“Judging from this,” he said, “I believe this victim may be related to his killer. Brothers, perhaps.”
“That puts a new twist on the case,” Crawford said, stroking his lush whiskers. “Your aunt did a good job on the sketch, assuming it’s a decent likeness. She was very patient with the little pervert.”
Ian winced at the word. “I’m glad he was able to be useful.”
“So?” Crawford asked. “Does the likeness call anyone to mind?”
“There’s a resemblance between this man and Henry Wright—they could be brothers,” Ian said, threads of excitement spiraling in his stomach.
“Mind you don’t fiddle the facts to fit your theory,” Crawford warned.
“I’m going to interview the chambermaid who found the body at the Waterloo Hotel. May I take this along just in case?”
“Right,” said Crawford. “Off you go, then.”
Before Ian could move, the door to the office swung open, and a disheveled Sergeant Dickerson lurched into the room. His uniform was unbrushed, his boots in need of polish, and one of the brass buttons on his jacket had come undone. “Sorry, sirs,” he panted. “I meant to be here earlier.”
“Good Lord, Sergeant,” Crawford began, but Ian stepped between them.
Dickerson stared at his bruised face. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Quite all right, thank you. What did Constable McKee have to say about the Waverley Station incident?”
“Nowt useful, I’m afraid, sir. No one saw anythin’—no one were even lookin’ at the poor bloke when it happened, and there were too much smoke fer those what were around.”
Crawford shook his head. “I feared as much. Poor fellow.”
“If it were our man,” said Dickerson, “why d’you s’pose he killed Inspector Gerard?”
“Perhaps he thought there was incriminating evidence in Paris that Gerard hadn’t yet discovered,” said Ian.
“Well, we’ll never know now.” Crawford sighed.
“What now, sir?” asked Dickerson.
Crawford scowled at him. “First of all, you can explain why you were late. And your appearance—”
“You’re just in time to help interview a chambermaid,” Ian interrupted.
“Sir?”
“I’ll explain on the way,” Ian said, hustling him out of the room before DI Crawford could vent his spleen on the sergeant.
“Thank you, sir,” Dickerson said as they stepped out onto the Parliament Square side of the building.
“What on earth were you up to last night?” Ian asked, taking in his unshaven face.
“Nowt so much as you, by the look of it, sir.”
“Never mind about me—what about you?”
“I, er, saw a young lady, sir.”
“Anyone I know?”
“I—I’d rather not say.”
“I never would have taken you for a Lothario.”
“It’s a question a’ her privacy, y’see.”
“Everyone has secrets, Sergeant.”
“Even you, sir?”
“Especially me,” Ian said as they passed beneath the shadow of North Bridge, turning south on Niddry Street.
“If ye say so, sir,” Dickerson replied, sidestepping a coach-and-four careening around the corner onto High Street. “I ought t’write bloody bugger up,” he muttered as mud thrown up from the rear wheels splattered his uniform. “If that’s not ‘riding recklessly and furiously,’ I dunno wha’ is.”
“Never mind,” Ian said. “We have more important business—we must pay a call on Miss Abigail Farley, chambermaid at the Waterloo Hotel.”
Miss Farley lived in a dilapidated tenement in the Cowgate known as Happy Land—a fine example of Scottish irony, in its utter failure to live up to its name. Happy Land was filthy, unsafe, and unsanitary; it stank of sin, sorrow, and surrender. Behind its crumbling walls lived a collection of thieves, rogues, and whores, as well as a few murderers. Sprinkled in among them were unlucky, impoverished souls doing their best to make a living on the right side of the law.
Abigail Farley was one of those unfortunates. A plump, round-faced young woman with curly black hair, she answered the door immediately, beckoning them inside after glancing left and right, as if expecting brigands to dart out and attack at any moment.
She took in Ian’s battered face without comment, leading them into a small parlor, which was clean and swept, the well-worn furniture free of dust. She obviously had made an effort to create an atmosphere of what comfort she could; the rickety tea table was covered with a hand-crocheted antimacassar, and a threadbare woven rug covered the rough-hewn wood floors.
“Won’t you sit down?” she said nervously, gesturing to the room’s only chair, which had seen better days. Her accent suggested her Irish roots, light and lilting.
Sergeant Dickerson began to lower himself into the tattered armchair, but Ian glared at him and he leapt back to his feet.
“Perhaps you would like to sit instead,” Ian suggested to their hostess. “This must a very trying time for you.”
“I won’t call you a liar,” she said, sinking into the armchair with a sigh. “I’ve had better days, so I have.”
“Did the hotel give you the day off, Miss Farley?” Ian said.
“Everyone calls me Abbie. Mr. McCleary—he’s the night manager, y’see—told me I was on no account to come in today, nor tomorrow if I didn’t feel up to it. He’s payin’ me wages an’ all, bless ’im.”
Ian’s opinion of Mr. McCleary took an upward swing. So he was not an unfeeling man, perhaps just one given to hysteria.
“So you discovered the body?”
She nodded and looked down at her nails, torn and ragged—scrubbing floors with harsh chemicals was hardly conducive to having nice hands.
“I was to turn the bed down, like—that’s one of me jobs, y’see.”
“Every evening?”
“Yes, and t’see if they would be wantin’ fresh linen or anything. In a fancy hotel, you’re wantin’ to keep the customers happy, y’see?”
“Indeed,” said Ian. “Please continue.”
“Well, I didn’t receive an answer when I knocked, so I finally just opened the door, figuring Mr. Wright weren’t in . . . and that’s when I found the poor man as I did. So help me, sweet Jesus, I dropped me arm of linens and let out a scream to raise the dead.”
“So you didn’t touch anything?”
“Good Lord, no! I backed out of there as fast as me legs could carry me, and it weren’t but a moment afore Mr. McCleary showed up.”
“Did you chance to pass by the room at all earlier?”
“An hour or so before I was a few doors away, near the staircase, when I thought I heard voices comin’ from that room. I can’t be sure, though—it might ’a been another room.”
“What sort of voices?”
“Two men it was—they weren’t exactly shoutin’, but you could tell there was tension atween ’em, y’know?”
“Did you hear what they were saying?”
“No, but a few minutes later, I heard a crash, like something fallin’ to th’floor.”
“Coming from that room?”
“I can’t say for sure. There’s ten rooms in that hallway alone.”
“Anything else?”
“No. I went on about my business—Mr. McCleary says it’s not right to spy upon the guests.”