Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1)

by Carole Lawrence

“He was a colleague of the great François Vidocq. This is the book I mentioned yesterday.”

  “What makes it so unusual?”

  “It is practically impossible to find any extant copies. As for the rest—well, perhaps you’d better have a look at it and tell me what you think. I hope it doesn’t disappoint you.”

  “‘Expectation is the root of all heartache.’”

  “Ah—that quote is of doubtful attribution, I’m afraid. Many ascribe it to the Bard, but it doesn’t appear anywhere in his works.”

  “You are a fount of information, Mr. Pearson.”

  “In all modesty I must remind you I am a reference librarian,” Pearson said, reaching into his satchel. “I brought some other books as well.”

  “Why don’t we just stick with this one for now?”

  “As you wish,” Pearson replied, sounding a bit put off.

  “I do want to see the others,” Ian assured him, “but I doubt I’ll have much time for reading.”

  “Because of the case you’re on?” Pearson said in a low voice, as though someone might be listening in. “The Holyrood Strangler?”

  Ian took a long draft of ale, surprised at how much he wanted—needed—it.

  “That’s what the press are calling him, but that’s not—”

  “I read in the paper there’s been another murder—terrible thing.” Pearson shook his head, but his eyes shone. “Do you think they’re connected?”

  “I can’t really comment.”

  His face keen with interest, the librarian leaned in so close, Ian could see the broken capillaries on the bridge of his nose. “There’s a madman out there,” he said.

  “And I’m going to stop him,” the detective answered confidently.

  But the words had a hollow ring. In spite of the crisp, bitter ale, the comfortable background din of voices, the crackling of logs in the fireplace as they shot sparks into the air, to be sucked up the chimney, Ian was seized by an unwelcome thought: he might very well fail to apprehend this killer before he struck again.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A crowd had already gathered at the Theatre Royal by the time Lillian Grey climbed out of a hansom cab, clutching her ticket to the night’s event. She was glad she had bought hers in advance when she saw the throng of people at the box office, pushing and craning their necks, some shouting in their fervor to acquire a ticket.

  They had little chance, judging by the “Sold Out” sign plastered on the front of the building. Beneath the black-and-white banner was the colorful promotional poster displaying the cause of all the hubbub. It was Saturday night, but that alone would not account for the box-office frenzy. The reason for the mad rush leered down at his fans from the poster, five times larger than life, his perfect teeth and dark lacquered hair reflecting the dazzling white of his shirt collar and raven-black frock coat.

  MONSIEUR JACQUES LE COQ, HYPNOTIST EXTRAORDINAIRE!

  MASTER OF OCCULT ARTS AND HUMAN HEARTS

  ONE NIGHT ONLY

  COME IF YOU DARE! (NO CHILDREN OR LADIES PRONE TO FAINTING, PLEASE)

  Lillian shook her head at the flowery prose, calculated to titillate—what better way to attract ladies prone to fainting than to caution them against coming? Perhaps this would be an evening to remember after all, she thought as she gathered the skirts of her gown to climb the front staircase. The wicked weather plaguing the city for the past week had lifted. It was a brilliant night, a wide, grinning moon casting its white light on the neoclassical architecture of New Town. The buildings were ghostly in the pallid light, hovering over the gleaming cobblestones as if waiting for something. A shiver slithered up Lillian’s spine as she ascended the wide steps. The theater had been rebuilt just three years ago; the gold trim on its wide columns glittered, the gilt frames on the giant mirrors in the lobby shone, and the plush crimson carpets were deep and soft underfoot.

  Inside, the aroma of expensive perfume hung in the air, mingling with the clinking of bracelets and champagne glasses, and the rustle of silk. Patrons bustled about the lobby, purchasing last-minute glasses of spirits or sweets from the refreshment kiosk, their faces glistening with excitement. Lillian was quite caught up in the mood as she picked her way through the crowd to her box seat, in a private booth over the stage. Alfie had been on the board of the Theatre Royal, and everyone had treated her kindly since his death, insisting she keep their box seats. They did not need to insist—Lillian loved the theater and performances of any kind.

