Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1)

by Carole Lawrence

  “The cards he left on the victims—it shows someone with a flair for the dramatic. Henry Wright was a stage performer—a hypnotist. I have reason to believe his brother is a magician.”

  Constable Bowers appeared at the office door, a telegram in his hand. “This just came for you, sir,” he said, handing it to Crawford, who read it over quickly.

  “Have a look at this,” he said, giving it to Ian.

  RE: INSP GERARD INQUIRY. SKELETON PLAYING CARDS PURCHASED BY M. EDWARD WRIGHT IN NOV. LAST YEAR AT LE MAGASIN DE MAGIE. REGARDS, INSP. LAROUE, SURETE NATIONALE

  “He must have sent an inquiry to his colleagues in Paris before the killer got to him,” said Crawford. “Good man.”

  “Now we have a name,” said Ian.

  He handed the telegram back to Crawford, who tossed it onto his desk. “This Edward Wright has to be staying somewhere,” he said. “Find out where. Take as many men as you need.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then, by God, we will smoke him out of his hiding place. We’ll show him no magician is a match for the Edinburgh City Police.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  As Ian left the station house, he saw Sergeant Dickerson staggering up the High Street toward him.

  “Hang on a minute, sir—I’ve got sommit you’ll want t’see!”

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “Look!” Dickerson said proudly, digging a folded handkerchief from his pocket. Tucked inside were small shards of blue pottery. “Found it in th’room, just like you said!” he panted, sweat prickling on his ruddy face.

  “Well done! That confirms Miss Farley’s story. We’ll have a noose around his neck yet.”

  “Why d’you ’spose he killed his brother, sir? D’you think they were workin’ together or somethin’? Maybe bloke was about t’rat him out, so ’e kills ’im?”

  “Or perhaps his brother just knew too much.” Ian pulled his aunt’s sketch of the suspect from his vest pocket. “We’ll knock on every door in Edinburgh until we find him.”

  “Wouldn’t it help t’have copies?”

  “It would indeed. Perhaps Aunt Lillian can make copies.”

  “Shall I take it round to her?”

  “If you would. I have to stop by my flat and—er, feed the cat.”

  Dickerson smiled. “So you kep’ it, then, sir?”

  “He’s a good mouser.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the dog? Did you overcome your allergies or give it away?”

  Dickerson coughed delicately. “Me, uh, lady friend is lookin’ after Prince.”

  “You’re being very mysterious about her, Sergeant.”

  Dickerson’s face turned scarlet. “I’ll jus’ get this over to yer aunt’s house, then, shall I, sir?”

  “Off you go,” said Ian. He watched as Dickerson fled, scurrying toward the university as fast as his stubby legs could carry him.

  Ian continued on to his flat, weariness trailing him like an unwanted companion. His legs felt so heavy, he could barely lift them, and his bones ached. The ribs on his right side where he had been kicked twinged with every step. Edward Wright’s face swam in his vision, his intense, pale eyes burrowing into Ian’s soul.

  When he reached his flat, he was surprised to find the door unlocked. At first he thought he had left it open—exhaustion seemed to have softened his brain—but the next instant he was on his guard. Someone was inside. Leaving the door ajar, he crept down the front hall. As he neared the parlor, he heard snoring.

  Rounding the corner, he saw Donald’s bulky figure splayed upon the sofa. Snoring loudly, he looked as if he had dropped unconscious onto the couch. One arm was flung over the arm of the sofa, the other dangling off the side. His clothing was in disarray, his face bore scratch marks, and the skin on his knuckles was raw and bleeding. Dried blood was caked on his upper lip. The stench of alcohol was overwhelming.

  Ian had half a mind to leave him where he was, but as he gazed at his brother, love and loathing warred in his heart. Memories of their boyhood together vied with revulsion at what his brother had become. Why did he have to enter Ian’s life now, when there was so much else at stake? Turning to leave, Ian tripped over the fireplace poker, which clattered to the floor. Donald stirred and opened his eyes.

