Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1)

by Carole Lawrence

  “It’s late. We’ll do our thinking tomorrow.”

  “Right,” said Derek, scooping the last bit of food from his plate with a piece of bread.

  After dinner, Ian made a bed for the boy on the sofa, giving him a pillow from his own bed. Derek threw himself on the couch and sank into the soft cushions, sighing with contentment. “This is what I call livin’. Play me a tune, will ye?” he said, eyeing the pennywhistle.

  “It’s late.”

  “Just one, mate? It’ll help me sleep.”

  “What do you want to hear?”

  “Sommit sad an’ mournful. D’ye know ‘The Minstrel Boy’?”

  Ian played the song through slowly, and Derek sang along softly.

  “The minstrel boy to the war is gone,

  In the ranks of death you’ll find him;

  His father’s sword he has girded on,

  And his wild harp slung behind him”

  He was surprised the boy knew all the lyrics. When he finished, Derek sighed happily. “That were great—do another.”

  “I said one. Now go to sleep,” Ian said, bending down to tuck the quilt around the boy’s feet. As he did, Ian’s dressing gown slid slightly, exposing some of his left shoulder.

  Derek looked up at him. “Oiy—what happened to yer shoulder?”

  Ian drew the robe closer, covering the exposed shoulder. The skin was red and bumpy, like bubbling lava. “I was in a fire.”

  “Same one what killed yer folks?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a rough break, mate.”

  “It’s time for bed.”

  “Do it hurt?”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “No wonder ye seem kinda angry all th’time.”

  “I should warn you, I’m a light sleeper. If you rob me, you’ll regret it,” Ian said, heading toward his bedroom. “Good night.”

  “’Night, Guv’.”

  As Ian lay in bed, his shoulder throbbed, as it did in damp weather. He wondered if his injury was the real reason he avoided women—or was it just an excuse, as Lillian had suggested? He did fear they would find it repulsive, but there were darker forces that made him shy away from the fairer sex. He went to bed at night hugging his anger, holding it close as a lover. He feared if he let go of it, he would have nothing. He knew he was holding on to his pain, worrying it as one might pick at a scab, but it gave him a perverse sense of comfort.

  He rose from his bed and padded across the green Persian rug, pulling back the lemon silk drapes Lillian had hung over the French windows overlooking Victoria Terrace. So many of his comforts he owed to her. Stunned by his parents’ death, for a while he had existed in a daze, barely able to dress himself or eat. His brother had disappeared even before the funeral, leaving Ian alone with his grief and confusion. He did not know what might have become of him if Lillian had not swooped in and scooped him up in her embrace, transferring onto him the fierce love she had given Alfie. He gazed out at the sleeping city, its inhabitants tucked safely into their beds. It was his job to protect them, to see no other family was savaged by tragedy as his had been. It was a quest worthy of Don Quixote, but it was reassuring to be at his post day after day.

  He thought of the boy sleeping on his couch, taken unawares by the swelling in his throat, the moisture collecting on his cheeks. Ian kept his emotions so tightly in check that when one escaped, it was startling. Edinburgh had many Derek McNairs, sleeping on hard cobblestones rather than cushioned sofas. Ian realized he had more in common with the boy than he might care to admit, knowing what it was to be dispossessed. Flicking away unfamiliar tears, he returned to his bed and slipped in between the sheets. His shoulder pulsed and throbbed as he turned onto his right side, the bedsprings moaning and creaking.

  That night he dreamed of following a faceless murderer through the streets of Edinburgh as the city burned. The leaping flames danced all around as he trailed him down wynds and alleys, until he cornered the man in a basement. Ian started down the cellar steps, thinking he would finally see the killer’s face, when he awoke abruptly from the dream. A thin gray dawn hung outside his bedroom curtains, and he watched the light gather before sinking into an uneasy sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The solitary figure standing beneath the shadow of Castle Rock gazed at the city, which lay lost in midwinter slumber. He did not like this time of year. The winter his mother succumbed to cholera, a life that had been bearable became a living nightmare. His father took him and his brother to the city, opened a chemist shop, and never smiled again. The more he tried to avoid his father, the more the old man zeroed in on him for abuse. The barnyard fights were moved to the building’s basement, beneath the apothecary shop, strewn with straw from the horse stalls next door.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he walked along the High Street, following the route traversed by centuries of warriors and wizards, monks and merchants, saints and sinners. But he was not thinking about any of them; he was remembering the night everything changed forever. It was only a few weeks after his mother’s death, and grief had settled over the house like a grim visitor, encasing the three of them in its miserable cocoon.

