“Well?” he said without looking up. “What is it, what is it? I have a lecture to prepare for—haven’t got all day, you know. Not all day.” His voice was surprisingly light for such a substantial physical presence, his accent suggesting Scotland’s western coast.
“DI Ian Hamilton, at your service,” Ian said, fighting the urge to click his heels.
Dr. Littlejohn looked up, his stern face relaxing into a smile. “Ah, yes—you’re one of Robbie Crawford’s men.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come in, come! Close the door, would you?”
Ian glanced at Dickerson, who obliged, standing stiffly at attention.
“How is old Robbie these days?” Littlejohn asked warmly, suddenly appearing to have all the time in the world.
“Fine, thank you, sir,” Ian lied, impatient to get to the matter at hand.
“Give him my regards,” the doctor replied. “Now then, now then, what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you would be so kind as to give us your opinion as to the likelihood that a victim ingested poison accidentally.”
“Ah, yes—the arsenic case,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
“You know of it?”
“Dr. Jex-Blake has made certain everyone knows of it,” he said, frowning, though Ian thought he detected a note of admiration.
The doctor rose and came around to the front of his desk, leaning upon a pile of blue examination booklets. Not an inch of the desktop was visible beneath the pile of books, folders, and knickknacks littering its surface. Littlejohn crossed his arms thoughtfully.
“It is possible the man in question was accidentally poisoned, though I rather doubt it. The amount present in his system suggests a more sinister event. Rather more sinister, I should think.”
“But you cannot say for certain that the manner of death is homicide?” Ian said with a glance at Sergeant Dickerson, who hovered respectfully in the corner, his pale-blue eyes wide.
“I am reluctant to declare it with finality, as it casts suspicion upon the people close to the dead man.”
“I appreciate the delicacy of your position, but what do you think is the most likely scenario?”
“If you put it that way,” the doctor said, stroking his chin, “I would have to say it likely that a murder has been committed. Extremely likely.”
“Given the facts, then, you would advise an investigation?”
“Most certainly, most certainly. There’s no telling what you’ll find if you begin turning over rocks. You can tell Robbie Crawford I said so.”
“Thank you—I will, sir,” Ian replied, turning to go.
“And tell Old Muttonchops that I haven’t forgotten he owes me five pounds. Five pounds sterling.”
“Uh, yes, sir,” Ian said, following Dickerson out the door.
“He won’t get off so easy!” Littlejohn called after him. “Not so easy.”
“Who woulda thought it, sir?” Dickerson said as they walked toward the high gate guarding the entrance to the school. A wind had picked up, tossing dead leaves into the air, rustling them in papery swirls. “DCI Crawford with gamblin’ debts.”
“You don’t know that it’s about gambling, Sergeant. Hamilton’s Third Rule of Investigation: ‘Never leap to conclusions.’”
“How many rules are there, sir?” Dickerson asked as they stepped into the swarm of pedestrians and carriages on South Bridge.
“Currently ten, but they are subject to expansion. The main thing is that police investigation must be treated as a discipline—a science, if you will.”
“Should I go ’round to the chemist shops and see if there’s been a run on rat poison an’ the like, sir?”
“I thought about that, but it’s so readily available I fear it would be a waste of valuable time. Anyone can get their hands on it.”
“Oiy, watch out!” Dickerson yelped as the rear wheel of a brougham nearly rolled over his foot.
“Steady on, Sergeant,” said Ian, turning onto Chambers Street.
“Isn’t there quite a lot o’ guesswork involved, sir?”
“My aim is to reduce that to a minimum.”
“Don’t you ever have—hunches about things, sir? For example, I have a hunch this poor fella were poisoned by someone he knew.”
“That’s more of a statistical probability than a hunch.”
“Why d’you say that?”
“Consider how difficult it would be to deliver poison to someone you were not acquainted with. How would you ensure they ingested it? You’d need access to their food or drink. And how would you do it without being observed? Think how much easier it would be to do away with someone you knew—the more intimate the acquaintance, the higher likelihood of success.”
“So we’re lookin’ for someone close to the victim, sir?”
“I expect so, though we must keep an open mind,” Ian replied as a couple of students hurried by, clutching massive textbooks, their long robes fluttering behind them like black sails. “I suggest we begin by interviewing Mrs. Caruthers.”
“Horrible thought, that a man’s own wife would do such a thing.”
“Poisoners are an ugly lot. Can you imagine planning to kill someone in such a painful and terrifying manner, then having the sangfroid—”
Dickerson frowned. “Sang what, sir?”
“It means ‘cold blood’ in French. Imagine plotting it out, then delivering the fatal dose to your unsuspecting victim.”
“Give me an old-fashioned crime a’ passion any day. Poor bloke comes home, sees his wife in flagrante delicto, as it were, an’ jus’ snaps, like. Coupla minutes later, we’ve a dead wife and the chap is in a daze, hardly realizin’ what he’s done. But somethin’ like this—”
“There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Sergeant.”
“Right you are, sir,” Dickerson agreed as they approached the broad stone walls of the police station, its tall, latticed windows frowning down on them. As he yanked on the heavy wooden door to the entrance, a gust of wind nearly wrenched it from his grasp. Ian steadied his hand, holding the door against the draft while the sergeant grabbed for his hat. “Thank you, sir,” he said as both men slipped into the building.
Across the street, a pair of eyes watched them, wondering how much they knew and what to do about it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“How are you getting on with the Greyfriars Dramatic Society?” Ian asked as they headed into the station.
“’Tween you an’ me, sir, it’s a bit thick, y’know. Half the time I dunno what they’re sayin’.”
“You’re lucky to have a comic part.”
“Some a’ those jokes musta been side splitters back in Mr. Shakespeare’s time, but I confess I don’ quite get all the humor,” Dickerson said, following him up the marble steps.
“I envy you, being so close to all that genius, a mouthpiece for immortality.”
“For example, ‘A knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.’ What’s the meanin’ a that, sir?”