This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Carole Lawrence
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477848814
ISBN-10: 1477848819
Cover design by Ed Bettison
For my cousin Carey Larsen, ever the truest of friends
CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Half a capital and half a country town, the whole city leads a double existence; it has long trances of the one and flashes of the other; like the king of the Black Isles, it is half alive and half a monumental marble.
—Robert Louis Stevenson, Edinburgh: Picturesque Notes
PROLOGUE
EDINBURGH, 1881
As he trudged up the steep incline to the top of Arthur’s Seat, the moody volcanic ridge looming over the city of Edinburgh, Stephen Wycherly could not stop shivering. It was a wretched midwinter Wednesday afternoon; the sky was spitting rain, and a chill breeze blew in from the Firth of Forth, cutting through his already damp overcoat. But the fit of trembling that seized him as he reached the summit was more from dread than the biting February wind. Clutching the letter summoning him to this godforsaken spot, he shielded his eyes from the rain and looked around. He had not seen another soul on his lonely trek up the hill, which was hardly surprising—who in his right mind would venture out in this weather? And why did his tormentor insist they meet on this jagged outgrowth of rock on such a day?
Stephen fingered the money in his pocket. It was all he had—he hoped it was enough. He never imagined he would be a victim of blackmail; it was like a bad dream. He glanced at his watch—already ten minutes past the appointed meeting time. His heart leapt at the prospect of having arrived too late for the assignation. The ruin of his reputation suddenly seemed a small price to pay to escape the creeping terror overtaking him as he gazed down at the city of Edinburgh. He was just about to leave when he became aware of a figure approaching from the steeper trail that ascended the summit from the east. The man smiled when he saw Stephen, but there was no friendliness in his face, no warmth in those icy eyes.
“You came,” the man said. “I did not think you would.”
“Of course I came,” Stephen said, projecting a confidence he did not have. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Very well,” his companion agreed. “Wait—what’s that?” His gaze was fixed on a point over Stephen’s shoulder, and, his instinct for self-preservation overcome by curiosity, Wycherly turned around to look.
That was all the distraction the other man needed. Stephen felt the garrote around his neck before he could turn around again to face his opponent. Flailing, he staggered backward, hands clawing vainly at his throat as his attacker tightened the ligature. The last thing he heard before consciousness slipped away was a soft voice in his ear.
“There, there, now—it will all be over soon. Sweet dreams.”
Holyrood Park was deserted as Christopher Fallon began his long trek beneath a bleak February sky. His wife said he was a fool for taking exercise in such weather, but then, Bettina thought he was a fool for most things he did, so he didn’t let it bother him. The lamb stew she was making would taste even better after a brisk walk. His job as a cobbler required long hours sitting bent over a last, but as it was midweek market day, he had taken off earlier than usual. He enjoyed stretching his legs as he roamed the windswept plain sandwiched between the majestic Salisbury Crags to the west and Arthur’s Seat to the east.
The rain of the past few days had thinned to a light mist, and visibility was limited, but Christopher enjoyed this kind of weather—no use trying to explain that to Bettina, who would just roll her eyes and say he was daft. He was humming a little song to himself when he saw a dark shape on the ground to his right. Taking a few steps toward it, he peered through the mist to make out what it was. His first thought was that it was a crumpled heap of clothes lying in the damp soil. Just as he was wondering who would leave a bundle of rags in the middle of Holyrood Park, he got close enough for a proper look. He had been right about the clothes—but what was in the clothes made his limbs go cold. The body of a young man lay sprawled upon the rocky ground.
“Mary, Mother of God,” he muttered, wiping his damp forehead, sweating in spite of the chill air. He looked up—the body lay beneath the summit of Arthur’s Seat, the craggy ledge directly overhead. He had heard of people casting themselves to their death from its rocky heights, but had
never given the stories much thought. The poor fellow was obviously dead—that much was clear from the vacant, staring eyes and unnatural stillness of the body. There were bruises and scratches on his face, and the odd angle of the limbs made Christopher’s head go woozy. It was as if the fellow had been tossed like a rag doll from the rocks above, arms and legs all higgledy-piggledy, as his wife would say. Christopher’s legs took off at a run before he was aware of having willed their flight.
High above, a pair of pale eyes gazed down upon the scene, and a smile came to the face of the one who watched as Christopher hurried back in the direction from which he had come.