  What a pity her nephew was unable to join her—he had sent her a message saying that with a strangler loose in the city, he needed to work. All work and no play, that boy, she thought as she settled herself into the red velvet seat. In fact, she was rather put out by his abrupt cancellation, though she would not breathe a word of it to Ian. She was a woman who rarely minced words, but the one impression Lillian Grey wished to avoid giving—even to her own nephew—was that she was a lonely old woman.

  Still, she thought as she raised her opera glasses, it was a shame Ian wasn’t here to take in the colorful crowd. They were not all the glittering and glamorous. In addition to Edinburgh’s intellectual and cultural elite in their furs and silks, there were merchants, innkeepers, and bankers, all dressed in their Sunday best. Some of the younger fellows looking miserable, half-choked in stiff white-shirt collars. The back stalls were filling up with a rougher sort—tradesmen, blacksmiths, dockworkers, their hands as rough and callused as their voices, scraped raw by years of wind and salt air. Among the women, Lillian spotted a few who looked like ladies of the night. Their cheeks were too vividly painted, the ribbons in their hair too gaudy, their laughter burst from throats burned by whisky.

  The orchestra members finished tuning their instruments as latecomers hurried to their seats. The din of voices dimmed to hushed expectation as the conductor took the podium, resplendent in black tails and white tie. He peered at his musicians sternly, lifting his baton to give the downbeat, and the orchestra struck up a popular march. That was followed by a darkly mysterious waltz Lillian did not recognize. She fancied it was from the Continent—French perhaps.

  As the dying strains of the waltz lingered in the air, the heavy crimson curtain covering the stage drew back to reveal a lone figure silhouetted in a single blue spotlight. The crowd sat mute, transfixed, all eyes upon the man standing at the back of the stage, his features obscured by the darkness around him. He took a step forward, and suddenly the stage was illuminated in a flash of brilliant hues—azure, indigo, gold and amber, vermillion and amaranth—all blinding in their intensity. The women gasped, and the men sat up straighter in their seats. By the time the man onstage had taken two more steps forward, he had them.

  The spell had begun.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Four pints later at the White Hart, Ian’s intention to leave early had disappeared in a haze of alcohol. Now guilt and remorse seized him—he had canceled an engagement with his aunt, to jabber away with a man he barely knew.

  “I regret that I must be going,” he said, rising unsteadily to his feet. He felt fuzzier than usual, perhaps due to his head injury. He suspected it had been unwise to drink with such abandon.

  “May I accompany you to your destination?” Pearson said eagerly. “Where are you headed?”

  “Just home.”

  “Where is that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Victoria Terrace,” Ian replied, the four pints of Scottish ale washing away any caution he might have had about revealing his address. After all, the man was a librarian, he thought as he donned his cloak.

  “Capital! It’s on my way. I’ll walk with you, if that’s agreeable.”

  Ian could think of no reasonable objection, so the two men ventured forth into the chill February night.

  Like many great cities, Edinburgh had a variety of moods. It could be warm and welcoming, in the boisterous, dangerous way of Scottish cities, sly and beckoning as a sloe-eyed whore, or grim and foreboding. Tonight there was a feelin
g of expectation in the air, which had turned blustery and cold. A winter storm was brewing in the eastern sky, and as they walked, the wind from the Firth of Forth blew in gusts, curling around the stone buildings like a cat in search of a soft place to rest.

  The two men wound their way through the streets, tugging at their cloaks to keep the wind from yanking them away. Conversation became impossible as the blizzard increased its fury, blowing patches of snow at their faces, whipping their half-closed eyes. It was too late for the omnibuses to be running; Ian looked around for a hansom cab, but they were all taken.

  When they reached South Bridge, he bade Pearson good night. He supposed the librarian would like to be invited in for a cup of tea, but they lived in different directions, and Ian had had enough company. His tolerance for other people was limited; he longed for the solitude and quiet of his flat. Still, he didn’t envy the poor fellow as he watched his bulky figure retreat into the darkness.

