“Why were the other victims all found in alleys?”
“He lured Wycherly to the top of Arthur’s Seat either to disguise it as a suicide, or, failing that, to make it appear to be a disagreement that turned lethal. He was attempting to use misdirection to confuse us.”
“Why did he not do that with the rest of the victims?”
“He got lazy—or confident. Once he believed he could get away with his crimes, the killings became bolder, more direct. He no longer worked to cover his tracks. And that’s how we’re going to catch him.”
Sergeant Dickerson’s face appeared at the half-open office door. “Excuse me, sir—I fetched Lucy, and she’s ready to speak with you.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Ian.
“I’ll just be off, then,” Dickerson said, holding the door open for Lucy to enter.
Lucy Davenport was long and lean, her weathered face making her look much older than her age, which Ian guessed to be about thirty. She was dressed in a motley pile of clothes heaped on top of one another with no regard to fashion—the layers of tartans alone probably represented half a dozen clans. On her long, thin legs were mismatched woolen stockings, and on her feet a sturdy pair of men’s boots. Strips of flannel wound round her head completely obscured her hair. Her skin being the color and texture of tanned leather, she resembled a demented Eastern shah.
“Hello, Lucy,” Ian said, offering her a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”
She shook her head violently. “Oh, I daren’t, sir—he won’ let me.”
“Who won’t?” Crawford asked.
“I cannot speak ’is name, sir.”
“I see.”
“Can you write it, perhaps?” asked Ian, offering her paper and pen.
“I s’pose so,” she replied, carefully scratching out the letters in spidery capital letters: EVIL SETH.
“Evil Seth?” Crawford said, his shaggy brow furrowed. “Who on earth is that?”
“Is he the one whose voice you hear in your head?” Ian asked her.
Lucy nodded vigorously.
“And he tells you to do things?”
“Mostlah ’e just tells me how bad I am. I’m no’ wicked, am I, sir?”
“No, Lucy, you certainly are not,” Ian replied. “In fact, we were hoping you might help us find the person who killed young Freddie Cubbins.”
“The boy wha’ I found, sir?”
“Yes,” said Crawford. “Did you see anyone hanging around the body when you discovered it?”
“It weren’t no body when I arrived, sir.”
Crawford frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“He were alive when I got there.”
“He was?” The chief inspector could hardly contain his eagerness. Ian hoped he wouldn’t frighten Lucy into silence.
“Aye. I asked who done this, and I believe he tried tae tell me, but the poor bairn had nae mere breath left in him than a tiny wisp o’ air.”
“So did he speak?” Crawford asked, his small blue eyes keen.
“He tried, God rest ’is wee soul.”
“What did he say?”
“It sounded like ‘Madge.’”
“Madge?” Ian repeated.
“That can be short for Margaret,” Crawford said. “I had an aunt Margaret we called Madge.”
“Is that what he was trying to say, you think?” Ian asked Lucy.
“I don’ rightly know, sir. I just heard ‘Madge,’ or maybe ‘Madgie.’”
“Do you know of anyone named Madge or Madgie?” Crawford asked Ian, who shook his head.
Lucy shrugged. “That’s wha’ I heard, is all. An’ I could get nae mere out o’him. Poor fellow just—” She stopped abruptly and clasped her hands to her ears. “Stop it! Leave me in peace!” she cried in a tormented voice.
The men exchanged looks. “Is Seth bothering you?” said Ian.
“Oh, please!” she wailed, shaking her head from side to side. “Jes’ gae away!”
Crawford heaved his bulk from his chair and opened the door to his office. “Sergeant,” he called out to the desk sergeant on duty, “will you get Miss Davenport something to eat and escort her out?”
“Certainly, sir,” the sergeant replied, hurrying into the DCI’s office. “Come on, miss—let’s see about gettin’ you something t’eat, then, shall we?” he said, taking her gently by the elbow.
Shaking her head fretfully as if trying to dislodge something, she allowed herself to be led from the room.
“I think we’ve taxed her enough,” Crawford remarked to Ian when she was gone.
“What do you make of that? Was the entire story one of her delusions?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Ian. “She seemed very lucid when describing that memory.”
“But what can it mean?”
“Maybe he was trying to say ‘magician,’” Ian suggested.
“Madge. Madgie. Magician.” Crawford pulled at his whiskers. “You think he was killed by a magician?”
“That would explain the cards left on the bodies.”
“By Jove, so it does,” Crawford said. Ian sensed he was trying not to sound too enthusiastic—the chief inspector preferred to lead in the traditional Scottish way, with an eye to everything that could go wrong. That way, as Ian’s father used to say, one was less often disappointed.
“Also,” Ian continued, “the scene described by our witness at the Owl’s Nest would bear out the idea that our killer is someone familiar with cards and card tricks.”
“Then why isn’t he here? Skittish about coppers, is he?”
“He’s probably also afraid what happened to the others will happen to him if he talks.”
“It’s more likely to happen if he doesn’t talk,” Crawford muttered, pulling on his whiskers.
Ian glanced at the clock on the wall behind Crawford’s desk. It was a few minutes after noon. “He should be here soon—is there a police sketch artist available?”
Crawford frowned. “Keith McGregor is in Inverness, and Samuel Harrison has a bad case of boils. What about that aunt of yours? Can she sketch?”
“As a matter of fact, she won an art prize at school—”
“Tell her the reputation of the Edinburgh City Police is at stake.”
“I usually have Sunday dinner with her. I can go ask her now if you like.”
“Off you go, then. If your witness shows up, I’ll send a constable to your aunt’s to fetch you both.”
“Here’s her address,” Ian said, scribbling it down on a piece of paper.
“And Hamilton,” Crawford added as Ian turned to leave, “you can have anyone else you want—whatever it takes to capture this devil.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“There’s not a man on this force who wouldn’t be proud to be the one to bring him in.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Now get on with you—and tell that aunt of yours to fatten you up, for Christ’s sake. You look like a bloody scarecrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Ian replied. Throwing his cloak around his shoulders, he left the station, striding into the wintry gloom of a pallid February afternoon.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE