Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1)

by Carole Lawrence

  Jimmy shrugged. “Ye could set yer watch by ’im of a Friday night—come in by eight, regular as clockwork.”

  “So is it safe to assume he was in here last Friday at about that time?”

  “Ye’d have to ask them what was ’ere that night, but I ’spose so, yeah.”

  “You said he liked to fight,” said Dickerson. “With anyone, or just certain people?”

  Jimmy looked him up and down and smiled. “I ne’er saw ’im pick on a runt like you.”

  Dickerson felt his face redden, but Hamilton laid a hand on his arm.

  “You mean he liked to fight with people his own size?” said the detective.

  “Righ’ enough. Like I said, him an’ me’s had a few scuffles in our time.”

  “You said he fought dirty,” said Dickerson. “Were anyone out to get ’im for that—someone angry at him, maybe?”

  Jimmy threw his head back and laughed, the red bruises around his throat still visible. “Ye ’aven’t been around here much, have ye?”

  Dickerson took a deep breath and tried not to choke on the smoke-filled air. “Enlighten me.”

  “Ev’ry man in this place fights dirty. Some worse ’an others, but there’s not a sod in ’ere what wouldn’t bite yer ear off if he could git away wae’it.”

  “Then what made Tierney stand out?”

  Jimmy put his face close to the sergeant’s, the gaslight glinting off his narrowed, bloodshot eyes. “Bobby wasn’t just willin’ tae bite—he was lookin’ fer any chance. An’ it weren’t only ears, either—he once bit off a poor sod’s finger.”

  Dickerson felt a little sick. The combination of close, smoky air swirling with the fetid fumes of Jimmy’s breath was beginning to turn his stomach.

  Just then, George Pearson arrived with an armful of beer mugs, lowering them awkwardly onto the thick oak table, scarred with years of promises deeply carved into its surface. In front of Dickerson were the words Death to the English. He hastily slid his glass over it to obscure the message.

  “Here we are,” Pearson declared cheerfully, sliding in next to Jimmy Snead, whose surly expression softened at the sight of alcohol. “I got two for you. You’re a big fellow, and you look thirsty.”

  Snead closed his thick fingers around the glass and lifted it in a toast. “Here’s tae yer health.”

  “Cheers,” Pearson replied, lifting his drink.

  Dickerson drank greedily, savoring the cool, bitter brew. He had waited a long time for this and was determined to enjoy it. DI Hamilton sipped at his without relaxing his watchful, guarded expression.

  “How is the investigation proceeding?” George Pearson asked, his large, liquid eyes shining as he leaned forward.

  Hamilton frowned. “Mr. Pearson, have you been following me?”

  Pearson’s soft body deflated like a balloon losing its air. “I just want to be of assistance.”

  “I would appreciate it if you would do your ‘assisting’ from the—”

  He was interrupted by a commotion at the table of footballers. Angry shouting was followed by a loud thud and the crashing of broken glass as the table was upended. Glassware, ashtrays, and coins slid to the floor as the yelling became louder.

  The other patrons turned to look as one of the footballers squared off with a much smaller opponent. Dickerson saw to his surprise that it was Rat Face.

  “Goodness me,” said George Pearson, “I do believe they’re about to have a row.”

  Dickerson frowned at Jimmy. “Your friend’s about t’get pulverized.”

  “Not if I can ’elp it,” the big man replied, getting to his feet.

  Hamilton laid a hand on his shoulder. “Allow me.”

  Jimmy tried to push his arm away, but Hamilton tightened his grip and looked him in the eye. “I have a score to settle.”

  Jimmy cocked his head to one side and frowned. “Have it yer way.”

  “What score is that?” Pearson asked Dickerson as Hamilton removed his coat and shouldered his way past the other patrons.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Dickerson. He watched the detective push through the crowd as the bartender lumbered toward the two combatants, shouting.

  “Oiy! Take it outside!”

  But Hamilton was closer and had almost reached them, when the football player threw a punch at Rat Face. The little man tried to dodge the blow, but it landed on his ear, throwing him off balance. The football player, who was big and blond, grinned as the mob pressed forward, egging them on.

  “C’mon, Rat Face, go after ’em!”

  “Oiy, Tony, why don’ ye pick on someone yer own size?”

  “Pummel tha’ bastard, Rattie!”

  The football players supported their teammate with their own catcalls.

  “G’wan, Tony, crush the little bugger!”

  “Annihilate the wee rat, Tony boyo!”

  Tony wiped spittle from his mouth and raised his fist to strike another blow at Rat Face, who had staggered back into the fray.

  He never got the chance. Ian Hamilton launched himself at the man, arms wrapped around Tony’s waist in a rugby tackle. The two went down hard, knocking into a table and crashing to the floor amidst broken beer glasses and peanut shells. Dickerson sprang to his feet, craning his neck to see over the heads of the crowd.

  “Oiy!” the bartender shouted, having reached the brawlers. “I said take it outside, or I’ll call the police!”

  Hamilton rose unsteadily to his feet, blood trickling down his face from a new cut on his forehead. “I am the police.” He fished a badge out of his shirt pocket and waved it at the barkeep. “Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton, Edinburgh City Police. I’m arresting this man for creating a public nuisa—”

  He turned to where his opponent had been moments ago—just in time to hear the pub’s back door slam.

  “The bugger got away!” cried one of the other patrons.

  “Slipped oot th’ back,” another said.

  “For sure ’e’s gone now,” declared another. “Ye’ll never find ’im on a night like this.”

  Hamilton’s face was hard as stone as he handed the bartender a card. “If he shows his face here again, or if you hear a whisper of him causing trouble any time of night or day, call me.”

  The barkeep pocketed the card and pointed to the broken glass littering the floor. “Who’s gonnae pay fer this?”

  Without a word, Hamilton tossed a handful of coins on the nearest table, then turned and headed back toward the corner booth. Dickerson watched the crowd part for him. They had gone quiet, though the sergeant couldn’t tell whether it was because Hamilton was a policeman or because of his quiet anger.

  “Much obliged,” Rat Face called after him, but Hamilton didn’t turn around.

  When he reached the table, he handed another card to Jimmy Snead. “I may wish to talk to you again. Where can you be reached?”

  The big man looked at him with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. “Ye can find me ’ere mos’ nights. Ask anybody here—they’ll tell ye.”

  Hamilton grabbed his coat from the back of the chair where he had left it, his face still grim.

  “I say, aren’t you going to stay awhile?” George Pearson asked, twitching uncomfortably.

  “No,” the detective replied. “Good evening, gentlemen.” Without another word, he ducked through the same back exit Tony had used for his escape. Sergeant Dickerson hastily gulped down his beer before scrambling after him.

  As he left the pub, a woman with painted cheeks and a slash of vermillion on her lips sauntered up to Dickerson, attaching herself to him like a river leech. Wrapping her arm around his, she pulled herself close to his ear.

  “Would ye like a bit o’ fun tonight, ducky?” She was not young, and her breath smelled of cheap whisky and lye soap. “I like little fellows,” she purred, her hand sliding down his torso. “Bet you’re big where it counts.” He pulled away, but her hands found his, her jagged nails digging into his flesh. “Promise I won’t tell yer wi
fe.”

  Hamilton, several steps ahead of them, turned around. “Not tonight, Sally.”

  She let go of Dickerson abruptly. “Sorry, Detective—didn’t see you there.” She laughed. “I nearly frightened yer wee boyo here senseless. You’d better get him hame tae bed so he kin get t’school tomorrow.”

  “Very amusing,” Dickerson muttered. He almost remarked that she was old enough to be his mother, but it was unmanly to insult a woman, even one like her.

  “It’s too cold a night for you to be out, Sally,” said Hamilton. “Why don’t you go home?”

  Sally snickered. “Right. I’ll just tell me maid to light the fire an’ fix me a nice rum toddy, eh?”

  Hamilton pressed some coins into her hand. “Don’t spend it on whisky. For God’s sake, find a place to sleep.”

  “Thanks, Boss,” she said. With a leering glance at Dickerson, she turned and melted into the darkness.

