Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1)

by Carole Lawrence

  “He catches mice,” Ian remarked, “which makes him useful.”

  “I believe he is asking to be fed.”

  “In a minute,” Ian said, hanging up his cloak before heading for the kitchen, followed closely by Bacchus and Pearson. There was still no sign of Donald, which was a relief and a disappointment. Ian was still perplexed about the playing cards in his brother’s rucksack.

  “Have you never owned a cat before?” Pearson asked.

  “My mother was allergic,” he said, pulling a joint of mutton from the icebox.

  “How does he do his—business?”

  Ian stared at him.

  “The—er, water-closet business.”

  “I let him outside for that.”

  “I can make you a cat door.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A small swinging door he can use to go in and out—I can cut it out of a corner of this one,” he said, pointing to the back entrance in the rear of the kitchen leading to the alley behind the building. “You’re lucky you live on the ground floor.”

  “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Pearson,” Ian said, filling the cat’s bowl with cream. “Now then, what is it you wanted to tell me?”

  “I have found the establishment where your—er, strangler may have purchased those singular packs of playing cards.”

  “In Edinburgh?”

  “Yes. It purports to be a milliner’s, but is in reality a shop catering to magicians, illusionists, and other specialty stage performers.”

  “How on earth did you know that?”

  “I have a minor interest in such things myself, and I stopped by today to inquire. The gentleman behind the counter said they sell quite well, in fact.”

  “What is this establishment?”

  “It’s called the Magic Hat. Here is the address,” Pearson replied, handing him a slip of paper covered with his neat, precise handwriting.

  “I am in your debt,” Ian said, folding it before placing it carefully in his pocket.

  “Think nothing of it,” the librarian replied, though Ian noticed he was eyeing the roast hungrily.

  “Would you like some cold mutton and a glass of beer?”

  Pearson coughed delicately. “If you’re having some.”

  “By all means,” Ian said, realizing he was ravenous.

  An hour later, Ian was stretching his legs in front of the fire, listening to the sounds of sawing and hammering from the kitchen as Pearson busied himself making the agreed-upon cat door. After providing him with the necessary tools, Ian was shooed off to the parlor, where he nodded off in front of the fire. Pearson was handier than Ian expected; before long he appeared at the door, his face glistening, sleeves rolled up, a hammer in his hand.

  “There—finished! Come have a look-see.”

  Ian dragged himself from the armchair into the kitchen. “That really is quite ingenious,” he said, pushing on the small wooden flap Pearson had cut from the back door. Attached by hinges, it swung back and forth smoothly.

  “Now we must introduce it to your feline friend,” the librarian said as Bacchus slipped around the corner into the kitchen.

  Pearson grasped him firmly around the middle and placed him in front of the cat door. After giving it an introductory sniff, Bacchus pushed his head against it. When it gave, he initially backed away, but caution soon gave way to curiosity. Before long he was dashing through it to the alleyway and whatever lay beyond.

  “How do we know he’ll come back?” said Ian.

  Pearson smiled. “Cats like a ready source of food, which he already associates with you.”

  His response made Ian feel a bit put out, and he realized with some surprise that he wanted to be more to the cat than a source of food. In spite of his ambivalence about the animal, the cat door seemed to have sealed the deal. He was surprised at how uncharacteristically passive he had been about the whole affair, being bullied first by Sergeant Dickerson, and now George Pearson.

  “It’s late,” the librarian said, eyeing the decanter of brandy on the sideboard hopefully. “I really should be going.”

  “Just one more thing, Mr. Pearson,” Ian said as his guest buttoned his coat.

  “Yes?”

  “How did you know about the cards?”

  The librarian reddened. “Why, you must have told me.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Quite.”

  “I really must be going. Good night,” Pearson replied, ducking quickly out the door.

  Ian supposed Pearson had wheedled the information out of Sergeant Dickerson, but . . . no, he thought, the heart of a killer could not beat in that fleshy chest. He gazed out the window as a waning moon rose in the sky. The number of people he could trust seemed to be shrinking daily.

