Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1)

by Carole Lawrence

  Crime was his passion, and when he became interested in a subject, he immersed himself in it. And, to be honest, he was more than a little taken with DI Hamilton. His fine figure and keen gray eyes had cast a spell on George Pearson.

  He took another sip of bitter tea and gazed at a young couple strolling arm in arm along the pavement, the girl leaning into her companion and pressing her shoulder into his side. The bonnet she wore prevented him from seeing her face, but every aspect of her attitude and movements telegraphed her happiness. The two of them were not especially well dressed, so George knew they hadn’t much money, but they looked so happy that his heart swelled with envy. He knew such public affection would never be part of his own life—his desires were aberrant in the eyes of society. He could alleviate his bodily cravings in such low, degrading establishments as existed in Edinburgh, but the idea was abhorrent to him.

  In spite of his cluttered flat, George Pearson was a fastidious man, and the thought of groping strangers in dark and dingy rooms was more than he could bear. He was a natural romantic, given more to love than to lust, longing for soulful union rather than rude, animalistic coupling. And so he lived in a state of continual desire, tormented by the vision of love all around him. But there was something in the longing itself, a sharp sweetness he had come to believe was better than nothing at all.

  When he met DI Hamilton, George resolved to make himself useful to the young detective. He gazed at the pile of books stacked on the floor next to his favorite wing chair, its venerable armrests covered with tattered doilies. The one he had been reading lay on the cushion, open to the chapter on motive. That was the tricky aspect of these killings, George thought. He wondered if he had more in common with the murderer than he would care to think.

  George gazed at the book, its pages browning at the edges, and wondered if such a man could be found at one of the places where he had vowed never to set foot. Outside, the light was seeping from the sky as it slipped from cobalt to midnight blue. George bit his lip, standing for a moment undecided, then reached for his coat. The night beckoned, and so did the allure of danger. He felt a thrill in his veins; as he locked the flat behind him, he realized he had never felt more alive.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  When Scotland’s King David I established Holyrood Abbey in 1128, he would no doubt have been mortified to learn its eventual fate as a palace of the British monarchy. As for the neighborhood known as the Canongate (from the old Scots word “gait,” meaning road), its destiny was even less savory. Originally named after the clerics of the nearby abbey, Canongate was now the location of all manner of vice and depravity. When a member of Edinburgh’s police force needed to track down a criminal, odds were the miscreant would turn up in the warren of dilapidated tenements stacked like chicken crates atop the spiderweb of wynds and alleys weaving between the city’s shrugging façades and crumbling walls.

  It was to this seedy locale that Ian Hamilton’s search took him. If one needed to procure opium without any questions being asked, Canongate was the place to go. Armed with only vague references to an owl and a Chinaman named Pong, he set about to find where Stephen Wycherly might have procured the drug.

  On Saturday night, the already considerable level of drinking and debauchery increased several notches. Swells from the New Town seeking a night of illicit companionship roamed the rough-hewn cobblestones alongside the neighborhood’s denizens—an unpleasant mix of thieves, ruffians, and pickpockets. Home to most of the city’s slaughterhouses as well as a fair number of pubs, the Canongate had a distinctive aroma of warm blood, cold steel, and stale beer. The slaughterhouses were dark, but lights blazed brightly in pub windows, shouts and drunken singing spilling out into the streets along with rowdy bar brawlers. As Ian passed the Hound and Hare, stepping carefully over refuse and piles of horse manure, he heard half a dozen inebriants bellowing the lyrics to a popular bawdy song.

  Big Nell was a woman of parts

  With a face that broke many hearts

  Her bottom was wide, and so soft inside

  You’d best look out for her farts

  Ian shook his head—the popular urge to juxtapose the sexual and the scatological had always puzzled him. When he thought of women—and he did his best not to—it was not in conjunction with rude bar songs. Just then, a familiar voice behind him said, “Unpleasant, isn’t it—the mindless braying of the great unwashed?”

  Startled, he spun around to see a smiling George Pearson, dressed in an Inverness cape and tweed cap.

  “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Pearson’s smile drooped. “May a man not move about freely without being questioned as to his intentions?”

  “See here, Mr. Pearson—I appreciate your interest, but you really must stop following me.”

  “I am not ‘following you,’ Detective,” the librarian replied huffily. “If we happened to meet tonight, it is simply by chance.”

  “Coincidence does not have so wide a reach as you seem to imagine.”

  “I did not say it was by coincidence—I said it was by chance.”

  “I fail to see the distinction.”

  “Coincidence implies that no cause aligns our mutual presence here. But chance allows for the presence of that cause.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “The apprehension of a murderer.”

  “Mr. Pearson,” Ian cautioned,“please refrain from imagining that you are my associate in this matter.”

  “No thought is farther from my mind, I assure you. I bid you good night,” he replied stiffly.

  “Good night, then,” Ian said, striding off into the night. Before he had gone more than a few yards, he turned to see the librarian following several paces behind. “Why are you following me?” he said, frowning.

  “As we seem to be headed in the same direction, I thought I would let you proceed apace so as to not burden you with my company,” Pearson replied, lighting a cheroot pipe.

