Edinburgh Midnight

by Carole Lawrence

  “Of course,” Ian said as the aroma of leeks and barley filled the room, his stomach contracting with hunger. On the kitchen counter was a wooden tray containing a round loaf of brown bread, which Lillian preferred over the more expensive white bread, a large wedge of yellow cheese, and a slab of fresh butter. Ian recognized the tray as a present from his mother—he had helped her pick it out years ago. It was painted with a Highland scene of purple heather in full bloom and reminded him of his Inverness childhood.

  “This meal was one of Alfie’s favorites,” Lillian said as they pulled their chairs up to the table in front of the fire, the crackling of the wood blending with the wind whistling through the eaves. “He had simple tastes—one of the many things I loved about him.”

  “The breeze is picking up,” Ian said, avoiding the topic of her dead husband. Lillian believed that Madame Veselka communicated with dear Alfie, who had been dead for some years now. Ian had been very fond of Uncle Alfred, but did not believe in ghosts, the afterlife, or indeed anything supernatural. But he had resolved to keep his opinions to himself tonight and sit quietly while his aunt enjoyed herself.

  “Madame Veselka has to go to Paris later this week, which is why she’s holding her meeting on a Monday instead of Friday,” Lillian remarked as Ian helped himself to a slice of cheese, sharp and tangy and creamy. “That’s what my friend Elizabeth Staley tells me, at any rate.”

  “Elizabeth Staley?”

  “You’ll meet her tonight. She’s a retired schoolteacher. We’ve become quite friendly over the past months.”

  “This is a wonderful cheddar,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

  “I know how you feel about Madame Veselka,” she said with a knowing smile. “All I ask is that you keep an open mind.”

  “Consider your request granted. Now, how about some more of that Montrachet?” he said, pouring some into her glass as the wind heaved and sucked at the windowpanes. Ian shivered as the dry branches of the old yew tree outside rapped against the glass, as if beckoning them out into the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Madame Veselka’s flat occupied the ground floor of a crumbling tenement on Blackfriars Street. They were greeted by a fresh-faced blond girl of about twenty who smiled when she saw Lillian.

  “Good to see you again, madame,” she said in a pronounced Prussian accent, curtsying. “I am Gretchen,” she told Ian. “Please to come in. The others are in the parlor.”

  They were ushered into a plush, old-fashioned sitting room. Nearly every surface was draped in fabric, from the heavy burgundy drapes to the tasseled cloth covering the wide oval table in the center of the room. A fire burned in the grate, and the air was thick with sage incense. No gaslights were lit—other than the fire, a dozen candles provided the only source of illumination. A snowy Persian cat sat curled in one of the overstuffed armchairs, its blue eyes thin slits in a forest of white fur.

  Besides Lillian’s friend, retired schoolteacher Elizabeth Staley, the attendees included a tiny, pinch-faced woman dressed all in black, clutching an enormous cloth handbag; an army major; and his son, a sullen young man with thick blond hair in need of a trim. After being served sherry by Gretchen, they conversed in hushed voices, casting nervous glances in the direction of a beaded curtain at the far end of the room.

  After learning that the major was here to speak with his dead wife, and that the tiny woman, who bore the very Welsh name of Bronwyn Davies, was in search of communication with a dead sister, Ian was becoming restless.

  “When is she likely to appear?” he whispered to Lillian as he accepted a second glass of sherry from the comely Gretchen.

  “She likes to make an entrance,” his aunt replied. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

  Her prediction was soon rewarded. The curtain at the other end of the room swayed, the beads clacking softly against each other as they parted to reveal a large woman elaborately dressed in layers of contrasting prints and colors. Her plump wrists were festooned with bracelets, each finger sporting a different ring. The paisley scarf wrapped around her head did not fully contain the mass of unruly black curls beneath it. Her skirts swayed and swished, and the odor of gardenias filled the room.

  “Welcome to tonight’s séance,” she said in an accent that was clearly meant to evoke French origins, but Ian detected another flavor lurking within it. He wasn’t certain, but he thought she was unsuccessfully concealing Romany roots. He glanced at Lillian, but his aunt appeared enraptured by the medium’s presence.