  “Hello,” he said groggily, his voice slurred from drink. “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

  “Should I be surprised to find you pissed and out stone-cold on my couch?”

  “Steady on, now!” Donald said, heaving himself into a sitting position. “Good Lord, what happened to you?”

  “I was in a fight.”

  “Then let’s not have any pots calling the kettle black.”

  “Where have you been?” said Ian.

  “What does it matter?”

  “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

  “Speaking of which, I fed him, and he went out through that cunning little door in your kitchen. Did you make that?”

  “Who gave you that bloody nose?”

  “What about yours?” Donald said, burping loudly.

  “You’re drunk,” Ian said with disgust.

  “Perhaps a wee bit,” Donald replied with his bad-boy smile.

  “You’re shot tae fuck,” Ian shot back in his aunt’s Glaswegian slang. “Your charm doesn’t work on me. It worked on our poor mother, God rest her soul, but—”

  “Really? You’re bringing her into this?”

  “She pampered you, which is one reason you’re such a wastrel.”

  “She was kind to me, which is more than our father was.”

  “So he favored me—that’s a poor excuse for your debauchery!”

  “Favored you—that’s an understatement!”

  “Is it my fault he preferred me to you?”

  “You fancy yourself a great detective,” Donald replied, hauling himself unsteadily to his feet, “but when it comes to our family, you’re blind as a bat.”

  “You’re crazy, piss drunk—”

  Donald laughed bitterly. “Not drunk enough, unfortunately, to forget what he did to me.”

  Something in his voice made a chill run down Ian’s spine. “What are you talking about?”

  “He thought he could ‘change’ me—make me more of a ‘man’ by hardening me up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some things can’t be changed, but he didn’t realize that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Ian, wake up! Don’t you remember anything about him—what he could be like?”

  “Well, he was stern, but—”

  “Stern? He was a bloody tyrant!”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Is this an exaggeration?” Donald said, rolling up his sleeve to show a round indentation in his skin. A scar had formed, brown around the edges, the skin in the center sunken.

  Ian’s heart froze. “What is that?”

  “It’s a cigarette burn.”

  Ian stared at his brother. “Are you saying—did he—”

  “Yes. And it wasn’t the only time.”

  “Good Lord.” Ian sat heavily on the end of the couch. His head suddenly felt twice its size, and his ears rang.

  “They both hid it from you, what he did to me. She colluded in hiding it as much as he did, to protect the family image.”

  “But why? Why on earth would he do something like that to you?”

  Donald gave a bitter laugh. “He actually told me it was for my own good, that it would help teach me how to be a ‘proper man.’ Obviously I didn’t fit his image of what a son should be. I was ‘different.’” Donald fixed him with earnest gray eyes. “This must be very distressing for you, Brother. You do so like everything to be tidy, don’t you? Well, people aren’t like that—life isn’t like that. It’s messy and unpredictable and frightening. You want to control everything, but you can’t, Ian. Just when you think you have it all sorted out, along comes something
you hadn’t planned on—”

  “How did you get bloody? What happened to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “‘Nothing will come of nothing.’”

  “Good Lord, Ian, don’t you ever tire of quoting Shakespeare?”

  “Then tell me what happened.”

  Donald rubbed his neck and plopped back down onto the sofa. “I haven’t been out strangling young boys, if that’s what worries you.”

  Without replying, Ian went to the spare bedroom and pulled the deck of cards from the rucksack. He brought them back into the parlor and held them in front of Donald’s face.

  “Where did you get these?”

  Donald looked away. “I won them in a card game.”

  “I thought you’d given up gambling.”

  “I had a relapse.”

  “Did you really win them in a card game?”

  “I bloody well did—got them off a strange little fellow called Rat Face.”

  “Did you say Rat Face?”

  “You know the chap?”

  “Who else was playing?”

  “How am I supposed to remember?”

