Crawford groaned. “If you must show off your book learning, Hamilton, at least pick a proper Scottish writer.”
“Yes, sir. ‘Firmness in enduring and exertion is a character I always wish to possess. I have always despised—’”
“‘The whining yelp of cowardly resolve,’” Crawford finished for him. “I know the quote.”
“Then you know it is Robert Burns.”
“Nobody likes a show-off, Hamilton.”
“But you said—”
“Good Lord, man!” Crawford sat back heavily in his chair and gazed at him with such longing and sadness that Hamilton lowered his eyes. The chief inspector turned to look out the window at the battalion of raindrops assaulting the town. “Go home,” he said. “Go home to your empty flat and your cold supper.”
“It’s not exactly empty, sir.”
“You have a paramour?”
“No, sir.”
“A pet—a dog or a cat?”
“Not exactly.”
“What, then?”
“A mouse.”
“You have—a mouse? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Go home to your mouse, then, Hamilton.”
Ian gave a little salute, something Crawford had never seen him do before. “Thank you for the whisky, sir.”
“Next time you might consider not swilling it down so quickly.”
Crawford thought he saw a smile tug at the corner of the detective’s mouth.
“Yes, sir.”
He turned on his heel and left the station house, the click of his boots crisp against the polished floor. Crawford sat staring out the window for some time before rising stiffly from his chair and shrugging on his coat. He plucked his green tweed hat from the coatrack and perched it atop his balding pate. The hat was a gift from his wife, who was neither fat nor little, bless her. Her long hands were cool and dry, and he longed to feel them on his forehead. But even her touch couldn’t smooth the churning in his stomach, he thought as he nodded to the desk sergeant on his way out—and all the rains of heaven couldn’t wash the stink of sin from the streets of Edinburgh.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Ian arrived at his flat to find all the lights burning brightly. As he removed his cloak, his brother called to him from the parlor.
“You’re back late.”
Ian entered the parlor to find Donald in front of the fireplace, feet propped up on the grate, a book on his lap. He wore Ian’s crimson dressing gown, though due to his size, it didn’t come all the way round his middle.
“I stopped at the station house, and DCI Crawford offered me a scotch,” said Ian.
“Was it decent?”
“He seemed to think so.”
“Lucky you, being able to drink. Oh, before I forget, a small urchin of dubious origin stopped by—said he had a message for you.”
“Oh?” Ian said, his exhaustion vanishing. “What was the message?”
“He said he tried to collect something from the landlady, but she insisted on giving it to you in person.”
“Did she tell him what it was?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Damn! Her stubbornness may have cost her her life.”
“How on earth do you know such a fellow?”
“That’s my dressing gown,” Ian replied, ignoring the question.
“It looks so good on me, I supposed you would want me to have it.”
“That robe belonged to Uncle Alfred. Lillian gave it to me.”
“She wouldn’t want you to be stingy,” he proclaimed, drawing the coat around his bulky frame.
“May I point out that you are seated before my fire, reading my book—”
“It’s jolly interesting, too,” Donald said. “Inside the Criminal Mind, by Guillaume de La Robert. Where did you get this?”
“From an odd fellow I met at the library.”
“Are you in the habit of frequenting the library for companionship? How tragic.”
“I was doing research. He’s a reference librarian.”
“Well, he knows what he’s talking about. This book almost makes me want to be a criminologist. Oh, don’t worry,” he added in response to Ian’s look, “I have quite enough on my plate reapplying to medical school.”
“Do you still have total recall of everything you read?”
Donald fingered the tie of the dressing gown, and Ian noticed his hands trembled. “Another reason to give up the bottle—it was beginning to affect my memory. Can you still remember everything you hear?”
“Sometimes I wish I could forget some of the things I hear.”
“A gift and a curse,” Donald said, stretching himself. “By the way, can I stay with you for a while? It would be a pity to let that extra bedroom go to waste.”
