Edinburgh Twilight

by Carole Lawrence

  “Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton?” she asked timidly, avoiding the stares of constables seated at their desks or standing in small groups in front of the duty-roster board. Ian had to admit they had something to stare at. Miss Caroline Tierney was a young woman of unusual beauty, with white skin framed by lustrous black hair. Her eyes were green as jade, and he imagined many a young man swooned at the thought of kissing those tremulous red lips.

  He indicated a chair next to his desk. “Please, take a seat.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, a becoming blush spreading across her rosy cheeks. “I must apologize for not coming earlier, but I’ve been very occupied—preparing for Bobby’s funeral, and seeing to his possessions. I’m his only living kin, you see.”

  “I’m very sorry about your brother. I won’t take much of your time.”

  She dabbed at her eyes with a perfumed lace handkerchief. Ian was struck by how unlike her brother she was—from all accounts, Bobby was a bar brawler and ruffian, whereas Caroline seemed the very picture of feminine propriety.

  Ian cleared his throat. “Now, then, Miss Tierney—”

  He was interrupted by the appearance of Sergeant Dickerson, who had been filing papers in the back of the station. The sergeant swung around the corner of the glass divider and was nearly at Ian’s desk when their visitor turned to see him. Ian had never seen a person receive an electric shock, but he imagined it would look very much like Sergeant Dickerson’s reaction to Caroline Tierney. His eyebrows shot up, and his mouth dropped open. There was a sharp intake of breath as his entire body froze.

  “Meet Miss Caroline Tierney,” Ian said. “This is Sergeant Dickerson,” he told her. “He’s assisting on your brother’s case.”

  Caroline extended a dainty hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Dickerson hesitated, and Ian wasn’t sure whether he was going to shake it or kiss it. He appeared utterly unhinged at the sight of her. “P-pleased to meet ye, miss,” he said finally, grasping her hand and giving a deep bow. Releasing her hand, he looked at Ian desperately for help.

  “Why don’t you take notes while I interview Miss Tierney?” Ian said.

  “Certainly, sir,” Dickerson replied in a voice an octave higher than usual. “Right you are.” He plunked himself down in the chair on the other side of the desk and busied himself writing in his notebook. He printed Interview with Miss Caroline Tierney, then underlined it, pressing so hard on the paper, Ian thought he would tear it.

  “You said you were Mr. Tierney’s only family?” Ian asked.

  Her green eyes welled with tears, her lips swelling and trembling in a way that made her even more attractive. “Both our parents are gone, you see, so it was only me and Bobby.” She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “And now it’s just me.”

  Ian glanced at Sergeant Dickerson, whose own face expressed such misery as he gazed at her that Ian thought it best to snap him out of it.

  “Sergeant?”

  Dickerson turned to him with an expression like a scolded puppy’s. “Sir?”

  “I expect Miss Tierney could use a cup of tea on a raw day like this. Why don’t you—”

  “Yes, sir!” Dickerson responded, jumping up from his chair. He paused, frowning. “What about the note taking?”

  “I’ll manage on my own until you return.”

  “Right you are, sir,” Dickerson said, lurching off toward the tea service in the back of the room.

  “Now then, Miss Tierney,” Ian said. “What happened to your parents, if I may ask?”

  She looked down at her elegantly gloved hands. “Pa died of a heart attack shortly after the famine, and Ma died of grief.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear it.”

  “Bobby never got over it. Always angry, he was. There was nothing in County Cork for us anymore, so we came here. One of Bobby’s schoolmates set us up with a flat on the London Road.”

  “Near Leith Walk?”

  “That’s right.”

  Ian scribbled London Road/Leith Walk in the notebook. That meant that the two victims lived very near each other. “And how was it working out for you?” he asked.

  “Bobby could always find work on the docks, and I’m a decent typist. Between us, we made a go of it, I s’pose.”

  “Pardon me if this is too personal, but you sound quite well educated,” Ian remarked.

  “Our mother was a schoolteacher. Our home was never lacking in books. Guess I took to them more than Bobby did, bless his soul.”

