Dickerson shuddered. “I shouldn’t like that t’happen. Feel horrible guilty, I would.”
“And yet you trust him?” Crawford asked. “Even in light of what we discussed?”
“I do,” Ian replied, though in all truth he was beginning to wonder whom he could trust.
“Any more details?”
“The target is Murray and Weston.”
Crawford’s jaw dropped. “On Princes Street?”
“The same.” Murray and Weston were the most respected jewelers in Edinburgh, and had received more than one commission from the Queen herself.
“Good Lord. That’s outrageous.” Sitting behind his desk, he tugged at his whiskers, chewing on his lip. “We need confirmation. The word of a snitch isn’t enough to go on.”
“I agree entirely,” said Ian. “We’ll do what we can, eh, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” Dickerson replied.
“Now, about this other matter. Have you any news for me?” Crawford asked Ian.
“I suggest that this upcoming robbery—”
“If that’s what it is—”
“May be a chance to root out any source of false information.”
“Like if we should get a conflictin’ bit of information from another source?” said Dickerson.
“Exactly,” said Ian. “We have to keep a careful watch on our informants.”
“Hmm. Maybe you’re right,” Crawford said, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Get on it, will you?”
“Right away, sir. ‘Better three hours too soon than a minute too late,’” said Ian. Raising his left eyebrow, Crawford scowled at him. “The Merry Wives of Windsor,” Ian added quickly. “Not his best play, of course.”
“Of course,” Crawford echoed, though it was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic. “Off you go, then. Oh, and tell your aunt I’m very sorry about the death of her friend.”
“I will, sir.”
“If you need manpower on that case, just ask. Meanwhile, I’ll put some undercover men on patrol at Murray and Weston.”
“Yes, sir,” Ian said, and left the office, Dickerson trailing behind him. “Where on earth were you this morning?” he asked when they were out of earshot.
“Sorry, sir—it were my sister, y’see. It won’ happen again.”
Sergeant William Dickerson looked after his younger sister like a brooding mother hen, with a devotion Ian found touching.
“Everything all right, is it?”
“It were a matter of bullying at school, an’ she were gettin’ into fights tryin’ to protect the girls what were bein’ picked on.”
“That’s quite admirable.”
The sergeant sighed. “I wish the headmistress saw it that way, sir—she don’ like fightin’.”
“Then she should look to the girls who are causing the trouble in the first place.”
“I’m afeard she’s less devoted t’justice than to peace an’ quiet.”
Ian frowned. “Let me know if I can be of any help.”
“I wish ye could, sir, but the headmistress don’ take kindly t’interference.”
Just then the front door to the station house opened, and in stepped Derek McNair—thief, pickpocket, ragamuffin, and Ian’s most valuable source of information. Breezing past the desk sergeant, he sauntered over and planted his bony posterior on Ian’s desk.
“So,” he said, helping himself to a biscuit from a tin on the desk, “wha’ do I haf t’do ta git yer attention, issue an engraved invitation?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Didn’ yer brother tell you I were lookin’ fer ya?” Derek asked, calmly chewing the biscuit. “Oiy, kin I get a cuppa ’round here?”
“Yes, he did, and no, you may not,” said Ian. The boy wore an overcoat several sizes too large over a blue jumper and scuffed trousers tied around his narrow waist with a frayed bit of rope. His boots were in relatively good condition, if several sizes too large. His hands were encased in thick woolen gloves missing the tips of several fingers.
“Then why didn’ ye meet me?” he said.
“I wasn’t aware a meeting had been arranged.”
Derek sighed and hopped off the desk. “Ye’d best have a word wi’ yer brother ’bout not passin’ on messages proper like. Well, let’s go, then,” he added, brushing biscuit crumbs from his clothes. “Oh, an’ them biscuits are stale.”
“I’m sorry the cuisine isn’t up to your standards.”
“Come along, then,” the boy said, strolling past the desk sergeant as if daring him to throw him out. “I ain’t got all day.”
“If DCI Crawford inquires, I’ll return later this afternoon,” Ian told Sergeant Dickerson.
“Yes, sir,” he said, frowning. Dickerson was not Derek McNair’s biggest fan.
“Where are we going?” Ian said, fetching his cloak from the rack.
“Ye’ll find out when we git there,” said Derek as they left the station house.
Ian followed the boy past St. Giles, where a group of schoolboys were spitting energetically on the Heart of Midlothian mosaic built into the paving stones—ostensibly to express their disdain for the former location of the notorious Tolbooth prison, though Ian suspected it was merely young boys enjoying an opportunity to spit with impunity.
They passed another group of boys playing gird and cleek, known in England as hoop and stick. Derek glanced at them with contempt as they trotted alongside the rolling wooden hoops, tapping them with sticks to keep them moving forward without toppling over. The boys—about his age—collapsed to the cobblestones in laughter as one of the hoops tottered and fell, tripping them, as the other continued rolling until it collided with a rag picker’s cart parked by the entrance to Parliament Square.
“Silly muckers,” Derek muttered as they passed the giggling boys.
“Don’t you ever play that game?”
Derek snorted. “It’s fer children.”
“What do you consider yourself, then?”
“I ain’t no foolish child, that’s fer sure.”
“So no games for you?”
“Ain’t got time, Guv—I got better things t’do.”
“Such as fondling strange women?”
“There’s nothin’ strange ’bout the women I fondle,” he replied with a sly smile.
“You’re going to lose a hand one day if you keep it up, you know.”
“I’d best get on wi’it, then,” he replied, turning onto George IV Bridge.
They continued on through the Grassmarket, where Ian inhaled the aroma of pitch, tar, and linseed oil wafting down from the rows of wholesale shops on Bow Street. They turned onto King’s Stables Road, where Grassmarket became West Port, and these odors were replaced by the earthy smell of horse manure. Here the cobblestones were rough from heavy use, chipped from decades of clops from hooves of horses, sheep, and cattle, and the unforgiving drumming of carriage wheels and wooden carts. High above them the castle perched on its rocky parapet, gray stones against a dull December sky.