“Perhaps something out of the ordinary?”
The lamplighter scratched his head, causing white flaky bits to float from his scalp and settle on his shoulders. “Naught out a th’ordinary, no . . . Hang on a minute, there was one thaing.”
Ian leaned forward. “What?”
“The smell a’ cigarette smoke. It struck me at the time, because there were no one else aboot, and it were already rainin’—but there it was, hangin’ in the air, like someone just ’ad a smoke. And it weren’t the usual, either—it were thicker, sweet and heavy, like.”
“Did you ever smell this particular tobacco before?”
“It smelled expensive. Might ’ave come across it once or twice in the New Town, I s’pose, outside the fancy homes.”
“Thank you—you’ve been very helpful,” Ian said, rising from his chair.
“Wha’ about m’tea?”
“Just comin’ up, sir,” said Sergeant Dickerson, rounding the corner and balancing a tea tray with three mugs and a plate of biscuits. “Thought you might do with some as well, sir,” he said, laying it out on the desk. “It promises to be a long night.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Ian sighed. When he was hard on a case, he often considered food and drink unwelcome distractions, and had no desire to engage in idle chitchat over tea.
Taking the cup the sergeant offered, Ian snagged a couple of gingersnaps, stuffing them into his pocket. He intended to walk home; something about the forward motion seemed to loosen a part of his brain.
“Well, I’m off,” he said, gulping down the last of his tea so quickly, he nearly scorched his throat.
“I’m free t’go, then?” Long Jamie asked, clearly disappointed.
“Please provide Sergeant Dickerson with your address in case we need to interview you further.”
This seemed to cheer the lamplighter up. “I will, ye can rest assured,” he said, nodding vigorously. “Any time o’ day or night, ye kin count on Long Jamie.”
“See you tomorrow, Sergeant,” Ian said, heading toward the door.
“Uh, sir . . . ?” Dickerson said, scurrying after him.
“What is it?”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“Need I remind you that criminals don’t take holidays?”
Dickerson shuffled his feet, looking miserable.
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“It’s my only chance to spend time with my Pauline, an’ I—”
“Very well, if you must take the day off—”
“Per’aps just the mornin’?”
“I’ll see you here at one o’clock promptly.”
“Thank you, sir—ta very much indeed.” Seized by a sudden fit of sneezing, he pulled the monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes when he was through.
“Get to bed, Sergeant—take my aunt’s advice and put on a mustard plaster. And see that you get him out of here,” he added with a nod toward Long Jamie, who was inspecting the photographs on the bulletin board of wanted criminals.
“Leave it t’me, sir,” Dickerson said, beaming.
Hamilton threw his cloak over his shoulders and pushed open the heavy oak door, which closed behind him with a decisive thud.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The walk home provided no hoped-for insight; Ian came up with a dozen theories and discarded them all. His mind kept spinning around the smell of expensive tobacco, and the aroma he had detected on the corpse, most certainly opium. Opium dens in Edinburgh were seedy establishments catering to the down-and-out as well as the city’s Asian population, who were more likely to smoke cheap tobacco. Where might he find a place catering to a clientele favoring costly tobacco?
When he arrived at Victoria Terrace, sitting on his doorstep was George Pearson. “Mr. Pearson,” Ian said, “what are you doing here?”
The librarian leapt to his feet. “I have some information that may interest you.”
“You could have left me a note,” Ian replied, unlocking the door.
“I don’t trust that form of delivery when something is important. As a reference librarian, I know information can disappear more easily than you might imagine.” Eyes shining, he stood on the doorstep expectantly, like a big round puppy.
“Come in, why don’t you?” Ian sighed, tossing his keys on the foyer table. A plaintive meowing, followed by loud purring, greeted him as Bacchus darted into the room and rubbed against his leg.
“I say—you have a cat?” Pearson said. “But you didn’t before.”
“Things happen, Mr. Pearson,” Ian replied, “sometimes without being wished for.” He hoped the librarian would take his meaning, but it fell short of the target.
“He’s quite a handsome fellow,” Pearson said, scratching the cat behind the ears. Bacchus responded by wrapping himself around the librarian’s shins.
“He catches mice,” Ian remarked, “which makes him useful.”
“I believe he is asking to be fed.”
“In a minute,” Ian said, hanging up his cloak before heading for the kitchen, followed closely by Bacchus and Pearson. There was still no sign of Donald, which was a relief and a disappointment. Ian was still perplexed about the playing cards in his brother’s rucksack.
“Have you never owned a cat before?” Pearson asked.
“My mother was allergic,” he said, pulling a joint of mutton from the icebox.
“How does he do his—business?”
Ian stared at him.
“The—er, water-closet business.”
“I let him outside for that.”
“I can make you a cat door.”
“What’s that?”
“A small swinging door he can use to go in and out—I can cut it out of a corner of this one,” he said, pointing to the back entrance in the rear of the kitchen leading to the alley behind the building. “You’re lucky you live on the ground floor.”
“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Pearson,” Ian said, filling the cat’s bowl with cream. “Now then, what is it you wanted to tell me?”
“I have found the establishment where your—er, strangler may have purchased those singular packs of playing cards.”
“In Edinburgh?”
“Yes. It purports to be a milliner’s, but is in reality a shop catering to magicians, illusionists, and other specialty stage performers.”
“How on earth did you know that?”
“I have a minor interest in such things myself, and I stopped by today to inquire. The gentleman behind the counter said they sell quite well, in fact.”
“What is this establishment?”
“It’s called the Magic Hat. Here is the address,” Pearson replied, handing him a slip of paper covered with his neat, precise handwriting.
“I am in your debt,” Ian said, folding it before placing it carefully in his pocket.
“Think nothing of it,” the librarian replied, though Ian noticed he was eyeing the roast hungrily.
“Would you like some cold mutton and a glass of beer?”
Pearson coughed delicately. “If you’re having some.”