  “You have a photographic memory.”

  “Not when I’ve been drinking.”

  “Maybe you are the strangler after all,” Ian said, so giddy with exhaustion, he hardly knew what he was saying. “Here I am trying to catch a criminal, and he’s been right under my nose the whole time!”

  “Don’t, Ian—it’s been a bad week for us both,” Donald said wearily.

  “What if you really are a killer? Wouldn’t that just be too rich? The detective and the murderer! What a story that would make!” Ian said bitterly, confusion and exhaustion conspiring to strangle his control over the rage bubbling up inside him.

  “Ian—please.”

  Donald’s expression was pleading, but Ian felt driven by a sharp, savage need to hurt not only his brother but himself as well.

  “I wish you were the strangler, so help me—then I could solve the crime and get you out of my hair once and for all!”

  The minute the words escaped his mouth, Ian wished he could take them back, but one look at Donald’s face and he knew it was too late. Something had broken between them.

  “The worst thing you can do to anyone is give up on him,” Donald said in a voice all the more terrifying because it was so quiet. Springing from the couch, he seized his coat and stalked out of the room.

  Ian stood frozen in a state of shock before throwing on his cloak and following his brother out into the night.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  The man standing on George IV Bridge Monday night gazed at the city slumbering around him and smiled. His fingers closed around the scarf in his pocket, the cloth cool and smooth against his skin. With his two strong hands, it was the only weapon he needed. He liked the purity of it, being so near to his victims as he watched the light fade from their eyes. He had followed the case closely in the papers, and instinct told him his pursuers were closing in. If caught, he did not intend to go quietly. Life in prison held no allure—he was determined to fight his way to the bitter end.

  The easiest thing would be to fade into the night—with the right disguise, he stood a good chance of getting away. But he wasn’t ready to leave—he had one more task to accomplish first. It was risky, he knew, but that was part of the appeal. The threat he posed to his victims was only part of the thrill; the danger he placed himself in during the commission of his crimes was exhilarating. Twice he had nearly been spotted; only the cover of night had allowed him to slip around the corner and escape detection.

  He licked his lips, salty sweat mixing with the light rain that had begun to fall. He pulled his sou’wester tightly around his neck as he scanned the streets below. From where he stood, he had a good view of this section of Old Town; sooner or later his prey was bound to pass by. This time he had his victim picked out in advance—and a tasty morsel he was. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be his crowning achievement, a fitting end to his career in Edinburgh. Then he would move on to fresh territory before the net closed in around him.

  He caressed the scarf, savoring the familiar tingling in his groin. Sweet anticipation flooded his limbs as he thought about what he was planning. This one wouldn’t go down easy. He pulled his oilskin cap over his eyes and leaned against the railing to wait. He was patient—unlike his victim, he had all the time in the world.

  In the glint of a streetlamp, he caught sight of a figure leaving the building he was watching. His heart thumped in his chest—could it be? No, it was someone altogether bulkier and more solidly built. The man stopped beneath the lamp to light a cigarette, and in the flair of the match, the face was plainly visible to his observer. In an instant, the killer’s plan changed. This was not the one he sought, but he would do nicely—very nicely indeed. Deep inside the bowels of the city, a rabbit screamed as an owl’s talons pierced its neck.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  “I say, Sergeant Dickerson—wait up!”

  Dickerson turned to see a plump man in an expensive frock coat running toward him. He looked familiar, but the sergeant wasn’t good with faces and couldn’t remember where he had seen him. Having left Lillian’s flat, Dickerson was nearly at the intersection of Cowgate and Grassmarket.

  “It’s me—George Pearson!” he said, pulling up next to Dickerson, beads of sweat prickling his broad forehead. He looked even less accustomed to physical exertion than the sergeant. “We met at the Hound and Hare, remember?”

  “Right—the same night we met up wi’ those two shady characters. Rat Face and his pal, the big fellow . . . wha’s ’is name?”

