Big Nell was a woman of parts
With a face that broke many hearts Her bottom was wide, and so soft inside You’d best look out for her farts Ian shook his head—the popular urge to juxtapose the sexual and the scatological had always puzzled him. When he thought of women—and he did his best not to—it was not in conjunction with rude bar songs. Just then, a familiar voice behind him said, “Unpleasant, isn’t it—the mindless braying of the great unwashed?”
Startled, he spun around to see a smiling George Pearson, dressed in an Inverness cape and tweed cap.
“What on earth are you doing here?”
Pearson’s smile drooped. “May a man not move about freely without being questioned as to his intentions?”
“See here, Mr. Pearson—I appreciate your interest, but you really must stop following me.”
“I am not ‘following you,’ Detective,” the librarian replied huffily. “If we happened to meet tonight, it is simply by chance.”
“Coincidence does not have so wide a reach as you seem to imagine.”
“I did not say it was by coincidence—I said it was by chance.”
“I fail to see the distinction.”
“Coincidence implies that no cause aligns our mutual presence here. But chance allows for the presence of that cause.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“The apprehension of a murderer.”
“Mr. Pearson,” Ian cautioned,“please refrain from imagining that you are my associate in this matter.”
“No thought is farther from my mind, I assure you. I bid you good night,” he replied stiffly.
“Good night, then,” Ian said, striding off into the night. Before he had gone more than a few yards, he turned to see the librarian following several paces behind. “Why are you following me?” he said, frowning.
“As we seem to be headed in the same direction, I thought I would let you proceed apace so as to not burden you with my company,” Pearson replied, lighting a cheroot pipe.
“And exactly where are you going?”
Pearson blew a puff of smoke into the foggy air; it hung suspended for a moment before dissolving into the mist. “I intend to pay a visit to an unsavory establishment.”
“What is it?”
“You would not care for it.”
“For the love of God, man, what is it?”
“It is called the Owl’s Nest.”
Ian couldn’t help the surprise that came over his face. “The Owl’s Nest, did you say?”
“Why—do you know it?”
“I intend to.”
“I see,” Pearson replied without moving.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Are you going to show me where it is or not?”
“You want me to take you there after castigating me for interfering?”
Ian took a deep breath and thought of Aunt Lillian. He could almost hear her voice: Be sensible, Ian. You’ve always been far too impatient. He looked at the librarian, who stood puffing on his pipe, the smoke curling around his plump face.
“First I must know the answer to a question.”
“Yes?”
“How did you know about the playing cards?”
“The child told me.”
“You mean Derek McNair?”
“Yes—over breakfast at your flat, after you left.”
Ian frowned. “He shouldn’t have told you.”
“I didn’t realize it was confidential until you mentioned it the other day. Not wishing to get him in trouble, I avoided answering you.”
“We never released that information to the public.”
“Then how did he know?”
“He found a card when he discovered one of the victims.”
“How gruesome,” the librarian said with a shudder, but his eyes glistened with excitement.
“Now, would you please conduct me to this establishment?” Ian said.
His companion’s broad face relaxed into a smile. “Certainly, Detective—right this way.”
He launched his ungainly body forward, striding with such vigor that Ian grabbed hold of his hat to prevent it falling off.
As the two of them disappeared into the fog, they failed to notice a dark figure skulking in the shadows of the row of tenement houses across the road. The figure trailed them at a distance, hugging the buildings on the dark side of the street. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled mournfully as the fog thickened, wrapping the city of Edinburgh in its murky embrace.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The unmarked entrance to the Owl’s Nest was impossible to find without knowing precisely where to look. An unlocked iron gate led through a courtyard off Fleshmarket Close—appropriately named, Ian thought grimly as a rat scuttled across the paving stones. At the far end, stone steps led to the basement of a sixteenth-century tenement building. He followed Pearson down the stairs and through a heavy oak door, darkened by years of soot, and into a dimly lit basement cloudy with tobacco smoke.
The only illumination came from a pair of wall sconces and a few candles scattered haphazardly about. A row of men crowded the long bar at the other end of the room, while others loitered in pairs along the bare brick walls on either side. The sickly sweet smell of opium lurked beneath the haze of tobacco. A narrow passageway led past the bar to a back room, which Ian assumed was the source of the aroma.
Their entrance was greeted with searching glances from the men at the bar. Ian felt his breath coming shallow and tight, but to his surprise, the normally awkward Pearson moved through the press of bodies, inserting himself next to a slim young man at the bar. Ian followed, avoiding eye contact with any of the patrons, though he could feel their gaze upon him.
Behind him, a man with a thick Glaswegian accent muttered, “Now ’at’s a bit I wouldn’t mind gettin’ next tae.” His companion laughed a throaty whisky laugh, followed by a sputtering cough.
Ian’s discomfort was followed by a memory of a conversation he once had with Aunt Lillian about the indignities she had suffered as a young woman from the attention of men. He had not until this moment considered what it must have actually felt like. Ears burning, he slid onto the stool next to George Pearson, who was calmly conversing with the bartender, a heavyset Irishman with one gold earring and a red beard.
“That’ll be one shilling,” said the barkeep as he slid two glasses of whisky in front of the librarian. “Is he with you, then?” he added with an appraising glance at Ian.
“Indeed he is,” Pearson responded calmly.
“Not bad,” the Irishman remarked with a grin, showing a set of whalebone-white teeth. He reminded Ian of a pirate—all he needed was a kerchief wrapped around his head to be at home on a schooner flying a Jolly Roger flag.
George held up his glass. “‘May you live all the days of your life.’”
“I never heard o’ that one,” said the bartender.
“Jonathan Swift.”
The Irishman smiled. “A Dubliner, God bless ’im!”
“Indeed,” George remarked.
Ian was impressed at the librarian’s poise. He was clearly more at home and relaxed than the detective, who felt jumpier by the minute.
The bartender smiled widely, displaying his gleaming ivory teeth. “You’ve decent taste for an Englishman, so you do.”
“Why, thank you.”