“Your friend’s a quiet one, though.”
“He’s just shy,” said George. “But he does have something to ask you.”
“An’ what might that be, then?”
Ian fumbled around in his jacket pocket for the playing card, afraid he had lost it, until his fingers closed upon it. He held it up to the bartender. “Have you seen this card before?”
“Let’s have a look,” the Irishman said, leaning his beefy forearms on the bar. He stroked his thick red beard, peering at it in the dim light. “What’s it worth to ye, then?” he asked with a sly smile.
Pondering how best to reply, Ian took a deep breath, but Pearson spoke first. “It may be worth a great deal to you if you don’t want your establishment to be raided by the Edinburgh City Police.”
The bartender’s eyes narrowed. “Are ye coppers, then?”
“I am,” Ian replied, peeved at Pearson for revealing it.
A slim, nattily dressed gentleman of middle years sauntered over to them. Even in the dim light, his cravat was dazzling white, his gold vest and black frock coat were of the finest cloth, and his boots shone with polish. With his lean face and high cheekbones, he bore a strong resemblance to Ian’s father.
“Is there a problem, Nate?” he asked.
The bartender/pirate crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels. “We’ve a copper in our midst.”
The gentleman cocked his head to one side. “Indeed? I certainly haven’t seen you here before,” he said to Ian. “What’s your business here?”
By now many of the other men were watching the conversation at the bar. It was clear the elegant man was a figure of some importance—the proprietor, perhaps.
“I am not here to arrest any of you,” Ian replied, uncomfortable with the scores of eyes upon him.
“We are trying to catch a murderer,” George declared officiously. He appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself.
“I see,” said the elegant man. “And how might we help you?”
“Does anyone remember seeing this card before?” Ian said, holding it up to the room’s occupants. He saw no recognition on any of their faces, until a slight young man stepped forward. Hardly more than a boy, his thick, long bangs fell over dark, wary eyes. His clothing and grimy hands suggested he worked the docks at Leith.
“Jes t’other day,” he said in an accent that betrayed his working-class origins, “a fella were doin’ a card trick at’ bar there, an’ used a deck wi’ that design.”
“What did he—”
Ian silenced George with an elbow to the ribs. “Had you ever seen this person before?” he asked.
“Er, no, come t’ think of it. But the lad he showed the trick to were the same one found dead yesterdah.”
“Kerry O’Donohue?”
“Don’ know ’is last name,” the boy replied, looking down at his boots, which were worn and scuffed. “But yeah, ’e called himself Kerry, all right.”
“We don’t inquire as to people’s last names here,” the elegant gentleman explained to Ian.
“Did th’ card have sommit to do wi’ his murder?” the boy asked.
“As a matter of fact—” the librarian began, but Ian trod heavily on his foot. “Ouch,” George said, glaring at him.
“I’m afraid we can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” said Ian, turning to the boy. “Can you describe the man?”
“Go ahead, Peter,” the slim gentleman urged. “It’s all right.”
“Well, ’e were good-lookin’ enough,” the boy added, blushing.
“Can you be more specific?” Ian said, feeling the heat rise to his face.
“Let’s see . . . not nearly as tall as you; more medium height, and thicker ’round the shoulders. Dark hair, wavy like . . . oh, and the palest eyes—almost like there weren’t no color to ’em at all.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Like a gentleman—real fancy clothes, wi’ a gold watch.”
“Peter always notices watches,” remarked the pirate behind the bar. “Don’ ye, lad?”
Peter coughed and fiddled with his belt buckle.
The bartender laughed, and a few of the other men snickered, but the slim gentleman silenced them all with a stern glare. “Please! Peter is doing his best to aid a murder investigation. He doesn’t need any help from any of you,” he added, glowering at the bartender, “unless of course you have something to add.”
“I weren’t workin’ that night,” Nate replied sulkily, turning away to wash glasses.
“Did you remark upon anything else about him?” Ian asked Peter. “His voice, perhaps?”
“It were educated . . . He sounded English, maybe a bit foreign, though I couldn’t swear’t it.” He went on to describe how Kerry had picked a card from the deck offered to him, and that the two of them had left shortly afterward.
“Would you be willing to describe him to a police sketch artist?”
“Uh, yeah, I s’pose.”
“Here is my card,” said Ian. “Please come to the station house at your earliest convenience.”
“I kin come t’morrow after church.”
“Thank you,” said Ian. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Can I buy you a drink, Officer . . . ?” asked the elegant man.
“Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton, at your service.”
“Detective Inspector, then—would you or your companion care for something from the bar?” he added with a glance at George, who nodded vigorously.
“We must be on our way,” said Ian. “Thank you, Mr. . . . ?”
“Call me Terrance.”
“Thank you, Terrance.”
“You are welcome anytime,” he answered with a slight bow. His courtly manners and fine clothes suggested he was a man of means as well as breeding. Ian wondered what his profession was—lawyer, perhaps, or even a judge?
Dragging a reluctant George Pearson behind him, Ian ascended the dimly lit stairwell, emerging into the courtyard. A pale moon glimmered between the bare tree branches as they threaded their way back through the alley, their breath coming in wisps, mingling with the fog that had settled over the city.
“I don’t know why we couldn’t stay for one blasted drink,” the librarian muttered as they stepped into the street.
“We were there to gather information,” Ian replied. What he didn’t say was that the Owl’s Nest made him extremely uncomfortable. “Thank you for pointing the place out to me. I should never have found it on my own.”
“You’re welcome,” Pearson replied sulkily. “Well, I suppose I’ll be off, then.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.” He waited for a moment—perhaps hoping Ian might invite him to join him for a nightcap, but when Hamilton said nothing, Pearson skulked off in the direction of New Town.
Ian was not entirely convinced the librarian had told him the truth about the playing cards. Next time he encountered Derek McNair, he would have some pointed questions for the boy. He watched as Pearson’s bulky figure was swallowed by the swirling fog before turning his own steps homeward.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR