Stealing down the alleyway, he came to the end, disappointed to find it empty. Inhaling the musty odor of damp mortar and sandstone, he had begun to retrace his steps when he noticed a double set of wooden storm doors at his feet. The padlock joining them together lay open, which seemed odd. His next thought was how easy it would be for a magician to pick a simple padlock. Removing it, he lifted one of the doors, revealing uneven stone steps leading to a basement. Leaving the door open, Ian crept down the stairs into a large underground room lit only by a narrow slit of windows, covered by iron bars. It was dank and moldy, the damp chill immediately invading his bones. A shiver rippled through his body as he tiptoed across the cement floor, past chicken crates, flowerpots, and an old hay wagon missing a wheel.
As he passed one of the thick wooden posts near the center of the room, he thought he heard breathing. But before he could peer around the side of the pillar, a pair of hands shot out from behind, grasping him by the neck. He spun around but found himself in a headlock, one arm around his neck, the other twisting his left arm behind him and digging into the small of his back, where the ruffians had recently delivered a swift kick to the kidneys. The pressure on his injured muscles was agony, and he let out a groan as he attempted to wriggle free.
“At last we meet, Detective.”
The voice in his ear was soft, a bizarre contrast to the pain being inflicted upon his body. Unable to speak, Ian continued to struggle, but his opponent held him tight, Ian’s neck caught in the crook of his arm.
“Shall I kill you like all the others? It would be such a pleasure.” The accent was English, cultivated, but with a coarse undertone. “How sweet to watch you die, DI Hamilton.”
“Edward Wright?” Ian managed to gasp out.
“Do I get a prize if I say yes?” he said, tightening his grip.
Ian tried to speak again, but his strength was ebbing; he cursed himself for handing Wright the advantage of surprise. Desperately summoning his remaining will, Ian wrenched his left hand from his opponent’s grasp. Grabbing Wright’s forearm with both hands, Ian threw his own body forward, lifting his adversary off his feet. With a roar, he yanked hard on Wright’s arm, flipping him over his own shoulder. It was a classic wrestling move, one he had used dozens of times, but never when fighting for his life.
Wright landed hard on the concrete floor. Ian lunged forward to seize the advantage, but his opponent gave him a vicious kick before rolling out of the way. Winded, Ian staggered to his feet and faced his adversary, who was also breathing heavily. The two men stared at each other, catching their breath. They were equally matched: roughly the same height and weight, though Ian was perhaps a stone leaner. Wright had unusually powerful shoulders, visible even in his frock coat, which he peeled off and tossed aside. Ian did the same.
“If this were ancient Greece, we’d be wrestling naked,” Wright panted, wiping away sweat on his upper lip. “Wouldn’t that be delightful?” His cold blue eyes shone with the fervor of insanity.
“Why?” Ian said, gulping air into his lungs. “What made you do it?”
“Stalling for time to catch your breath, Detective?”
“I need to know,” Ian panted.
Wright smiled, but it was more like a grimace of pain than a smile. “Oh, there is so much evil in a man, one hardly knows where to begin.”
“But—why?” Ian insisted.
Wright threw his hands in the air. “You might as well ask a river why it flows, or a rooster why it crows. It’s my nature.”
“Is that all you can say? It’s your nature?” Ian replied, casting his eyes about the room for a weapon. There wasn’t much—in addition to other discarded items like the broken wagon and chicken crates, the basements contained little else besides a few bales of hay. The only promising thing was a wooden handle protruding from behind the hay—perhaps a farm tool of some kind—but before he could move, Wright leapt over the pile of flowerpots and seized it. Ian’s heart sank when he saw it was a rusty scythe—even caked with mud and corrosion, it was a lethal weapon.
“An appropriate tool, don’t you think?” Wright said, advancing on him. “If I’m going to dispatch you to the next world, I might as well look the part, eh?”