  Sergeant Dickerson came wobbling toward them with a heavily laden tea tray. He had managed to find a tin of biscuits and some crystallized ginger.

  “Here we are,” he said, nearly toppling everything as he leaned over the desk.

  “How very kind of you,” Caroline said.

  “I’ll pour, shall I?” he said, wiping the sweat from his palms and loosening his shirt collar. Irritated, Ian bit his lip. He supposed Miss Tierney was used to having an effect on men, but Dickerson’s reaction was extreme.

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your brother, Miss Tierney?” Ian asked as Dickerson handed her a mug of tea.

  She smiled sadly. “It’s rather a question of who wouldn’t want to, I’m afraid. My brother had a habit of finding trouble. After a while, trouble had a habit of finding him.”

  “Is there anyone your brother had a disagreement with recently?”

  She sipped delicately at her tea and rested the mug in her lap. “He often came home with battle scars but spoke little about them.”

  “Did he have a sweetheart?”

  “He had a girl back in Ireland, but she tired of his drinking. He truly cared for her, I believe, but couldn’t seem to control his love of the bottle.”

  “And your brother’s friends, Miss Tierney? What were they like?”

  “Most of his ‘friends’ were angry young men with a chip on their shoulder.”

  “More tea, Miss Tierney?” Sergeant Dickerson asked, reaching for the pot without taking his eyes off her. The tray wobbled dangerously as his sleeve caught on the edge before tumbling to the ground with a crash. The pot smashed to smithereens, biscuits rolling across the floor toward all corners of the room. The sergeant leapt to his feet, his face crimson. “I’m so sorry! Are ye all right?”

  “Quite all right, thank you,” Caroline replied. “All the tea spilled on the floor.”

  “I think we can conclude this interview for now,” said Ian, rising from his chair. “If you think of anything else, Miss Tierney, please get in touch with me.”

  “Certainly, Detective Inspector,” she replied, rising gracefully and pulling on her cloak. “Thank you for the tea.”

  Dickerson muttered something in response as he bent to pick up the shattered pieces of crockery. A few of the other officers snickered as he scurried to collect the escaped biscuits.

  After escorting Miss Tierney from the station house, Ian returned to a crestfallen Dickerson.

  “I’m sorry, sir. That were most clumsy,” he said, sweeping up the remaining pieces of the broken teapot.

  “Perhaps we can take a lesson from this, Sergeant.”

  Dickerson looked up from his whisk broom and dustpan. “Wha’ might that be, sir?”

  “Objectivity is the first rule of crime solving. A good investigator must never allow the interview subject to put him off his game.”

  Dickerson stopped sweeping. “What’re you implying, sir?”

  “We’ll speak no more of this, Sergeant. I have no wish to embarrass you further.”

  Without replying, Dickerson returned to his task, his jaw set. Ian felt for him, but he couldn’t allow his sympathy to eradicate the natural barrier between them—or worse, relax the standards required of a police officer. Dickerson was young, a smitten puppy, but the sooner he learned the importance of discipline and emotional distance, the better for him. Ian, too, had taken note of Miss Tierney’s charms, but she might as well have been a lovely statue as far as his emotional
response was concerned. A nagging voice at the back of his head told him that was unnatural, that there was something wrong with him, but he forced his mind onto other things.

  Consulting his watch, he saw it was long past time to leave. Aunt Lillian had invited him over for the evening, and he seldom refused an offer from her. He walked quietly to the coatrack, slid on his cloak, and left the station house.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  A wicked wind whipped in from the west as Ian stood on the narrow pavement, pulling on his gloves. Exhaustion hung on his body like a heavy cloak, but Lillian was his most valued sounding board, and he looked forward to mulling over the case with her.

  As he started down the street, he heard a familiar voice.

  “Hullo, Guv’nur!”

  “Hello, Derek,” he said without turning around.

  “I’ve come ta report in,” the boy said, scurrying along beside him.

  “Very well,” Ian replied without breaking stride.

  “I brought me friend along.”

  Ian stopped walking. Next to Derek stood a lanky boy of roughly the same age with fair hair and frank blue eyes.

