“You were apparently working on a theory that the killings were ritualistic in nature. Biscuit?” She slid the plate of treats his way. “That’s where the newspapers picked up on it. From the hotel clerk. He’d sent for the police, but one of our officers got there first and confiscated your notes. The clerk still talked to reporters, though.”
“And was I right? Are the murders ritualistic?” He slid the plate of biscuits back, wondering how his missing persons case had morphed into one about possible ritual murder.
“We don’t have any reason to believe they are. Autopsies showed each of the victims had an unusual bruise above the ear on the left where you’ve drawn it. I’m assuming you got that piece of insider information through a bribe or other shenanigans.”
“Likely enough.”
“But despite the newspapers’ appetite for the grotesque, there were no missing organs, no burn marks, no other mutilation besides the slash across the neck,” Singh said, shaking her head. “So why did you speculate there might be witchcraft behind the marks? And why were you even looking into the murders when you were supposed to be here looking for a missing person who clearly is not one of the victims?” She held up a hand to stop him from answering. “I know, you don’t remember. Humor me with your thoughts. Opinions. Educated guesses.”
Ian reached for his tea as he tried to reconcile the jumbled memories of his past two days. “I’ve spent the day retracing what steps I would have taken in the investigation. Before I came here, I spoke with the girlfriend.”
“Lizzie Stanfield.”
So they knew about her, which meant they were following up on suspicions, same as him. Officially, it was a mortal-jurisdiction case. But if the Constabulary shared the same suspicions he did, then it was a crossover crime. Singh lowered her eyes, knowing she’d let slip they were more interested in George’s whereabouts than she’d admitted.
“Aye, that’s right. She was convinced George was the latest victim. Because of a mix-up with the name in the paper.” He explained about Sir Elvanfoot’s card being in his pocket when they took him to the hospital, then waited a beat to see if the inspector would volunteer anything new.
“What else did she have to say?” she asked.
Hmm, stonewalled.
“Lizzie claimed George had been acting different lately. In a brooding sort of way. Questioning life and man’s dual nature because of some play he was starring in. Good versus evil and all that shite.” He decided to try one more time to get Singh to show her hand. “If I had to guess, knowing how my mind works, I was probably intrigued by the coincidence of George going missing at the same time the bodies started turning up. Like you say, I must have got wind of some detail the general public dinna know about. Something suggesting the crime could have something to do with magic. And since I was looking for a missing witch, I must have got curious.”
Singh shuffled the drawings back into a neat stack, including the photo of George Elvanfoot. “I’m willing to drop the charge of using magic in public. Again,” she added as she placed the papers back in his file. “But you have to promise to come to me first if you find anything incriminating about this man.”
“Wait, that’s it?”
“You know I’m not at liberty to share more.”
“Hold on,” he said before she closed the folder. He knew she’d confiscated the sketches and wouldn’t give them back, but there was something else in the folder of interest. “May I?” He slid the photo of George out and gave it a proper look. The face was the same, but he realized just how much the picture he had in his pocket, the one Lizzie had given him, was of a man in character. In costume. The one he looked at now was of the man without pretense, not hiding behind an act or persona. Eyes bright, hair combed back, a silver pin stuck through his lapel, shining even in the dull patina of a grainy photo. There was something achingly familiar about him, about the way he stood, his build, even his clothes. Ian couldn’t put his finger on it, but his intuition was flaring like one of those newfangled electric torches.
“Just one more thing,” he said, peeling his eyes away from the photo. “Ever had one of your spiders jump because of a pair of sisters by the name of Blackwood?” He tapped a finger outside the terrarium of the spider hovering over the ward where he’d been attacked, the question forced to the surface by a combination of intuition and experience telling him everything was related. Like the interconnected threads of the spider’s web, the photo, the murders, the sketches, and the sister with the uncanny ability to snatch a man’s memories out of his mind were somehow connected.