Passengers swirled through Waverley Station like drops of cream in an unstirred cup of tea, forming geometric patterns so intricate that the man in the dark overcoat standing in the majestic main room could only watch in fascination. As much as he loved solitude and dark, secluded streets, he appreciated the charms a city like Edinburgh could provide. Such variety, so many endless possibilities! Oh, there was so much evil in a man . . .
He leaned casually against the wall next to the tea canteen, scanning the crowd. He enjoyed the chase more than anything—the moment before was so delicious, so luxurious, he wanted to prolong it. That was one reason he had not yet gone after that pesky Edinburgh detective. He smiled as he lit a cigarette—his time would come, just not today. He was saving the best for last, when the attack was least suspected. Today, though, he had another victim in mind.
He didn’t have long to wait. As the last rays of daylight faded behind the tall latticed windows, a trim, dapper figure appeared, stood in line at the ticket booth, then advanced toward him, heels clicking smartly on the polished floors.
The man in the dark overcoat followed at a discreet distance, his face impassive, until they reached Platform 18. Burying his face in a newspaper, he waited next to the well-dressed gentleman until the train heaved into the station, white smoke billowing from its single stack. Obscured by the spreading smoke, his hands shot out to give a quick, sharp shove to the small of the back of the trim gentleman. Turning quickly, he didn’t even see the man clawing the air in a futile effort to arrest his fall into the path of the oncoming train.
Slipping back into the main room, he blended into the crowd as the screams from Platform 18 caused everyone to stop what they were doing and freeze in horror. Anyone observing the scene would have noticed that as everyone in the station surged toward the commotion, he alone moved quickly in the opposite direction. By the time anyone knew what was happening, he was walking briskly along George IV Bridge, to be swallowed up in the bowels of the Old Town.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Bernadette’s distress was evident, and her attempt to protect her mistress was touching. Seeing the recognition in Ian’s eyes, she hastened to escort Miss Harley back upstairs, but the lady was having none of it. She lurched into the foyer and wrapped her arm around Ian, tugging him toward the parlor.
“Come tell me where you have been all this time, my poor dear Stephen,” she said, stroking his cheek.
He allowed her to draw him into the next room, as Bernadette fussed and cajoled her mistress. “Now, now,” she said, “does this gentleman look like Mr. Wycherly to you?” as Catherine pulled him down next to her on a gold French settee.
“Why, he is the very image of dear Stephen!” her mistress replied, hanging on to Ian’s arm as though it were a life preserver.
Bernadette shook her head, tears springing to her frank green eyes. “Shouldn’t you return to your room until you feel better?”
“Nonsense—I fee-el f-fine,” Catherine responded, though her eyelids drooped, and her mouth was having trouble forming words. Her lank hair hung in disarray upon her bony shoulders; the diaphanous dressing gown she wore failed to conceal her skeletal form. She looked even thinner than the last time Ian saw her, just a few days ago.
“Did you b-bring me some . . . medicine?” she asked, tapping him on the shoulder.
He glanced at Bernadette, but she averted her eyes.
“I did,” he replied. “And I’ll give it to you later.”
“I want it now,” she said, pushing out her lower lip like a petulant child.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get dressed, and we’ll go riding together?”
“Oh, Stephen!” she said, taking his head between her hands. “That would be lovely! But c-can you give me my medicine?”
“After you’re dressed, you can have your medicine.”
She gazed at him searchingly, as if she didn’t believe him, but rose unsteadily from the settee and tottered out of the room upon wobbly legs, throwing him one last glance as she started up the staircase. Even with her halting gait, Ian had the odd sensation she was floating up the stairs, her strangely ethereal quality enhanced by the effect of the drug.
When she had gone, he turned to Bernadette, whose solid body sagged with defeat. “Laudanum, is it?”
She blinked at him and shook her head of massive red curls. “Begging your pardon, sir?” she replied, doing her best to sound offended.
“Your loyalty to your mistress does you credit. But surely you must see that hiding her addiction is no help to her.”
“I really don’t take your meaning, so I don’t,” she said, turning away. But he heard her sharp intake of breath, which was followed by a sob that caught in her throat.
“It’s not your fault,” he offered.
“D’you think I don’t know that, then?” she cried bitterly, wheeling around. “Isn’t it me who stayed up of a night with her when she couldn’t sleep?”
“Your mistress is indeed lucky to have you.”
“So she is, at that,” Bernadette replied. “Though I don’t know what good it’s done her.”
“When did it start—the addiction, I mean?”
Bernadette sat heavily upon the couch, the springs groaning beneath her broad posterior. Ian was a little surprised to see her sitting so freely in his presence, but her distress had evidently erased any class distinction between them.
“She were always high-strung, but the real trouble started after the death of her mother—a sweeter lady never trod the earth, so help me God,” she added, crossing herself. “You have to forgive Miss Harley; she has suffered so much.”
“It’s not up to me to judge her. I truly hope she finds the strength to conquer her affliction before it is too late.”
The loyal Bernadette could not suppress a shudder. No doubt she, too, had glimpsed the vacant-eyed wraiths who succumbed to the noxious drug. They could be seen wandering the back alleys and wynds of the Canongate. Those without means turned to prostitution to support their habit.
“It seems Stephen was her supplier—until recently,” Ian ventured.
“Yes, sir. Though Lord knows where he got it.”
“Does her uncle know?”
“I don’t see how he could miss it, though he never speaks of it to me, bless his soul.”
“Where is he now?”
“In his law chambers. He hasn’t yet found a replacement for Mr. Wycherly, so the poor dear is working even longer hours than usual.”
“Bernadette,” he said, “I want you to think—hard—where Mr. Wycherly might have procured this substance. A great many lives may depend upon it.”
“The laudanum, you mean?”
“Laudanum is a derivative of opium, as you must know.”
“Er, yes—now that you mention it, sir.”
“So if you have any idea as to how Mr. Wycherly might have come by opium, I implore you—”
“Hang on a minute,” she said. “Mr. Wycherly did like to go to a certain place, and sometimes he would stop by here afterward, rather—er, under the influence, as it were.”
“Where did he go?”
“He mentioned . . . an owl, I think it was, sir. I took it to be a pub, o’ course, but maybe it was something else?”
“Anything else you remember?”
“He talked about a Chinaman called Pong. I remember it struck me because the name is so much like the game, Ping-Pong. You know,” she said in response to his blank look, “also called whiff-whaff.”