“Sir? Are you quite all right?”
Crawford sighed heavily. “It’s strange, isn’t it? We live in the city with one of the greatest medical colleges in the world, and yet . . . I don’t know, Hamilton. Sometimes I don’t know why I get out of bed in the morning.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind—what were you saying?”
“The death of Henry Wright. I have evidence indicating it was murder.”
Crawford gave a little chuckle. “You don’t let up, do you? Good on ye, mate.” He took a deep breath, but instead of a laugh, what came out was a ragged sob. It was followed by another, and another. Ian stood uncomfortably, hands at his sides, staring at the ground, while his boss wept. After a couple of minutes, Crawford pulled out a blue-striped handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, and stuffed it back into his pocket.
“Sorry you had to see that, Hamilton.”
“It’s all right, sir.”
“It’s damn unprofessional, and I apologize.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Do you indeed?”
“Your wife is not well, sir, and you’re worried about her.”
“Humph.” The chief inspector gazed out the window at the darkening city, then turned back to Ian. “Have you ever been in love, Hamilton?”
“When I was young, perhaps.”
Crawford gave a disgusted snort. “You’re still young, man.”
“When I was younger, then.”
“I have been in love only once, with the woman I married.”
“Quite commendable, sir.”
“Watching her suffer is unbearable, and thinking about losing her is even worse.”
“Have you consulted any doctors at the medical school?”
“My physician is going to try to get a referral to a specialist, but they’re so busy, I’m afraid they won’t have time for her.”
“Then we shall simply have to see that they make time.”
Crawford swung his head around to gaze up at Ian. “I’m beginning to think I was wrong about you, Hamilton.”
“Maybe my brother can help find you someone.”
“Your brother is back in town? Last I heard he was—”
“He’s back,” Ian interrupted, “and he’s thinking of applying to the medical school.”
DCI Crawford rose from his chair and stretched his long, ungainly body. “Hamilton, why the blazes don’t you have a woman?”
“Perhaps I don’t like fat little wives, sir.”
Crawford frowned. “What?”
“You once told me to find a fat little wife.”
“Oh, yes—I remember,” he said, pulling a bottle of Glenlivet from his desk drawer. He poured some into a couple of empty teacups and handed one to Ian. “I was just trying to snap you out of your damn earnestness about this wretched job. You look terrible, by the way.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Not sleeping?”
“Perhaps no more than you.”
“See here, Hamilton, the world is full of evil wretches who seek nothing but their own self-gratification, and they don’t give a damn whom they hurt in the process. We’ll never catch every single one of them.”
Ian took a sip of scotch, sharp and peaty and tasting of the earth. “Sir, I—”
“You believe such a person is responsible for your parents’ death. While you may never bring that criminal to justice, you can still seek justice for others. Very noble, I’m sure, but mind it doesn’t crush you in the process.”
“Is that what happened to my father?”
“Your father was a gifted policeman.”
“You worked with him. What happened?”
“There was an allegation of accepting bribes.”
“Was it true?”
“It was never proven. You seem very drawn to questions that have no answer, Hamilton.”
“I’m afraid it comes with being a Highlander, sir.”
Crawford took a long swallow of scotch. “So you believe Henry Wright was murdered by his brother, whom you also believe to be the Holyrood Strangler? How the blazes are we going to find him?”
“Remember the word poor Freddie Cubbins was trying to utter when Daft Lucy found him?”
“Magi—”
“Magician.”
“Yes, so you thought.” Crawford squinted and rubbed his forehead. “Which means we’re looking for a murderer who’s also a bloody magician?”
“The cards he left on the victims—it shows someone with a flair for the dramatic. Henry Wright was a stage performer—a hypnotist. I have reason to believe his brother is a magician.”
Constable Bowers appeared at the office door, a telegram in his hand. “This just came for you, sir,” he said, handing it to Crawford, who read it over quickly.
“Have a look at this,” he said, giving it to Ian.
RE: INSP GERARD INQUIRY. SKELETON PLAYING CARDS PURCHASED BY M. EDWARD WRIGHT IN NOV. LAST YEAR AT LE MAGASIN DE MAGIE. REGARDS, INSP. LAROUE, SURETE NATIONALE
“He must have sent an inquiry to his colleagues in Paris before the killer got to him,” said Crawford. “Good man.”
“Now we have a name,” said Ian.
He handed the telegram back to Crawford, who tossed it onto his desk. “This Edward Wright has to be staying somewhere,” he said. “Find out where. Take as many men as you need.”
“Then what?”
“Then, by God, we will smoke him out of his hiding place. We’ll show him no magician is a match for the Edinburgh City Police.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
As Ian left the station house, he saw Sergeant Dickerson staggering up the High Street toward him.
“Hang on a minute, sir—I’ve got sommit you’ll want t’see!”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“Look!” Dickerson said proudly, digging a folded handkerchief from his pocket. Tucked inside were small shards of blue pottery. “Found it in th’room, just like you said!” he panted, sweat prickling on his ruddy face.
“Well done! That confirms Miss Farley’s story. We’ll have a noose around his neck yet.”
“Why d’you ’spose he killed his brother, sir? D’you think they were workin’ together or somethin’? Maybe bloke was about t’rat him out, so ’e kills ’im?”
“Or perhaps his brother just knew too much.” Ian pulled his aunt’s sketch of the suspect from his vest pocket. “We’ll knock on every door in Edinburgh until we find him.”
“Wouldn’t it help t’have copies?”
“It would indeed. Perhaps Aunt Lillian can make copies.”
“Shall I take it round to her?”
“If you would. I have to stop by my flat and—er, feed the cat.”
Dickerson smiled. “So you kep’ it, then, sir?”
“He’s a good mouser.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the dog? Did you overcome your allergies or give it away?”
Dickerson coughed delicately. “Me, uh, lady friend is lookin’ after Prince.”
“You’re being very mysterious about her, Sergeant.”
Dickerson’s face turned scarlet. “I’ll jus’ get this over to yer aunt’s house, then, shall I, sir?”
“Off you go,” said Ian. He watched as Dickerson fled, scurrying toward the university as fast as his stubby legs could carry him.