As it was a bright moonlit night, Ian decided to walk back through the sleeping city. No one on the staff had seen anyone enter or leave Henry Wright’s room—but getting in and out of buildings unobserved was no doubt easy for a conjurer. There was no certainty the hypnotist had been murdered by the Holyrood Strangler—the absence of a playing card was indeed puzzling. But every fiber of Ian’s being told him he was closing in on the perpetrator. The night manager could not recall Henry Wright receiving visitors during his stay, nor could any of the other staff members. Ian longed to interview the chambermaid who had found the body, but it was past midnight, and he supposed the poor girl would be calmer in the morning.
He turned south onto George IV Bridge, which arched over the streets below like the back of a whale. As he swung onto Victoria Street from the bridge, Ian saw the tower of Greyfriars Kirk poking through the cloud cover, its gray stone steeple somber in the moonlight. He rarely visited his parents’ graves in the kirkyard. The fire had left little more than charred ashes and a few scattered bones—the caskets they lowered into the ground were so light, it seemed a pity to waste the space burying a pile of bones. Afterward he had the wild notion that the charred remains found in the house were not his parents’—that they had somehow escaped the conflagration, and someone else was buried in that churchyard.
When Donald disappeared shortly after the fire, not even staying for the funeral, Ian was left adrift, with no one to share memories of his childhood. His response was to bury them as deeply as the caskets in Greyfriars Kirkyard. Something grew in him, fierce and hard and cold, a sticking place where neither light nor joy could enter, forged on that night when he felt the utter indifference of the universe. Surrounded by his aunt’s affection, embraced by the dark city that was now his home, he felt like an outlier, doomed to roam the earth, calling men to account for their evil deeds.
Lost in thought as he rounded the corner of Fleshmarket Close, he was unaware of his attackers until they were upon him. Only moments after that, he realized the hard object that had come in contact with his face was a fist.
Hit so hard that he spun clear around, Ian found himself face-to-face with the second assailant, who landed a blow to his stomach, sending him to his knees. His kneecaps had no sooner hit the cobblestones than he felt a kick to the ribs, and fell heavily on his side beneath a shower of blows. Blood spurted from his nose and trickled from his forehead into his right eye. The first ruffian lifted him to his feet and whispered in his ear with horrible, cheap whisky breath.
“Rodney sends his regards.”
The first thought in his fuzzy brain was that he knew no one by that name. But as the thug released his grip and Ian sank to the ground, he recalled the two toffs who had insulted Derek the day before. The second one had called his friend Rodney. Ian braced himself for more blows, but to his surprise they didn’t come. He raised his head, dimly aware of the presence of a third person.
He heard an exclamation of pain coming from the first assailant. Wiping the blood from his eyes, Ian could just make out the third individual—an enormous hulk of a man. He remembered the fight behind the Hound and Hare, Rat Face, and his companion.
“Jimmy,” he gasped, “is that you?”
The giant lifted the second man by the collar as if he were made of straw and flung him against the side of the nearest building. He landed with a thud, sinking to the ground with a groan, and then was silent. The first assailant, seeing what short work Jimmy had made of his companion, took to his heels, scampering away down Fleshmarket Close.
“Never could stand an unfair fight,” said Jimmy, and before Ian could thank him, he vanished into the night.
Getting painfully to his feet, Ian hobbled the last few blocks to his flat. When sleep came to him that night, crawling into his bed like a reluctant lover, he sank gratefully into blessed oblivion. Just prior to losing consciousness, he was aware of something kneading his legs as if they were dough, and realized it was the cat. He tried to lift his hand to pet it, but before he could summon the will, unconsciousness overtook him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
DCI Crawford looked up from his steaming cup of tea when Ian presented himself at the station house around noon.
“Sorry I’m late, sir. I had a rather eventful night.”
“Something tells me I’ll regret asking, but what the devil happened to you?”
“My face had the discourtesy to interrupt the forward motion of a fist.”
“Do I want to know any other details?”
“Probably not.”
“You may have a broken nose.”
“Quite possibly.”
“Well, it can only improve your appearance. What else? You clearly have something on your mind.”
“You have heard of the hypnotist found hung in his room at the Waterloo Hotel yesterday afternoon?”
“I have.”
“I went round there last night to have a look, and—”
“Wait—don’t tell me,” he said, holding up a plump hand. “It wasn’t suicide—it was murder.”
“If you say so, sir.”
The chief ran his fingers through his thinning ginger hair. “I assume you have a theory for this one as well.”
“I think Henry Wright was killed by the Holyrood Strangler.”
Crawford stirred his tea and licked the spoon before placing it carefully on the desk. “Go on.”
Ian described his findings at the scene.
“Do you think the killer was looking for something in the desk?” asked Crawford when he described the open desk drawer.
“I believe Henry Wright was looking for something to defend himself with.”
“The letter opener?”
“Aye, which means he didn’t expect the attack.”
“And yet no sign of forced entry indicates—”
“He knew his killer,” Ian said.
“But the front desk clerk saw no one go to Mr. Wright’s room?”
“So he claims.”
“Could he be lying?”
“More likely asleep. He looked pretty drowsy when I saw him.”
Crawford hauled his bulk out of the chair and lumbered over to the filing cabinet. “An open desk drawer, a dropped letter opener, and a few bits of rope fiber are precious little evidence.”
“But apart from that, Henry Wright was a fastidious man.”
“We all have our little corners of untidiness. My wife is an excellent housekeeper, but her sewing basket is appallingly disorganized. It’s full of stray needles likely to stab you if you’re not careful—”
“What about the length of the belt?”
“Couldn’t he have pulled himself up by his hands and placed his neck in it?”
“Possibly. But why not use something longer—say, a bedsheet?”
“I’ll grant you it’s a more logical choice, but can we suppose someone in that state of mind is thinking clearly?”
“I just think it bears consideration, and given all the other clues—”
“Very well,” Crawford grunted. “Let’s move on, shall we?” He plucked a sheet of paper from atop the filing cabinet. “Your little Nancy-boy showed up early this morning and gave a credible description of the young rake who went off with Kerry O’Donohue Friday night. Oh, and your aunt is a damn decent sketch artist.”
Ian snatched the sketch from Crawford and studied it eagerly. The resemblance to Henry Wright was remarkable. The face looking back at him was handsome, with the same firm chin and broad forehead as the dead hypnotist. He was struck by the deep-set eyes, intense and brooding.