  “Snead,” Pearson replied. “Jimmy Snead.”

  “Yeah, ’at’s it. What can I do for ye?”

  “Actually, it’s more what I can do for you.”

  “I don’ follow.”

  “I’m helping Detective Hamilton on the case—acting as a sort of adviser ex-officio—”

  “Hold on a sec,” Dickerson said, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why ’aven’t I been told about this?”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t mention it. I’ve been giving him all sorts of advice, you see—”

  “Wha’ is it you want wi’ me, then?”

  “I’ve just been ’round to his flat and he’s not there, so I thought you might know where he is.”

  “Me ’an him parted company half an hour ago. He could be anywheres.” Dickerson was concerned as well as put out by this information. He had been expecting to find Hamilton at his flat; after dropping the sketch off with Hamilton’s aunt, he intended to meet the detective at Victoria Terrace. He wasn’t about to tell Pearson, though—something about the librarian irritated Dickerson. Maybe it was his posh English accent, air of self-importance, or soft white hands—whatever the reason, the sergeant felt antipathy toward him.

  “Are you meeting up with him in the near future?” Pearson asked, wiping the sweat from his face with a monogrammed handkerchief.

  Dickerson shrugged and resumed walking north. “I don’ see as I can avoid it, since we’re workin’ case together.” The monogram was the last straw—really over-the-top, he thought disdainfully.

  “Mind if I join you?” the librarian asked, falling in step beside him.

  “Well, it’s not really . . . ,” he began, stopping to watch a stout man lurch past them. The man’s demeanor was preoccupied, his eyes focused straight ahead; he barely seemed to notice Dickerson and Pearson as he passed. His gait was unsteady but determined. There was something familiar about his face—the odd thought occurred to Dickerson that he resembled a much heavier version of Detective Hamilton. Not for the first time, the sergeant cursed his bad memory for faces. Curious, Dickerson decided to follow him.

  “Where are we going?” Pearson bleated as the sergeant started off after the man, who was headed east, in the direction of Holyrood Castle.

  “Jus’ shut up!” Dickerson hissed as the librarian scurried after him. “I didn’t
ask f’your company.”

  “Surely a man in this town may walk where he likes,” Pearson replied moodily.

  “Then keep quiet, will ye?”

  “Very well,” he answered as the two of them passed beneath George IV Bridge. Neither of them noticed another man trailing them at a distance, hugging the shadows of the buildings. They continued on, pressing deeper into the heart of the Old Town, to be swallowed up by the night.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Donald Hamilton wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t see the two men following him along Cowgate Street. Thinking they were thieves planning to roll him, he resolved to give them the slip. He saw his chance in a band of carousing footballers stumbling toward him, singing loudly. As they neared, he abruptly changed direction and joined up with them. Clapping his arm around the shoulder of the brawniest lad, he joined the singing, belting out the words lustily.

  If Nell were a lady, she’d be just fine

  But since she’s no lady, she’s a gal o’mine

  The footballers seemed quite content to embrace him as part of their drunken band, as they continued their merry way west toward Edinburgh Castle. Donald concluded his pursuers weren’t very experienced—when he peeled off, slipping into a narrow wynd just past Old Fishmarket Close, they failed to spot him. He leaned against the wall of the building, breathing in the heavy night air, the sandstones damp against his back.

  When the last strains of the footballers’ singing had disappeared into the distance, he stepped back out into the street. It was late, but a few pubs were still open. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and pushed on in the direction of his favorite, the Lion and the Lamb.

  He failed to notice the figure following him at a distance—a man far more experienced in the art of tracking than the two clumsy fellows now engaged in a desultory wild-goose chase trailing a harmless band of footballers.

  Monday night at the Lion and the Lamb was much like any other—loud, smoke-filled, and crowded. Donald shouldered his way to the bar, ordered a pint, and headed for a corner booth. As he did, his elbow caught another man’s sleeve, and his beer splashed all over the stranger’s jacket.