  “So good to see so many familiar faces,” Madame Veselka said, casting her eyes around the room until her gaze fixed on Ian. “What brings you here tonight, young man?”

  “I came with my aunt,” Ian replied, a little curtly.

  “You are most welcome,” she replied graciously, which made him regret his tone of voice.

  “Please, let us begin,” she said, as Gretchen appeared with an empty tray to collect the sherry glasses. The guests followed the medium’s lead to sit around the oval table. Ian chose a seat next to Lillian, across from the retired major, who sat, back straight as a rod, his bushy white mustache perfectly symmetrical. “Let us all join hands,” said the madame, and Ian felt his aunt’s thin, cool fingers close over his.

  The yellow candlelight cast a warm glow on the deep-plum wallpaper. Ian smelled candle wax mixed with Madame Veselka’s heavy gardenia perfume. How suitable she should choose the aroma of a flower associated with death, he thought, wondering if it was purposeful. He looked at the others, their shining faces expectant as children’s. As the medium let her head fall back, speaking in a low, thrilling voice, his aunt’s grip on his hand tightened.

  “’Tis the dark of night, when phantoms stretch their ghostly limbs through the mists of time, their hoary heads draped in the veil of death. Come, O spirits! Come, departed ones! Give us your wisdom, show us your long-forgotten faces! Visit our world once more, you creatures of the shadows!”

  “She’s damned poetic, I’ll give her that,” Ian whispered to Lillian. His remark was rewarded with a swift poke in the ribs. “Ow!” he muttered. “That hurt.”

  “Shh!” Lillian hissed. “Unless ye want another.”

  Ian fell silent. His aunt’s elbow was sharp, and he believed her threat.

  Madame Veselka leaned forward in her chair. “Is there one here you wish to speak to?”

  Silence. A yawn fought its way up Ian’s throat, and as he attempted to stifle it, the medium spoke again—in an entirely different voice, throaty and rich.

  “Bear, is that you?”

  Icicles speared Ian’s heart. Bear was his mother’s nickname for him. As a child, he owned a dog who once cornered a beaver. Having recently immersed himself in a fairy tale involving bears, he mistook the animal for a bear, which had been extinct in Scotland for centuries. After that incident, his mother dubbed him Bear.

  He felt his aunt’s hand tighten around his own. And for a brief moment, the heaviness surrounding his heart evaporated like smoke. A happy vision of the past swam before his eyes. The house in Queens Gate still stood, his mother in the kitchen, her head wreathed in steam from the kettle, his father’s hoe clanking as he tinkered in their small back garden. Ian’s eyes swelled and burned, his throat constricted, and he longed to call out to his mother.

  But that was followed by a cold, hard anger as reality pressed its way through his joyful vision. This was nothing but a ruse. The medium had somehow wrangled information from his aunt, and was using it in an attempt to trick him. He stood up abruptly, tipping his chair over. The tiny woman to his left gave a little yelp as it clattered to the floor, and everyone else looked up at him with alarmed expressions. The exception was Madame, who remained seated, her eyes closed.

  “This is absurd,” he declared. “I’m leaving.”

  As he strode from the room, the medium’s voice floated after him, unperturbed and calm. “To some, much is given. To others, much is taken away. Of both, much is expected.”

&nbs
p; He snorted in disgust and stalked out, seizing his coat and hat from the front hall rack. The door banged with a hollow thud behind him. As he stood on the street in the cold winter wind, his fury gave way to regret. Once again, his rage and impatience had gotten the better of him; he had embarrassed his aunt and everyone else in the room. There was no excuse for it—his behavior was churlish and selfish, and he owed them all an apology. He glanced at the building behind him. There was no point in going back now—he would wait until another time, he reasoned, hoping it was common sense and not cowardice prevailing. A white plume of smoke curled up from the chimney, quickly dissipating in the chill air.