  Safely inside, Ian pulled the heavy drapes on the front window closed before taking a lighted taper out to the pantry. Alone at last, he took what felt like the first deep breath of the day, savoring the feel of the plush carpet under his feet.

  He had decorated the rooms carefully, with Aunt Lillian’s help, filling the place with Turkish fabrics and Persian rugs. It was a source of comfort and pleasure, a retreat from the hustle and bustle of the city. He had chosen Victoria Terrace for its central location but relative isolation—nestled in the side of the rocky hillocks of the Old Town, the terrace was accessible from the Grassmarket via a steep stone staircase. The narrow pavement in front of the crescent of buildings carried no traffic other than the residents of the terrace. The closest thoroughfare for carts, carriages, and horses was Victoria Street, fifty feet below.

  His throat parched from wind and alcohol, Ian needed a drink of water. He also realized he was ravenous. Clutching the candle in its pewter holder, Ian opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside. As he reached up to light the gas lamp, he was aware of something out of the corner of his eye. He turned around. Sitting upon the counter and nibbling at a few stray bread crumbs was a small gray mouse. Ian blinked at the sight; it was not a rat—Edinburgh had legions of those—but a bloody mouse. It looked up at Ian calmly, as if taking measure of him.

  Ian gazed at the creature, realizing he was still quite drunk.

  The mouse resumed eating.

  Ian raised a declamatory hand and began to recite Burns.

  “Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,

  O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!”

  The mouse finished eating the bread crumb and moved on to the next one. Ian continued his recitation.

  “Thou need na start awa sae hasty

  Wi bickering brattle!”

  The mouse regarded him without rancor, chewing contemplatively.

  “There’s no panic in your breastie,” Ian muttered, thinking how pleased Lillian would be that he could still recite the opening stanzas in the original Scots dialect. He had learned it back in school, but he had a curious ability to retain and remember almost everything he heard.

  The mouse sat on its haunches, sniffing the air.

  Ian took a step toward it. The mouse glared at him, flicking its tail irritably, its cheeks stuffed with bread crumbs.

  “So,” Ian mumbled to himself, “a mouse’s home is its castle, eh?” He seized a loaf of bread from the bin and a cold joint of beef from the icebox, and left the kitchen. The mouse watched from its perch on the counter.

  “There are some scones in the bread box,” Ian said as he closed the door behind him. “Enjoy them, because tomorrow I’m getting a mousetrap.”

  Soon the fire was blazing in the grate, and after his repast, Ian settled into an armchair with the book George Pearson had given him. Outside, the storm raged on. Sheets of sleet hurtled themselves against the windows, clattering like the tapping of devilish fingers upon the glass. Ian got up and pulled the drapes more tightly closed, but he could still hear the sleet pummeling the windowpanes. Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat. He settled back in the armchair and opened the book. He perused the first paragraph, but his eyelids were heavy, and he struggled to stay awake. It had been a long day roaming about in the damp, chill air, and now that his body was at rest, sleep worked hard to claim him. The leaping flames in the fireplace were mesmerizing, the room was warm, the chair soft—even the rattle of sleet upon the windowpanes added to the soothing atmosphere. Rat-a-tat-tat . . .

  The fire was everywhere, all around him, and yet he felt no heat. He was standing in the front parlor of his parents’ house, the conflagration already in full fury. The flames roared and danced, licking as high as his head, and he stood there as if he had been nailed to the spot. He could hear his mother’s voice calling him, and strained to make out what direction it was coming from.

  “Ian! Ian, help me, please! Where are you?”

  He started off in one direction, but as soon as he did, the voice seemed to be coming from behind him.

  “Ian, darling, help! Save me!”

  He wheeled around and headed toward the voice, only to hear her cries coming from a completely different part of the house. Windowpanes burst and exploded from the heat; great timbers crashed down from the walls, blocking his path, but still he seemed immune to the flames all around him. A blazing ceiling beam tumbled down above him—he ducked in time to avoid it hitting his head, but the burning wood grazed his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. He fell beneath it, trapped by its weight, the fire searing his left shoulder and back as his ears filled with the sound of his own screams. Through the gathering flames, he saw his mother walking slowly toward him.