Ian looked down at his brother, trying to appear careless and casual. He could feel Donald’s nervous energy. “Yes,” he said. “But the dressing gown stays with me.”
“If you insist.” Donald shrugged, projecting unconcern, but Ian knew it was to maintain his fragile equilibrium. Lillian was right—Donald was the weaker of the two, torn apart by the intensity of his emotions.
“Is there anything to eat?”
“There’s a cold joint and some roasted potatoes in the icebox,” Donald replied. “I thought you might come home hungry.”
“Stay as long as you like if you continue to make yourself useful,” Ian said, going out to the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway, astonished at the sight that greeted him.
Perched on top of the counter, looking very much at home, was Mrs. Sutherland’s black-and-white cat. Ian turned and charged back into the parlor. “What on earth is that animal doing in my—”
“Oh, I forgot. A little redheaded chap brought him round earlier—Sergeant Snickers—”
“Dickerson.”
“He said you needed help with a mouse problem, thought maybe the cat would be a solution.”
“He has some cheek—”
“Do you?”
“What?”
“Have a mouse problem?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“There you are, then—problem solved.”
“I never—”
Donald rose and stretched himself. “I know, little brother, you don’t like other people making decisions for you. But maybe in this case it’s a turn of fortune. What’s the creature’s name?” he said, wandering into the kitchen.
“Bacchus,” Ian said, following him.
Donald clapped him on the shoulder. Ian winced from the impact against his injured flesh, the burned area still sensitive to touch.
His brother didn’t notice, turning away to rummage through the kitchen cupboards. “Perfect! The Greek god of sensual pleasure. God knows you could use more of that in your life.”
“How do you know?”
“A brother can sense these things. Ah, this looks decent,” he said, pulling a jar of plum chutney from the cupboard. “Now let’s see about that joint of beef, shall we?”
After devouring a good-sized portion of roast beef and boiled potatoes, Ian felt quite anesthetized. He sank down in a chair in front of the fire, staring into the glowing embers, and felt his head begin to droop.
Donald was sprawled on the couch, his head buried in the book George Pearson had given him. “Fascinating stuff, this. I was just reading the chapter on motives for murder.”
“What did you learn?”
“They run the gamut, but the Seven Deadly Sins are a good place to start—greed, revenge, jealousy. What about your fellow—any ideas?”
“I’m leaning toward revenge, though I’m having trouble connecting the dots.”
“Dear me.” Donald lit another cigarette. “Still, how convenient to have miscreants and murderers walking among us, so that the rest of us may lead virtuous lives. They’re like the pustules in an otherwise healthy body, siphoning off the toxins of society.”
“That is a rather bold theory.”
“It seems to me that the amoun
t of good and evil in the world remains more or less constant. If you take that view, you’ll see the criminals play their part—just as my failure has contributed to your brilliant success.”
“Are you suggesting there could be only one ‘successful’ brother between us?”
“I’m suggesting the forces of light and dark exist in a relationship of delicate balance, and that murderers appease the bloodlust of humanity. They perform a double duty: first, by expressing mankind’s desire to kill, and second, as appropriate victims of slaughter when they are brought to justice.”
“Do you believe the thirst for blood runs in all our veins?”
“When you look into your own soul, do you not find a shadowed corner that takes secret delight at the suffering of others? The Germans even have a word for it—Schadenfreude.”
Ian frowned. “I am aware of German propensities.”
A smirk spread over his brother’s face. “So you don’t believe a true, hearty Scot is capable of such corrupted desires?”
Ian gave a curt laugh. “This town alone is rife with pickpockets, thieves, and blackguards.”
“Ah! I’m not speaking of crime for profit. Surely anyone can understand that—and even a thief might have a conscience, a soft spot in his soul. I’m talking about evil for evil’s sake—that cold, hard edge of the soul that admits neither compassion nor tenderness toward one’s fellow creatures.”