“You don’t want to kill me,” Ian said, backing away.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Wright replied. “I’d prefer to strangle you, but you’re too skillful an opponent, so I’ll have to settle for this. It should decapitate you nicely.”
“You’ll hang for it.”
“I’ll hang anyway—if they catch me. But I don’t intend to let that happen.”
He lunged at Ian, swinging the scythe viciously. Ian sidestepped the blow, but the edge of the blade caught him in the ribs, ripping through his shirt and tearing a gash in his side.
“Oops,” Wright said with a grin. “If at first you don’t succeed—” He raised the weapon to strike again—but it was heavy, and difficult to wield with accuracy.
Ian picked up a flowerpot and threw it at him. Wright ducked, but its edge caught his shoulder.
“Bloody hell!” he yelped. “That wasn’t nice—perhaps I shall have to kill you more slowly.”
Ian threw another pot at his head. He ducked, and it smashed against the wall behind him.
“You’re only prolonging the inevitable, you know,” said Wright. “Why don’t you take it like a man?”
“Is that how your victims took it?”
“They were boys—especially that young fellow, the blond one. I’ve got his mate here, you know,” he said, glancing at the dark corner behind the bales of hay. “I’ll take my time with him later, after I’m done with you.”
Alarmed, Ian strained to see into the hidden corner, but the bales were stacked too high. “Derek!” he called. “Are you all right?” In response, he heard a faint moaning emanating from behind the hay.
“Foolish boy,” Wright said. “He actually came after me! He’ll be my swan song before I depart for greener pastures.”
Ian calculated the distance between him and the nook protected by the stacks of hay. His fingers closed around the stone Derek had given him, still in his pocket. He flicked it toward the back window, where it clattered to the floor. Wright spun around in the direction of the sound, and Ian took his chance. With two running steps and a leap, he dove behind the bales of hay. Brandishing the scythe, Wright lunged at him, but Ian scrambled on his hands and knees underneath the wagon. Wresting the broken wheel from its axle, he emerged from beneath the vehicle, holding it in front of him as a shield.
With a roar, Wright swept the scythe at him, making a great arc in the air. Ian managed to catch the blade in the wagon wheel, and with a mighty yank, pulled it from his opponent’s grasp. It clattered to the floor, and both men flung themselves upon it. Wright reached it first, but Ian managed to get him in a half nelson. His opponent twisted around and tried to bite him, but Ian used the momentum to flip him onto his side. Releasing Wright, he reached for the scythe. As his hands closed over the handle, he staggered to his feet, swinging it over his shoulder, the blade pointed at his opponent.
“Come along quietly, now, and no one will get hurt,” he said.
“It’s far too late for that,” Wright said, crouched amidst the bales of hay. Seizing his discarded coat, he plunged a hand into the breast pocket. With the lightning dexterity of a master magician, he whipped out a box of matches, lighting the entire box in an instant, and flicked the lit matches around the room, igniting each bale of hay. The dry straw leapt into flames instantly, filling the air with smoke.
“Here’s a dilemma for you,” Wright said. “Unless you let me pass, we’ll both die here.”
Ian knew it was only moments before the entire room was aflame. His body was flooded with fear and panic, and he fought to think clearly.
“There are only two options: let me escape or kill us both. What’s it to be?” Wright said, coughing from the fumes.
Ian looked around desperately—and saw the open
door at the top of the stone steps.
“You’re wrong,” he said. “There’s a third option.” He delivered a vicious kick to Wright’s knees; the magician went down hard on the concrete floor. Seizing the moment, Ian leapt over the stacked hay to where Derek lay crumpled on the ground, half-conscious. He scooped the boy up in his arms and headed for the steps, but a hand clutched at his ankle and he stumbled, falling to his hands and knees. Derek slid from his arms, groaning.
“Run, Derek—get out!” Ian said as the smoke curled around them. The boy staggered to his feet and obeyed, climbing the stairs on his hands and knees as Ian fought to throw off his opponent’s desperate grip on his leg.