  “And exactly where are you going?”

  Pearson blew a puff of smoke into the foggy air; it hung suspended for a moment before dissolving into the mist. “I intend to pay a visit to an unsavory establishment.”

  “What is it?”

  “You would not care for it.”

  “For the love of God, man, what is it?”

  “It is called the Owl’s Nest.”

  Ian couldn’t help the surprise that came over his face. “The Owl’s Nest, did you say?”

  “Why—do you know it?”

  “I intend to.”

  “I see,” Pearson replied without moving.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Are you going to show me where it is or not?”

  “You want me to take you there after castigating me for interfering?”

  Ian took a deep breath and thought of Aunt Lillian. He could almost hear her voice: Be sensible, Ian. You’ve always been far too impatient. He looked at the librarian, who stood puffing on his pipe, the smoke curling around his plump face.

  “First I must know the answer to a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “How did you know about the playing cards?”

  “The child told me.”

  “You mean Derek McNair?”

  “Yes—over breakfast at your flat, after you left.”

  Ian frowned. “He shouldn’t have told you.”

  “I didn’t realize it was confidential until you mentioned it the other day. Not wishing to get him in trouble, I avoided answering you.”

  “We never released that information to the public.”

  “Then how did he know?”

  “He found a card when he discovered one of the victims.”

  “How gruesome,” the librarian said with a shudder, but his eyes glistened with excitement.

  “Now, would you please conduct me to this establishment?” Ian said.

  His companion’s broad face relaxed into a smile. “Certainly, Detective—right this wa
y.”

  He launched his ungainly body forward, striding with such vigor that Ian grabbed hold of his hat to prevent it falling off.

  As the two of them disappeared into the fog, they failed to notice a dark figure skulking in the shadows of the row of tenement houses across the road. The figure trailed them at a distance, hugging the buildings on the dark side of the street. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled mournfully as the fog thickened, wrapping the city of Edinburgh in its murky embrace.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  The unmarked entrance to the Owl’s Nest was impossible to find without knowing precisely where to look. An unlocked iron gate led through a courtyard off Fleshmarket Close—appropriately named, Ian thought grimly as a rat scuttled across the paving stones. At the far end, stone steps led to the basement of a sixteenth-century tenement building. He followed Pearson down the stairs and through a heavy oak door, darkened by years of soot, and into a dimly lit basement cloudy with tobacco smoke.

  The only illumination came from a pair of wall sconces and a few candles scattered haphazardly about. A row of men crowded the long bar at the other end of the room, while others loitered in pairs along the bare brick walls on either side. The sickly sweet smell of opium lurked beneath the haze of tobacco. A narrow passageway led past the bar to a back room, which Ian assumed was the source of the aroma.

  Their entrance was greeted with searching glances from the men at the bar. Ian felt his breath coming shallow and tight, but to his surprise, the normally awkward Pearson moved through the press of bodies, inserting himself next to a slim young man at the bar. Ian followed, avoiding eye contact with any of the patrons, though he could feel their gaze upon him.

  Behind him, a man with a thick Glaswegian accent muttered, “Now ’at’s a bit I wouldn’t mind gettin’ next tae.” His companion laughed a throaty whisky laugh, followed by a sputtering cough.

  Ian’s discomfort was followed by a memory of a conversation he once had with Aunt Lillian about the indignities she had suffered as a young woman from the attention of men. He had not until this moment considered what it must have actually felt like. Ears burning, he slid onto the stool next to George Pearson, who was calmly conversing with the bartender, a heavyset Irishman with one gold earring and a red beard.

  “That’ll be one shilling,” said the barkeep as he slid two glasses of whisky in front of the librarian. “Is he with you, then?” he added with an appraising glance at Ian.

  “Indeed he is,” Pearson responded calmly.

  “Not bad,” the Irishman remarked with a grin, showing a set of whalebone-white teeth. He reminded Ian of a pirate—all he needed was a kerchief wrapped around his head to be at home on a schooner flying a Jolly Roger flag.

  George held up his glass. “‘May you live all the days of your life.’”

  “I never heard o’ that one,” said the bartender.

  “Jonathan Swift.”

  The Irishman smiled. “A Dubliner, God bless ’im!”

  “Indeed,” George remarked.

  Ian was impressed at the librarian’s poise. He was clearly more at home and relaxed than the detective, who felt jumpier by the minute.

  The bartender smiled widely, displaying his gleaming ivory teeth. “You’ve decent taste for an Englishman, so you do.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Your friend’s a quiet one, though.”

  “He’s just shy,” said George. “But he does have something to ask you.”

  “An’ what might that be, then?”

  Ian fumbled around in his jacket pocket for the playing card, afraid he had lost it, until his fingers closed upon it. He held it up to the bartender. “Have you seen this card before?”

  “Let’s have a look,” the Irishman said, leaning his beefy forearms on the bar. He stroked his thick red beard, peering at it in the dim light. “What’s it worth to ye, then?” he asked with a sly smile.

  Pondering how best to reply, Ian took a deep breath, but Pearson spoke first. “It may be worth a great deal to you if you don’t want your establishment to be raided by the Edinburgh City Police.”