  “This is me mate Freddie what I told ye ’bout.”

  “Hello, Freddie.”

  “’Lo, mister,” Freddie replied with a glance at Derek, who was clearly the leader of the two. “Is it true you’re the copper what’s catchin’ that mad killer?” Freddie asked, gazing at Ian with wide eyes.

  “I’m doing my best,” Ian replied, resuming walking.

  “Don’ ye wan’ t’hear what I got ta say?” said Derek, striding to catch up with him.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “If that’s the way ye feel, I’ll slip away into the night and darken yer doorstep nae further.”

  Ian stopped walking. “‘Darken my doorstep no further’? Where did you pick up that kind of language?”

  “Books, Guv’nur,” Derek replied, fishing a battered tome from the depths of his overcoat.

  “You can read?” Ian asked, looking at the book’s title. “The Pickwick Papers, by Charles Dickens. You read this?”

  “He’s not so bad—writes ’bout fellas like me, y’know,” the boy replied, snatching it and shoving it back into his pocket.

  “I am aware of the work of Mr. Dickens.”

  “I’ll bet ye went to a swanky school, eh, mister?” said Freddie.

  “Not especially. But I did like to read.”

  “But you don’ anymore?”

  “I have to be somewhere,” Ian said as a gust of wind nearly swept away his hat.

  “So do ye wan’ my news or not?” asked Derek.

  “If you can keep up with me,” Ian replied, resuming walking.

  “I have a message from Mrs. Sutherland.”

  Ian stopped abruptly. “Stephen Wycherly’s landlady?”

  “The same.”

  “What were you doing talking with her?”

  “Part a’ my job is ta know where you go, innit?”

  Ian frowned. “I don’t remember inviting you to do that.”

  “Jes hang on a minute, will ya? So I stops by to see if there’s anythin’ she forgot to tell you, and she tells me there is something. Only she’d rather tell you in person, see? So I says I’ll pass that message along to you.”

  “She didn’t say what it was?”

  “She found somethin’ she wants ye t’see.”

  “Would you run along and tell her I’ll call on her first thing tomorrow?”

  “Righto, Guv’nur,” Derek said, but didn’t move.

  “Well? What’s keeping you?”

  “Dashin’ all ’round town builds up an appetite. An’ Freddie’s hungry too—aren’t ye?”

  Freddie nodded vigorously.

  “Fine,” Ian said, fishing half a crown from his pocket. “Here.”

  “Thanks, Guv’nur,” Derek said, slipping it into his pocket.

  “Now get along. And stop calling me Guv’nur.”

  “Whatever you say, Guv’nur.”

  The boys darted off, laughing. Ian tugged the brim of his hat lower, pulling his collar up against the chilly night, and continued in the direction of his aunt’s town house.

  The air smelled of salt and seaweed as he trudged up the hill. The wind was shifting, bringing in sea air from the Firth of Forth to the northeast. Born in the arctic waters of the North Sea, the firth cut a deep slash into Scotland’s east coast, bifurcating the land at the narrow stretch boasting its two greatest cities, Glasgow and Edinburgh. Lying at almost the same latitude on the map, they were the last two metropolitan hubs, beyond which lay the wild expanse of the Highlands and the outer islands scattered along Scotland’s shores like broken pieces of birthday cake.

  Tugging tired children behind them, pedestrians plodded by, laden with packages. Everyone seemed sunk in gloomy contemplation, struggling silently up the hill in the early February darkness.

  Ian was relieved to see the gaslights blazing brightly in the front windows of his aunt’s town house. He was glad he had accepted her offer—more like a commandment—to join her for a drink. Though a midweek meeting was not one of their established rituals, it was doubly welcome after the past few days. His glum mood brightened when Lillian’s front door swung open, bringing the welcome sight of her face, wreathed in smiles. In her left hand was a bottle of cream sherry.

  “Ach, you’re just in time for a wee dram.”

  He kissed her cheek, soft and crinkled as tissue paper.

  “Hello, Auntie.”

  “Come in and close the door behind you—no need to heat the whole outdoors,” she said, trundling down the hall as he followed obediently behind.

