Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1)

by Carole Lawrence

  “I know it’s been a while, but I didn’t expect to be greeted with a thrashing.”

  Ian lowered the umbrella. Standing in the front hall was his older brother, Donald, a dish towel wrapped around his ample waist.

  “Good Lord,” Ian said, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. “How the devil did you get in?”

  “I have a key, remember?” his brother replied, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger. “You really should change your lock, you know—this place isn’t safe.”

  “Edinburgh, or this neighborhood?”

  “Both—either. Take your pick. Nowhere is really safe these days. I hear you’re pursuing a madman. How’s that going?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Donald frowned and pushed a lock of hair from his forehead. His face was long and aquiline, like his brother’s, with the same keen gray eyes, but his hair was blond, his body soft and given to fat. He had put on a stone or two in the years since Ian last saw him. Taller than his brother by a couple of inches, Donald Hamilton was a substantial physical presence.

  “You could at least pretend to be glad to see me.”

  “Sorry, fresh out of pretense today,” Ian said, shoving the umbrella back in its stand.

  His brother crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side. “Really, little brother, you wound me.”

  “I haven’t heard from you for years, and you suddenly show up without warning. Why are you here?”

  “Well, most immediately, to cook you dinner. I’m making my specialty, haggis under glass,” he said, flicking the dish towel onto his shoulder.

  “Seriously, Donald, it’s late and I’m tired.”

  His brother met his gaze. “Seriously, then?”

  “Aye.”

  Donald held out a trembling hand. The long, tapered fingers everyone had predicted would belong to a great surgeon someday shook with a visible tremor. “I’m done with it, Ian—finished. No more drinking for me.”

  For a moment, Ian’s heart leapt. That was followed by a hollow thud in his chest. He had heard it all before—the vows, the promises, the declarations of sobriety. It had never come to anything. The bottle had always proven stronger than his brother’s will.

  He cleared his throat. “Can’t you get sober in Glasgow?”

  “Everything I care about—and fear—is here. You should know that better than anyone,” he added, his gray eyes burning into Ian’s. They were red-rimmed and swollen, and Ian suspected it wasn’t from frying onions. “If I can’t face Edinburgh, I can’t shake the bottle.”

  “And the gambling—are you giving that up as well?”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Donald said. “You’ve heard it all before. But this time I’m determined. It’s not too late to go to medical school; I could still get a degree, you know.”

  “You could,” Ian said, keeping his voice steady and uninflected. He didn’t want to provoke his brother into one of his rages. Though they usually happened when he was drunk, Ian had too many memories of Donald’s rants, and had learned to be wary.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “It’s not up to me,” Ian replied carefully. “The important thing is that you believe—”

  “Don’t condescend to me!” his brother hissed, and Ian instinctively backed away. “I’m sorry,” Donald said quickly. “I’m afraid I’m a bit out of sorts—no booze and all that, eh?” he added with a little laugh.

  “Of course,” Ian replied. “Now then, you said you’re making dinner? Let’s have it, then—I’m famished.”

  His brother’s face brightened. “Right!” he said, brushing away the rogue lock of hair. “I was joking about the haggis—I made shepherd’s pie.”

  “Beef or lamb?”

  “Both. Hope you’re hungry. If I recall correctly, your appetite was not always up to snuff.”

  “No fear of that. I’m famished.”

  Ian followed his brother toward the kitchen, relief flooding his limbs. Donald was sober—for now, at least, so there would be no drunken rages, no descent into self-pity and maudlin monologues.

  At the kitchen door Donald turned to him. “D’you know there’s a wee mouse in here?”

  “Did you kill it?”

  “Couldn’t catch the little bugger. I can get you a trap tomorrow.”

  “I’ll get one,” Ian said, wondering if he meant it.

  “Suit yourself. And now, behold!” Donald said, opening the oven and drawing forth a golden-brown shepherd’s pie. A waterfall of saliva cascaded into Ian’s mouth—it smelled wonderful, and he remembered what a good cook his brother was.

  Donald set it on a pineapple-shaped brass trivet on the kitchen table, standing back to admire it. “I haven’t lost my touch in the kitchen—or so I hope. You can give me the report when you’ve had some.”

  The report was favorable. Ian was soon on his second helping, the two of them seated before the fire in the parlor, Donald sipping a ginger beer. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the flat—the Turkish cushions, mahogany armoire, and rich fabrics.

  “You’ve done well for yourself, by the look of it.”

  “This is all Lillian’s work,” Ian replied, tearing off a chunk of bread to sop up the sauce on his plate.

  “How is dear Lillie?”

  “She has arthritis and thinks she’s hiding it from me.”

  “Always the sharp-eyed one, Brother Ian. It must feel strange to be in the same harness as our dear old da, eh?”

  Ian wiped his mouth with a monogrammed linen napkin. “I seem to have a knack for it.”

  “Good on ye, as they say in Glasgow.”

  “How is life in Glasgow?”

  “Crude, rude, profane. Inebriated. I felt right at home. Do you ever miss the Highlands?”