  The bartender’s eyes narrowed. “Are ye coppers, then?”

  “I am,” Ian replied, peeved at Pearson for revealing it.

  A slim, nattily dressed gentleman of middle years sauntered over to them. Even in the dim light, his cravat was dazzling white, his gold vest and black frock coat were of the finest cloth, and his boots shone with polish. With his lean face and high cheekbones, he bore a strong resemblance to Ian’s father.

  “Is there a problem, Nate?” he asked.

  The bartender/pirate crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels. “We’ve a copper in our midst.”

  The gentleman cocked his head to one side. “Indeed? I certainly haven’t seen you here before,” he said to Ian. “What’s your business here?”

  By now many of the other men were watching the conversation at the bar. It was clear the elegant man was a figure of some importance—the proprietor, perhaps.

  “I am not here to arrest any of you,” Ian replied, uncomfortable with the scores of eyes upon him.

  “We are trying to catch a murderer,” George declared officiously. He appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

  “I see,” said the elegant man. “And how might we help you?”

  “Does anyone remember seeing this card before?” Ian said, holding it up to the room’s occupants. He saw no recognition on any of their faces, until a slight young man stepped forward. Hardly more than a boy, his thick, long bangs fell over dark, wary eyes. His clothing and grimy hands suggested he worked the docks at Leith.

  “Jes t’other day,” he said in an accent that betrayed his working-class origins, “a fella were doin’ a card trick at’ bar there, an’ used a deck wi’ that design.”

  “What did he—”

  Ian silenced George with an elbow to the ribs. “Had you ever seen this person before?” he asked.

  “Er, no, come t’ think of it. But the lad he showed the trick to were the same one found dead yesterdah.”

  “Kerry O’Donohue?”

  “Don’ know ’is last name,” the boy replied, looking down at his boots, which were worn and scuffed. “But yeah, ’e called himself Kerry, all right.”

  “We don’t inquire as to people’s last names here,” the elegant gentleman explained to Ian.

  “Did th’ card have sommit to do wi’ his murder?” the boy asked.

  “As a matter of fact—” the librarian began, but Ian trod heavily on his foot. “Ouch,” George said, glaring at him.

  “I’m afraid we can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” said Ian, turning to the boy. “Can you describe the man?”

  “Go ahead, Peter,” the slim gentleman urged. “It’s all right.”

  “Well, ’e were good-lookin’ enough,” the boy added, blushing.

  “Can you be more specific?” Ian said, feeling the heat rise to his face.

  “Let’s see . . . not nearly as tall as you; more medium height, and thicker ’round the shoulders. Dark hair, wavy like . . . oh, and the palest eyes—almost like there weren’t no color to ’em at all.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “Like a gentleman—real fancy clothes, wi’ a gold watch.”

  “Peter always notices watches,” remarked the pirate behind the bar. “Don’ ye, lad?”

  Peter coughed and fiddled with his belt buckle.

  The bartender laughed, and a few of the other men snickered, but the slim gentleman silenced them all with a stern glare. “Please! Peter is doing his best to aid a murder investigation. He doesn’t need any help from any of you,” he added, glowering at the bartender, “unless of course you have something to add.”

  “I weren’t workin’ that night,” Nate replied sulkily, turning away to wash glasses.

  “Did you remark upon anything else about him?” Ian asked Peter. “His voice, perhaps?”

  “It were educated . . .
He sounded English, maybe a bit foreign, though I couldn’t swear’t it.” He went on to describe how Kerry had picked a card from the deck offered to him, and that the two of them had left shortly afterward.

  “Would you be willing to describe him to a police sketch artist?”

  “Uh, yeah, I s’pose.”

  “Here is my card,” said Ian. “Please come to the station house at your earliest convenience.”

  “I kin come t’morrow after church.”

  “Thank you,” said Ian. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Can I buy you a drink, Officer . . . ?” asked the elegant man.

  “Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton, at your service.”

  “Detective Inspector, then—would you or your companion care for something from the bar?” he added with a glance at George, who nodded vigorously.

  “We must be on our way,” said Ian. “Thank you, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Call me Terrance.”

  “Thank you, Terrance.”

  “You are welcome anytime,” he answered with a slight bow. His courtly manners and fine clothes suggested he was a man of means as well as breeding. Ian wondered what his profession was—lawyer, perhaps, or even a judge?

  Dragging a reluctant George Pearson behind him, Ian ascended the dimly lit stairwell, emerging into the courtyard. A pale moon glimmered between the bare tree branches as they threaded their way back through the alley, their breath coming in wisps, mingling with the fog that had settled over the city.

  “I don’t know why we couldn’t stay for one blasted drink,” the librarian muttered as they stepped into the street.

  “We were there to gather information,” Ian replied. What he didn’t say was that the Owl’s Nest made him extremely uncomfortable. “Thank you for pointing the place out to me. I should never have found it on my own.”

  “You’re welcome,” Pearson replied sulkily. “Well, I suppose I’ll be off, then.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night.” He waited for a moment—perhaps hoping Ian might invite him to join him for a nightcap, but when Hamilton said nothing, Pearson skulked off in the direction of New Town.