  Having dragged both boys out of bed on one especially nasty night, his father was muttering drunkenly to himself, twisting his belt around his hands. If the boys didn’t fight well enough, they would feel the belt on their backs. He knew this, and knew his father’s rage had grown and festered in the past weeks until it threatened to destroy them all.

  He decided that night not to fight his brother. It was time to stand up to the old man, and he felt if he didn’t now, he never would. He refused to fight, and his father’s taunts failed to move him.

  “Nancy-boy! Weakling! Useless old woman!” his father shouted, weaving drunkenly around the room and brandishing the belt, while his brother cowered in the corner.

  He steeled himself for the blows, but to his surprise, they did not come. Instead, he felt the leather belt being wrapped around his throat quick as a flash. Before he could cry out, he heard his father cursing in his ear, his face so close, he could smell his whisky breath.

  “You think you can cross me? I’ll show you what happens to boys who try that, you miserable little insect!” he hissed, pulling the belt tighter.

  He felt the life drain from his body along with his breath, and his last thought was that he was glad it would finally be over. The next thing he remembered, he was lying on the basement floor, his brother, looking worried and terrified, standing over him. His father was nowhere to be seen. Instead of relief at being alive, he felt tremendous disappointment that his suffering wasn’t over after all. What he didn’t know was that it was only just beginning.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A loud pounding on the front door awakened Ian on Wednesday morning. Cursing, he threw off the pile of blankets and heaved himself to the floor, the wide wooden planks icy beneath his feet. As he felt around for his slippers, the knocking continued relentlessly.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he muttered, using the curse his mother had always uttered, and grabbed his red plaid dressing gown. By the time he threw open the bedroom door, the banging had stopped. He entered the foyer to find a sleep-tousled Derek McNair standing at the open front door and chatting with a cheerful-looking George Pearson.

  “Good Lord, do you have any idea what time it is?” Ian demanded.

  “Indeed I do,” Pearson replied. “It is precisely half past six.”

  “Is he ta come inside?” Derek asked, giving Pearson an appraising look.

  “I have something of interest to impart to you,” the librarian said, his prominent eyes shining.

  “For God’s sake,” said Ian as an icy gust of air swirled in. “Come in, and close that blasted door!”

  Derek admitted Pearson without relinquishing his hold on the doorknob. Once inside, the boy gave the heavy door a mighty shove and stood leaning against it, arms crossed, as though on guard in case Pearson should suddenly
make a break for it.

  “What is so urgent that you drag me out of bed at this hour?” said Ian.

  “I apologize for my untimely entrance,” the librarian replied. “I took you for an early riser.”

  “So what is this vital information you have?”

  Pearson glanced at Derek and raised an eyebrow. “Who is this young fellow?”

  “Master McNair is my houseguest. He was just about to go to the kitchen and put the kettle on,” Ian added with a meaningful look at the boy. Derek frowned, but Ian clasped him firmly by the shoulder and pushed him toward the kitchen. “Please, don’t let us interfere with your tea making. I am sure we are all parched for a cup.”

  Derek wrested himself from Ian’s grasp. “But—”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to jeopardize our working relationship.”

  McNair’s sharp face broke into a wide smile. “Comin’ right up, Guv’nur!” he said, skipping into the kitchen.

  “What an odd child,” Pearson commented, watching him go.

  “Now then, Mr. Pearson, what coaxed you out of a warm bed at this ungodly hour?”

