Edinburgh Midnight by Carole Lawrence

Author:Carole Lawrence [Lawrence, Carole]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781542008655
Published: 2020-06-08T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Conan Doyle studied the note pinned to the board before him.

You will pay for your crimes

I’ll come for you when you least expect it

“No doubt it is an important piece of evidence,” he said. “I hope I can be of some use in analyzing the person who wrote it.” He looked at Hamilton for his reaction. He appreciated being consulted in the detective’s cases, and did not want to appear arrogant. But his friend exhibited keen interest; his gray eyes shone with excitement, and his lean body had the contained energy of a retriever on a scent.

“Doyle has been enlightening me on the study of graphology,” Ian told Sergeant Dickerson.

The sergeant frowned. “Graph-whatagee?”

“It’s the study of handwriting. Invented by a Frenchman by the name of Jean Michon.”

“Actually, the Chinese have known of it for centuries,” Doyle pointed out. “They believed a person’s handwriting was a key to his character.”

“So what does it tell ye ’bout the person what wrote the note? Assumin’ they’re the killer, a’ course.”

“Excellent point, Sergeant,” Ian said. “We cannot assume the writer of the note was indeed the murderer.”

“Agreed,” said Doyle. “But how likely is it the major received a threatening letter and was soon after slain by someone else?”

“I’ll admit it’s improbable,” said Ian. “However, Hamilton’s Third Rule of Investigation states—”

“Never leap to conclusions,” Dickerson finished for him.

“Well done, Sergeant.”

Doyle smiled and wiped his brow. He found Hamilton’s endless drive to organize and formalize crime-solving procedures admirable, and a tad intimidating. Ian Hamilton was the most intense man he had ever met, and he was drawn to the detective’s passion, and, truth be told, a little frightened of it. Like anything powerful, it had a potential dark side, and something about the detective made Doyle want to protect him, mostly from himself. “How many laws are there?” he asked.

“Ten, at present,” Hamilton replied. “But it is an evolving list.”

“Well, shall we assume for the moment the person who wrote it was the killer, and do our best to analyze the note?”

“By all means.”

Doyle turned back to study the document. Hamilton stood beside him, peering at it with a look of intense concentration on his clean-cut features.

“Well?” the detective said after a moment. “What do you make of it?”

“The writing itself is rather flowery and feminine—you see this loop here on the ‘Y,’ and that flourish on the capital ‘I’?”

“Which would indicate the writer is a woman?”

“But you see how firmly the pencil was pressed to the paper?”

“I did observe that. It is quite forceful, which seems at odds with the notion of the writer as female.”

“What if the person writin’ it were tryin’ to disguise their identity?” Dickerson suggested.

“Interesting theory,” said Hamilton. “But what are the chances the letter writer is familiar with the relatively new science of graphology?”

“Not much, I s’pose,” Dickerson said sulkily, drumming his fingers on the desk.

Doyle was fairly certain the sergeant did not like him, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. He resolved to try to make him an ally rather than an enemy.

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