  What if Donald was right? Did evil really exist in equal measure in every man’s heart? Ian had spent his career convinced there were good men and bad, and it was his job to protect the former from the latter. Was it just a matter of circumstances, then—and under the right conditions, even a good man could become corrupted, like the monster he pursued so doggedly? He paced the front parlor restlessly, the wan moon casting shadows on the forest-green Persian rug, with its intricate pattern of vines twisting around one another in a never-ending dance.

  The idea was unthinkable. If his brother was right, fate toyed with people like a cat tormenting a mouse, and mankind was at the mercy of a cruel and indifferent universe. He had spent the past seven years struggling to wrest some order in the midst of chaos, but now . . .

  His hands twitched, and he longed for something to hold in them. His eyes fell upon the cigarette case Donald had left on the mahogany end table. Trembling, he seized it and snapped open the gold clasp. Pulling out a cigarette, he inhaled the sharp aroma of tobacco. Placing it between his lips, he struck a match and watched it flare as he held it to the end of the cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he tossed the match into the center of the fire, where it was devoured by the flames.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Ian awoke from a dreamless sleep to bright sunshine pouring through the front window. The weather had been dark and gray for so long, it took him a moment to adjust. He attempted to sit upright in bed, but a weight on his chest prevented him from moving. He looked down into the half-closed, glassy green eyes of his newest houseguest.

  “I don’t recall inviting you to join me,” he said.

  The cat purred loudly and stretched a languid forepaw toward his head, its fishy breath cold on his cheek.

  “Off you go,” he commanded. “Now!”

  Bacchus rolled over, exposing his wide white belly.

  “Right,” said Ian. “That’s it.” Throwing off the covers, he swung his legs off the side of the bed. The cat clung to him like treacle, digging its claws into his thigh. “Ow! Bloody hell,” Ian muttered, disengaging the claws to pull the animal away from his body. “Can’t you take a hint?”

  Bacchus stood amidst the disarray of bedclothes, flicking his tail irritably.

  “Good Lord,” said Ian. “You’re worse than the wee bloody mouse.”

  The cat responded by rolling onto its back and purring.

  “I don’t have time for this nonsense,” Ian said as he slid into his clothes, shivering. He longed for a hot bath, but the angle of the sun told him it was late morning already. Bolting down a crust of bread and a piece of sausage, he tore off a piece of the meat and put it in a bowl for the cat, placing another one of cream next to it. Bacchus sniffed at the sausage, flicked his tail, and lapped greedily at the cream.

  “So you don’t like sausage,” Ian muttered, pulling on his boots. “Just remember, beggars can’t be choosers,” he added as he pulled on his cloak and slid out the door.

  After weeks of gray weather, the sunlight was disconcerting. Overnight, the tempo of the city had changed. The dank cold had lifted; the streets swirled with warm pockets of mist, the sun penetrating corners and crannies that had been dark fo
r days on end. Everyone walked with straight shoulders and open faces, their limbs relaxing in the balmy air.

  Ian felt his own muscles loosen as he strode up the High Street, Edinburgh Castle glimmering high atop its rocky crag. Even the voices of the vendors on the Grassmarket sounded cheerful, blending with the noise of their lowing cattle and bleating sheep. Saturday was the weekly livestock market, as farmers drove their herds through the Cowgate from the east and through the West Port to the west. The last public hanging had taken place in the Grassmarket more than fifteen years earlier. Nowadays unlucky sinners were sent to meet their Maker in the privacy of the prison yard—though crowds of curious spectators sometimes gathered on nearby Calton Hill to gape at executions of more celebrated criminals.

  Ian picked his way carefully across the cobblestones, avoiding the inevitable specimens left by scores of farm animals. The musty smell of manure was harder to avoid, floating up from the pens down in the marketplace. Breathing through his mouth, he hurried past the area toward the police station.

