“My pleasure to be of assistance,” George said, lowering his voice so as not to aggravate the woman.
“I must be off now.”
“Shall I bring you the books tomorrow? The ones I spoke of earlier?”
“But tomorrow is Saturday,” Hamilton replied. “Surely you’re not open?”
“Quite right—I had forgotten. I can meet you somewhere at your convenience.”
“Well, I . . .”
“What about the White Hart Inn? They do a fair steak and kidney pie.”
Hamilton studied him for a moment as though sizing him up, and then nodded. “Very well—shall we say around seven?”
“Capital. I shall bring the books.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pearson. I am in your debt.”
“Think nothing of it. Until tomorrow, then.”
He watched the detective walk away, lost in thought—no doubt thinking about the case. A regular chap, George thought, and a damn fine-looking fellow, if a bit absentminded. Oh, well, perhaps he, too, would be preoccupied if he were trying to solve a murder case. A thrill of adventure shot through his spine as he turned to shelve a pile of books in the stacks. His life had never been particularly exciting, but he saw his future unfolding before him like a beautiful pink blossom—sweet, soft, and inviting.
He hummed a little tune as he slid the books into their proper places. The sharp-faced woman glared at him, and George had an impulse to stick his tongue out at her. Instead, he smiled sweetly and gave a little nod. He could afford to be gracious—after all, he was about to aid in the capture of a murderer. For the first time in his life, George Pearson felt truly important.
As he stood lost in dreams of an exciting future, a clean-cut young man with pale eyes slipped into the room and slid into a chair at one of the long tables, across from the sharp-faced woman. Looking up from her copy of Shield, the Anti-Contagious Diseases Acts Association’s weekly circular, she couldn’t help gazing at his arresting face and elegant clothes. The look he gave back cut through her like a blade. She shivered and drew her wool cardigan close, returning to her magazine. When she looked up again, he was gone.
CHAPTER NINE
“Why bother t’strangle someone if you’re gonnae push ’em off a cliff anyway?” Sergeant Dickerson panted, struggling to catch up as they clambered up the hardscrabble path to the top of Arthur’s Seat late Friday afternoon.
“Excellent question, Sergeant,” Ian replied, leaning into the sharp wind blowing in from the Firth of Forth. The sky was threatening, the clouds glowering darkly overhead, but the rain had retreated, at least for the time being.
“The fall alone would kill a bloke,” Dickerson continued, breathing heavily.
“It is curious,” Ian said, slowing his stride. For every one of his steps, Dickerson took two, and Ian took pity on him—the sergeant was panting heavily as he trundled behind. “Perhaps this killer had a need to strangle his victim.”
“An’ maybe he thought th’ fall would disguise the cause of death,” Dickerson said, squinting against a gust of wind that nearly blew his cap off his head, “makin’ it look like suicide.”
“Or the place had some symbolic significance for the killer, beyond providing a convenient way to dispose of the body.”
“Pity there were no witnesses,” the sergeant called out over the increasingly stiff wind. “I s’pose that’s because it were nasty day for a walk.”
Ignoring the barb—this was hardly an ideal day, either—Ian contemplated Dickerson’s remark. Did the killer bank on that fact, knowing that on a rainy day, few people were likely to scale this trail for the love of it? Or was he simply lucky? Ian still wasn’t sure if it was a premeditated crime or one of opportunity, though he leaned toward the former.
“Sir,” said Dickerson, “what d’you s’pose DCI Crawford meant when he said we ‘deserved each other’?”
“He was just having his fun,” Ian said, picking his way around a stone cairn someone had placed in the trail. He shivered a little—cairns always reminded him of tombstones, used since prehistoric times as grave markers.
“I don’ s’pose it were a compliment, then?”
“The chief inspector has a lot on his mind, and that makes him irritable.”
“Aye,” said Dickerson. “D’you think he planned this all owt, sir? The murderer, I mean?”
“I don’t know, Sergeant.”
“But why strangulation, sir? Why not just push the poor blighter and be done wi’ it? He’d be right dead enough either way.”
“Perhaps the answer will help lead us to the motive,” Ian suggested, “and if we’re lucky, maybe even the killer.”
Dickerson paused beside a windblown gorse bush, hands resting on his knees. He removed his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead.
“You might want to step up your fitness regimen, Sergeant,” Ian said, pulling a canteen of water from his rucksack and handing it to him.
Dickerson drank deeply before returning it. “Right you are, sir,” he said gamely, settling his cap back on his head. “You seem quite well prepared—d’ye hike often?”
“I’ve been known to roam a glen or two.” Ian’s longing for the mossy green hills and deep valleys of his native Highlands had only grown stronger with time. The landscape of Lothian had its appeal, but nothing could compare with the stark grandeur of Invernesshire. His desk was full of fevered, passionate poems scribbled late at night when he was seized by fits of longing—odes to the romance and beauty of the Highlands. His nostalgia was deepened by the memory of those early days as a time when all was right between his parents. The trouble came later; in his mind, it was synonymous with the move to Edinburgh.
“What do you s’pose he used—the killer, I mean?” said Dickerson.
“Any number of weapons might be used in strangulation: a cravat, a belt, a scarf. Your hands might do the trick, provided you were strong enough, but he preferred to use a ligature.”
“So does it mean he were weak—or jes prepared?” said Dickerson.
“Another excellent question. Stephen Wycherly’s attire suggests he wasn’t expecting a vigorous climb. He was dressed for the office.”
“I wonder what lured ’im up ’ere?” Dickerson mused.
“Another key question,” said Ian. “We’ll make a detective out of you yet, Sergeant.”
Glancing at the rapidly darkening sky, Ian quickened his pace. Night would soon be upon them, the February sun barely pulling itself from its slumber before slouching back to bed. Pushing onward, they climbed the final stretch to the summit, the wind whipping their shins like an angry dog. The only vegetation up here was ground cover like gorse and heather, brittle and brown in the wintry air.