This seemed to worry Eugene Harley not a bit. He flicked a few papers from a handsome oak office chair and gestured toward it.
“Do sit down, won’t you?”
“Thank you,” Ian said, settling into the chair, padded with green leather and quite comfortable.
His host perched upon the edge of the desk and crossed his thin arms. “Now then, I presume you are here about young Wycherly?”
“Yes, sir.”
Eugene Harley shook his head sadly. “Unfortunate fellow—terrible business, that. Poor Catherine is so distraught, she failed to come to work today.”
“Catherine . . . ?”
“My niece. She assists me in my practice and, when she has time, tidies the place up. As you can see,” he said, waving a hand at the piles of paper, “we are much in need of her services.”
“So your niece is also the housekeeper for your law firm?”
“I like to keep it in the family, so to speak, with all the legal documents lying about. You can never be too careful, eh?” he said, with a squeaky little giggle, like a rusty door hinge.
Ian made a note of the girl’s name in his notebook. “I presume you can tell me how to contact her?”
“Most certainly,” Mr. Harley replied. “She lives with me. My poor brother and his wife died of cholera some time ago, and I have cared for the girl since she was in bloomers. As I have no children myself, she has been the great joy of my life,” he added, tears gathering at the corners of his pale blue eyes.
“And your partners?” Ian asked quickly. He was rather taken with the old gentleman and wished to spare him the indignity of crying in front of a stranger.
To his surprise, the solicitor’s face crinkled into a wry smile. “Ah, yes, my—partners.”
“Misters Wickham and Clyde?”
Eugene Harley Esq. cleared his throat. “They don’t exist—or rather, not as human beings.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Those are the names of my cats.” Mr. Harley chuckled and leaned forward, crackling sounds emanating from his twisted spine. Ian had an impulse to offer his chair, but there was something mesmerizing about the old gentleman, and he remained seated, caught up in his spell. “You see, Detective Inspector—Hamilton, was it?” the old man said. Ian nodded. “Well, you might be surprised to learn how comforting it is to potential clients to see more than one name upon the nameplate. It confers an aura of respectability—creates confidence, as it were.”
“So your firm consists solely of you and your niece—and the unfortunate Mr. Wycherly?”
“Yes, indeed. You may find it odd that our clients seldom inquire about the whereabouts of Misters Wickham and Clyde, but such are the mysteries of human nature. Do you mind if I partake of some tobacco?”
“Not at all,” Ian replied, expecting him to light a pipe or cigarette, but instead Mr. Harley slid a tin of snuff from the pocket of his frock coat and delicately placed a pinch in each nostril. Throwing his head back, he sneezed mightily, with such force Ian feared his fragile-looking form would crack. But Mr. Harley was made of sturdier stuff than his appearance suggested. Wiping his face with a voluminous silk kerchief, he beamed at his visitor.
“There now—that always puts some vinegar into my blood! Much better,” he said, replacing the handkerchief in his pocket with a theatrical flourish. “Now, what was I saying?”
“You were speaking of your niece.”
“Ah, yes—dear Catherine! I’m afraid poor Wycherly’s death came as quite a shock. Between you and me, I think she quite fancied the lad. This morning she declined to emerge from her room, so I left her in the capable hands of my housekeeper and came to the office myself.”
“Was there anything unusual in Mr. Wycherly’s behavior in the days leading up to his death?”
“Not that I can think of; he seemed quite himself . . . Oh, wait, yes, there was one thing. Perhaps it’s nothing, but—”
“What was it?”
“He received something in the afternoon post the day he died—a letter.”
“Did you chance to see whom it was from?”
“Sadly, no—though I did see him open it, and he seemed disturbed by it. He folded it and placed it in his pocket, along with the envelope.”
“And he never spoke of it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Did anyone else see him receive the letter?”
“My niece, Catherine, was in the office at the time—she may have seen it.”
“Did you see him leave the office that day?”
“No—I spent the rest of the afternoon going over a case with a barrister in his chambers. When I arrived back here, young Wycherly had already left.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Harley.”
Mr. Harley waved a thin hand in dismissal. “Anything I can do to help. Here is my address,” he said, handing Ian a smartly embossed card. “If you wish to call upon my niece in the next few days, I will leave instructions with my housekeeper to admit you, in case of my absence.”
“Your cooperation is much appreciated, Mr. Harley.”
The old man shook his head. “I cannot imagine who should want to harm young Wycherly. He was such a harmless fellow, quiet and mild—one might even say retiring. Of course,” he added with a sharp glance at Ian, “I am assuming his death was the result of foul play. Your presence here rather suggests that it was.”
“Your assumption is correct. Stephen Wycherly was murdered.”
They looked out the window; a smattering of rain was beginning to fall.
“I hope you catch the person or persons responsible,” Harley remarked, “before anything sinister befalls my niece.”
“Why do you say that?”
“‘I am a very foolish fond old man, fourscore and upward’—fear has lodged itself in my head, an unwelcome visitor.”
“That’s from Lear, isn’t it?”
“Ah, you like the Bard?”
“I do.”
“The latter part was my own addition. In my case, at least, advanced age has brought with it increasing anxiety.”
“Please do not concern yourself, Mr. Harley. I see no reason either you or your niece would be in danger.”
Mr. Harley waved a gnarled hand. “Tut-tut—I’m old, and have not so many days left. But Catherine is another matter—you will look after her, won’t you, Inspector?”
Ian cleared his throat. He was charmed by the old man and suppressed an impulse to tell a comforting lie. “I’m sorry that the Edinburgh Police can’t guarantee the safety of an individual. We simply haven’t enough manpower.”
“I see,” the old gentleman said, but his tone suggested that he didn’t.
When Ian stepped into the street, he failed to notice the cloaked figure leaning against a lamppost. The man’s posture was casual, but a pair of keen eyes watched as he made his way back toward the Old Town. As Ian rounded the corner onto Hanover Street, the man followed at a discreet distance.
CHAPTER EIGHT