  Pulling his hat low over his face, he hunched into the wind and headed toward Victoria Terrace. Donald was on call at the infirmary, so Ian had the flat to himself, with only his black-and-white cat, Bacchus, for company.

  Flinging himself into a chair by the fire, he attempted to read, but the volume of Robert Louis Stevenson stories that had so recently consumed him failed to draw his attention. Putting the book aside, he roamed the flat restlessly, Bacchus following him, meowing plaintively. Thinking the cat had probably not been fed, Ian found some leftover haddock in the icebox, and scooped a generous portion into the cat’s dish. Bacchus sniffed at it, flicked his tail, then picked at it delicately.

  “You’ve bamboozled me into a second supper, have you?” Ian said.

  The cat gazed up at him with innocent round eyes, blinking slowly.

  “Thought so. Still, I don’t suppose it’ll hurt you.”

  The doorbell rang. Glancing at the kitchen clock, Ian saw it was nearly ten. He went to the front door and peered through the peephole to see Aunt Lillian standing on the stoop, her thick shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders. A stab of guilt pierced his heart as he flung open the door.

  “Where’s Donald?” she said, stamping her feet to shake off the snow clinging to her boots.

  “At the infirmary,” Ian said, taking her wrap.

  “At this hour?”

  “Doctors must learn to keep all hours,” he said, hanging the coat on the bentwood rack in the foyer. “Tea?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  She followed him into the parlor, settling in front of the fire while he busied himself in the kitchen. Bacchus followed, curling around his legs.

  “Get on with you,” Ian said. “You’ll get no more food from me.”

  The cat ignored him, almost tripping him as he poured the boiling water into the pot.

  “Now then,” Lillian said as he laid the tea tray on the sideboard, “would you like to explain what on earth got into you?”

  Ian frowned. “If you’ve come for an apology—”

  “Why would I expect that from someone as bloody-minded as you?”

  Ian picked up the poker and gave the logs in the fireplace a shove. “I was about to say I owe you one.”

  “Well,” she said. “Let’s have it, then.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What else do you want me to say?”

  “An explanation would be nice.”

  Ian leaned against the mantel, arms crossed. “You told her about my nickname, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “She could not possibly have known what my mother called me unless someone told her.”

  “I told her nothing.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No,” he said, pouring her tea. “It’s a statement of fact. You wouldn’t lie to me, so clearly she got the information some other way.”

  “How, Ian? How on earth would she ferret out something like that?”

  “I don’t know, but I mean to find out.”

  “You’re being childish. Why can’t you accept there are things in heaven and earth—”

  “Not dreamt of in my philosophy?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Ghosts don’t walk the earth, Auntie. Shakespeare may have been a great writer, but he lived in a time of superstition and ignorance.”

  “You say I’m no liar, yet you’ll not believe me when I say I’ve spoken to my dear departed Alfred?”

  “There’s a difference between lying and self-delusion.”

  Lillian shook her head sadly. “You’re a hard one, Ian.”

  “I believe in scientific evidence, Auntie, not the rantings of some third-rate trickster.”

  “Those facts you hold so dear won’t keep you warm on cold Scottish nights.”

  He had no reply. He stared into the fire, the thirsty flames wrapping themselves around the logs, greedily consuming the wood even as they flickered dimly and died.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning Donald was already at breakfast when Ian shuffled in.

  “You look terri—” Donald began, but a look from Ian silenced him. “Have some kippers,” he said, pointing to a covered dish on the table.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Eggs, then.”

  Ian sank into a chair, rubbing his forehead. “Is there coffee?”

  “Help yourself,” Donald said, waving a plump hand toward the coffee service on the sideboard.

  “Thank you,” Ian said, pouring himself a cup from the matching pitcher. Made of fine bone china, the entire set was a gift from Lillian, with a pattern of tiny bluebells, a reminder of spring in the Highlands.

  “I take it things did not go well last night,” Donald remarked.

  “They did not.” Ian considered whether to tell his brother what transpired, but thought better of it. He had not yet sorted it out in his own mind, still troubled and confused by both Madame Veselka’s behavior and his own.

