“We’re not safe in our beds!”
“What kind o’ police are ye, to leave a madman at large?”
The crush of bodies advanced toward him. Acid fear flowed through his veins, making his legs go weak. He didn’t see a way around the crowd—to enter the building, he would have to go through them. His brain raced to find a solution.
“Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Edinburgh!” he declared. “I want to assure you we are doing everything we can to catch this miscreant. In fact, due to some recent developments, we are very close to capturing him!”
“Why should we believe ye?” yelled a stocky fellow in a butcher’s apron.
“What are these ‘developments’?” shouted a well-dressed man in a rust-colored frock coat.
“I cannot tell you that, but I will say that upon my honor and my life, we will bring this monster to justice!” Surprised by the passion in his own voice, Ian was relieved to see the effect on the crowd. Several nodded, while others, who had been angry a moment before, looked placated. He took a chance and continued toward them. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go do my job.”
To his surprise, several people began applauding, and others joined in, stepping aside for him to pass. As the sweat slid down his face, it occurred to Ian that Moses was no more pleased at the parting of the Red Sea than he was at the sight of this crowd making way for him. He knew he did not deserve the applause, but all that mattered was getting inside the building.
As he entered the foyer, he was greeted by the sound of angry yelling. Removing his cloak, he strode down the short hallway leading to the central chamber. A few constables cowered to the side of the room, pretending to be busy with paperwork. In the center of it stood Chief Inspector Louis Valeur Gerard, crisply dressed in his immaculate uniform, his face purple as a plum.
“But why wasn’t I called? It is inexplicable—inconceivable!”
The target of his tirade, DCI Crawford, stood a few feet away, a weary expression on his heavy face. “Look, Inspector Gerard—”
“Chief Inspector—”
“Chief Inspector, I myself only just found out about it.”
“Mais pourquoi? What kind of organization have you here, eh? That you would not know is vraiment incroyable.”
Crawford shot Ian a supplicating look, as if pleading to be rescued from this mad Frenchman.
“I think I can answer that,” Ian said, approaching them.
Gazing at Ian gratefully, Crawford said, “This is Detective Inspector Hamilton.”
“We have met already,” Gerard replied, wheeling around to face him. “Why do you fail to contact me when this new murder occurs, monsieur?”
“I apologize,” said Ian. “It was very sudden, and I wasn’t sure how to reach you.”
“But I inform you in my telegram that I stay at the Waverley Hotel.”
“My sincerest apology, Chief Inspector—we were all taken off guard.”
The Frenchman let out a breath, and his forehead relaxed a bit, though he still wore a peeved expression. “Alors, if you allow yourselves to be distraits every time this killer strikes, you will never catch him. You must not play by his rules, eh?”
“This is not a game, Chief Inspector,” Crawford said evenly, but Ian sensed his anger was mounting. “May I remind you that you are here as our guest, in a nonofficial capacity, and while we appreciate any help you can give us, that doesn’t mean—”
“Look here,” Hamilton interrupted, “why don’t I tell you both what I know?”
Chief Inspector Gerard pursed his lips and frowned. “Very well—I am listening.”
“Why don’t we go into my office?” Crawford said. “The toxicology report on Mrs. Sutherland just came in.”
“What does it say?” Hamilton asked, following him and Gerard past a group of relieved-looking constables.
Crawford closed the office door behind the three of them. “See for yourself,” he replied, plucking a file folder from his desk and handing it to Ian.
Ian opened it, searching eagerly for the phrase that would confirm his suspicion. There it was, bold as day, on the first page:
Cause of Death: CYANIDE POISONING
“So,” he said, looking up at DCI Crawford, “he’s not only a strangler, but a poisoner as well.”
“Hang on a minute,” replied his boss. “We don’t know the same person is responsible for poisoning Mrs. Sutherland.”
“Who is she?” asked Gerard. “And why was she poisoned?”
“She knew something,” Ian replied. “Or he believed she did.”
“But why not just strangle her?” said Crawford.
“I think he intended to disguise her death as natural.”
“And it might have worked, if not for your persistence,” Crawford mused, absently twisting a piece of string between his fingers.
“And Sergeant Dickerson’s nose,” Ian added.
“What about last night, then?” asked Crawford.
Ian filled them in on the details of the previous night.
“Someone should have fetched me,” Crawford said, handing Ian the early edition of the Scotsman. “The eyes of the town are upon us.”
The newspaper screamed out its headline:
MURDERER RUNS RAMPANT THROUGH CITY STREETS!
POLICE BAFFLED BY RUTHLESS “HOLYROOD STRANGLER”—IS A LUST KILLER AT LARGE?
Ian groaned. “Isn’t that just what we need now—more lurid journalism.”
“They got one thing right—they do have elements of lust killings,” said Crawford.
Ian frowned. “That’s an element, but I think it’s more complicated than that.”
Gerard frowned. “But this latest victim was a—”
“Yes, but Bobby Tierney was not.”
“You said this club, the Owl’s Nest, was hard to find,” said Crawford. “How would the killer know about it?”
“I think Stephen Wycherly took him there.”
Chief Inspector Gerard looked at the headline with distaste. “Our Paris newspapers would never stoop to such depths of fearmongering.”
“Bully for them,” Crawford growled. “But you’re in Scotland now, and the sooner you get used to it, the better.”
The Frenchman’s eyes opened wide with astonishment, and for an instant it looked as if he might explode in fury. But then he laughed. “Never fear, Monsieur Chief Inspector; I have not forgotten it for one moment. Even if I wanted to, it would be impossible—the cuisine has reminded my poor stomach ever since I arrived.”
“Our food may not equal yours, but I’ll wager you a meal at Edinburgh’s best restaurant that before you leave, you will be impressed with our police force.”
Inspector Gerard gave a pinched smile. “I can only hope you are right, monsieur.”
Ian held up the toxicology report. “Can we keep this from the press?”
Crawford crossed his arms. “Make the official cause of death natural causes, you mean?”
“To avoid public hysteria.”
“Agreed. Public faith in the constabulary is eroding as it is.”
“If the strangler did poison Mrs. Sutherland,” Ian observed, “it makes him even more dangerous.”
Gerard crossed his arms. “I fail to see how he could be more dangerous than he already is.”