he wouldn’t reveal even to her.
They arrived at a nearly deserted station house, its only occupants a sleepy desk sergeant and Long Jamie, who appeared quite agitated. He leapt to his feet when he saw them, wringing his thin hands.
“Did ye find the poor fella?” he asked. “Right where I said ’e was?”
“He was there all right,” Ian replied. “Do you mind answering a few questions, Mr. McKenzie?”
“Call me Jamie—everyone does,” the leerie replied. “I don’t s’pose I might have another cup o’ tea, seeing as how I’m gonnae stick around fer a while?”
“Certainly,” said Ian. “Sergeant, would you be so kind?”
“Right away, sir,” said Dickerson, ducking behind the glass partition in the back of the room.
“Please, have a seat,” Ian said, indicating a chair opposite his desk. The lamplighter folded his stork-like body into the wooden chair, crossing his long legs. Ian reckoned they were close to the same height, but that he weighed at least two stone more than Jamie, who was so excessively lean that his right cheekbone jutted out from his face, sharp as a razor. The left one was caved inward, giving his face a lopsided look. He did not seem to be in any discomfort from it, however, and gazed at Ian with his good eye, which was large and brown.
“Now then, if you would tell me everything you observed, leaving out no detail, no matter how insignificant,” said Ian, pulling a notebook from the desk drawer.
“Well, I was gaein’ aboot me rounds—just startin’ out—when I sees what I took tae be a drunkard lyin’ in the alley.” He shuddered and clasped his hands together, leaning forward. “I stepped a bit closer and saw ’twas a poor dead fella. I dain’t like the look of ’im, so I hightailed it ’ere straightaway. That reminds me—I were so taken back, I dropped me lamplighting pole. D’ye have it, by chance?”
“No, but we’ll get it back to you.”
“That’s a first—I never let go a’ me pole afore.”
“So you didn’t disturb the body in any way?”
“Not me, no—I couldna git away fast enough.”
“Did you notice anything else?”
“Such as wha’?”