CHAPTER ONE
EDINBURGH, 1880
December settled over Edinburgh in the winter of 1880 with the persistence of an unwelcome houseguest. The sky turned a pervasive, troubled gray, sporadically spitting snow over the city’s jumble of stone buildings, stolid and stoic as her inhabitants, who hardly knew what to expect from one day to the next. Occasionally a proper storm blew in from the west, blanketing the city in a layer of cottony snow, soft as sugar. But even that rarely lasted—no sooner would a hastily erected snowman spring up in St. Andrew Square than the mercury would rise overnight. The next day would find him a sad, dripping remnant with lopsided coal eyes, a tartan scarf dangling from his rapidly melting form.
Even the festivities of the Christmas season provided little relief from the bleak weather, the holiday having been effectively banned in Scotland in 1640 as a “popish festival.” The citizens of Edinburgh continued to decorate their homes with evergreens, holly, and candles in the windows, but it was not an official holiday, and did not feature the gift giving, caroling, and feasting enjoyed by the English. The Scots were forced to wait for Hogmanay, or New Year, which they often started celebrating a week beforehand to make up for the lack of a proper Christmas.
And so on a particularly dreary December morning Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton slogged his way through the remnants of a half-hearted snowfall already melting underfoot, making the cobblestones slick and treacherous, dripping from eaves in slow, steady droplets, like the inexorable ticking of a clock, as the old year wound down to its inevitable end.
His destination was the High Street police station, along a route he had trudged more times than he could count in the past seven years. Passing an omnibus full of sleepy office workers on George IV Bridge, he turned right onto the High Street, past St. Giles and the Mercat Cross, the royal unicorn looking cold perched high atop the pedestal. The traditional site of proclamations and official announcements, the cross was also the historical venue for hangings, burnings, and other gruesome forms of public punishment.
The sky was threatening more punishment of its own as Ian reached police chambers at 192 High Street. Mounting the solid stone steps, he swung open the heavy wooden door and entered the building that had become as familiar as his comfortable flat on Victoria Terrace. The desk sergeant gave him a drowsy nod—the weather seemed to have put a damper on everyone’s mood.
The door to Detective Chief Inspector Crawford’s office was closed, which meant he was not to be disturbed. But no sooner had Ian settled at his desk with a cup of tea than the door opened, and his boss emerged. DCI Crawford did not look sleepy—he looked troubled. His thinning ginger hair sprouted in unruly wisps, and his blue eyes were narrowed.
“Ah, there you are, Hamilton,” he said, plucking at his generous thicket of muttonchops. “Can you spare a minute?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Bring your tea,” said Crawford, heading back toward his office. The chief inspector was a large, ungainly man, and as he lumbered away, Ian was reminded of a red-haired walrus.
“Close the door behind you, and have a seat,” the chief said, lowering his bulk into his desk chair, which creaked in protest. “You are aware that our most recent attempts to apprehend well-known criminals in the act were dismal failures.”
“There was the Happy Land raid last week, and before that the Leith Dock gang—”
“And we have the headlines to go with it,” Crawford growled, tossing a stack of newspapers at him.
Ian glanced at the already familiar prose.
LEITH GANG STRIKES AGAIN!
MIDNIGHT RAID GONE WRONG
EDINBURGH CITY POLICE FAIL AGAIN—IS ANYONE SAFE?
Crawford sighed heavily. “The public is losing faith in us, Hamilton.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the criminals are growing bolder. The question is,” Crawford said, with a wave of his fleshy hand, “why they were such a disaster.”
“I’ve been wondering that myself, sir.”
The chief tugged at his ginger muttonchops. “It seems to me our usual sources have suddenly become unreliable.”
“But why now?”
“Precisely my question. Have any of your sources changed recently?”
“No.”
“Still working with that little street urchin?”
“I am, and he has proven quite reliable.”
“No doubt you reward him well enough,” Crawford said, frowning.
“I do indeed.”
“Hmph,” Crawford grunted. Rummaging through his desk drawer, he pulled out a piece of paper. “Here’s a list of our known informants. I’d like you to check out each one of them for reliability.”
“That’s quite an assignment, sir.”
“Which is why I picked you, Hamilton. You should be flattered.”
“‘He that loves to be flattered is worthy o’ the flatterer,’” Ian replied. “Sorry, sir—just slipped out,” he added, seeing Crawford’s face darken. The chief hated it when he quoted Shakespeare.
“See here, I don’t expect you to do it overnight. Take what time you need.”
“Can I have Dickerson?”
“Can you trust his discretion?”
“Absolutely.”
“Very well—but keep it to yourselves, at least for now.”
“Will do, sir,” Ian said, rising from his chair. “How is your wife doing?”
“Better,” Crawford said, beaming. “Her appetite is much improved. That Dr. Bell really is quite the genius—sees things other people don’t. Please thank your brother for intervening on my behalf.”
“I will, sir,” Ian said, and left the office.
As he headed toward his desk, he caught the eye of John Turnbull, a sallow, narrow-shouldered constable who attempted to hide his premature baldness with an unconvincing, ill-fitting toupee. He had tried to sabotage Ian’s last case because he thought Ian had humiliated him in public. The expression on Turnbull’s pockmarked face was pure contempt, which his sickly smile did nothing to conceal. Ian had never liked the constable, and had always suspected the feeling was mutual, but now there was no doubt the two were enemies. As he returned to his desk, he wondered if perhaps he should begin his investigation with Turnbull.
“Morning, sir.”
He turned to see the smiling face of Sergeant William Dickerson. Like DCI Crawford, Dickerson was fair of skin with ginger hair, but nearly a foot shorter, like a miniature version of the chief, minus the whiskers. As usual, he carried a bag from Daily Bread, the bakery on Cockburn Street.
“Morning, Sergeant,” said Ian. “What have you got today?”
“Selkirk bannock,” Dickerson replied in his rolling Lancashire accent. “Fresh outta oven, couldn’t resist.” A buttery raisin loaf, Selkirk bannock was originally made of barley meal, but was now commonly made with risen bread flour. It was Dickerson’s favorite, probably accounting for half a stone or so of the excess weight around his middle. “Would ye like some, sir?”
“No, thank you. Do you have a minute?”
“Certainly, sir,” Dickerson said, wiping his mouth.
“This way,” Ian said, heading toward the front entrance.
“Shall I get my coat?”