“Yes, I had to use my key. Why?”
“There is a strong likelihood Miss Staley knew her assailant. Not only that, it was someone she trusted well enough to turn her back on—the location of the wound suggests the blow was struck from behind.”
“Good heavens,” said Lillian, her voice unsteady.
“Do you know any of her friends or family?”
“I believe she has a married sister in Aberdeen. Emily, I think. She never mentioned her last name.” There was a pause, and Ian could hear the slow drip of a faucet in the kitchen. Plunk, plunk, plunk . . . Did the killer neglect to turn it off after washing the blood from his hands?
“What do we do now?” Lillian asked.
She looked shaken and frightened, and Ian had an impulse to envelop her in his arms, but members of the Hamilton and Grey clans did not do such things. Such an action might thoroughly mortify her.
“What I want you to do is go straight home, lock the doors, and don’t open them to anyone except me.”
“What about Donald?”
“Yes, of course. Can you do that?”
“I suppose so,” she replied, but she looked rather cross. “I can’t stay locked up forever, you know.”
“Would you just humor me this once?”
“Very well,” she said with a sigh. “What about poor Elizabeth?”
“I’ll ask DCI Crawford if he wants an autopsy. I think the cause of death is rather evident, but I’ll leave it up to him.”
“Must you cut her open? It seems to me she’s been through enough.”
“There is always the chance that she was drugged before she was attacked, and that could provide another piece of evidence.”
Lillian shook her head sadly. “Poor Elizabeth.”
“I’m going to hail you a cab—mind you go home straightaway, lest it should be poor Lillian next.”
She rolled her eyes at him, but he could tell that for once she was grateful he was taking charge.
“If you think of anything that might be useful, please write it down. I’ll come by later to ask more questions, but first I want to see if I can glean anything from her neighbors. Do you happen to know any of them?”
“No. I’ve seen one or two coming and going, but I can’t say I know anyone.”
“You get along home now, and make yourself a nice cup of tea.”
After seeing his aunt off, Ian had a thorough look around the rest of the flat. There was no sign of blood in the kitchen or anywhere other than the basement stairs. Surely the killer had some blood on his person—or did he come prepared with a second set of clothing? There was no discarded clothing in the trash bins, either in the flat or in the alley. An exhaustive search for the murder weapon yielded nothing—the killer must have taken it with him.
Ian went into the building stairwell and knocked on the doors of the four other flats in the building. The only response he got was from a tall, elegantly dressed young man in the flat one flight above, who claimed to be on his way out. He gave his name as James Milner and claimed to know Elizabeth Staley only by sight.
“I haven’t lived here long, you see,” he said, tying his cravat.
“Did you happen to see or hear anything unusual this morning?”
Mr. Milner furrowed his brow. His hair was pale as wheat, his eyes of the lightest blue, and his skin so smooth that Ian doubted he could grow a beard if he tried. “Let me see . . . as a matter of fact, I heard a sort of—thumping, if you will. Like the sound of something being dropped.”
Ian’s pulse quickened. “What time was this?”
“It was just around eight o’clock, you see, because I was having my morning coffee, and I heard the milkman shortly afterward.”
“You said you heard a thumping. Could it have been the sound of someone falling down a flight of stairs?”
“I suppose it could, now that you mention it.”
“And did you happen to see the milkman when he came?”
“No. I wasn’t properly dressed, so I didn’t collect the milk until later.”
“And did you happen to notice if Miss Staley’s milk had been collected?”
“I assume it had. Mine was the only bottle remaining on the stoop.”
“Thank you, Mr. Milner. You have been very helpful,” Ian said, handing him his card. “Please contact me if you think of anything else.”
“Certainly.”
“Oh, one more question. Can you think of anyone who might want to harm Miss Staley?”
The young man’s face reddened. “As I said, I didn’t really know her except in passing.”
“So you did. Thank you again,” said Ian, tipping his hat. Pulling his cloak around his body, he stepped lightly down the stairs, pausing in the street for a moment before heading back in the direction of police chambers. He pondered who might want to kill poor Miss Staley. She seemed such an inoffensive woman, bookish and shy, someone you wouldn’t notice in a crowd, the kind who blended into the background easily. He wished he had spoken with her more at the séance, and cursed himself for being so impatient to leave.
He thought about the milk bottles. The other tenants either collected theirs, had no delivery that day, or did not use milk—an unusual occurrence in Edinburgh, where residents were great devourers of milk, cheese, and cream.
Turning south onto Dublin Street, he stepped aside to let a fine landau pass. It was drawn by a pair of shining black geldings, and the driver seemed to be in a hurry, urging on the high-stepping horses with a flick of his long whip. The carriage was royal blue, trimmed in gold, and bore the Scottish version of the royal coat of arms—a mirror image of the English one, with the unicorn on the left side of the shield, the lion on the right. The unicorn carried the familiar blue-and-white Scottish flag, St. Andrew’s Cross, while the lion waved the English standard, the red-and-white Cross of St. George.
Ian concluded the carriage belonged not to the Queen but probably to a high-ranking Scottish official, perhaps on his way to his office on Melville Crescent. Passing by the private Queen Street Gardens, he pondered the privileged lives within elegant Georgian townhouses, a deep contrast to the misery embalmed in Old Town’s squalid alleys. Gazing at the wide, clean expanse of Heriot Row with its tidy, geometrically pleasing three-story row houses, he realized he preferred the unpredictable turmoil of Old Town. It was dark and dangerous and depressing but somehow more human.
Now, approaching the dividing line between New Town and the sordid slums of Old Town, Ian pondered the dual nature of a killer who seemed harmless enough to gain entry to a helpless spinster’s flat yet was ruthless enough to brutally murder her.
CHAPTER SIX
Before turning onto the High Street, Ian stopped to give money to a blind beggar perched on a three-legged stool near the entrance to Waverley Station.
“How’s business?” he inquired, slipping a coin into the man’s hand.
“Is ’at you, Detective Inspector?”
“Hello, Brian.”
“There’s no mistakin’ yer voice.”
“Have you anything to tell me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On wha’ it’s worth to ye.”