“Not . . . so . . . fast,” Wright hissed between clenched teeth. “You die with me!”
Ian pried his hand from his ankle and lunged for the exit as Wright scrambled frantically toward him, his fingers clawing at the ground in search of the scythe. But the smoke had thickened, covering everything in its gray haze. Coughing as it filled his lungs, Ian slithered on his belly to the stairway. Springing up the steps, he closed the door behind him, throwing the padlock through the metal loops, and flung himself down next to Derek, who sat leaning against the wall of the building, a dazed expression on his soot-blackened face.
Wright had roared with rage as the heavy doors clanged shut, sealing him inside. Now his screams had turned to terror. Ian fell to his knees on the cobblestones, soaked with sweat, and tried to block out the sound, but he could not bear the pure animal terror in the man’s voice.
“Help me—please! For God’s sake—help!”
It brought back still-fresh memories of his parents’ unheeded pleas on that dreadful night. Half-delusional with exhaustion and pain, Ian thought he could hear his parents’ cries once again.
“Ian, darling—help! Please, help me!”
Staggering to his feet, he pulled off the lock with trembling fingers, yanked open the door, and stumbled back down the stairs, to be swallowed up in the fiery pit of smoke and flames.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
When Sergeant Dickerson finally made it through to the other side of the bleating mass of sheep, there was no sign of Detective Hamilton or the man they pursued. Looking around frantically, he saw a small boy, whom he recognized as Derek McNair, stumbling toward him. His face was covered in soot, his clothing was torn, and he looked half-dead.
“Come quick!” the boy called.
“Which way’d they go?” Dickerson panted.
“This way!” Derek called over his shoulder, loping down the street on his thin legs.
“Oiy, this way, lads!” the sergeant called to the two constables, who had just extricated themselves from the flock of sheep. They staggered after him, truncheons flapping on their thighs. The boy led the little band of policemen through dim and dusty streets, into the unsavory neighborhoods beyond George IV Bridge.
As they entered the tenements of Little Ireland, they were followed by a few raggedy children and their scraggly dogs, barking with excitement. The odd cavalcade rounded the corner, looking like something out of The Pied Piper of Hamelin.
“How . . . much . . . farther?” Dickerson panted.
“Down there!” Derek shouted, pointing to a narrow alley, Skinner’s Close.
He headed into the alley, the two policemen galloping after him.
“Quick—down ’ere!” Derek called, and Dickerson broke into a dead run.
Smoke billowed from an open cellar. Holding his hand over his nose and mouth, Dickerson peered into the flames and could just make out two prostrate forms at the bottom of the steps.
“Call the fire squad!” he barked at Derek. The boy blinked once and took off back down the alley. “You!” he said to the constables. “Help me get these men out of ’ere!”
The policemen obeyed, coughing as they followed the sergeant down the stone stairs. Just as Dickerson feared, one of the unconscious men was Detective Hamilton. The other was the magician they had chased from the Grassmarket.
“Don’ jes stand there!” he barked at the constables. “Give us a hand, then!”
They carried both men up the stairs to the street just as the clang of the bell on the fire truck sounded a few streets away.
“Are they dead?” one of the constables asked, staring down at the unconscious men, their faces black with soot.
“I hope not,” Dickerson replied, but hope felt like a faint and feeble creature indeed.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Ian awoke to the smell of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant. The first thing he noticed was that he was not in pain. The thought crossed his mind that he was in heaven, even though he didn’t believe in it. Opening his eyes, he half hoped to see his brother, but instead the worried face of Aunt Lillian came into focus. Her expression instantly changed to disapproval, and she shook her head.
“You behaved like a proper idiot. You know that, of course.”
He rubbed his eyes and looked around the room. The white walls and sharp smell of antiseptic told him he was in hospital. A young nurse in a crisp white uniform was fussing with his covers at the foot of the bed. She had a soft, round-cheeked face and pale blond eyelashes.