  The night wrapped itself around the city in a comfortless embrace, starless and black as pitch. Dickerson hurried after Hamilton, jogging and quick-stepping to keep up with his long strides. After a few blocks he worked up the courage to speak.

  “Excuse me, sir, but wha’ happened back at pub?”

  Hamilton kept walking.

  They continued on for a while, their breath coming in thin wisps in the crisp air. The temperature had dropped, and rainwater had crystallized in frozen puddles, patches of slick ice between the cobblestones. The buildings of Old Town loomed above them, seeming to lean in as the streets twisted and wound around one another. Most of the windows were dark, though the occasional gas lamp still flickered behind curtains.

  As they neared the Lawnmarket, Dickerson tried again. “Who were tha’ chap, sir?”

  “Someone who should be swinging at the other end of a rope.”

  Dickerson felt as though a spoon had scooped out his stomach. “Beg pardon, sir?”

  Hamilton stopped walking. “He’s a known arsonist, Sergeant, too clever by half to get caught red-handed—at least so far.”

  Dickerson cleared his throat. “D’ye think—I mean, were he the one who—”

  “No, he was behind bars when the fire killed my parents. I just hate all arsonists.”

  “Sir?”

  “Let’s leave it at that, shall we? It’s late and I’m tired.”

  “Will ye be all right, sir?” Dickerson said, pointing to the thin river of dried blood on Hamilton’s face.

  “It’s nothing. Good night, Sergeant.”

  “G’night, sir.”

  He watched Hamilton’s long form lope toward Victoria Terrace before he headed in the direction of his own flat, blowing on his hands to keep them warm as a wicked wind whipped between the buildings of the Old Town. The sergeant turned around for one last glimpse of the detective, but he had already disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Henry Standish Wright stood before the hotel bedroom mirror late Monday night, gazing at his own reflection. The face looking back at him was handsome, well featured, the olive skin smooth, with a noble brow and full, curved lips. It was a face that made women swoon and men burn with envy. Along with his elegant, tapered figure and measured, mellifluous voice, it made him nearly irresistible.

  But anyone looking at him more closely could see that his eyes were vacant. Large and liquid, ringed with dark lashes, they should have been the eyes of a lover or an artist, as captivating as the rest of his flawless figure. Onstage they glimmered in the glare of the footlights, as brilliant and shiny as the dreams of his admirers. But like his act, it was only a charade, a hoax to trick the naïve spectator. In reality, his eyes were as empty and blank as those staring out of the sockets of the dead fish stacked in rows of baskets in the Lawnmarket.

  Henry Wright, alias Monsieur Le Coq, turned away with disgust from the sight of his own face just as a short, sharp rap sounded at the parlor door. With a weary sigh, he crossed into the next room and opened the door to admit the man who smiled at him with taunting familiarity. His visitor sauntered into the room, settled himself upon the French Empire love seat, and crossed his legs, displaying muddy, scuffed boots. His frayed shirt collar was open, his hair was uncombed, and his eyes were bloodshot.

  Henry glared at him and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

  His guest looked at the silver tray of crystal decanters on the sideboard. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

  Henry waved a hand toward the cabinet. “You know where it is.”

  His visitor strolled over to the sideboard and plucked the stopper from the lid of one of the bottles, pouring a generous amount into a cut-glass tumbler. Holding it up to the light of the chandelier, he swirled the tawny liquid in the glass, catching the glow of gaslight. “Lovely, isn’t it?” he said, gulping down half the glass before settling languidly onto the love seat. “Don’t you want to know where I’ve been?”

  “No!” Henry declared with a shudder.

  “You know, I didn’t even plan the last one. It just happened. Though it was quite exciting, I must say.”

  “Shut up,” said Henry.

  “But I thought you liked my little stories.”

  “Just stop talking.”

  His visitor shrugged. They sat, silence heavy as chains between them, the only sound in the room the mechanical ticking of the mantel clock.

  Finally Henry said, “Why did you come here? What do you want?”

  “Tut-tut—is that any way to speak to your own flesh and blood?”

