Edinburgh Midnight

by Carole Lawrence

  “Unwarranted, perhaps, but unbecoming? I’m not so certain of that,” he said with a smile, and she felt her forehead burn.

  “I’m afraid I have a tendency to take on causes. I can be cantankerous when I think women aren’t being taken seriously just because they’re women.”

  “I’ll admit your reactions did feel a bit harsh at times.”

  “All I can say is I’m sorry.”

  “And I am deeply sorry if I gave any indication I would fail to take a woman seriously—just because she’s a woman.” He cocked his head to one side and gazed at her, and she felt confused and excited. “I cannot imagine anyone failing to take you seriously, Miss Stuart.”

  She paused, unsure what to say next. He stood, arms crossed, a faint smile on his absurdly handsome face. A lock of curly black hair had fallen onto his forehead, and she longed to reach up and brush it back.

  “Well,” she said lamely, “I’d best get on with my duties.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  She peered at him. Was he mocking her? “See here,” she said abruptly. “I’ve a mind to make it up to you properly.”

  “Indeed?” he said, rocking back on his heels.

  What was he smiling at? Did he find her ridiculous?

  “I should like to buy you dinner,” she said curtly, as if daring him to say no.

  “When did you have in mind?”

  “Is Th-Thursday night convenient?” she said, furious that she was stammering.

  “Most agreeable.”

  “Shall we say eight o’clock, then, at Le Canard? You know the place?”

  “I do indeed. I shall see you then,” he said, and swept out the entrance with a few strides of his long legs.

  As the door closed behind him, she realized she had been holding her breath. Exhaling, she turned around and retraced her steps back down the corridor. But the familiar landscape had changed in some subtle, indefinable way. The gaslight reflecting in the tall arched windows was more intense, the marble walls gleamed more brightly, and the muted sound of voices from nearby wards sounded like singing. Her hunger had vanished, and her feet no longer hurt. In fact, she felt like dancing. Turning right toward the nurses’ station, she took a little skip before vanishing around the corner, leaving a faint trace of lavender in her wake.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ian returned home to find Donald in Ian’s dressing gown, sprawled out on the parlor sofa. The cat was perched precariously on his protruding belly, like a remora on a whale shark. When Ian entered the room, his brother looked up from the medical textbook he was reading and scowled.

  “What on earth possessed you to deposit that imbecilic street urchin on me without so much as a by-your-leave?”

  Ian sank into the wing chair closest to the fire. “Derek McNair is many things, but imbecilic is not one of them.”

  “Lawless, then. Rude, crude, vulgar.”

  “Words you used to describe yourself not so long ago.”

  “Touché, brother. A hit—a very palpable hit. Or should I leave the Shakespeare quotes to you?”

  “I shall be glad to be relieved of the burden.”

  “Seriously, though, did you think I would be receptive to the idea?”

  “I did not give it much consideration, to be honest.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it is my flat.”

  The moment Ian said the words, he knew it was a mistake. Donald’s face darkened, and he sat up abruptly, dislodging Bacchus, who landed on the carpet, tail twitching irritably.

  “See here,” Donald began. “If you have any notion—”

  “Please calm yourself. I didn’t mean to suggest—”

  “One may not mean a great many things, but nonetheless—”

  “I beg you not to take offense.”

  “What you meant was that since you pay the rent, you may do as you like. Is that not true?”

  Ian rubbed his forehead wearily. “I confess I did not expect you to object to him so vociferously.”

  Donald stood up and pulled the robe around his rotund middle. Since it was Ian’s dressing gown, it did not quite reach. “It isn’t that I dislike the boy so much, though I am not as enamored of him as you are. It’s the principle of the thing.”

  “What’s e-na-mored mean?”

  They turned to see Derek McNair standing in the doorway. He was dressed in Ian’s second-best nightshirt, which was so long it trailed behind him. His unkempt brown hair stood up on all sides, and his eyes were crusted with sleep. The brothers exchanged glances.

  “So wha’ do it mean?” he repeated.

