He was not disappointed—Hamilton produced a bottle from beneath his cloak, which the Welshman stashed in a drawer of a wooden filing cabinet before leading them through dusky corridors to the back of the building. Dickerson winced as the smell of mildew and formaldehyde assaulted his nostrils. He heard a slow, steady dripping sound as they entered the main chamber. Three bodies were laid out on marble slabs, their chalky white feet protruding from the none-too-clean sheets covering them. Jack Cerridwen pointed to the body nearest them.
“There he is, gentlemen, fresh as a daisy. Hasn’t been here but a few hours.”
“Why were you expecting us?” said Ian as he gazed at the sheet draped over the dead man.
“Well, the lady who came earlier said ye’d be along soon.”
“Did she now?”
“Wasn’t the type ye’d argue with, either—a right ol’ battle-ax, I’d say.”
Dickerson looked at Hamilton, who was smiling faintly.
“But she was right enough—here y’are,” Cerridwen remarked. “An’ now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you gentlemen to it,” he added, rubbing his hands eagerly.
Dickerson noted that the gift of whisky had the dual advantage of procuring Cerridwen’s cooperation as well as his absence. Hamilton no doubt appreciated this as well; he nodded gratefully as the Welshman left them.
Dickerson swallowed hard, praying his stomach would behave as Hamilton pulled back the sheet to reveal the body on the slab. He felt it lurch at the sight of the waxen, blue-tinged skin, but willed his breakfast to remain where it was. Even drained of life, Thomas Caruthers clearly had been an exceptionally handsome man. His high cheekbones, thick, wavy hair, and noble forehead looked as if they belonged to a romantic poet rather than a laborer. Hamilton bent to examine the victim’s fingernails, holding the man’s cold hand close to his face. Dickerson shuddered but stood his ground—he knew such squeamishness was unbecoming to a policeman and was determined to reveal nothing to the detective.
Hamilton turned and beckoned to him. “What do you make of this, Sergeant?”
Dickerson took a step closer.
“Come along. He won’t bite you.”
The sergeant complied, and Hamilton lifted the dead man’s fingers so the pale light from the windows fell on them. Intrigued in spite of himself, Dickerson bent closer and saw that each one bore clearly visible horizontal white stripes.
“Is this what the doctor lady meant, sir—those marks on ’is nails?”
“This is indeed a strong indication of the presence of arsenic—over a period of time, I should think. Whoever poisoned this man took their time about it, probably did it slowly, over weeks, maybe even months.”
“That’s cold, sir, if you don’ mind my sayin’ so.”
Ian looked down at the body on the slab. “‘It is not, nor it cannot come to good.’”
“I recognize that one, sir. It’s—let’s see . . .”
“Act One, Scene Two, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Right you are, sir, as usual,” Dickerson said, then suddenly shivered violently.
Hamilton stared at him. “Are you quite all right?”
“Yes, sir. I were jus’ thinking how Hamlet begins with a murder as well.”
“Quite right, though it takes place before the play starts.”
“‘All that lives must die,’” Dickerson added with a sigh. “I believe that’s from the same scene, sir.”
“Well done, Sergeant,” Hamilton said, continuing his examination of the body.
“Thank you, sir,” he replied. “Do you believe in ghosts, sir?”
“Not really—why?”
“I were jus’ thinking how it’s a ghost what comes t’tell young Hamlet his father were murdered. Otherwise, his uncle—Claudius—mighta got away wi’ it.”
“I fear many a murder goes undiscovered and unpunished, Sergeant—likely more than we’ll ever know.”
“An’ if it weren’t fer Miss—er, Dr. Jex-Blake, we might never a’ known ’bout this one, sir.”
“True enough,” Hamilton said with a smile, “though Dr. Jex-Blake is hardly a ghost.”
“No, sir, that she isn’t,” he replied, thinking what a comfortingly solid presence Dr. Jex-Blake was. Her sturdy corporeal existence seemed to banish the entire notion of otherworldly creatures. Dickerson took a deep breath to steady himself. He could hardly wait to get out of that wretched place of death and decay and into the light of day.
CHAPTER THREE
Half an hour later, Ian Hamilton stood in DCI Crawford’s office, waiting for him to return.
“How long ago did the chief inspector go out?” he asked the desk sergeant who entered to deliver a pile of paperwork.
“I’d say an hour, sir—he seemed very agitated.”
“And he didn’t say when he’d be back?”
“No, sir,” the sergeant replied. He closed the door quietly, leaving Hamilton alone in the room.
Ian sighed and gazed out the window overlooking the High Street. Beyond the crooked streets and crumbling tenements of Old Town stood the clean neoclassical buildings and straight, wide avenues of New Town. Edinburgh was not one city, but two. The privileged lives of the lawyers and bankers of Princes Street were made possible by the chimney sweeps, cobblers, and dockworkers who lived in dilapidated and dangerous buildings. As a policeman, Ian straddled the two worlds, not always comfortably. The job often presented more philosophical quandaries than he could handle.
Ian heard the click of the doorknob and turned to see DCI Crawford, looking worn and worried.
“Well, was it murder?” he said, slinging his coat over the back of his chair.
“Dr. Jex-Blake is correct, sir.”
Crawford sat heavily behind his desk. “And you know this because—?”
“The striations she described were present upon the victim’s fingernails.”
“And that’s conclusive, is it?”
“An autopsy would leave no doubt.”
Crawford rubbed his forehead. “Littlejohn is a busy man, but I’ll see if he can fit it in.”
Dr. Henry Littlejohn was Edinburgh’s police surgeon as well as the city’s first medical officer of health.
“Shall I open an investigation?”
“I suppose so—at least it will keep that blasted woman off our back,” Crawford said, fishing around in his desk drawer. Pulling out a worn bit of string, he twisted it around his fingers, staring vacantly out the window.
“Sir?” said Ian.
“What is it, Hamilton?”
“Is something wrong?”
Crawford scowled, and Ian braced himself, but the chief inspector’s shoulders fell and he sighed deeply. “It’s my wife.”
“I thought she was doing better, sir.”
“She had a setback.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”
“As a matter of fact, that brother of yours—”
“Donald?”
“Is he still around?”
“He’s staying with me whilst studying medicine at the university.”