  “You want money? An alibi? A change of clothes?” he added, with a glance at the bloodstained shirt.

  His guest helped himself to a cigarette from a silver box on the end table. “I’m disappointed in you. I drop by for a friendly visit, and this is how you treat me. You wound me deeply, Henry.”

  Henry rose abruptly from his chair and went to the window, pulling back the crimson brocade drapes to gaze into the street below. “This can’t go on, you know,” he said finally.

  “What are you referring to? The inclement weather, this hotel—your engagement at the Theatre Royal?”

  “You know very well what I mean.”

  “Then why don’t you turn me in? Afraid of the adverse effect the publicity would have on your glittering career?”

  Henry wheeled about with such a look of fury and loathing that the man on the sofa shrank back. Regaining his composure, he smiled arrogantly. “Tut-tut, Henry—or should I call you Monsieur Le Coq? I can plainly see what you’re thinking, but do you think you could get away with killing me? You’re bound to botch it in the end, and then you’ll be the one with a life behind bars.”

  Henry clenched his fists and hissed through his teeth, “It would be worth it, by God, to rid the world of the likes of you.”

  The other man laughed softly. “You’re not the killing type, Henry. Why don’t you leave it to those who are?”

  Henry fixed his gaze deliberately upon his visitor, locking eyes with him. For a moment, the man on the sofa met his stare, his face blank. His shoulders relaxed, and his eyes began to glaze over, his cigarette dangling loose from his fingers, as though about to fall to the plush carpet beneath his feet.

  “You do not really wish to kill anyone,” Henry said slowly. “You are sorry for those you have injured, and you will never hurt anyone again.”

  His visitor grinned and sat up straight. “Do you really think your technique will work on me? How pathetic. I know all the tricks, better than you do!”

  Henry turned away in disgust and looked out the window. People hurried along the street below, caught up in the mundane minutiae of their lives. He felt so removed from them, barely able to recall life’s everyday pleasures—a warm fire at the end of a day, a hot cup of cocoa on a winter’s night, the soft touch of a woman’s hand. He was an automaton going through the motions of living, as if he were on the other side of a mirror, looking in. Everything he had formerly enjoyed felt mec
hanical and meaningless. His only comfort now was cigarettes.

  “You know,” his visitor remarked, “you have no right to scorn me. After all, someone had to play the villain. You should be grateful to me.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Henry hissed without turning around.

  “It’s all his handiwork, you know. All those years, putting us at each other’s throats. What could he possibly expect—”

  “Stop it!” Henry cried.

  “Don’t tell me you ‘loved’ him!” he snorted. Cocking his head to one side, he gave a scornful smile. “You did! You actually cared for him, didn’t you? That’s disgusting. He was a monster.”

  “You’re the monster,” Henry rasped, his voice thick with emotion. He wheeled around abruptly and strode over to a small safe secreted behind a romantic oil painting of a thatched cottage. Pushing the painting aside, he twirled the tumbler with trembling fingers, pulling open the heavy door. He fumbled inside and withdrew several bundles of bank bills.

  “Here,” he said, thrusting them at his visitor. “Take this. Do what you will with it—but don’t come back.”

  The other man crossed his arms and leaned back into the plush sofa cushions. “So now you’re going to buy me off. What about your own guilty soul—can you buy that off, too? Would any amount of money stop the nightmares, the dark thoughts, the river of sin that flows through your blood?”

  Henry Wright bowed his head, anguish gripping his heart with a cold, hard grasp. His ears buzzed, and spots danced before his eyes. When he spoke, it was through clenched teeth, his voice harsh and raspy, the words wrung out of him. “Take the money. I don’t want to know what you’re doing or where you are; just leave me in peace, for God’s sake!”

  The other man drained the last of his whisky before rising from his seat. Taking the bills, he stuffed them into his coat pockets. “Very well,” he said stiffly, though Henry had the sense he was putting on an act, incapable of true emotion. “I will not darken your doorstep again—unless you do something foolish, of course.”

  “You have made promises before,” Henry cried. “See that you keep this one!”