“Would you deliver a message from me?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Ask her if she would be interested in working as a staff photographer with the Edinburgh Police.”
“I will—thank you, sir.”
Crawford watched Hamilton leave, Sergeant Dickerson trailing in his wake, before sitting heavily at his desk. The chief inspector ran a hand through his sparse hair and looked at the ever-mounting pile of papers on his desk. It was going to be a long day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
According to Stephen Wycherly’s landlady, he worked as a clerk in a solicitor’s office on George Street, a part of the New Town boasting a goodly number of law offices. Ian found himself wandering past rows of handsome entrances with polished brass nameplates and matching door knockers—a far cry from the warrens of dilapidated buildings in the Old Town. Sometimes Edinburgh seemed like two cities, the inhabitants leading such different lives it was as if they were on separate continents.
Ian stopped in front of chambers with a polished brass plaque proclaiming “Harley, Wickham, and Clyde.” He stepped up to the burnished wooden door and rapped sharply three times. He heard a man’s voice from within—muffled, as though coming from a back room.
“Just a moment—I’m coming!”
There was a rustling sound, as though papers were being shuffled about, and the sound of a chair scraping against the floor.
“I’ll be there straightaway!”
More rustling, then a thump, like something being dropped on the floor.
“Oh, blast!” the man inside muttered. The door burst open abruptly, and Ian was confronted with a singular-looking gentleman. He could not have been more than five feet tall, a gnomelike individual with a crooked spine and a tuft of stiff brown hair over a long, weathered face with a beak of a nose and watery blue eyes. His age was impossible to tell; he could have been forty or eighty. He wore an elegant frock coat, a crisply knotted cravat, and striped stovepipe trousers, all of the very best material. The incongruity of such fine clothing on such a misshapen form was striking. Ian could hardly imagine the man was vain; no doubt he dressed like that to impress clients.
He peered at Ian through gold pince-nez, his rheumy blue eyes sharp behind the thick spectacles. “Well?” he said in a cultivated Edinburgh accent. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
Ian held out his badge. “Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton, Edinburgh Police.” Normally he did not feel the need to prove his identity, but this gentleman exuded an air of authority, in spite of his diminutive and deformed figure.
“Ah, yes, of course,” he said, extending his hand. “Eugene Harley, Esquire.”
Ian shook the hand, which was thin and dry, the bones like a loose collection of sticks.
“Won’t you come in, Inspector?” Harley said. His voice was pleasant and plummy, his manner refined and gracious.
He opened the door and led Ian into an office in dire need of a file clerk. Papers and folders were strewn everywhere. Briefs, motions, and other legal documents were stuffed into cubbyholes, stacked in piles upon the thick oak desk, or scattered on the floor like fallen leaves. Ian realized what he had heard from outside—Eugene Harley struggling through the forest of paper to get to the door.
This seemed to worry Eugene Harley not a bit. He flicked a few papers from a handsome oak office chair and gestured toward it.
“Do sit down, won’t you?”
“Thank you,” Ian said, settling into the chair, padded with green leather and quite comfortable.
His host perched upon the edge of the desk and crossed his thin arms. “Now then, I presume you are here about young Wycherly?”
“Yes, sir.”
Eugene Harley shook his head sadly. “Unfortunate fellow—terrible business, that. Poor Catherine is so distraught, she failed to come to work today.”
“Catherine . . . ?”
“My niece. She assists me in my practice and, when she has time, tidies the place up. As you can see,” he said, waving a hand at the piles of paper, “we are much in need of her services.”
“So your niece is also the housekeeper for your law firm?”
“I like to keep it in the family, so to speak, with all the legal documents lying about. You can never be too careful, eh?” he said, with a squeaky little giggle, like a rusty door hinge.
Ian made a note of the girl’s name in his notebook. “I presume you can tell me how to contact her?”
“Most certainly,” Mr. Harley replied. “She lives with me. My poor brother and his wife died of cholera some time ago, and I have cared for the girl since she was in bloomers. As I have no children myself, she has been the great joy of my life,” he added, tears gathering at the corners of his pale blue eyes.
“And your partners?” Ian asked quickly. He was rather taken with the old gentleman and wished to spare him the indignity of crying in front of a stranger.
To his surprise, the solicitor’s face crinkled into a wry smile. “Ah, yes, my—partners.”
“Misters Wickham and Clyde?”
Eugene Harley Esq. cleared his throat. “They don’t exist—or rather, not as human beings.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Those are the names of my cats.” Mr. Harley chuckled and leaned forward, crackling sounds emanating from his twisted spine. Ian had an impulse to offer his chair, but there was something mesmerizing about the old gentleman, and he remained seated, caught up in his spell. “You see, Detective Inspector—Hamilton, was it?” the old man said. Ian nodded. “Well, you might be surprised to learn how comforting it is to potential clients to see more than one name upon the nameplate. It confers an aura of respectability—creates confidence, as it were.”
“So your firm consists solely of you and your niece—and the unfortunate Mr. Wycherly?”
“Yes, indeed. You may find it odd that our clients seldom inquire about the whereabouts of Misters Wickham and Clyde, but such are the mysteries of human nature. Do you mind if I partake of some tobacco?”
“Not at all,” Ian replied, expecting him to light a pipe or cigarette, but instead Mr. Harley slid a tin of snuff from the pocket of his frock coat and delicately placed a pinch in each nostril. Throwing his head back, he sneezed mightily, with such force Ian feared his fragile-looking form would crack. But Mr. Harley was made of sturdier stuff than his appearance suggested. Wiping his face with a voluminous silk kerchief, he beamed at his visitor.
“There now—that always puts some vinegar into my blood! Much better,” he said, replacing the handkerchief in his pocket with a theatrical flourish. “Now, what was I saying?”
“You were speaking of your niece.”
“Ah, yes—dear Catherine! I’m afraid poor Wycherly’s death came as quite a shock. Between you and me, I think she quite fancied the lad. This morning she declined to emerge from her room, so I left her in the capable hands of my housekeeper and came to the office myself.”
“Was there anything unusual in Mr. Wycherly’s behavior in the days leading up to his death?”
“Not that I can think of; he seemed quite himself . . . Oh, wait, yes, there was one thing. Perhaps it’s nothing, but—”