  Ian sat up abruptly in the chair, wide awake, expecting to see his mother standing in front of him. But the room was empty, the fire in the grate having burned down to glowing embers. His shoulder ached and throbbed, and as he reached to rub it with his right hand, the second stanza of the Burns poem popped into his head.

  I’m truly sorry man’s dominion

  Has broken Nature’s social union,

  An’ justifies that ill opinion

  Which makes thee startle

  At me, thy poor, earth born companion

  An’ fellow-mortal!

  The only sound other than the occasional crackle of the dying fire was the storm outside, as the wind whistled and rattled the windowpanes. Had man’s dominion broken Nature’s social union in Edinburgh? he wondered. Or was Nature herself to blame, and man just a part of a wider circle of savagery?

  Anger swept over him. He realized with a shock that his fury was directed not at the person responsible for his parents’ death, but at them. He was furious at them for dying, for leaving him behind to worry about his emotionally crippled brother. At that moment, he despised Donald, too—might it have been better if his brother also had perished in the fire? Or even Ian himself?

  He reproached himself for such thoughts. He recalled the sweet, carefree years in the Highlands. Were they, too, just an illusion, seen through the mist of time and memory? The story of his family’s life seemed to be missing chapters. Ian rose from his chair and pulled aside the curtains, peering into the darkness. Snow swirled around the gas lamps on Victoria Terrace, creating a halo of white around the yellow flames.

  One thing was certain: time did not move backward. He could never reclaim those days; all he could do was hold them close and lurch into the future. He had but one thing, he thought grimly: the chase. While he was engaged in the pursuit of criminals, everything else fell away, and he experienced a sense of purpose. He gazed into the darkness and waited for the coming dawn.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The man on the stage of the Theatre Royal spread his arms wide as he stepped into the glare of the spotlight. Tilting his head back so the beam focused directly upon his glistening black hair, he peered into the darkened theater. Every woman in the audience felt he was looking directly at her, and every man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Monsieur
Jacques Le Coq greeted his captivated audience with a smile, the light glinting off his broad whalebone-white teeth. Every woman in the room felt her heart flutter, and every man felt his sink. The hypnotist was a fine figure of a man, elegant in his black tails and crisp white cummerbund. His hair was thick and glossy as a colt’s coat, his shoes polished to a dazzling sheen. But it was more than that. His presence onstage commanded attention. Lillian herself was quite taken by the man’s seductive power, caught up in it in spite of herself.

  “How many of you believe in the power of the human mind?” he said, his voice low and rich and heavily accented, showing its Gallic roots.

  A murmur rippled through the audience. He held up his hand, and silence fell over the crowd.

  “No state is so natural to the human condition as that of longing,” he declared, strolling to the right side of the stage. “When we are hungry, we long for food—and as soon as we are sated, we think wistfully of our next meal. Poetry, theater, and song exist because of longing—our myths and stories are full of separated lovers, ambition-crazed kings, and nobly striving heroes. Longing ignites the poetry in our souls like nothing else—not love, not Nature, not domestic tranquility. Many of you are here tonight because you long for something, though you may not know what it is.”

  He gazed upon the ladies in the front row, who tittered and blushed. He strode to the other side of the stage and looked up at the box seat where Lillian sat. She felt the heat rise up her own neck, her cheeks burning.

  “But the power of the human mind has not been sufficiently explored,” he continued. “It has the power to overcome not only longing but also pain and suffering and a multitude of life’s travails. Who among you believes in the power of the human mind?”

  “I do!” shouted a young man in the third row, and all eyes turned toward him. He was seated next to a very pretty young woman in a light blue dress, her face garlanded with ringlets of light brown hair. It was obvious he meant to impress her. There were titters among the audience members, and several of the ladies fluttered their fans in front of their faces, hiding all but their eyes.