  The librarian pulled a carefully folded newspaper from the pocket of his overcoat. “I was going through the stack of old newspapers, preparing to discard them, when I came across this.” It was a copy of Le Figaro, the French daily.

  “This is two months out of date. Why—”

  “Look at the article below the fold on the first page,” Pearson urged.

  Ian’s eyes fell upon the article’s headline.

  LE MYSTÉRIEUX ÉTRANGLEUR A ENCORE FRAPPÉ!

  The librarian read over his shoulder. “It says—”

  “I understand French. It’s an article about a mysterious strangler in Paris.”

  “Read on,” said Pearson. “You’ll find that the crimes are similar to the Edinburgh stranglings.”

  Scanning the article, Ian realized Pearson was right. He looked at the librarian, who was fairly bursting with excitement. “The man you seek may have already committed crimes on the Continent!” Pearson proclaimed.

  Derek McNair entered the room, carrying a tea tray piled so high with biscuits and scones, his thin arms could barely support it. “Tea’s up!” he chirped. “I found some boiled eggs, too,” he said, setting the tray on the dining table.

  Pearson eyed it greedily. “Why, thank you—don’t mind if I do.”

  Lighting the gas in the grate, Ian sat down to the meal McNair had prepared. Sandwiched between his two unwelcome guests, he felt cranky and out of sorts.

  “So, what do you think of my discovery?” said the librarian, slathering butter on a scone.

  “Many people travel back and forth from the Continent. I don’t see how this helps us locate the perpetrator.”

  “You kin talk to the French coppers, fer one thing,” suggested Derek, stuffing his cheeks with raisin scones. “Two heads is better ’an one, innit?”

  George Pearson regarded the boy with some alarm, then extended his hand. “George William Pearson, chief reference librarian, University of Edinburgh Library.”

  Derek brushed the crumbs from his fingers and shook Pearson’s hand. “Derek McNair, professional pickpocket.”

  Pearson giggled. “Your nephew is quite the jokester.”

  “He’s not joking. And he isn’t my nephew.”

  The librarian gave Ian a puzzled look. “Why on earth has a pickpocket taken up residence with you?”

  “He’s leaving today,” Ian replied with a meaningful look at Derek, who frowned and bit his lip. “I just let him stay the night in exchange for—”

  “Fer help on ’is case!” the boy declared.

  “Indeed?” said Pearson. “What kind of help?”

  “Not to be rude,” Ian said, rising from the table, “but I need to report in at the station house. I’m sure you have somewhere to be as well, Mr. Pearson—”

  “Not really,” Pearson replied cheerfully, helping himself to a boiled egg. “It’s my day off.”

  “Then when you have both finished breakfast, would you kindly—”

  “I’ll wash up,” Pearson said genially, “since our miscreant friend here prepared the meal.”

  “Much obliged, I’m sure,” Derek mumbled through a mouthful of scone.

  Realizing he was outnumbered, Ian turned and headed for his bedroom.

  “Oiy—got any more cream, mate?” McNair called after him.

  “No,” Ian said, already regretting his decision to let the boy stay the night. No good deed goes unpunished, he thought glumly, closing the door behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  By the time Ian was dressed and ready to leave, Pearson and Derek were on their second pot of tea. The boy was persuaded to leave through bribery with scones, which he stuffed into his pockets before making his exit. Pearson was more difficult; after trying unsuccessfully to coax case information out of Ian, he finally prepared to make his exit.

  “I’ll leave the newspaper, shall I?” he said, lingering at the door. “Just in case you want to have a go at contacting the French police.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pearson.”

  Pearson tugged his hat lower and leaned against the door. “You will follow up on this, won’t you?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Pearson’s chubby face fell. “I rather thought you’d find this useful.”

  “Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

  “You will drop by the reference desk this week?” Pearson said moodily. “I want to know what you thought of that book I gave you.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good day, then,” said the librarian, and Ian watched through the window as he trudged toward the steps leading down from Victoria Terrace.

