Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1)

by Carole Lawrence

  “His hand is complete,” said Crawford.

  “Oui,” Gerard agreed. “Which leaves the question, what will be his next hand?”

  “That depends upon what cards he still holds,” Ian remarked.

  As he gazed at the late-morning sunlight slanting in through the high window, it occurred to him that they didn’t hold much of a hand at all.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Derek McNair paced restlessly in front of the intersection of Candlemaker Row and George IV Bridge. Freddie Cubbins was late again. Derek had just about had his fill of waiting for his friend, who never seemed to arrive on time. It was market day, and they planned to join the milling crowds on the Grassmarket, pretending to mingle while looking for pockets to pick. Saturday was their most lucrative day of the week—folks were so busy haggling, they failed to notice their wallet was no longer in their coat pocket until Derek and Freddie had vanished into the crowd.

  Being small and slight, Derek seldom attracted attention. Assuming he was younger than he was, people didn’t see the threat until it was too late. His slim, delicate hands were like quicksilver; he could lift a purse from a lady’s handbag and slip away through the crowd before anyone was aware of his presence. Freddie was not as skillful, and being larger, was more likely to draw suspicious glances or catch a policeman’s eye. Derek didn’t need Freddie to have a profitable day, but the two had been mates ever since Freddie defended the smaller boy from attacks by bullies, and Derek prided himself on his loyalty.

  Still, he thought as he paced the same blocks for the tenth time, there was a limit to his patience. Just as he was about to give up, he saw Freddie. Hatless and out of breath, he was dashing down the street as if being chased by demons.

  “Sorry I’m late! Almost got nicked by a copper fer stealin’ fruit and ’ad to lie low until he gave up the chase.” He stood panting and sweating, his big, friendly face anxious for approval. His big-boned hands protruded from a tweed wool jacket several sizes too small for him; his trouser cuffs hung a good five inches from the ground. While Derek hardly seemed to grow from year to year, Freddie had shot up like a blond beanpole sprouted from magic seeds.

  “I ’most gave up on ye,” Derek said, starting down the stone stairs leading to the Grassmarket.

  “Oiy—wait up!” Freddie cried, a lock of sandy hair falling over one eye as he scrambled after his friend in his awkward gait, ungainly as a young colt.

  “We’ll have t’make up fer wasted time,” Derek called over his shoulder as he darted nimbly around a plump dowager struggling down the stairs, encumbered by an enormous shopping basket on her fat arm.

  “Where we gonnae start?”

  “We’ll dig in’t the crowd around the livestock pens.”

  Local Midlothian farmers came to town on Saturdays with livestock, homemade jams and jellies, and everything in between. The wide avenue was packed with slaughterhouse men and butchers, as well as housekeepers looking to stock their pantries. The square was lined with all manner of stores—grocers, victual dealers, clothing and candy shops, all doing a brisk trade on market day. The coffee shops were packed with drovers rubbing shoulders with servants of society ladies looking to stock their pantries.

  Like most Scots, Edinburgh residents were a thrifty lot, but once seized by the desire to spend, their frenzy could last all day. The one common element was cash, and plenty of it—which was where Derek and Freddie came in, their aim being to relieve their fellow citizens of as much of the cumbersome stuff as possible.

  “Look sharp,” Derek cautioned as the boys swung round the corner onto the broad avenue, already filling with merchants and shoppers. The air rang with the high, plaintive bleating of sheep and goats, and the throaty rumble of cattle, as animals’ earthy odor floated into the city’s already fetid air. Looming above them, Edinburgh Castle perched like a brooding hen upon its stone nest, guarding the entrance to the city as it had for centuries.

  Derek glanced around for any sign of their competition. Pickpockets of all stripes were drawn here on market day. The best plied their trade with ease, while the less skillful drew the attention of the police and created warier victims. Across the street he spied Terry McNee, alias Rat Face, loitering in the shadows and sizing up potential marks. McNee was so skillful at his trade that he even commanded the respect of the local constabulary. They had yet to nab him in the act, though he was once imprisoned on the testimony of a pawnshop owner he had commissioned to “reset”—fence—a gold watch.