  A crowd had gathered in front of the building, and as Ian approached, several people turned and pointed at him.

  “There he is!”

  “Oiy, when are ye gonnae catch the strangler?”

  “We’re not safe in our beds!”

  “What kind o’ police are ye, to leave a madman at large?”

  The crush of bodies advanced toward him. Acid fear flowed through his veins, making his legs go weak. He didn’t see a way around the crowd—to enter the building, he would have to go through them. His brain raced to find a solution.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Edinburgh!” he declared. “I want to assure you we are doing everything we can to catch this miscreant. In fact, due to some recent developments, we are very close to capturing him!”

  “Why should we believe ye?” yelled a stocky fellow in a butcher’s apron.

  “What are these ‘developments’?” shouted a well-dressed man in a rust-colored frock coat.

  “I cannot tell you that, but I will say that upon my honor and my life, we will bring this monster to justice!” Surprised by the passion in his own voice, Ian was relieved to see the effect on the crowd. Several nodded, while others, who had been angry a moment before, looked placated. He took a chance and continued toward them. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go do my job.”

  To his surprise, several people began applauding, and others joined in, stepping aside for him to pass. As the sweat slid down his face, it occurred to Ian that Moses was no more pleased at the parting of the Red Sea than he was at the sight of this crowd making way for him. He knew he did not deserve the applause, but all that mattered was getting inside the building.

  As he entered the foyer, he was greeted by the sound of angry yelling. Removing his cloak, he strode down the short hallway leading to the central chamber. A few constables cowered to the side of the room, pretending to be busy with paperwork. In the center of it stood Chief Inspector Louis Valeur Gerard, crisply dressed in his immaculate uniform, his face purple as a plum.

  “But why wasn’t I called? It is inexplicable—inconceivable!”

  The target of his tirade, DCI Crawford, stood a few feet away, a weary expression on his heavy face. “Look, Inspector Gerard—”

  “Chief Inspector—”

  “Chief Inspector, I myself only just found out about it.”

  “Mais pourquoi? What kind of organization have you here, eh? That you would not know is vraiment incroyable.”

  Crawford shot Ian a supplicating look, as if pleading to be rescued from this mad Frenchman.

  “I think I can answer that,” Ian said, approaching them.

  Gazing at Ian gratefully, Crawford said, “This is Detective Inspector Hamilton.”

  “We have met already,” Gerard replied, wheeling around to face him. “Why do you fail to contact me when this new murder occurs, monsieur?”

  “I apologize,” said Ian. “It was very sudden, and I wasn’t sure how to reach you.”

  “But I inform you in my telegram that I stay at the Waverley Hotel.”

  “My sincerest apology, Chief Inspector—we were all taken off guard.”

  The Frenchman let out a breath, and his forehead relaxed a bit, though he still wore a peeved expression. “Alors, if you allow yourselves to be distraits every time this killer strikes, you will never catch him. You must not play by his rules, eh?”

  “This is not a game, Chief Inspector,” Crawford said evenly, but Ian sensed his anger was mounting. “May I remind you that you are here as our guest, in a nonofficial capacity, and while we appreciate any help you can give us, that doesn’t mean—”

  “Look here,” Hamilton interrupted, “why don’t I tell you both what I know?”

  Chief Inspector Gerard pursed his lips and frowned. “Very well—I am listening.”

  “Why don’t we go into my office?” Crawford said. “The toxicology report on Mrs. Sutherland just came in.”

  “What does it say?” Hamilton asked, following him and Gerard past a group of relieved-looking constables.

  Crawford closed the office door behind the three of them. “See for yourself,” he replied, plucking a file folder from his desk and handing it to Ian.

  Ian opened it, searching eagerly for the phrase that would confirm his suspicion. There it was, bold as day, on the first page:

  Cause of Death: CYANIDE POISONING

  “So,” he said, looking up at DCI Crawford, “he’s not only a strangler, but a poisoner as well.”

