Page 25

Mr. Innes lived in a slightly less respectable address along the South Back of the Canongate in Old Town.

The area was becoming increasingly industrialized with coachworks, glassworks, and several breweries now sharing the same street his building stood on.

Though far from the stately Georgian town houses of New Town, the structure was not without its own charms. The landlady to whom we applied to speak with Mr. Innes seemed to have a great love of plants, and her window boxes and small garden plot boasted a number of early spring blooms—camellias, anemones, crocuses, and hellebores.

The landlady herself was less colorful. Dressed in a dowdy gown which matched her gray eyes and faded hair, she seemed drained of almost all pigment. Though from her clear complexion and few wrinkles, I gauged she couldn’t have been older than forty.

“Is Mr. Innes in some sort o’ trouble?” she asked suspiciously as she led us into a small parlor filled with heavy furniture that had likely been purchased secondhand.

It smelled of the flowers we’d passed outside, and peering around the room I spied a vase perched on a table near the window.

“Because I canna have that sort livin’ here. ”

“We merely wish tae speak tae Mr. Innes as a witness,” Maclean assured her. “We believe he may’ve been standin’ near the gentleman who was killed durin’ the floor collapse at Picardy Place. He might’ve seen what struck the fellow.”

“Oh,” she replied, frowning up at him as if she wasn’t sure she believed him, though the sergeant gazed back at her steadily. “I’ll just go fetch him, then.”

“Thank ye.”

She nodded once, glancing at Gage and me distractedly before departing.

“That was kind,” I told Maclean once she was out of earshot, grateful for his circumspection.

“Aye, weel I dinna wish tae make trouble for the man if there’s no cause for it.

” He rolled the brim of his hat between his fingers and paced toward the window, leaning forward to peer out.

I wondered if we were close to his home.

I knew he lived east of Cowgate and High School Yards, where Surgeons’ Square, lined with private anatomy schools, was located, but I’d never been to his abode.

Though humbler than our home on Albyn Place, from what I knew of Mrs. Maclean, I’d always expected it was cozy and well run.

However, I wasn’t about to invite myself and intrude on their domesticity.

It wasn’t long until we heard heavy footsteps clattering down the stairs.

Mr. Innes appeared in the doorway, still straightening his collar after pulling on his coat.

His clothing was neat and utilitarian and would have passed all but the most discerning of inspections.

However, his unkempt medium brown hair still needed a trim, and his fingers were stained with ink.

If he was ill at ease about our visit, he didn’t show it.

“I’m Mr. Innes,” he announced, scrutinizing us each in turn before focusing on Maclean in his gray coat denoting him a member of the city police. “Mrs. Stewart said ye had some questions aboot what happened durin’ the collapse, but I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. I wasna there.”

“But ye ken the deceased?” Maclean asked, moving closer and resting his hands on his wide belt, to which his baton was strapped.

“Aye.” His eyes dimmed with what appeared to be genuine sadness. “Alexander Smith was a good man. ’Tis a terrible loss. Especially for his family.”

“And ye were at the second day o’ the auction. What did ye bid on?”

“I wasna there tae bid. Wait.” He looked at each of us in turn again, his brow creased with confusion. “What’s this aboot?” His gaze began to skirt past me again, but then abruptly returned, recognition dawning followed swiftly by alarm. “Oh!”

“I can see ye recall the altercation her ladyship witnessed,” Maclean said.

“I wouldna call it an altercation exactly,” he protested.

I arched a single eyebrow in disbelief.

“Listen, I ken I lost my temper. And I owe ye a proper apology for bumpin’ intae ye as I was leavin’. I do heartily beg yer pardon for that,” he declared, pressing a hand to his chest.

I nodded in acceptance, as our presence here wasn’t about that.

“But I can explain.”

Maclean held out his hand, granting him permission to do so.

He exhaled, scrubbing a hand down his face as he began to sink into the nearest chair. Realizing we were all still standing, he abruptly righted himself. “Please, have a seat?”

We all found a spot to perch, and Mr. Innes began again in a measured voice.

“I was angry because Lord Eldin had been blockin’ my membership tae the Bannatyne Club for more than three years.”

“Why?” I asked, having wondered this since I’d witnessed his row with Reverend Jamieson.

He exhaled another long breath, evidently not having expected to be interrupted. “Because…my father wrote a scathing editorial aboot his father’s essay on naval tactics,” he confessed in a monotone under his breath.

I turned to Gage, curious if he understood what he was referring to since his father had been an officer in the Royal Navy for many years. “I know the treatise to which he refers. My father has always spoken highly of it.”

“I never said I agreed wi’ my father,” Mr. Innes countered. “I dinna ken enough aboot naval tactics tae express an opinion one way or the other. But that dinna matter to Lord Eldin. The relation was enough.”

“But when Lord Eldin died, you thought perhaps the other members would see differently,” I prompted.

“Aye! And I’ve been waitin’ nearly ten months for ’em tae call a vote on the matter.

” He scraped a hand back through his messy hair again, tugging at the overgrown tresses.

“I saw the notice aboot the auction in the paper and what a large turnout there was the first day, and I just…lost my temper. I’d been bidin’ my time for so long wi’oot a single word.

So I decided tae see if I could track doon any o’ the members that second day and get an answer.

” His hand fell to his lap, and his shoulders slumped.

“I realized almost immediately after I left that it’d been a mistake.

That I’d let my frustration get the best o’ me and I’d destroyed my chances. ”

“Why do you wish to join the Bannatyne Club so badly?” Gage asked, not managing to mask his bewildered disapproval.

“I ken their reputation,” Mr. Innes admitted. “But they’re first and foremost a publication society wi’ the goal o’ printin’ works o’ Scottish interest. I have a number o’ rare works o’ Scottish history I’ve curated that I’d like them tae publish.”

Then his interest was serious and, judging from the number of ink splotches on his fingers and cuffs, part of his vocation.

“So ye blame Lord Eldin for yer failure tae be admitted?” Maclean stressed the point.

“Aye,” Mr. Innes agreed. “I ken it was him for he confessed so tae my face.” He sat taller as outrage began to build again, but then abruptly deflated. “But noo that he’s dead, I suppose I canna blame him entirely. No matter what hold he may still have o’er the others.”

“You think he still has a hold over some of the members?” This surprised me.

The only answer Mr. Innes gave was a shrug.

Maclean shifted forward as if preparing to rise. “Just tae be clear, Mr. Smith wasna a member?”

“Nay. He was only tryin’ tae help calm me.” He paused, looking from me and Gage to Sergeant Maclean in consideration. “But why the interest in my outburst? I thought the collapse was an accident.”

“Merely tryin’ tae clear up some loose ends,” Maclean replied affably as he stood. “Thank ye for yer time.”

“O’ course,” Mr. Innes mumbled, his expression still perplexed.

We filed out the door and past the door opposite, which seemed to lead into the landlady’s private sitting room.

She sat watching us as she stitched something in her lap.

Unlike Mr. Clerk’s butler, it was obvious she’d not stooped to eavesdropping, but she was wary of us all the same.

We each nodded to her in turn and departed the house.