Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1)

by Carole Lawrence

“Yes, ma’am?”

  “That you stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ I’m not that much older than you are.”

  “Of course—sorry,” Crawford replied, nonplussed.

  “You’ll get used to my aunt,” Donald remarked. “In time.”

  Ian smiled. It wasn’t often he saw the detective chief inspector put in his place, much less by a woman.

  “Mind you take care of this one,” Crawford told the nurse, with a glance at Ian. “We need him.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said. “Now off you go.”

  “‘Good night, sweet prince,’” Donald said to Ian before following the others out of the room.

  Within moments of their departure Ian’s eyes had grown unreasonably heavy, and by the time the nurse returned from the linen supply closet with fresh towels, he was asleep. He dreamed of roaming Highland meadows, thick with purple heather in the spring, his brother at his side. When the nurse came back to check on him, she thought she saw a little smile on his face. When she pulled the covers up to his chin, he murmured something she couldn’t quite make out—it sounded like “Sorry.”

  “Don’t know what ye have to be sorry about,” she murmured, gazing longingly at his face, “but I hope you have a lass waiting for you somewhere.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  “I still maintain you acted like a fool,” Lillian remarked to Ian a week later as he and Donald shared a glass in front of her fireplace. Ian and Lillian drank sherry while Donald sipped from a bottle of ginger beer.

  “That’s a rather harsh assessment,” his brother commented.

  She frowned at him. “He nearly died, Donald.”

  “I had good reason,” Ian said.

  Lillian drained the last of her sherry and set the glass down. “There are only two kinds of people who may behave idiotically with impunity—the very young and the very old. You, unfortunately, are neither.”

  “And you, Auntie?” said Donald. “Surely you are not old enough to qualify, either.”

  Lillian drew herself up. “Flattery is the province of fools—those who give it and those who believe it.”

  “Is it flattery to suggest that your eternally youthful quality belies your age?” Ian asked.

  “Ach, enough of this,” his aunt said, rising from her chair with as much grace as she could manage. Ian suppressed an impulse to help—she still believed she was hiding the discomfort of her arthritic joints. She poked at the fire and turned to Donald. “When will you find out about your application to the university?”

  “By the end of the month. Hopefully I will find my own place to live by then.”

  “I don’t see why you should do that,” said Ian.

  Donald avoided his gaze. “I’ve gotten on your nerves long enough.”

  “Isn’t that rather for me to say?”

  “Surely you don’t want me to stay.”

  “I have no objection to it, so long as you—”

  “I very much plan on remaining sober.”

  “Then I see no problem with it.”

  Lillian refilled her sherry and sat down again. “Did you really think Donald could be the strangler?”

  “By then I didn’t know what to think . . . not really, I suppose.”

  “You jolly well did,” Donald said. “Those blasted cards put you in a proper funk.”

  “I even suspected Rat Face for a while,” said Ian, “with his skill at cards.”

  “I should hardly think he was capable of such feats,” said Lillian.

  “One thing you learn as a policeman is that anyone may be capable of anything.”

  Lillian turned to Donald. “Is it true you met the killer—did he really try his trick on you?”

  Donald nodded. “When I saw the cards, I made an excuse to leave and went to fetch a policeman, but he ducked out into the night straightaway.”

  Lillian shivered. “To think that could have been you . . .”

  “Poor Pearson wasn’t so lucky,” Donald added. “But I thought you said he knew about the cards?” he said to Ian.

  “He did. Derek told him when they had breakfast together. I imagine he was ambushed—he wasn’t very fit, probably not much of a fighter.”

  “I still can hardly believe that story Sergeant Dickerson told about the gang of football hooligans,” said Lillian.

  The sergeant had told of his adventure repeatedly. Each time, it acquired a new layer of absurdity, until one would think he had been kidnapped by marauding Vikings.

  “And that young urchin—what has become of him?” asked Donald.

  “I persuaded him to take up residence at the Dean Orphanage,” Lillian said with a satisfied smile.

  “We’ll see how long that lasts,” Ian said. “He has an aversion to nuns.”

  “If the good sisters can put up with him, he should consider himself lucky,” Lillian replied.

  A silence fell between them, the only sounds in the room the ticking of the grandfather clock in its walnut case and the crackle of kindling in the fireplace.

  “I am sorry about your librarian friend,” Donald said. “I regret I never had a chance to meet him.”

  “Thank you for coming to George’s funeral.”

  “It was so touching,” said Lillian. “So many students and professors showing up like that.”

  Donald looked out the window at the salty gray day and cleared his throat. “I must be getting back to my medical textbooks. I have a lot of catching up to do. By the way,” he told Ian, “I’ve persuaded Richie McPherson, an old school chum of mine who’s a surgeon now, to look in on Crawford’s wife.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Richie and I were thick as thieves back in our school days. Now I suppose all the other medical students will think I’m an old codger—if I manage to get in, of course.”

  “You will,” said Ian. “You’re bloody brilliant. A total ass, but bloody brilliant.”

  “I’ll see you out,” said Lillian, rising from her chair.

  “Please don’t disturb yourself. Thank you for the ginger beer. I’ll see you back at the flat,” he said to Ian.

  “I won’t be late.”

  Donald smiled. “I won’t wait up.”

  He leaned down to kiss Lillian, put on his hat and coat, and stepped out into the night.

  Lillian leaned back in her chair and regarded Ian, who was staring into the flickering fire as if it held the answers he craved. “You must snap out of it sooner or later, you know.”

  “I will.”

  “You’ve rid the world of a terrible scourge.”

  “Not soon enough to save the life of a young boy—or poor George Pearson.”

  His aunt waved a dismissive hand. “If you’re determined to castigate yourself, I shan’t discourage you.”

  “When I look at myself, I don’t entirely like what I see.”