  “Hang on a minute,” replied his boss. “We don’t know the same person is responsible for poisoning Mrs. Sutherland.”

  “Who is she?” asked Gerard. “And why was she poisoned?”

  “She knew something,” Ian replied. “Or he believed she did.”

  “But why not just strangle her?” said Crawford.

  “I think he intended to disguise her death as natural.”

  “And it might have worked, if not for your persistence,” Crawford mused, absently twisting a piece of string between his fingers.

  “And Sergeant Dickerson’s nose,” Ian added.

  “What about last night, then?” asked Crawford.

  Ian filled them in on the details of the previous night.

  “Someone should have fetched me,” Crawford said, handing Ian the early edition of the Scotsman. “The eyes of the town are upon us.”

  The newspaper screamed out its headline:

  MURDERER RUNS RAMPANT THROUGH CITY STREETS!

  POLICE BAFFLED BY RUTHLESS “HOLYROOD STRANGLER”—IS A LUST KILLER AT LARGE?

  Ian groaned. “Isn’t that just what we need now—more lurid journalism.”

  “They got one thing right—they do have elements of lust killings,” said Crawford.

  Ian frowned. “That’s an element, but I think it’s more complicated than that.”

  Gerard frowned. “But this latest victim was a—”

  “Yes, but Bobby Tierney was not.”

  “You said this club, the Owl’s Nest, was hard to find,” said Crawford. “How would the killer know about it?”

  “I think Stephen Wycherly took him there.”

  Chief Inspector Gerard looked at the headline with distaste. “Our Paris newspapers would never stoop to such depths of fearmongering.”

  “Bully for them,” Crawford growled. “But you’re in Scotland now, and the sooner you get used to it, the better.”

  The Frenchman’s eyes opened wide with astonishment, and for an instant it looked as if he might explode in fury. But then he laughed. “Never fear, Monsieur Chief Inspector; I have not forgotten it for one moment. Even if I wanted to, it would be impossible—the cuisine has reminded my poor stomach ever since I arrived.”

  “Our food may not equal yours, but I’ll wager you a meal at Edinburgh’s best restaurant that before you leave, you will be impressed with our police force.”

  Inspector Gerard gave a pinched smile. “I can only
hope you are right, monsieur.”

  Ian held up the toxicology report. “Can we keep this from the press?”

  Crawford crossed his arms. “Make the official cause of death natural causes, you mean?”

  “To avoid public hysteria.”

  “Agreed. Public faith in the constabulary is eroding as it is.”

  “If the strangler did poison Mrs. Sutherland,” Ian observed, “it makes him even more dangerous.”

  Gerard crossed his arms. “I fail to see how he could be more dangerous than he already is.”

  “What makes you say that?” Crawford asked Ian, ignoring the Frenchman.

  “It shows a level of premeditation. He arrived prepared, and carried off his plan without being seen. He is not a man who makes mistakes.”

  “Mais he makes the mistakes sooner or later,” Gerard said. “The trick is to catch him at it.”

  “Easier said than done,” Crawford grunted, sitting heavily behind his desk.

  “But why wait until now to kill her?” Gerard asked.

  “He must not have realized she was a threat earlier.”

  “What do you think she was going to tell you?”

  “I’m afraid we’ll never know.”

  Crawford pointed to a bulletin board containing pictures of all the victims, in the order they were found. Beneath them were the cards found upon each body. “What do you make of these playing cards—what do they signify?”

  “They are quite the rage in Paris,” said Gerard. “It’s the danse macabre—the dance of death.”

  “So he might have brought them over with him,” said Crawford.

  “Perhaps the cards are a clue to his profession,” Ian suggested.

  “He is taunting us,” Gerard remarked.

  “That much is clear,” Crawford replied, “but beyond that, what do they tell us about his identity?”

  Gerard cocked his head to one side. “He seems to be trying for—what do you call it in poker . . . la quinte flush—a straight flush?”

  “You’re right,” said Ian. “And if you include the two Paris killings, that makes five total, so—”