But for now there was nothing to be done except sit and wait. Crawford’s sobs were punctuated by sounds from outside—the clop of horses’ hooves, shouts of street vendors, and the cries of gulls. The birds were a constant reminder of how close Edinburgh was to the sea, the Port of Leith on the Firth of Forth lying only a couple of miles from the center of Old Town.
Finally, Crawford’s grief wore itself out. Wiping his face with a blue kerchief, he blew his nose loudly and cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said, “that was damned embarrassing.”
“‘Everyone can master a grief but he that has it,’” Ian said gently.
Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “Another one of your Shakespeare quotes?”
“Much Ado About Nothing.”
Crawford grunted. “Well, at least this one’s appropriate.”
Ian was relieved to hear the inspector sounding more like himself, some of the old vinegar creeping into his voice.
The chief stood and stretched his bulky form. Well over six feet tall, Detective Chief Inspector Crawford was an imposing presence. Curly red whiskers grew in reckless abundance upon his chin, as if to make up for the hair that had long since abandoned his head. A pair of magnificent bushy eyebrows, black as a chimney sweep’s broom, presided over his face. Everything about him was writ large—his long, oval face; bulbous nose; and thick lips, all set atop a big-boned, fleshy body.
“Are you quite all right, sir?” Ian asked.
“We’ll speak no more of this, Hamilton,” he said, straightening his cuffs and brushing lint from the sleeves of his uniform. “Now then, what did you want to see me about?”
Ian hesitated. “Well, sir—”
Crawford’s small eyes narrowed. “Did I give you permission to sit?”
“No, sir, I—”
“Just thought you’d take advantage of my inattention, eh?” Crawford said, giving his nose another mighty blow into the kerchief.
“No, sir, it was just—”
He was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” Crawford barked, settling back in his chair.
“Sergeant Dickerson, sir,” came the voice from the other side.
“Come in, Sergeant.”
The door opened to admit a short, unprepossessing young man with ginger hair and pink skin. Hamilton gazed at him gratefully—not only because he had interrupted an uncomfortable moment, but also because Dickerson was Ian’s most trustworthy and loyal colleague. In spite of his unimpressive appearance, he had proven to be resourceful and brave, if a bit plodding at times.
“What is it, Sergeant?” said Crawford.
Dickerson cleared his throat and glanced apprehensively at Ian.
“Out with it, man!” Crawford barked. “We haven’t got all day.”
“I was wonderin’ if I could work an extra shift today, sir, in exchange for next Friday off.”
“Why did you not take this up with the shift sergeant?”
“I did, sir, and he said I was t’see you.”
“Well?”
“I have a—er, commitment.”
Crawford frowned. “What sort of ‘commitment’ could possibly take precedence over your work as a police officer?”
Ian noted with some relief that the sergeant’s presence seemed to have invigorated DCI Crawford. Perhaps scolding his subordinates was just the thing to conquer his melancholy. Poor Dickerson was squirming uncomfortably, sweat gathering on his ruddy face.
“Well, sir, y’see . . . I’m in a play.”
“A play?” Crawford bellowed. “You’re in a play?”
“Not just any play, sir—Hamlet. I’ve been given the role of the Second Gravedigger.”
“Well done, Sergeant,” Ian remarked, but Crawford glared at him.
“And who has made the colossal error of casting you in this—play?” he inquired.
“It’s a charity event, sir—the Greyfriars Dramatic Society. All the proceeds go to feed the needy.”
“And were you required to demonstrate your fitness for the role of—what is it?”
“Second Gravedigger. Yes, sir—I had t’audition for the part.”
“‘Alas, poor Yorick,’” the chief inspector remarked with a smug smile at Hamilton.
“That’s Hamlet’s line, sir,” Ian corrected him.
“What difference does it make whose bloody line it is?”
“The Second Gravedigger gets to ask, ‘Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?’” said Dickerson.
The chief inspector thought for a moment. “I give up—what’s the answer?”
The sergeant blushed. “Er, I dunno, sir.”
Crawford scowled. “Why not?”
“’Cause that’s when Hamlet enters, and Shakespeare never answers the riddle.”
“That’s bloody rude of him,” Crawford muttered. “All right, go ahead—and tell the shift sergeant next time not to bother me with such bosh and bunkum.”
“Yes, sir—thank you, sir,” Dickerson said, backing out of the office. As he did, he bumped into Constable Bowers.
“What is it, Bowers?” asked Crawford.
“There’s a lady here, sir. Says she won’t leave until you see her.”
“What sort of lady?”
A strident voice behind Bowers led Ian to think that perhaps the term “lady” had been misapplied. “It’s murder, I tell you, plain and simple!” The accent was English, a bit plummy—probably central London, Ian guessed.
“Good heavens,” Crawford said, his thick eyebrows rising halfway up his shiny forehead like climbing caterpillars.
The personage herself barged past Constable Bowers, shouldering both him and Sergeant Dickerson out of the way. She strode across the small office to stand in front of Crawford’s desk, hands on her broad hips, breathing heavily. Clad in a plain black bodice over an ample gray skirt, she was nearly as tall as Ian, her dark hair parted in the middle and pulled back into a severe bun at the back of a muscular neck. Her eyes were dark and rather deep-set, over a small, determined mouth and firm chin. Though she was no beauty, Ian observed that her brusque manner and style of dress conspired to make her less attractive than she otherwise might have been.
She crossed her arms over her impressive bosom. “I demand an investigation!”
“Into what, madame, if I may be so bold?” Crawford inquired.
“The death of Mr. Thomas Caruthers.”
“And how did he die?”
“He was poisoned.”
“And you know this because—?”
“I recognize the signs of arsenic poisoning.”
“Who are you, if I may ask?”
“Dr. Sophia Jex-Blake.”
Crawford’s mouth fell open. Jex-Blake was one of the most famous—and notorious—women in Edinburgh. She and six other women had attempted to upset centuries of tradition by petitioning the university to let them study medicine. Known as the Edinburgh Seven, they were derided and savagely attacked; there was even rioting in the streets. Crawford shot a look at Dickerson and Bowers, who had been watching from just outside the office.