“Why d’you suppose he did that?”
“He’s going for another straight flush.” Ian slipped the card into his own pocket and gazed at the dead boy lying on the cold, hard cobblestones. “‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“It’s from The Tempest.”
“Shakespeare’s last play, weren’t it?”
“And by God, I swear this will be this murderer’s last victim. Mark my words, Sergeant.”
But even as his words were drowned out by the sounds of the city around him, he doubted his own ability to make them come true.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Henry Standish Wright awoke early Sunday morning from an uneasy sleep—if sleep you could call it—and stared at the ceiling. He felt hungover, yet had imbibed not a drop the night before. Following another sold-out performance at the Theatre Royal, he had crawled into bed, exhausted in mind and body. But sleep failed him, as it had so often recently, and he spent a wretched night wrestling with what was left of his conscience.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, with its silk sheets and lush brocade spread, setting his feet upon the deep, plush carpet. The luxurious surroundings only deepened his misery, reminding him of his own unworthiness. Others in this town had barely a crust of bread and a cup of foul water for supper, while he dined on oysters and beef Wellington, spending more in a day than they would earn in a year.
He rose stiffly and dragged himself to the water closet; after doing his business, he sat at the vanity next to the poster bed with its grand canopy of plump, laughing cherubs and elegant, winged angels. He stared at his own reflection, shocked at the haunted eyes looking back at him. Here was no fat pink cherub or angel—it was the face of a man pursued by devils. He alone could help end this nightmare, yet he was too weak.
He remembered his brother as a boy, and how sweet and gentle he had been while their mother still lived—like any other boy, really, with his little stick hobbyhorse he was so proud of. He recalled the games they had played together—tag and four corners and mumblety-peg. He had tried to protect his brother from their father’s anger, falling upon them like bitter rain. But his brother was always defiant, drawing more than his share of whippings. The enforced boxing matches in the backyard only served to deepen his rebellious spirit. The more Henry tried to shield him from his father’s rage, the heavier his father’s retribution, seemingly inexhaustible after their mother’s death.
Henry had escaped to school, but no such luck for his brother, who stayed behind to work in their father’s chemist shop. In the long hours behind the counter, he developed his skill at card manipulation, delighting customers with his tricks. During that time, the rumors had also started—that he was “different,” bullying younger children and responsible for missing cats and dogs. It wasn’t something they ever talked about, but somehow Henry knew what his brother was, and perhaps even why. When he came home from school that first spring, Henry saw in his brother’s eyes a cruelty he had never noticed before.
Henry pulled on his dressing gown and padded into the sitting room, with its grand chandelier and French Empire furniture. His head ached with the weight of memories. He looked longingly at the sideboard with its gleaming bottles of liquor, steeling himself against temptation. It was important to keep his mind clear. On the carpet in front of the door was the daily newspaper. It appeared each morning, slid beneath his door by a member of the hotel staff, one of many working tirelessly to make his stay comfortable. He leaned over to pick it up, groaning as the bones of his stiff spine protested wearily. The headline slammed into his brain like a rifle shot.
TERRIBLE CRIME IN THE GRASSMARKET—BOY MURDERED!
HOLYROOD STRANGLER STRIKES AGAIN—YOUNGEST VICTIM YET
He sank to his knees and buried his head in his hands, trying to drive his brother’s words from his mind, to no avail. Over and over the phrase repeated itself in his head. Oh, there was so much evil in a man . . .
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
“I’ve had just about enough of this bosh and bunkum!” DCI Crawford declared, spewing spittle into the surrounding air. Ian took a step backward to avoid the spray, wincing as the droplets landed on his face. “A mere child this time? Good Lord, why can’t we catch this bastard?”
Ian was silent. Answering the chief during one of his tirades was not advisable—best to wait for it to run its course.
“Well?” Crawford bellowed. “And where the bloody hell is Dickerson?”
At that moment the door to the office swung open, and Sergeant Dickerson burst in, clutching a newspaper, flushed and out of breath. Ian was surprised to see him enter the office without knocking.
Crawford looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to chide the sergeant for being late or for neglecting to knock. “What took you so long?” he demanded.
The sergeant thrust out the newspaper he held, his hand trembling.
“What’s this?” Crawford said, frowning.
“It’s Chief Inspector Gerard, sir,” Dickerson said, pointing to a boldface headline on the front page.
TRAGIC DEATH AT WAVERLEY STATION!
MAN CRUSHED BY TRAIN
ACCIDENT OR SUICIDE—OR SOMETHING DARKER?
“Good Lord,” Crawford said, scanning the article. “That was just hours after we last saw him.” He looked at Ian. “Do you think . . . ?”
Ian nodded, his face grim. “I think it’s a likely explanation.” He scanned the article. No one claimed to have seen anything, according to Constable McKee, the officer on duty.
“Get McKee in here and grill him,” Crawford said. “See if he knows anything.”
“Yes, sir,” Ian said, turning to Dickerson. “Can you handle that while I interview Daft Lucy?”
“Right away, sir.”
Crawford fell back heavily into his chair, the springs creaking beneath his bulk. “Good luck getting anything coherent out of her.”
“Where is she?”
His boss flung a fat thumb toward the back of the station house. “Asleep. The lads gave her some tea and she asked to lie down, so we put her in one of the empty cells.”
“I’ll fetch her before I leave, sir?” Dickerson offered.
“Off you go, then,” Ian said.
The sergeant blinked, rocked back on his heels, and fled the room.
CI Crawford ran a hand through his abundant ginger whiskers, absently twisting a piece of string between his fingers. “Do you have anything at all, Hamilton?”
“We may have an eyewitness.”
“Haul him on down here!”
“He’s promised to come in today. We’re likely to get better results if he comes voluntarily.”
“Who is it?”
“His first name is Peter.”
“And his last name?”
“I don’t have it, but—”
“Why not?”
“I know where to find him, sir.”
Crawford scowled at Ian. “What about the Arthur’s Seat victim—is there a connection?”
“I believe it to be the same killer.”