  “Ach, if you were perfect, this world would have no use for you.”

  “Aunt Lillian,” Ian said suddenly, “what was my father really like?”

  She looked startled by the question. “Why do you ask?”

  He rose from his chair and leaned against the fireplace mantel. “That night Donald stormed off, he told me things about our father . . .”

  “Well, he could be a bit—zealous, perhaps.”

  “About what, exactly?”

  “Everything, I suppose. Catching criminals, going to church, even housekeeping—he was a stickler for order. You’re a bit like him.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “You inherited his stern Presbyterianism, but without the faith.”

  “Did he really—”

  “What?”

  Ian clenched his fists, staring into the flames. “Inflict violence on Donald?”

  Lillian paused before answering, and in that pause the answer was clear.

  “He showed me a cigarette burn. He said there were others.”

  “I didn’t know the specifics, but I did know there were things about your brother that
didn’t sit well with him.”

  “And my mother helped cover up what he’d done.”

  “Emily always had a secretive streak—like your brother, I suppose. He takes after her in that way.”

  “So my father . . . was a monster?”

  “Is that what Donald said?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  Lillian stared into the fire, which had burned down to embers. “Carmichael Hamilton was many things to many people. I don’t believe any of them thought he was a monster.”

  “But he—”

  “He was a complicated person, Ian. As you are—as we all are, in one way or another.”

  “He was good to me.”

  “He was proud of you. Donald was another story.”

  “But why? We were both his sons—”

  “Life isn’t fair, Ian. Parents have favorites, and families are . . . complicated.”

  “Is Donald a—a ‘pervert,’ Auntie?” he said, feeling his face redden at the harsh word. “Is that what my father couldn’t stand about him?”

  “That’s not my place to say. I suggest you bring it up with your brother.”

  “As you wish, Auntie,” Ian said, fetching his cloak from the hallway. The thought of talking to Donald about something so private made his head ache.

  “It looks as good on you as it did on dear Alfie,” she said as he fastened it around his neck. “Dear me—in like a lion,” she remarked as a gust of wind nearly took the doorknob from her hand.

  So it was March already. When he wasn’t looking, February had slipped quietly away, giving way to the promise of spring and rebirth. Ian kissed his aunt and stepped forth into the darkened streets. Even when the city was quiet, the silence itself seemed to buzz with kinetic energy. He gazed at the buildings surrounding him. What secrets they held within their ancient walls he might never know, but he would have to learn to live with the not knowing. Their gray stone was cold and hard, yet they possessed a reassuring solidity, dependable as the sunrise. There would be time enough for family secrets to reveal themselves, he supposed as he drew his cloak closer, and time to explore what kind of relationship was possible with his prodigal brother. For now, though, Ian wanted to leave all such questions aside. As he swung out onto George IV Bridge, the sight of Edinburgh spread out beneath him took his breath away. He stopped to admire the glistening of a thousand lamps, touched by the Promethean hand of the city’s leeries, bringers of light amidst the northern Scottish darkness.

  No matter where his journey might take him, Ian knew he would spend the rest of his life coming to know this city of saints and sinners, with all its dark corners and contradictions. There was some comfort in that—as well as the promise of adventure, he thought as he trudged up the hill toward Victoria Terrace, and home.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks first and foremost to my awesome agent, Paige Wheeler, for her belief in this book, her endless energy and patience, and fierce commitment to her authors. Deepest gratitude to the amazing David Downing and Jessica Tribble for their superb editorial advice, unfailing good cheer, and unwavering support.

  Thanks to my faithful travel companion, Anthony Moore, for prowling the streets of Edinburgh with me, always sharing my passion and sense of adventure—and for dragging me out to the Scottish countryside to go castle hopping on off days. Deepest thanks to Liza Dawson for her friendship, advice, and help, and to Alan Macquarie, scholar, musician, and historian, for vetting the manuscript from a uniquely Scottish perspective—thanks to both him and Anne Clackson for being such gracious hosts at his splendid Glasgow flat.

  Thanks to Hawthornden Castle for awarding me a fellowship—my time there was unforgettable—and to Byrdcliffe Colony in Woodstock, where I enjoyed many happy years of residency, as well as Lacawac Sanctuary, a magical place I hope to return to often.

  Thanks to my friend and colleague Marvin Kaye for instilling in me a fascination for Edinburgh, and for his continued support in all my literary endeavors. Thanks to my assistant, Amanda Beatty, for her patience, intelligence, and support. Thanks, too, to my good friend Ahmad Ali, whose support and good energy have always lifted my spirits. Special thanks to Robert (“Beaubear”) Murphy and the folks at the Long Eddy Hotel, Sullivan County’s best-kept secret. Thanks to my mother, Margaret Simmons, for her continued support and editorial advice, and to all the brave men and women who risk their lives every day to catch the bad guys. I just write about this stuff—you are the real thing.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2014 Patricia Rubinelli

  Author Carole Lawrence is an award-winning novelist, poet, composer, and playwright. Among her published works are eleven novels, six novellas, and dozens of short stories, articles, and poems, many of which appear in translation internationally. She is a two-time Pushcart Poetry Prize nominee and winner of the Euphoria Poetry Prize, the Eve of St. Agnes Poetry Award, the Maxim Mazumdar playwriting prize, the Jerry Jazz Musician award for short fiction, and the Chronogram Literary Fiction Award. Her plays and musicals have been produced in several countries as well as on NPR; her physics play Strings, nominated for an Innovative Theatre Award, was recently produced at the Kennedy Center. A Hawthornden Fellow, she is on the faculty of NYU and Gotham Writers, as well as the Cape Cod and San Miguel Writers’ Conferences. She enjoys outdoor sports such as hiking, biking, and horseback riding, and you can often find her cooking and hunting for wild mushrooms.