CHAPTER ONE
A young man with unruly black hair stood upon the summit of Calton Hill in the wee hours of a Thursday in early February. He peered up at Arthur’s Seat, looming moodily over the city of Edinburgh, as a thin dawn pushed through the wintry sky.
From his perch, Detective Inspector Hamilton was contemplating whether the young man who had plunged to his death the day before had taken his own life—or whether he had been pushed. Stephen Wycherly’s body had been found less than twenty-four hours ago, and already the newsboys were crying the story from every corner of the town.
Ian Carmichael Hamilton was long and lean, solid as a caber, the wooden pole tossed by beefy Scots at the Highland games he had attended as a boy. Having joined the Edinburgh City Police barely out of his teens, he had risen through the ranks; now at the age of twenty-seven, he was the youngest member to earn the rank of detective inspector. It had never been his intention to follow his father into the police force. As a boy, he was forever scribbling stories, intent on becoming a great writer—the next Sir Walter Scott, according to his aunt Lillian (though he preferred Shakespeare and Poe). His dreams of literary immortality died in the same fire that took his parents, his home, and his childhood. He turned instead to the study of crime—though he still secretly wrote poems he shared with no one.
Firmly convinced the fire was set deliberately, Ian transferred his fierce ambition to pursuing criminals, his determination so dogged that some on the force found it extreme. Now he saw an opportunity to prove himself worthy of his new rank. He didn’t just suspect Wycherly’s death to be murder—he willed it so. As a writer, Ian believed he had a keen eye for the truth, the ability to see through the masks people wore. He believed writers and policemen shared the knack of seeing the darker side of their fellow man. It was not always a gift, he knew—and once you had it, you could not turn your back on it.
Eyes trained upon the ascending ridge of rock, he tried to imagine how a would-be murderer could drag someone up there against his will. It would be nearly impossible, especially if the victim was a muscular fellow in his twenties. No, Ian thought, it was more likely he knew his attacker. They had gone up together on some pretext; young Wycherly had been taken unawares and pushed to his death. Ian imagined his last moments, hands clawing the air as he fell, the face of his killer the last thing he saw before death.
He shivered and drew his cloak around his shoulders. Made of good Scottish wool, it had been sheared from shaggy Highland sheep, woven on Borders looms, and sold in the High Street shops lining Edinburgh’s famed Royal Mile. A gift from his aunt Lillian, it bore the green-and-blue Hamilton clan hunting tartan. And now, standing upon these ancient hills as his ancestors had for centuries, he was wrapped in a cocoon of his aunt’s love. The rest of his family gone, it was just the two of them now, alone in a tremulous and tumultuous city.
Ian turned to gaze at the skyline below as a lone crow wobbled across the horizon. Gaslights sprinkled throughout the town shone bleakly in the dim light as night surrendered reluctantly to a feeble gray sunrise. Edinburgh’s heavy stone buildings loomed over narrow cobblestoned streets so tortuous and twisted, they seemed to double back on themselves. Ian did not like the city, longing for the wide sky and soaring hills of the Highlands he knew as a boy.
He squinted up at the dim outline of the craggy hilltop, often likened to a sleeping lion. Perhaps the crime hadn’t even been planned—the killer might have acted on impulse. But what kind of man—or woman—pushed someone from a great height on impulse?
Ian yawned as he trudged toward the sleeping city below, past the Nelson Monument, its tipsy inverted-telescope design listing downhill like a drunken sailor. Several things bothered him about the suicide theory—not the least of which was the statement Wycherly’s landlady gave Wednesday evening, declaring firmly that her tenant was neither depressed nor despondent. If this was a murder made to look like a suicide, Ian thought, he was just the man to get to the bottom of it.
CHAPTER TWO
Detective Chief Inspector Robert Lyle Crawford glanced up from the pile of papers on his desk at the young man standing before him, then down at the report he was reading, attempting to concentrate. Finally he gave up, leaned back in his chair, and glared at his subordinate.
“Must you stand there gaping like an idiot, Hamilton, when you can see I’m busy?”
“I’m afraid my face looks naturally idiotic in repose, sir.”
“Very amusing,” Crawford grunted. “Aren’t you just the closet wit?”
“‘Better a witty fool than a foolish wit,’ sir.”
Crawford narrowed his eyes. He disliked it when Hamilton quoted Shakespeare—it reeked of insubordination. “Well, what is it?”