  “See anyone?” Freddie said, following Derek’s gaze around the assembled crowd. Sometimes he seemed to have no will of his own, mimicking everything Derek did.

  “Rat Face is here already. I don’t s’pose he’ll cause us any concern.”

  “What about that mate of ’is—Jimmy Snead?” Freddie asked nervously. He had good reason to be frightened of the big man, who had once spied the boys encroaching upon what he regarded as his friend’s territory. His attempt to scare the boys off succeeded. Derek could still feel the great beast’s fingers around his throat, and Freddie had been so terrified, he’d wet himself.

  “No sign of Snead anywheres,” Derek replied. “Let’s get ta work afore the amateurs show up an’ spoil it fer us.”

  “Right,” Freddie replied without enthusiasm. The sight of Rat Face had spooked him, and he followed close behind Derek, casting nervous looks from side to side as they shouldered their way through the crowd.

  Derek’s technique, developed from years of practice, was to head for the center of a group. People on the outer edges tended to be more wary, since they assumed (erroneously) that a pickpocket would immediately abscond after snatching a purse. In fact, Derek enjoyed casually relieving a person of his valuables, often standing next to his victim for some time afterward. Occasionally he even ventured a friendly remark or two. When the time came to slip away into the crowd, the boy was like an eel, slithering between bodies with astonishing agility.

  He slid between a couple of lawyers in white wigs engaged in a heated exchange about the nature of Scottish independence—a much-discussed but little-acted-upon topic in Edinburgh. Freddie lingered a few yards behind, doing his best to emulate his friend, but without his talent. His journey was spotted with epithets, exclamations, and excuses as he trod on toes, jostled elbows, and bumped into fellow burghers.

  “Oiy—watch it, why don’ ya?”

  “Hey—look where you’re goin’!”

  “’Scuse me, really sorry—beg pardon, sorry.”

  Derek sighed as his friend’s incompetence trailed behind him like the tail on a comet. He knew being clumsy wasn’t Freddie’s fault, but sometimes Derek wished to be rid of the encumbrance. Freddie was so clueless. Derek held his breath and slipped between a couple of comely, chattering housemaids with wicker baskets dangling from their arms, running a casual hand over their bottoms. The girls were so engaged in giggling and gossip that they didn’t even notice.

  One reason Derek liked the center of a crowd was that people were less wary of physical contact, being used to a certain amount of jostling. Pickpocketing was that much easier—and so was the opportunity to caress plump buttocks or gaze with impunity at a lavishly displayed bosom. Derek could graze a lady’s bottom with such a featherlight touch, she wouldn’t be aware of it. And if by chance she did feel something, her accusatory glare would invariably fall upon the closest grown man—after all, who would suspect a ten-year-old boy of such licentious public behavior?

  But Derek was incorrigibly randy; the mere whiff of a tea-rose sachet or the ruff of a lady’s bonnet could catapult him into frenzied infatuation. Not so Freddie—he loped along behind Derek like a big friendly golden retriever, good-natured and eager to please.

  Derek was studying the frock coat of a prosperous-looking gentleman of middle years, wondering how much cash his wallet was likely to yield, when he heard a commotion behind him, near the outer edges of the crowd. Turning, he saw the same rotund dowager he and Freddie had passed earlie
r. Red-faced and furious, she was thrusting a fat finger at his friend.

  “Thief! He tried to steal a loaf of bread from my basket!” she shouted at anyone who would listen.

  Freddie froze, wide-eyed and trembling, as if bolted to the spot. Derek realized he must act quickly or his friend would be seized by the first spectator to get his wits about him. Shoving roughly through the crowd, he grabbed Freddie’s wrist and turned to face his accuser.

  “Me poor brother is a dumb mute idiot,” he said, tears springing to his eyes. In addition to his other talents, Derek was an excellent impromptu actor. “Please forgive ’im. Poor lad is probably hungry and didn’t know how t’ask fer food.”