  “So,” she said as they settled in front of the fire, “tell me how your case is going.”

  “Not well. And today Sergeant Dickerson made a fool of himself over a pretty face.”

  “Dear me. What happened?”

  As he recounted the incident involving Caroline Tierney’s visit, he saw his aunt trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smile.

  “Your sergeant is a red-blooded young man,” she said, laying a hand on his. “You mustn’t be so hard on him—allow him some of the foolishness of youth.”

  “We can’t afford foolishness when lives are at stake.”

  “But you were only interviewing a young woman whose brother had the misfortune to be a victim.”

  “A crime investigator must learn to cultivate objectivity.”

  “Dear me, that’s harsh.”

  “You can’t always know whether the charming person sitting opposite you is a murderer.”

  “Is that why you have no one special in your life?”

  “We’re not discussing my personal life,” he replied stiffly.

  “Do you consider it less important than your professional life?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  She shook her head sadly. “What a pity. All the flowers of Edinburgh going unplucked because you feel you have to remain ‘objective.’”

  “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.’”

  She gave a dismissive wave. “Ach, Ian, don’t use your intellect as a weapon.”

  “I know you had an idyllic marriage to Uncle Alfred, and I’m very glad for you. But the ‘flowers of Edinburgh’ will manage to struggle on without me.”

  “Is it because of your shoulder?” she asked softly.

  “I’d really prefer not to discuss it,” he replied, feeling the heat rise to his face.

  She sighed and pulled her aged limbs out of the armchair. Ian saw her effort to disguise the discomfort, but she couldn’t entirely mask the stiffness in her bones. Flooded with remorse, he laid a hand on her arm.

  “Forgive me, Auntie—it’s been a trying week.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive, dear boy,” she said, reaching for a new bottle of sherry in the liquor cabinet. “It’s just that I want so much for you to know the deep pleasure of tr
ue love.”

  “Maybe I will someday,” he said. “Don’t give up on me just yet.”

  But even as he said the words, he didn’t believe them.

  “So the case, then?” she said eagerly, pouring them each a second glass.

  “I can’t find a link between the victims. They seem so different, yet there must be something connecting them.”

  “Is it possible they were killed by different people?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “If I tell you, it must not leave this room. We’re not releasing this detail to the public.”

  “You have my word.”

  He told her about the strange cards found on each victim. She drained the rest of her sherry. “Dear me,” she said, tapping the empty glass with her finger. “Could the link be gambling?”

  “I have no evidence to suggest that.”

  “Maybe the only connection is that they both knew their killer.”

  “I’m not convinced of that, either.”

  “But why kill a perfect stranger?”

  “I’m convinced there’s logic there, but I’m missing pieces of the puzzle. Once I find them, the story will flow as fluidly as—”

  “As the Greek myths you used to love as a boy?” Lillian said softly.

  “I loved all sorts of stories, especially ones my mother read to me.”

  “I liked the ones you wrote yourself best—full of heroes and mythical creatures and marvelous adventures. I always thought you were going to be a writer, in fact. We all did.”

  Ian thought about telling his aunt about his poetry but decided against it. He stared into the fire, the flames greedily licking the air, yellow as a dragon’s tongue. He longed for the certainty and safety of fiction—in real life, monsters weren’t always vanquished, and heroes didn’t always win.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The streets were nearly deserted when Ian left Lillian’s. He wove his way home, waving off cabbies who tipped their hats to offer their services. It was a short walk, and he was soon at his flat on Victoria Terrace.

  The moment Ian reached his front door, he knew someone was there. He had not left the gaslight on in the parlor, yet a yellow flame flickered in the front window. His body stiffened as he eased the door open slowly, taking a single step into the foyer. He smelled onions frying, and the sound of whistling came from the kitchen. The tune was familiar, an old reel his mother used to play on the piano. He reached for the umbrella in the stand next to the door; as his hand closed around the handle, he heard approaching footsteps. He raised the umbrella, ready to strike, as the intruder stepped into the front hall. Seeing Ian wielding a weapon, he took a step backward.