A faint moon struggled to break through the overcast sky, and for a moment the buildings in the eastern sky were sharply etched silhouettes in its pale light. The clouds soon won the struggle, vanquishing the pallid moon, and the streets lay once again in shadow. The man on the bridge finished his cigarette, shoved his hands into his pockets, and strode off into the darkness. He smiled a secret smile as he headed into the heart of the city. The thrill of the hunt tingled in his loins, and his blood quickened at the thought of new conquests. Oh, there was so much evil in a man, one hardly knew where to begin . . .
Somewhere deep in the Old Town, a hound howled mournfully. Another responded, and soon the air rang with the sound of dogs baying to the moon. The moon had already succumbed to the darkness, but still they howled, the sound plaintive and hollow in the empty air.
CHAPTER SIX
“Ligature strangulation, sir.”
DCI Crawford looked up from his desk. The bell on Greyfriars Kirk had not yet struck nine on this Friday morning, he was still on his first cup of tea, and standing before him was his most irksome lieutenant. DI Hamilton looked triumphant—smug, even. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes actually sparkled. By God, that was too much, Crawford thought glumly as he drained the dregs of his tea. He was exhausted, having been up half the night with Moira. He had sent the scullery maid’s son to fetch the doctor, but the good man was out all night attending to the cases of cholera that had struck the city like a bolt of divine vengeance. Crawford had finally administered his wife a dose of laudanum before taking some himself and falling into a comatose state until shortly before dawn.
“Very well, Hamilton, let’s hear what you have.” He sighed, looping his fingers through the piece of string he kept in the drawer. Even that calming ritual sometimes failed him on days like this, he thought as he twisted it round his palm.
Ian pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and dropped it on the desk.
Crawford sniffed at it as though it were three-day-old fish. “What is this?”
“Open it, sir.”
As the chief inspector lifted the envelope, three photographs fell onto the desk. They showed the corpse of a young man—Steven Wycherly, no doubt. Ringing the lad’s neck were ugly purple bruises.
Hamilton cleared his throat. “Judging by the placement and shape, I’d say most likely ligature strangulation, sir.”
Crawford looked up at the detective. Why were people so damn irritating, even when they were admirable? Especially when they were admirable, he thought as he tossed the photos back onto the desk.
“Where did you get these?”
“My aunt took them.”
Crawford sat bolt upright in his chair. “And how did your aunt get into the morgue, I’d like to know?”
“I let her in.”
“Where was the morgue attendant at the time?”
“Nursing a bottle of single malt.”
“Which he procured . . . ?”
“The same place anyone would, I suppose.”
“Do you find it strange that a morgue attendant could afford to drink single malt?”
“‘The miserable have no other medicine.’”
“I am not in the mood for your quotes this morning,” Crawford said icily, glaring at Hamilton with his most intimidating expression. Sergeant Dickerson nearly wet himself when Crawford looked at him like that. But it had no effect on the detective, who gazed back at him with a placid expression on his annoyingly good-looking face. Crawford didn’t trust handsome men—and he trusted beautiful women even less.
Crawford rubbed his throbbing forehead and tossed the photos across the desk. “Very well—have your investigation. Sergeant Dickerson!” he called.
The sergeant appeared at the office door, and Crawford beckoned him in.
“Take Dickerson along with you. You deserve each other.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Crawford waved a hand at Hamilton, dismissing him, but the detective didn’t move.
“I’ll keep you informed on what I find, sir.”
“No doubt,” Crawford said. “On your way out, ask the desk sergeant to bring me more tea.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and, Hamilton . . . ?”
“Sir?”
“When are you next seeing your aunt?”
“We have tea every Sunday.”
“Would you deliver a message from me?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Ask her if she would be interested in working as a staff photographer with the Edinburgh Police.”
“I will—thank you, sir.”
Crawford watched Hamilton leave, Sergeant Dickerson trailing in his wake, before sitting heavily at his desk. The chief inspector ran a hand through his sparse hair and looked at the ever-mounting pile of papers on his desk. It was going to be a long day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
According to Stephen Wycherly’s landlady, he worked as a clerk in a solicitor’s office on George Street, a part of the New Town boasting a goodly number of law offices. Ian found himself wandering past rows of handsome entrances with polished brass nameplates and matching door knockers—a far cry from the warrens of dilapidated buildings in the Old Town. Sometimes Edinburgh seemed like two cities, the inhabitants leading such different lives it was as if they were on separate continents.
Ian stopped in front of chambers with a polished brass plaque proclaiming “Harley, Wickham, and Clyde.” He stepped up to the burnished wooden door and rapped sharply three times. He heard a man’s voice from within—muffled, as though coming from a back room.
“Just a moment—I’m coming!”
There was a rustling sound, as though papers were being shuffled about, and the sound of a chair scraping against the floor.
“I’ll be there straightaway!”
More rustling, then a thump, like something being dropped on the floor.
“Oh, blast!” the man inside muttered. The door burst open abruptly, and Ian was confronted with a singular-looking gentleman. He could not have been more than five feet tall, a gnomelike individual with a crooked spine and a tuft of stiff brown hair over a long, weathered face with a beak of a nose and watery blue eyes. His age was impossible to tell; he could have been forty or eighty. He wore an elegant frock coat, a crisply knotted cravat, and striped stovepipe trousers, all of the very best material. The incongruity of such fine clothing on such a misshapen form was striking. Ian could hardly imagine the man was vain; no doubt he dressed like that to impress clients.
He peered at Ian through gold pince-nez, his rheumy blue eyes sharp behind the thick spectacles. “Well?” he said in a cultivated Edinburgh accent. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
Ian held out his badge. “Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton, Edinburgh Police.” Normally he did not feel the need to prove his identity, but this gentleman exuded an air of authority, in spite of his diminutive and deformed figure.
“Ah, yes, of course,” he said, extending his hand. “Eugene Harley, Esquire.”
Ian shook the hand, which was thin and dry, the bones like a loose collection of sticks.
“Won’t you come in, Inspector?” Harley said. His voice was pleasant and plummy, his manner refined and gracious.
He opened the door and led Ian into an office in dire need of a file clerk. Papers and folders were strewn everywhere. Briefs, motions, and other legal documents were stuffed into cubbyholes, stacked in piles upon the thick oak desk, or scattered on the floor like fallen leaves. Ian realized what he had heard from outside—Eugene Harley struggling through the forest of paper to get to the door.