“By all means,” Ian said, realizing he was ravenous.
An hour later, Ian was stretching his legs in front of the fire, listening to the sounds of sawing and hammering from the kitchen as Pearson busied himself making the agreed-upon cat door. After providing him with the necessary tools, Ian was shooed off to the parlor, where he nodded off in front of the fire. Pearson was handier than Ian expected; before long he appeared at the door, his face glistening, sleeves rolled up, a hammer in his hand.
“There—finished! Come have a look-see.”
Ian dragged himself from the armchair into the kitchen. “That really is quite ingenious,” he said, pushing on the small wooden flap Pearson had cut from the back door. Attached by hinges, it swung back and forth smoothly.
“Now we must introduce it to your feline friend,” the librarian said as Bacchus slipped around the corner into the kitchen.
Pearson grasped him firmly around the middle and placed him in front of the cat door. After giving it an introductory sniff, Bacchus pushed his head against it. When it gave, he initially backed away, but caution soon gave way to curiosity. Before long he was dashing through it to the alleyway and whatever lay beyond.
“How do we know he’ll come back?” said Ian.
Pearson smiled. “Cats like a ready source of food, which he already associates with you.”
His response made Ian feel a bit put out, and he realized with some surprise that he wanted to be more to the cat than a source of food. In spite of his ambivalence about the animal, the cat door seemed to have sealed the deal. He was surprised at how uncharacteristically passive he had been about the whole affair, being bullied first by Sergeant Dickerson, and now George Pearson.
“It’s late,” the librarian said, eyeing the decanter of brandy on the sideboard hopefully. “I really should be going.”
“Just one more thing, Mr. Pearson,” Ian said as his guest buttoned his coat.
“Yes?”
“How did you know about the cards?”
The librarian reddened. “Why, you must have told me.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Quite.”
“I really must be going. Good night,” Pearson replied, ducking quickly out the door.
Ian supposed Pearson had wheedled the information out of Sergeant Dickerson, but . . . no, he thought, the heart of a killer could not beat in that fleshy chest. He gazed out the window as a waning moon rose in the sky. The number of people he could trust seemed to be shrinking daily.
What if Donald was right? Did evil really exist in equal measure in every man’s heart? Ian had spent his career convinced there were good men and bad, and it was his job to protect the former from the latter. Was it just a matter of circumstances, then—and under the right conditions, even a good man could become corrupted, like the monster he pursued so doggedly? He paced the front parlor restlessly, the wan moon casting shadows on the forest-green Persian rug, with its intricate pattern of vines twisting around one another in a never-ending dance.
The idea was unthinkable. If his brother was right, fate toyed with people like a cat tormenting a mouse, and mankind was at the mercy of a cruel and indifferent universe. He had spent the past seven years struggling to wrest some order in the midst of chaos, but now . . .
His hands twitched, and he longed for something to hold in them. His eyes fell upon the cigarette case Donald had left on the mahogany end table. Trembling, he seized it and snapped open the gold clasp. Pulling out a cigarette, he inhaled the sharp aroma of tobacco. Placing it between his lips, he struck a match and watched it flare as he held it to the end of the cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he tossed the match into the center of the fire, where it was devoured by the flames.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Ian awoke from a dreamless sleep to bright sunshine pouring through the front window. The weather had been dark and gray for so long, it took him a moment to adjust. He attempted to sit upright in bed, but a weight on his chest prevented him from moving. He looked down into the half-closed, glassy green eyes of his newest houseguest.
“I don’t recall inviting you to join me,” he said.
The cat purred loudly and stretched a languid forepaw toward his head, its fishy breath cold on his cheek.
“Off you go,” he commanded. “Now!”
Bacchus rolled over, exposing his wide white belly.
“Right,” said Ian. “That’s it.” Throwing off the covers, he swung his legs off the side of the bed. The cat clung to him like treacle, digging its claws into his thigh. “Ow! Bloody hell,” Ian muttered, disengaging the claws to pull the animal away from his body. “Can’t you take a hint?”
Bacchus stood amidst the disarray of bedclothes, flicking his tail irritably.
“Good Lord,” said Ian. “You’re worse than the wee bloody mouse.”
The cat responded by rolling onto its back and purring.
“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” Ian said as he slid into his clothes, shivering. He longed for a hot bath, but the angle of the sun told him it was late morning already. Bolting down a crust of bread and a piece of sausage, he tore off a piece of the meat and put it in a bowl for the cat, placing another one of cream next to it. Bacchus sniffed at the sausage, flicked his tail, and lapped greedily at the cream.
“So you don’t like sausage,” Ian muttered, pulling on his boots. “Just remember, beggars can’t be choosers,” he added as he pulled on his cloak and slid out the door.
After weeks of gray weather, the sunlight was disconcerting. Overnight, the tempo of the city had changed. The dank cold had lifted; the streets swirled with warm pockets of mist, the sun penetrating corners and crannies that had been dark for days on end. Everyone walked with straight shoulders and open faces, their limbs relaxing in the balmy air.
Ian felt his own muscles loosen as he strode up the High Street, Edinburgh Castle glimmering high atop its rocky crag. Even the voices of the vendors on the Grassmarket sounded cheerful, blending with the noise of their lowing cattle and bleating sheep. Saturday was the weekly livestock market, as farmers drove their herds through the Cowgate from the east and through the West Port to the west. The last public hanging had taken place in the Grassmarket more than fifteen years earlier. Nowadays unlucky sinners were sent to meet their Maker in the privacy of the prison yard—though crowds of curious spectators sometimes gathered on nearby Calton Hill to gape at executions of more celebrated criminals.
Ian picked his way carefully across the cobblestones, avoiding the inevitable specimens left by scores of farm animals. The musty smell of manure was harder to avoid, floating up from the pens down in the marketplace. Breathing through his mouth, he hurried past the area toward the police station.
A crowd had gathered in front of the building, and as Ian approached, several people turned and pointed at him.
“There he is!”
“Oiy, when are ye gonnae catch the strangler?”