“It’s about the death of young Wycherly, sir. The one who fell from—”
“What about him?”
“I’d like to pursue an investigation into his death.”
Crawford gazed dolefully at the already cold cup of tea at his elbow. He had much on his mind: his wife, Moira, had taken sick, and he was desperately worried about her. He found it hard to concentrate on his job. Outside, the slow clop of horses’ hooves signaled the milkman making his Thursday morning rounds, the wheels of his cart creaking as they rattled over the uneven cobblestones. He twisted a piece of string between his thumb and forefinger, a nervous habit. “I suppose you have come up with a theory?”
“Not as yet, sir.”
Crawford threw his meaty hands into the air. “Then why do you insist on wasting my time?”
He knew his reaction was overwrought, and not really about Hamilton, but he couldn’t help himself. His voice rang off the high-ceilinged rafters, bouncing off the heavy oak beams of the High Street police station. A few of the uniformed constables on the other side of the glass that separated his office from the central room looked up from what they were doing. A couple of the younger policemen glanced at each other apprehensively. DCI Crawford was noted for his temper and booming voice, and it sounded as though DI Hamilton had stepped into a tongue-lashing.
“I respectfully request an autopsy, sir,” Hamilton replied.
“On what grounds?”
“Suspicious death,” he said, thrusting a form at his superior officer.
DCI Crawford studied it gloomily. Sighing, he slapped the paper down on his desk on top of the others and wiped a hand across his oily forehead. He was a tall, portly man with small blue eyes and a florid complexion. What little hair was left on the top of his head was made up for by an abundance of ginger muttonchop whiskers, so long they touched his shirt collar. As detective chief inspector, he oversaw the work of a dozen detectives, but none was as troublesome as Detective Hamilton. He was a Highlander, as were most of the others on the police force, and too much like his father before him. The Hamiltons were a stubborn lot and didn’t know when to leave well enough alone.
“How long have you been a detective inspector?”
“Going on six months now, sir. But I’ve studied every case in our files, past and present.”
Crawford rubbed his eyes. “I’ll just bet you have. And I s’pose you’re eager to have a case of your very own, eh?”
“Well, sir, I—”
“What evidence do you have to prove your murder theory isn’t a load of bosh and bunkum?”
“There was no suicide note, sir.”
>
“I don’t suppose every poor bugger who offs himself takes the time to write a note.”
“The victim had recently brought home a puppy.”
“A puppy, is it? And you know this because . . . ?”
“His landlady, sir, a Mrs.”—Hamilton pulled a notepad from his pocket—“Sutherland. I spoke with her yesterday, after his body was found in the park. She rents rooms on Leith Walk, and Mr. Wycherly was her tenant. According to her, he had just acquired a puppy.”
“Quite commendable of him, but I don’t see what—”
“A man contemplating suicide is hardly likely to get a dog.”
“And you’ve ruled out the possibility it might be an accident, have you?”
“My aunt used to climb Arthur’s Seat regularly, sir.”
“Good on your aunt for being so fit, but I don’t see how that—”
“A well-coordinated young man doesn’t just tumble from a trail tame enough for elderly women to stroll on—sir.”
DCI Crawford crossed his arms. “A young man under the influence of whisky may do any number of unlikely things, Detective.”
“There was no indication he had been drinking.”
“I admire your initiative, but the coroner’s office is overworked as it is, and we can’t—”
“Can’t afford to look into a potential murder? Is that what you were going to say, sir?”
Crawford sucked in a mighty lungful of air, ready to blast this irritating flea of a detective across the room. Then he exhaled, releasing all his rage in a single breath. The expression on Hamilton’s face was so serious that Crawford had the unfortunate impulse to giggle. The urge to laugh often hit him at inappropriate times, especially when he was exhausted and anxious. He tried to suppress it, emitting a strange squeaking sound, like a frightened mouse.
“Sir?” said Hamilton, frowning.
Crawford gazed at his neglected mug of tea and sighed. “What precisely do you expect to find, Hamilton?”
“I don’t know, sir. That’s why I’m requesting an autopsy.”
Crawford bent down to turn up the gas in the grate. Nothing seemed to ease this blasted chill in the air, which seeped into his bones. The chief inspector sniffed and wiped his nose. He hoped he wasn’t getting a cold. “The morgue corridors are rather narrow. What about your . . . uh, problem with enclosed spaces?”
Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1) Page 1