“I’ll grant you some wretches have such a life—but most, I think not.”
“I think you’d find that subset of our citizenry to be larger than you imagine, Brother.” He rose to give the fire in the grate a poke. “Why, our own father—” At that moment a spark shot out from a green log, the glowing ember landing on the Persian rug. Ian leapt to his feet and stamped on it so violently that his brother stared at him.
“Steady on. It’s only a bit of cinder, you know.”
“Maybe to you,” Ian said tightly, “but that shows how little you know of me.”
“Perhaps you should consult an alienist. After all these years, you are clearly still suffering—”
“At least I’m not drinking myself into an early grave.”
Donald went pale. “Do you imagine I was somehow unaffected by the tragedy?”
“I couldn’t possibly say, because you weren’t there that night.”
“Oh, that’s how it lies, is it? You still blame me—”
“Don’t be absurd!” Ian cried, turning away.
His brother was right, though—Ian did blame him, especially in the early days, when he felt he would go mad, and Donald was nowhere to be found. He wheeled around, his face hot with fury. “How can you know what it is like to be haunted by their eyes night after sleepless night, pleading with me to save them?”
“Was it my fault that I was out—”
“Out drinking.”
“I was—”
“You were pub-crawling!”
“Surely I am not the first undergraduate in history to spend an evening with my fellow students in an Edinburgh tavern! You might have been out drinking if you knew what I knew—”
“How like you, to avoid taking responsibility for anything!”
“It was bad luck, but I fail to see how that makes me responsible for our parents’—”
The logical side of Ian’s brain knew his brother was right, but that part of his mind was underwater, flooded by the intensity of emotions flowing over him.
“Since when have you cared about anyone but yourself?”
When he saw the look on his brother’s face, he knew he had gone too far. Donald’s eyes went cold, hard and gray as steel. Ian tried to think of a way to take back what he had said, but it was too late; the damage had been done. Without another word, his brother slipped out of Ian’s dressing gown, threw on his coat, and stalked out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.
Perhaps drawn by the commotion, Bacchus sauntered into the parlor. Stunned by his own cruelty and lack of self-control, Ian stared at the cat. Dangling from the animal’s mouth was a very fat, very dead mouse. The sight of the unfortunate creature’s demise was the last straw. Sinking into the nearest armchair, Ian put his face in his hands and wept.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Kerry O’Donohue sipped his pint of ale and threw a sideways glance at the well-dressed man in the corner of the basement nightclub. The rake was trying not to appear interested, but Kerry knew well enough when someone was looking him over. It was early, and the club wasn’t as crowded as it would be later. There were still empty stools at the bar; Kerry could afford to take his time. The damp, low-ceilinged room with its stone walls and flickering wall sconces held enough light to make out the dozen or so sinuous forms draped over couches or slinking furtively in darkened corners. In an hour there would be threefold as many, the stones themselves seeming to sweat in the blue haze of tobacco and opium.
Kerry pulled a silver cigarette case from his hip pocket, slid one out, and shoved it between his lips. Looking through all his pockets, he pretended to search vainly for matches, though there was a new box in his vest.
When a flame appeared before his face, he didn’t even turn to see whose hand held the match. With a sly smile, he leaned forward and inhaled deeply, sucking the tobacco into his lungs and savoring the smoky aroma of Virginia’s finest. Kerry didn’t have a lot of money, but he spent what he had on decent tobacco. The silver case had belonged to his grandfather back in Ireland. In his more grandiose moments, Kerry fancied himself a gentleman, though in reality he was nothing more than the son of a Dublin blacksmith.
“Ta,” he said, offering the man a cigarette.
His seducer took one and lit it before sliding into the seat next to him. That was the way Kerry liked to think of the men he met at the Owl’s Nest—as seducers. His relationship to his own sexuality was such that he could enjoy the illicit encounters he craved only if he imagined himself an “innocent” partner in debauchery. No matter how fiercely he was attracted to any man he met in his nightly escapades, he always cast himself in the role of the unworldly ingénue, seduced and swooning over an older and more experienced Don Juan.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” the man remarked. His voice was a smooth, rich baritone, definitely English, probably from around London.