“How did I get here?” he said.
“I brought ye.” The voice belonged to Sergeant Dickerson, standing on the other side of Ian’s bed, his face and hands blackened with soot.
“Sergeant Dickerson saved your life,” his aunt said. “He pulled you from the flames.”
“Me an’ another bloke,” Dickerson clarified.
“What about Wright?”
Dickerson looked away. “He didn’ make it, sir.”
“Damn,” Ian said. He felt like crying—not because Wright was dead, but because he had failed to save him—and because it was over. Relief and disappointment vied for mastery in his breast; the events of the past few days felt like a hollow dream.
“What’s all this about you almost dying, Hamilton?” a voice bellowed from the doorway.
“Bosh and bunkum, sir,” said Ian as DCI Crawford approached his bed. His skin was pasty, his small eyes rounded with red.
“You look like bloody hell,” he observed.
“You don’t look so good yourself, sir.”
The nurse who had been hovering at the foot of his bed stepped forward. “I must caution you against too much commotion—Mr. Hamilton needs his rest.”
“It’s Detective Inspector Hamilton, miss,” Crawford declared, scowling from beneath bushy eyebrows.
“Be that as it may,” the nurse said firmly, “he’s my patient, and—”
“It’s all right—I’ll go,” Dickerson said, glancing nervously at the door. “I, uh, got somewhere t’go anyway.”
Ian was amazed to see the beautiful Caroline Tierney lingering just beyond the entrance.
Crawford looked at the sergeant with newfound respect. “Is she—you’ve been seeing her?”
“Yeah, sorta, like,” Dickerson said, blushing furiously.
The chief inspector shook his head. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
“If ye don’ mind, sir.”
“You’re an inspiration to us all. Off you go, then.”
“Yes, sir—thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Ian said, “for saving my life.”
“T’weren’t nowt, sir—anyone woulda done it.”
“But you’re the one who did.”
“Right—I’ll just be off, then.” Tipping his hat to Lillian, he walked quickly to where Caroline waited for him. He took her arm, and the two strolled off together down the hall.
“Cheeky devil,” Crawford remarked, watching them.
“I never would have taken Dickerson for a ladies’ man,” Lillian said.
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy,’” said Ian.
“For Christ’s sake, Hamilton, why can’t you quote a proper Scottish writer like Robbie Burns?” Crawford said.
“I shall
endeavor to do so from now on, sir.”
Crawford stroked his whiskers. “Wonder what she sees in him?”
“What any sensible woman sees in a worthwhile man—kindness,” Lillian remarked.
“Is he a good fellow, Hamilton?” Crawford asked.
“It’s not every day a man saves your life, sir.”
“I’m afraid I must ask you all to leave now,” the nurse said, fluttering about the bed like a restless white bird. “Mr.—er, Detective Hamilton needs his rest. And who might you be?” she asked sharply, looking in the direction of the entrance.
Standing in the doorway was Derek McNair, hat in hand. Beside him stood Donald Hamilton. He did not look well, but he looked sober.
“We’re here to see DI Hamilton, miss,” Derek said, stepping forward.
“Well, you shall have to wait awhile,” she replied tartly.
“Donald,” Ian said, reaching out a hand toward him. “I was afraid you—”
His brother frowned. “Afraid I was the killer?”
“No . . . afraid you were dead,” Ian said. His mouth was having trouble forming words.
“That’s enough,” the nurse said sternly. “Out you go—the lot of you.”
“Come along—we’ll get you some tea in the canteen,” Lillian said, bustling them out. “I know the way. Would you care to join us, Chief Inspector?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I must be getting home,” Crawford replied, putting on his hat. “Oh, and on behalf of the Edinburgh City Police, I’d like to add you to our roster of sketch artists, if you don’t mind.”
“I should be honored,” said Lillian. “On one condition.”
Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1) Page 33