  “It means you like something,” Ian said finally.

  “Rather a lot,” Donald added.

  “Din’ know ye liked me even a bit,” Derek said. “That’s good t’know.”

  At first Ian thought he might be serious, but Derek’s left eyebrow was raised sardonically, and his mouth curled in a smile.

  “What are you doing out of bed?” said Ian.

  “It were kinda hard t’sleep wi’ the two a you goin’ on like that.”

  “How much of that did you hear?”

  “Enough t’know y’like me—rather a lot,” he added, imitating Donald’s voice perfectly.

  Donald reddened. “Here now, why don’t you have a glass of warm milk or something and get back to bed?”

  “I’d sooner ’ave a beer.”

  “You may not—” Donald began.

  “Oiy,” Derek interrupted. “Yer brother promised me whisky.”

  “Only a sip,” Ian said in response to Donald’s look.

  “Well, I ha’nt had it yet.”

  “Very well,” said Ian. “And then straight to bed.”

  “Kin I sleep wi’ the cat?” he said, looking at Bacchus, who had returned to the recently vacated sofa, and was industriously cleaning himself.

  “If he’ll go with you.”

  The boy was placated with an ounce or two of cream sherry, which they kept around for Lillian. After licking his lips and carefully wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Derek picked up the cat and lugged him in the direction of Ian’s bedroom. To Ian’s surprise, Bacchus submitted, legs dangling as the boy held him around the middle. Derek was so small and Bacchus so large the boy had to wrap both arms around the cat.

  “Hold on a minute,” said Ian. “Just exactly where are you sleeping?”

  “I let him use your bed,” said Donald.

  Ian frowned. “I never suggested—”

  “You weren’t usin’ it, were ye?” said Derek. “An’ don’ worry—I took a bath.”

  “He can move to the couch when you turn in,” Donald said.

  “He most certainly will,” Ian muttered as the boy trundled off to bed, the curiously passive Bacchus hanging limply in his arms.

  Donald leaned over to put a log on the fire. “This wood is wet, but it’s all I have at the moment.”

  Ian took the pearl earrings from the pocket of his waistcoat, where he had been carrying them all day, and laid them on the small mahogany table by the sofa.

  When Donald saw them, he went pale. “How did you get these?” he asked quietly.

  “So you recognize them.”

  “Of course I recognize them! How did they survive the fire?”

  Ian lowered himself onto the sofa. Lacing his fingers together, he leaned forward and fixed his gaze upon his older brother. “If you know something you haven’t told me, now would be the time to say so.”

  Donald took a seat across from him. “Do you really think I would hide anything from you?”

  “You hid the fact that our mother had a lover.”

  “But I told you!”

  “Not until two months ago. Why did you wait so long?”

  “You were so young at the time—”

  “Too young for the truth?”

  “It would have just upset you.”

  “What else are you hiding from me?”

  “Nothing—I swear.”

  Ian look
ed at his brother’s face, shiny with sweat and sincerity. Ian had no idea what secrets might still be lurking in family closets, and perhaps Donald was as much in the dark as he was.

  “So where did you get these?” his brother repeated.

  Ian told him of his meeting with Rat Face. Donald listened closely, and when Ian had finished, was silent for some time. The only sounds in the room were the soft hissing of the damp wood in the grate and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

  “Then the fire was set deliberately?” Donald said finally.

  “It appears that way.”

  “By whom, and why?”

  “The obvious answer would be some vengeful miscreant from Father’s past.”

  “He did put away a fair number of criminals.” Donald leaned back against the couch cushions and sighed. “You will never understand this, but I have never wanted a drink so much since I gave up alcohol.”

  “I do understand. I could do with one myself.”

  “Please don’t abstain on my account.”

  “It won’t make you—”

  “I would be a sorry specimen if that were all it took to weaken my resolve.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Allow me some vicarious pleasure.”

  Ian went to the sideboard and poured himself a generous tumbler of whisky.

  “I just want to smell it,” Donald said, leaning over the glass and inhaling deeply. With a sigh, he pushed the medical textbooks to the side and sat back down on the sofa. “Now then, what are you going to do about this new information?”