“Nor you,” Kerry replied, giving the man a glance before returning to his pint. In that brief moment, he managed to take in most of the details about his appearance: the pale, deep-set eyes; square cheekbones and long jaw; the sensual mouth, with a suggestion of cruelty in the downward twist of the lips.
His loins tingled at the thought of pressing his own face against this stranger’s handsome one, the hint of menace making him even more intriguing. Kerry was not immune to the allure of danger—he was not entirely averse to “rough trade,” and had enjoyed more than one furtive, furious encounter in alleyways with the city’s less savory citizens.
This stranger was hardly a member of that class—he was dressed as a gentleman, his black frock coat woven from the finest gabardine, black boots polished to a high sheen. Kerry recognized quality when he saw it, and knew his companion had spent more on his wardrobe than Kerry made in a year. He had the hands of a gentleman, too—smooth and well cared for, so unlike Kerry’s own, weathered and rough from years of working the docks at Leith.
“So what’s yer name, then?” he ventured, hoping the man wouldn’t find his accent off-putting—not that his origins were any secret. Even if he had wanted to hide his Dublin roots, it would have been impossible; as his ma always said, the map of Ireland was stamped all over his broad, freckled face.
“I’m Harold,” the man replied.
Kerry laughed and signaled the bartender for another pint. “Ye don’t look like a Harold.”
“And what does a Harold look like, pray tell?”
“Not the likes of you.”
“So, what’s your name—something equally unconvincing?”
Kerry took a long swallow of ale before a
nswering. “Brian.”
Harold—if that was his name—smiled. “You don’t look like a Brian, so I suppose we’re even.”
“D’you want to go to the back, then?” said Kerry, with a glance toward the far corner of the room. A narrow passageway led to a secluded chamber where all manner of sin and debauchery could be had—for a price. A slim young Adonis with chestnut curls emerged from the hallway on the arm of an older, dignified gentleman. The younger man’s eyes were glazed over, his stare vacant and dreamy. The older man’s cheeks were glowing, his eyes shining with lust and pride.
Harold glanced at them and shook his head. “No, I prefer somewhere more . . . private.” He drew a pack of playing cards from his frock coat and fanned them wide with a single smooth gesture. “Pick a card.”
Kerry tilted his head to one side. His brain was already fogging as the noise in the room blended into an impressionistic soup of sound. The rise and fall of voices, the clink of glassware, the shuffle of leather soles, all combined to form a background hum, a cocoon that enclosed him in the moment, as if his arms were woven to his sides, encased in silk. He stared at the perfect semicircle of cards.
“Go ahead,” Harold said. “Any card.”
Kerry reached forward and plucked a card from the group. It was the five of clubs. “What now?” he said. “Are you going to guess which one it is?”
Harold laughed. “No—it’s for you to keep.”
“What for?”
“Just for the fun of it.”
Kerry knit his brow and studied the card. Five skeletons grinned up at him; two of them wore fezzes, their bony limbs askew as they danced jauntily upon the face of the card. “This is an unusual design, so it is,” he said.
Harold laid a hand on his shoulder, and Kerry felt the heat of it through his woolen frock coat. “You’re an unusual man.”
The back of Kerry’s neck tingled with the possibilities of the evening ahead. His companion radiated confidence, with none of the shame or diffidence Kerry had seen in other denizens of the Owl’s Nest. He exuded something else, too, thick as musk and even more intoxicating: danger. The slow, deliberate movements, the way he looked at Kerry, studying him as one might examine a dissected body upon a laboratory table—it all made the young Irishman’s knees go wobbly. His head swam and he felt dizzy.
Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1) Page 19