  “I dream about it sometimes.”

  “Remember the smell of heather in early spring?”

  “Aye, and the wild mountain thyme.”

  “‘And we’ll all go together,’” Donald sang softly. “Remember when we used to sing that?”

  “I remember it all.”

  “And yet here you remain,” Donald remarked. Lighting another cigarette, he tossed the match carelessly in the direction of the fire. It landed short of the grate, falling upon the carpet.

  Ian leapt from his chair and swept it quickly into the fireplace. “Be careful! You could have burned the rug—”

  “Or started a fire?” Donald suggested.

  Ian clenched his fists and turned away.

  “I saw the way you peered at me when I lit that cigarette. I’ve also noticed you don’t smoke.”

  “It’s bad for your health,” Ian muttered without turning around. “Surely as a ‘medical man’ you ought to know that.”

  “But that’s not why you don’t smoke, is it?”

  “If your idea of a jolly evening is discussing the reasons behind my personal habits, I suggest we call it a night,” Ian replied tightly.

  “Not another word—promise. Hand to heart, hope to die.”

  “Let’s have no more talk of dying. I’m well enough sick of it.”

  They sat staring at the leaping flames in the fireplace, their hungry orange tongues licking the air.

  “Your shoulder still bother you?” Donald asked.

  “Not too bad,” Ian lied. He didn’t want anyone’s pity, least of all his brother’s.

  “Mum would be proud of you, you know,” said Donald.

  “What about Father?”

  “What about him?”

  “Wouldn’t he be proud as well?”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t everything you imagined he was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Donald stretched and sighed. “This is no time to malign the dead. Forgive me.”

  “Are you referring to the rumors about him being corrupt? Because I don’t believe them.”

  “Quite right you are. I’m sorry I said anything, truly.”

  They stared into the flames
for a while longer, as drowsiness settled over the room.

  “Well,” Donald said with a yawn, “it’s late and I’m knackered. Being sober does that to you.” He rose and stretched himself, padding across the carpet in the direction of the bedrooms. At the doorway, he turned and smiled—not the weary, ironic smile of the man, but the sweet, shy smile of the boy Ian remembered. “Just like old times, eh, Brother?”

  Ian knew that no matter how much they pretended otherwise, those days were gone forever. Looking at his brother’s face, shiny with sweat and hope, he didn’t have the heart to say so.

  “Aye,” he said. “Just like old times.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Elizabeth Sutherland, known to her friends as Betty, bustled about her kitchen with more energy than usual Wednesday evening. Though the death of her tenant was upsetting, she was now the object of curiosity and sympathy, a state she found most gratifying. Her neighbors were treating her with unusual deference—even bossy Mrs. Porter who ran the rooming house next door had laid a hand on her arm, clucked her tongue, and said, “Poor dear—how are you getting on?” To which Mrs. Sutherland had replied she was doing as well as could be expected under the circumstances, and that it was most disturbing to have a tenant murdered under your own roof (she felt justified including that last detail, untrue though it was, since Mr. Wycherly had lived under her roof, even though he wasn’t actually killed there).

  The next morning, a lemon cake with real buttercream frosting arrived with a thoughtful note from Mrs. Porter expressing her sympathy, saying if there was anything she could do—anything at all—to please let her know. Other expressions of sympathy and concern arrived from other friends and neighbors—tins of sweets, notes and cards, and even a bouquet of flowers from elderly Mr. Grant, who owned the barbershop on the corner.

  Being a kind soul, Betty Sutherland was of course saddened by Mr. Wycherly’s untimely demise, but she didn’t feel herself to be in any danger. She and Mrs. Porter (of the luscious lemon cake) had reached the conclusion he had probably been killed over a gambling debt or some other character flaw. He had seemed such a nice young man, but you never knew about people—she had run a boardinghouse long enough to know the most genteel exterior could hide a dope fiend, dipsomaniac, or inveterate gambler. Though she continued to encourage the impression that the murder had happened under her own roof, she didn’t really believe the killer would turn his eye upon her. She was merely the unlucky lad’s landlady, nothing more.

  And so, Wednesday evening when the doorbell rang, she bustled down the hall to answer it in high spirits, thinking it was perhaps another cake, or a vase of flowers. Just to be safe, she lifted the lid to the letter slot and peered through, to find herself staring into the eyes of the urchin who claimed to be working with that handsome detective inspector Hamilton. Though doubtful as to the boy’s veracity, she had sent a message to the detective. If the message reached him, she knew the boy was on the level—it wasn’t uncommon in Edinburgh to pay street Arabs a few pence to carry information to and fro.

  “Mrs. Sutherland?” the boy said. “I got a reply from Detective Inspector Hamilton.”

  “What is it?”

  “Kin I come in?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Aye.”

  She unlatched the door and admitted him into the foyer. He was a scrawny fellow, small for his age, she judged, without knowing exactly how old he was. Though he was slight in stature, his eyes shone with keen intelligence. At least his face and hands weren’t too grimy, she thought; he appeared to have bathed in the last week or so.

