“What was it?”
“He received something in the afternoon post the day he died—a letter.”
“Did you chance to see whom it was from?”
“Sadly, no—though I did see him open it, and he seemed disturbed by it. He folded it and placed it in his pocket, along with the envelope.”
“And he never spoke of it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Did anyone else see him receive the letter?”
“My niece, Catherine, was in the office at the time—she may have seen it.”
“Did you see him leave the office that day?”
“No—I spent the rest of the afternoon going over a case with a barrister in his chambers. When I arrived back here, young Wycherly had already left.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Harley.”
Mr. Harley waved a thin hand in dismissal. “Anything I can do to help. Here is my address,” he said, handing Ian a smartly embossed card. “If you wish to call upon my niece in the next few days, I will leave instructions with my housekeeper to admit you, in case of my absence.”
“Your cooperation is much appreciated, Mr. Harley.”
The old man shook his head. “I cannot imagine who should want to harm young Wycherly. He was such a harmless fellow, quiet and mild—one might even say retiring. Of course,” he added with a sharp glance at Ian, “I am assuming his death was the result of foul play. Your presence here rather suggests that it was.”
“Your assumption is correct. Stephen Wycherly was murdered.”
They looked out the window; a smattering of rain was beginning to fall.
“I hope you catch the person or persons responsible,” Harley remarked, “before anything sinister befalls my niece.”
“Why do you say that?”
“‘I am a very foolish fond old man, fourscore and upward’—fear has lodged itself in my head, an unwelcome visitor.”
“That’s from Lear, isn’t it?”
“Ah, you like the Bard?”
“I do.”
“The latter part was my own addition. In my case, at least, advanced age has brought with it increasing anxiety.”
“Please do not concern yourself, Mr. Harley. I see no reason either you or your niece would be in danger.”
Mr. Harley waved a gnarled hand. “Tut-tut—I’m old, and have not so many days left. But Catherine is another matter—you will look after her, won’t you, Inspector?”
Ian cleared his throat. He was charmed by the old man and suppressed an impulse to tell a comforting lie. “I’m sorry that the Edinburgh Police can’t guarantee the safety of an individual. We simply haven’t enough manpower.”
“I see,” the old gentleman said, but his tone suggested that he didn’t.
When Ian stepped into the street, he failed to notice the cloaked figure leaning against a lamppost. The man’s posture was casual, but a pair of keen eyes watched as he made his way back toward the Old Town. As Ian rounded the corner onto Hanover Street, the man followed at a discreet distance.
CHAPTER EIGHT
George Frederick Pearson, chief reference librarian at the University of Edinburgh, was a collector. What he acquired was immaterial—books, bottles, bric-a-brac, beer coasters—but part of his brain seemed specifically designated for this task. It began at an early age, when he brought home bits of string, discarded tea tins, and broken pieces of pottery from rubbish bins. His mother initially regarded this eccentricity with fond indulgence, but after a couple of years during which he squirreled away items in various corners of his room, she began to grow concerned. One day after finding a stash of outdated market flyers underneath his bed, she marched out to the street where he was playing with his friends and demanded an explanation for his excessive acquisitions. He could give her none that satisfied her. He hardly understood it himself; it was something he felt compelled to do.
She marched right back into the house and promptly threw all of his treasures into the rubbish bin, which only cemented his compulsion. What was formerly a desire became a desperate need as objects assumed a role of absurd importance to him. That day haunted him for the rest of his life. Waking or dreaming, he could see his mother on her hands and knees, digging through his beloved possessions, stray strands of hair clinging to her sweaty forehead, the sleeves of her gingham frock rolled up to the elbows, her face flushed with determination and rage.
He wished never again to be the cause of such destructive fury. So he hid his compulsion, living alone in his cluttered flat on Princes Street, while employed at the university library. He never dreamed that his “hobby,” as he called it, might be of use to anyone else.
Until a rainy Friday in February, when the only visitor in the reading room was a studious-looking young man with a pile of curly black hair and eyes that were slate gray in the dim glow of the gaslight. George approached him and coughed discreetly.
“May I be of service, sir?” They were roughly the same age, but George treated all visitors to the library with the same courteous formality.
The young man cocked his head to one side and studied George, which made him a bit uncomfortable. As it was seasonably raw weather, he was dressed in a thick blue jumper with shoulder patches, rather than his usual three-piece suit. Born and raised just outside London, he liked Edinburgh because the Scots were less formal than the British—though his English dialect was not always well received in some quarters.
“Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton,” the man said. “Do you have any books on crime investigation?”
George extended his hand. “George Pearson, chief reference librarian. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Hamilton’s handshake was firm, his hand strong. “May I ask if this relates to a particular case?”
“A potential case, perhaps.”
Hamilton’s speech was educated, and though it displayed hints of an early life in the Highlands, it was definitely Edinburgh, possibly Royal Terrace. George was very good with accents. His posh inflections made George relax a bit—well-heeled Scots tended to be less anti-English.
“Anything in particular?” said George.
“I’m interested specifically in strangulation.”
George kept his expression neutral, but he was intrigued, being something of an amateur crime buff. “From a medical perspective or a forensic one?”
“Both, if possible.”
“We’ll begin with science, then. Right this way.”
George led his visitor to the stacks. “Here’s something you may find helpful,” he said, sliding a book from the shelf. “Uses of Science in Examining Crime Scene Evidence. Translated from the French. The author was an associate of François Vidocq, the great French criminologist.”
“That alone is a recommendation,” Hamilton said, taking the book.
“I see you have heard of him.”
The detective smiled. “I have copies of everything he wrote.”
“I see,” George said, envy forming a knot in his stomach. To have a complete set of anything was the collector’s ultimate dream. “Perhaps I can be of further assistance? I have a rather interesting collection of crime books myself. At my flat, I mean,” he added. Panic swept over him, leaving his knees weak—he had not invited anyone to his residence for a decade. “I can perhaps bring you some tomorrow,” he said, “if that is convenient.”