  The good woman’s face softened. She shook her head, her own ruddy cheeks moistening with tears. “Oh, dear me, I am ever so glad you told me. Here—take the bread,” she insisted, shoving it at Derek.

  “Oh, no, mum, I couldn’t,” he replied, but she thrust it into his hands.

  “I insist! You’re a good lad to take such care of your brother,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Here’s half a crown for the both of you.”

  Derek took the piece of silver and muttered his thanks. Freddie stared at them both with such a stupid expression, Derek wasn’t surprised the good lady had bought his story about him being an idiot. She smiled at them beatifically before continuing on her way toward the shops lining the main square. After some head shaking and a few muttered remarks of sympathy, the crowd lost interest in the boys, returning to the purpose of the day—haggling and buying.

  Derek grabbed Freddie by the wrist and dragged him to the other side of the street.

  “Ye’ve gone an’ ruined an entire day—over a loaf of bread!” he sputtered, waving the offending item in Freddie’s astonished face.

  “I was hungry,” he replied meekly.

  “We can’t stay here an’ work now. Everyone’s had a bloody good look at us. We’ done fer the day,” he said, disgusted.

  “W-what’ll we do, then?” Freddie asked, close to tears.

  “I don’ care what ye do,” Derek declared. “I’m goin’ somewheres else where I kin do a decent day’s work. Here,” he added, tossing Freddie the half crown. “Go buy yerself another loaf o’ bread.”

  And with that, he stalked off without looking back, the rage boiling in his ears drowning out the voice of his conscience.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The magician hummed to himself as he set up his equipment on the street corner at the Grassmarket. The plaza buzzed with activity as Saturday shoppers and vendors came together in a timeless ritual of bartering and buying. He enjoyed doing magic on the street—it was more of a challenge than performing in a theater, more honest and raw. He liked the close contact with his audience, being able to see the awe and wonder in their eyes when he fooled them. No, not “fooled”—enchanted them. He drew them into a world of mystery and marvel, where anything could happen, and they entered it willingly.

  He did a few tricks with metal rings and silk scarves to warm up—basic stuff, which he did well, having studied the techniques of the best, from Herrmann the Great to Robert-Houdin. His patter was smooth, his movements mesmerizing, and his good looks didn’t hurt, either—plenty of couples passed by, the women craning their necks to get a better look at him, the husbands tugging at their wives impatiently to move along. Constant practice had refined his innate gift for “prestidigitation,” as it was known on the Continent—what people here called “sleight of hand.”

  He produced a bouquet of flowers from a tiny Chinese lantern, which he lit by blowing on it, tossing the flowers to a young lass in a red-and-green tartan. She caught them gracefully, batting her eyelashes at him before her husband pulled her along the pavement. The magician loved the effect he had on women, but he enjoyed the reactions from husbands even more.

  He cut a fresh white length of rope in half, then quarters, making it whole again by blowing on it. He pulled half crowns from behind the ears of astonished boys and made a dove appear beneath the hat of a young girl. He made bright silk handkerchiefs disappear into his clenched fist and reappear in the purses of fashionable ladies, who blushed and tittered and lowered their eyes before his searching gaze. He did all of this and more, gathering quite a crowd around him, as shoppers leaving and entering the market were drawn by the increasing number of spectators straining to see over the heads of the people in front of them.

  It was all a prelude, an overture, to the main event, the skill he truly excelled at: card tricks. He was a wizard with a deck of playing cards, and could make them dance and leap as though they were alive. His hands, always supple, moved with lightning swiftness; buoyed by his constant stream of commentary, he could fool even the keenest eye.

  “Who would like to pick a card?” he asked, tossing an entire pack into the air, flipping them over one by one with lightning speed so that they returned to his hands like fifty-two boomerangs. Jaws dropped among his spectators, who burst into enthusiastic applause, followed by excited chattering.

  “Did ye see that, Mary?”

  “’At fella’s a wonder, he is!”

  “I never seen anythin’ like it.”

  “Lord Almighty in heaven!”

  “More like the devil, if ye ask me.”