  “Oh, by the way, that little street urchin stopped by for you,” Donald said, slicing off the top of his soft-boiled egg and placing it on his plate.

  “His name is Derek,” Ian said, spooning sugar into his cup.

  “He claims to have information for you.”

  “Did he say what it related to?”

  “He did suggest it might be worth something to you.”

  “He’s usually right.”

  Donald took a bite of egg, delicately wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Forgive me, but your relationship strikes me as peculiarly mercantile. If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly—”

  “I find him helpful,” Ian said, reaching for the cream. Bacchus sat at his feet, tail swishing, eyes on the cream pitcher. Ian knew Donald fed the cat from the table when he wasn’t around but didn’t think it worth confronting him; his brother would simply lie.

  “Still, he does seem to have a price tag attached,” Donald said, scooping out another steaming mouthful of egg. A tiny, perfectly round drop of yolk fell on his lapel; frowning, he swiped at it with his napkin. Donald was not a tidy eater—when he came home in the evening, Ian could usually tell what he had dined on earlier.

  “If you slept on the street every night, you might see things differently,” Ian remarked.

  “Perhaps,” Donald said, batting away the black-and-white paw creeping over the lip of the table. Irritated, the cat skulked off, tail flicking impatiently. “But I don’t trust him.”

  “Neither do I. Given half a chance, no doubt he’d rob me blind,” Ian replied, biting into a piece of toast smeared with currant jam.

  “Then why do you continue to—”

  “Because I need him. I trade in information, and not every source is eligible for sainthood.” Ian put down his toast and regarded his brother. “You must have come across some scoundrels in your travels.”

  Donald laughed. “How very diplomatic of you. You mean my years of debauched wandering?”

  “Whatever you care to call it.”

  His brother leaned back in his chair and brushed the crumbs from his lap. “I not only knew them, for a while I was one of them—which is why I have a keen eye for the type.”

  “He’s just a boy. And an orphan.”

>   “Aren’t we all?” Donald murmured, almost to himself.

  “How are you managing to pay for medical school, by the way?”

  “Believe it or not, I managed to accrue some savings in my years of wandering. Lillian is helping out a little. And next term I hope to get a post as teaching assistant. Which reminds me, I should like to pay for my share of the rent, starting this month.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But—”

  “When you’re a successful surgeon, you can pay all the rent, if you like. But for now it’s out of the question.”

  Donald rose from the table and folded his napkin neatly before tucking it into the monogrammed silver napkin ring, another gift from Lillian. “You’re a stubborn man, O Brother Mine, but I will defer to your will just this once. And now, I must attend rounds. Mustn’t be late, or HRG will not be pleased.”

  “HRG?”

  “His Royal Genius. It’s what I call Dr. Bell—behind his back, of course.”

  “Mind you don’t get caught. He doesn’t strike me as someone with a well-developed sense of humor.”

  “Of course, I do think the man is extraordinary,” Donald said, lumbering out to the kitchen with his plate. Ian thought he had gained a stone or so since giving up drink, but would never say anything to discourage his brother from his resolution.

  “What are you up to today?” Donald said, returning, wiping his hands on a hand towel. Bacchus trailed after him, scanning the ground for discarded tidbits. “Mrs. McGinty’s pig on the loose again? Or are you leaving the barnyard patrol to Sergeant Dickers?”

  “You mean Dickerson?” His brother knew the sergeant’s name perfectly well, but couldn’t resist goading Ian whenever possible. The habit was a carryover from their childhood, and Ian was used to it, though he wondered why Donald seemed compelled to needle him. “That reminds me—DCI Crawford said to thank you again for setting up the consultation with Dr. Bell.”

  “My pleasure. I trust his wife is feeling better?”

  “Much better, and he is indebted to you.”

  “Nonsense. Bell’s the one who diagnosed intermittent inflammation of the bowel. And his treatment is positively ingenious. Instead of avoiding certain foods, he encouraged her to eat smaller meals at regular intervals. That and the occasional dose of laudanum seems to be effective in a majority of patients.” Donald sighed. “What a keen intellect.”