  “Wipe your feet,” she said, and he complied, removing his cap respectfully. “I expect you’d like some soup.” The city was awash with boys like him, and a body couldn’t take care of all of them. But she had noticed him licking his lips as the aroma of cabbage soup wafted in from the kitchen, his stomach rumbling loudly.

  “Thank you, mum,” he said as he followed her down the hall.

  “So, what’s this message, then?” she asked once he was settled in the corner nook of the kitchen, loudly slurping down leek and cabbage soup and stuffing his cheeks with hunks of brown bread.

  “Detective Inspector Hamilton says he’ll call on ye t’morrow.”

  “Very well,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice the flush spreading from the base of her neck upward. The thought of another visit from the dashing detective made her go a bit wobbly in the knees. “Did he say anything else?” she asked, turning to stir the soup to hide her reaction.

  “No, mum,” her visitor mumbled through a mouthful of bread.

  “Don’t gulp your food,” she said. “It will give you indigestion.”

  “Yes, mum,” he replied, swallowing with a loud gulp. “Sorry, mum.”

  She turned around and peered at him. “Derek, is it?” He nodded, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Please tell the detective inspector he’s welcome to stay for a bite to eat if he comes in time for breakfast. I’ve just bought some fresh cress, and I can make him an omelet.”

  “Very good, mum,” Derek responded. “Or,” he added slyly, “ye could jus’ give me what ye got an’ I’ll give it to ’im.”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Things can get lost so easily in transit.”

  “You kin rely on me, mum.”

  “It would be better if I gave it to him myself.” In fact, she wasn’t all that certain the object she had found was of any use—but it was an excuse to see the handsome detective inspector again.

  “Suit yerself,” said Derek, shoving more bread into his mouth.

  Before the boy left, she gave him a couple of old shirts and a pair of darned socks. She tried not to think about where his mother might be or why a lad like him was on his own as she watched him head off down the street, but she had to admit there was something heartbreaking in the cockiness of his stride. The fact that he wasn’t seeking her pity made her that much more inclined to give it.

  She retired back to her kitchen, to have a bit of soup herself before bed, when there was another knock at the door. Thinking the boy had returned, she hurried out to the hall. But when she peered through the mail slot, she saw a face she recognized.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, opening the door. “What on earth brings you here at this hour?”

  Her visitor smiled enigmatically as she closed the door behind him. “I came to see how you were faring after the dreadful news.”

  She sighed. “It was quite a shock—to you as well, I imagine.”

  “Yes, poor fellow.”

  “You were a good friend to him, I know.”

  “Yes, yes,” he replied, his eyes wandering the room restlessly. “Have you—”

  “Yes, dear?” she said, giving the soup a stir.

  “Have you gone through his room yet?”

  “The police were here a few nights ago. They poked around a bit.”

  “Oh? Did they take anything?”

  “No, but they were very keen to find a letter,” she said, wiping her hands on her best towel, creamy linen with blue stripes. “Something about blackmail.”

  “Did they find it?”

  “No.”

  “Do you mind if I have a look around?”

  Her face softened. “Do you want a keepsake, then, something to remember him by?”

  “Yes, that would be nice.” He paused, suddenly alert. “What’s that sound?”

  She listened, and could hear whimpering and the sound of soft scratching coming from the back of the house. “Oh, that’s Stephen’s dog. He’s sleeping in the laundry room, but he must have heard you come in. Would you like to take him, by any chance?”

  His face registered displeasure. “No, thank you.”

  She sighed. “That young sergeant said he would take the dog, but he hasn’t been back since then. Anyway, just go on up—you know which is Stephen’s room.”

  She busied herself in the kitchen, humming as she tidied the counters and turned down the flame u
nder the soup. After a few minutes, her visitor returned, looking disappointed.

  “Did you find something, then?” she said.

  “No,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room and coming to rest on a scrap of paper protruding from her cookbook. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, this? Just something I found in poor Stephen’s room,” she said, plucking the card from between the pages. “I don’t suppose it’s anything, but I thought I’d give it to the investigating detective all the same.”

  “What an unusual design.”

  “It had fallen behind his dresser and was lodged in a crack in the wall. I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t been doing a thorough cleaning.”

  “Do you know where it came from?”

  “Not a clue. He didn’t even play cards, as far as I know.”

  “So you have no idea where he got it?”

  “I don’t—but perhaps the police will be able to find out. Would you care for some cabbage soup? I just made a fresh pot.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Have a seat there,” she said, leading him into the kitchen.

  “It smells wonderful,” he said, following her, the same enigmatic smile on his face.

  Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the building, fists shoved in his pockets, the card clutched in his right hand. After a quick glance up and down the street, he strode briskly toward the center of the Old Town. He was angry with himself—the card had been missing for some days now, and after turning his hotel room upside down, he had finally gone to the only place he could think of where it might be.

  He remembered the night he must have left it there. He and Stephen had gone on a bender, ending up at Leith Walk—and like a fool, he hadn’t been able to resist showing off for Stephen. He didn’t even know the card was missing until just last night, when he’d happened to thumb through the deck.