  After quickly downing a final cup of tea, Ian slung his cloak over his shoulders, grabbed a hat, and ventured down the steep, narrow staircase. Victoria Street was one of the oldest roads in Edinburgh, looking very much as it had four hundred years ago. Four- and five-story buildings hugged the narrow street as it curved and rose toward Castle Hill, round chimneys poking up from the roofs like candles on a cake.

  The city was still slumbering when Ian turned onto Princes Street toward the telegraph office. When he entered, the bell on the door tinkled to announce his arrival. He wasted no time scribbling out his message, handing it to the sleepy window clerk.

  INVESTIGATING STRANGLINGS SIMILAR TO PARIS CRIMES TWO MONTHS AGO. ANY ADDITIONAL INFORMATION USEFUL. CONTACT DI IAN HAMILTON, EDINBURGH CITY POLICE.

  “I’d like to pay for a reply, please,” he said, sliding the message underneath the brass bars of the window.

  “Very good, sir,” replied the clerk, eyes heavy beneath his green visor.

  “Have it delivered here,” Ian said, writing out the address of the station house. He handed it to the clerk along with a one-pound note.

  “Right you are, sir,” said the clerk, counting out his change.

  Ian was out the door before the clerk had closed the cash drawer. Leaning into a strong wind, he made his way to the station house, arriving just in time for the morning shift change. Sergeant Dickerson came in moments later, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them.

  “Forgot me blasted gloves,” he said, settling down at his desk. “Anythin’ new, sir?”

  Ian handed him the newspaper Le Figaro.

  Dickerson squinted at it. “I don’ speak French. What does it say?”

  Ian told him.

  The sergeant leaned back in his chair and studied the newspaper. “Assumin’ this is the same perp’trator, how does this help us catch ’im?”

  Ian sat across from him. “It tells us some things about him.”

  Dickerson frowned. “Per’aps I’m a bit thick, sir, but what, exactly?”

  “He gravitates toward large cities. He is comfortable in both Edinburgh and Paris, and doesn’t stand out as unusual or suspicious; he may be employed in some capacity in both places. He is likely to be
a man of some means, and rather worldly. He is likely educated, clever, and articulate, and probably speaks French.”

  Dickerson scratched his chin. “Beg pardon, sir, but how do ye get all that?”

  “Whoever committed these crimes didn’t call attention to himself—at least not enough to alert his victims until it was too late. That means he managed to blend into his surroundings.”

  “How d’you know he’s ‘comf’table’ in Paris an’ Edinburgh?”

  “Offenders tend to commit crimes where they feel at home, places they know. Someone familiar with Paris and Edinburgh is likely to be worldly and well traveled.”

  “But why educated? The Hound and Hare isn’t a place for tha’ kind a bloke.”

  “The Hound and Hare aside, someone who can afford to travel between major cities is more likely to have an education and come from a good family. He’s clever and articulate enough to have lured Stephen Wycherly to his death on Arthur’s Seat.”

  Dickerson shivered. “I dunno, sir—the more ye talk about this fellow, the less I think we’re likely to catch him any time soon.”

  At that moment, a young boy in a square-brimmed cap entered the station house. “Telegram for Detective Inspector Hamilton,” he announced in a thin, reedy voice, holding up a piece of paper.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Hamilton,” Ian said, fishing in his pocket for change.

  “Ta very much,” said the lad, taking the tuppence.

  Ian scanned the message eagerly.

  TAKING FERRY TONIGHT. ARRIVE LONDON TOMORROW MORNING. FIRST TRAIN TO EDINBURGH. STAYING AT WAVERLEY HOTEL ON PRINCES STREET. CHIEF INSPECTOR LOUIS GERARD, SURETE NATIONALE.

  “Who’s it from?” asked Dickerson, trying to peer over Ian’s shoulder.

  “My French doppelganger.”

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  Ian handed him the telegram. “It seems we’re about to have a visitor.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The second surprise arrived later that day in the person of Bobby Tierney’s sister, Caroline, clutching the business card Ian had left at her flat when he tried unsuccessfully to call on her. Having awakened before dawn, Ian was just contemplating a nap when the duty sergeant ushered her into the room.