“A…”
“It’s used for smoking opium, and I found residue in it.”
Her lips twitch. “I know what a hashish pipe is, Mallory. I am notthatsheltered. My confusion arises from the nature of the connection. Did Evans have one belonging to Simon?”
“No, but they both use opium.”
“And…”
I shrug. “I’m not saying they’re the only two young men in Edinburgh who do, but it could have brought them into contact. Maybe in an opium den.”
“Opium den,” she says slowly.
“Wrong time period?”
“No, it’s the correct one, but… you do realize opium is not illegal.”
“What?”
She walks over and squeezes my shoulder. “Poor Mallory, from a time so backwards that it has outlawed sweet opium.”
She catches my expression and laughs. “I am teasing you. While opium has its uses, it is highly addictive, whether for personal use or for treating pain.”
“But it’s legal?”
“As is alcohol, which I might argue has ruined more lives. No, if Simon indulges, it is minor and irregular use. I’ve seen no indication of impairment. Consider it no different from a young man having a pint or two at the public house, and he would be equally likely to encounter Evans there.”
Simon is cleared, which sends me back to square one. Who strangled Catriona in that alley? Who from her long list of enemies finally snapped? That sends me in circles, because I only know that she has enemies. Damn the girl for not keeping a journal.
Dear Diary,
Today the butcher’s son threatened to throttle me for stealing from his weekly deliveries. Tee-hee! What fun!
I really need to talk to Davina. I hate the idea of dealing with her bullshit, and I hate giving her what I know is a small fortune for her information, but I need to stop making excuses, grit my teeth, and get it over with. I’ll do that tonight. I’ll slip out, making sure I’m well armed and extremely cautious, with plans to be home before the pubs close.
Flip that note from Evans’s room then. For the moment, forget the threat against Catriona and return to the list of addresses. If the killer was Simon, I could see no obvious connection to the addresses of immigrants, so I’d brushed off the note as circumstantial. Simon just happened to write on the back of those addresses, which Evans had been sharing with a third party. But if the killer isnotSimon, is it still coincidental?
Evans was sharing or selling information about his housemates. Why addresses? Were they targets? That makes sense. His asshole roommates are compiling addresses to target the residents with hate crimes or other persecution.
The first two had been crossed off. Removed from the list of possibilities?Or already “dealt with.” There had been a date beside the toy shop. Was that when they intended to act?
Who would Evans share that with? And why? Another group wanting to beat them to the punch? A rival proto-Nazi frat? Like a sick pledge challenge—see who can torch the most immigrant homes and businesses?
Unlikely. It’s not as if there are only five immigrant homes and businesses in the city. This might not be Vancouver, but if you include the Irish fleeing the potato famines, I’m going to put immigrants at five percent of the population. That means one in every twenty households fits their definition of outsiders. You can damn well find some yourself without buying a list from some reporter.
So what valueisthe list?
I remember the date beside the toy shop. We’re past that date, and there was no sign of damage to the shop. That gives me an idea, and if I’m right, another clue, floating in the ether, seemingly meaningless, will clunk into place.
I need to confirm my suspicion. Can I get to the toy shop and back before tea? I check the clock. I’m cutting it close—very close—but the store will be closed afterward, and every wasted day is another chance for the killer to take his next Jack the Ripper–style victim.
I hurry into the library and pen a quick note for Isla. I don’t try to find her—she’d want to join me and then I really would be late for tea. I grab a few coins from Catriona’s stash, and I’m off.