  He smiled and fanned the cards out in front of him in a perfect half-moon. “Go ahead—pick a card, any card.” He looked over the crowd, their faces as open and trusting as children’s. He had them—they were truly in his power now. He took a deep breath and smiled at his subjects, catching the eye of a grubby, sad-faced street Arab. The boy frowned and shoved his hands into his pockets. The magician beamed at him. “What’s your name?”

  “Freddie,” the boy replied, gazing down at his shabby shoes.

  “Pick a card, Freddie. Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to bite.”

  Hesitantly, the boy reached for a card, and the magician felt a surge of pleasure. It was going to be a good night.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Long after the firing of the One O’Clock Gun high atop the volcanic Castle Rock, the shadows were lengthening in the Edinburgh police station. After shining bravely all morning, the weary February sky had finally surrendered to a mottled cloud cover threatening to cast the city into another midwinter gloom. The three men huddled in DCI Crawford’s office poring over evidence hardly noticed the change in the air, so intent were they on unraveling the puzzle of one man’s identity.

  “It would be a great help to us, Chief Inspector, if we could locate the shop where those cards were purchased,” DCI Crawford remarked.

  “Malheureusement, they are very common in Paris,” the Frenchman replied. “We look already, of course, though with no result définitif. But I must return to Paris. I will try to turn over more stones, eh?”

  “My sources have located a shop in Edinburgh that sells them,” Ian said.

  Crawford looked at him curiously, his bushy eyebrows drawn together. “And what ‘sources’ might those be?”

  “Sergeant Dickerson,” Ian lied. He had no desire to explain George Pearson or his interest in the case to DCI Crawford.

  “Where the blazes is he, by the way?”

  Ian considered telling the truth about the sergeant’s whereabouts but decided against it. “Interviewing potential witnesses, sir.”

  Crawford grunted and slid into his chair. “Very well—if you can trust him not to muck it up.”

  “Dickerson’s a good man. There are one or two other points I intend to investigate.”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “I detected the aroma of opium on Kerry O’Donohue.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I have some ideas as to where he may have procured the opium.”

  Chief Inspector Gerard raised a thick black eyebrow. “Vraiment? I would like to stay, but I take the train to London this evening. Before I leave, would either of you care to join me for a late lunch, as my guest?”

  “Very kind of you, but I must be getting
home to my wife,” Crawford said. “Another time, perhaps.”

  “Certainement. Et vous, monsieur?” Gerard asked Ian.

  “Thank you, but I have another interview to conduct this afternoon.”

  Inspector Gerard shook his head. “I must say, I fail to comprehend the Scottish indifference to food. In France, we consider meals to be sacro-saint—what is your expression for this?”

  “The same,” said Ian. “Sacrosanct.”

  “Oui, c’est la même chose. To us, it is very important, the eating of good food, the sensual plaisir, you know?”

  “Blame Scottish Presbyterianism,” said Crawford. “We’re a bunch of bloody stoics. Though we do like our sweets,” he added, popping a biscuit into his mouth.

  “C’est important to refresh the mind and body, no?” said Gerard.

  “I envy your Gallic sensuality,” Crawford said, “but I’m too old to change. Go and enjoy your lunch.”

  “Merci. It has been a privilege working with you,” Gerard said, offering his hand, which Ian and Crawford shook warmly. In spite of the initial friction between them, Ian would be sorry to see the Frenchman go, and he suspected the chief inspector felt the same. “I call on you tomorrow,” said Gerard, putting on his hat and coat.

  “Tomorrow is Sunday,” said Crawford. “I’ll be at church in the morning.”

  “Et vous, monsieur?” Gerard asked Ian.

  “I usually spend Sundays with my aunt.”

  “And when will that aunt of yours give me an answer about the photography?” Crawford said. “‘Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing.’”

  “My apologies, sir—she said she would be delighted.”

  “You could have told me earlier,” Crawford grunted. “Tell her I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I’ll also convey your excellent knowledge of Robert Burns. She is also a devotee of his writing.”

  “Good on her for appreciating a proper Scottish poet.”

  “You will please contact me if there are further developments?” Gerard interrupted impatiently.