  “I’m going to track down this Nate Crippen and wring the truth out of him.”

  “Mind how you go, Ian. These are murky waters.”

  “I mean to get to the bottom of this,” he said, taking a drink of whisky, feeling the welcome burn as it slid down his throat.

  “There are evil forces in this godforsaken town. I should hate to lose my landlord in a violent way,” Donald added with a sly smile.

  “I have no intention of dying.”

  “I am glad to hear it, but if you delve deeper into this, there may be others who have a different notion.”

  At that moment the wind picked up outside, hurling a sheet of freezing rain at the window. It slapped against the panes before sliding to the ground.

  “‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here,’” Donald murmured.

  The quote from The Tempest seemed appropriate, given the onslaught of weather outside. Ian shivered, unable to shake the thought that perhaps his brother was right.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ian did not fall asleep immediately. The storm gathered in volume as it swept in from the sea, carrying more freezing rain and hail, shaking the window frames and rattling the panes. He lay awake listening to the howl of the wind, imagining the creatures out in the fields beyond town, huddled miserably against each other in wet masses, waiting out the storm. He was glad to have a warm bed and a fire to come home to, but could not escape thoughts of Edinburgh’s unluckier citizens, with little more shelter than sheep or cattle out in cold, comfortless pastures.

  When he finally fell asleep, he drifted in and out of disturbing dreams before finding himself in his parents’ house before the fire. Somehow vaguely aware he was dreaming, Ian drifted from room to room, looking for other members of his family, when he heard raised voices coming from behind a closed door.

  His parents were arguing, though he was unable to make out what they were saying. He put an ear to the keyhole but could not distinguish actual words, though it was clear they were both agitated. His mother rarely expressed anger, and it was startling to hear the edge in her voice. As he listened, his dog, Rex, pushed his wet nose into Ian’s palm. Ian stroked his head absently, but the dog poked his muzzle more insistently into his hand, as if trying to get Ian’s attention.

  Turning away from the closed door, Ian smelled smoke, terror filling his being so completely he was unable to move. He tried to knock on the door, but his body would not obey his commands. His throat was equally unresponsive to his frantic attempts to call out, frozen, as if panic had drained the air from his body. The smoke thickened, filling the hallway, and he could hear the hiss and crackle of flames coming from behind him.

  He finally managed to turn around, and through the gathering smoke, he saw a figure coming toward him. It was a human form but seemed to be made of fire. As it approached Ian, he saw that it was wearing a long, gleaming white robe. From its head sprouted a single flame, like the head of a candle. Neither the age nor the sex of the creature was evident, and as it came closer, it stretched its shimmering arms toward him.

  He awoke with a gasp, the smell of smoke still in his nostrils. He tiptoed through the silent flat to see the fire smoldering feebly in the grate. His brother lay fast asleep on the sofa, a discarded medical textbook on the carpet next to him. Bacchus had reclaimed his spot on Donald’s stomach, glancing sleepily at Ian through half-closed eyes. The ticking of the hall clock was the only sound apart from his brother’s light snoring. The freezing rain had abated, leaving a moody, starless sky as a sliver of moon struggled to break through the clouds.

  Since Donald was on the sofa, Ian wondered what had become of Derek. The last he remembered was his brother ushering the sleepy boy from his bedroom. Tiptoeing into Donald’s room, he found Derek fast asleep in his brother’s bed, nearly obscured beneath a mountain of quilts. Had the cold the boy endured day after day seeped into his bones, so that no amount of blankets could warm him? He wondered if Donald had given up his bedroom out of sentiment, or simply fallen asleep before reclaiming it. He knew Donald well enough to know that if questioned about it, his brother would claim he had merely surrendered to exhaustion while studying.

  Ian padded back to his own room, feeling somehow less lonely, comforted by the presence of others in his flat. Climbing beneath the bedclothes, he stared out the window at the inky December night. A few months ago, sharing his living quarters with anyone else would have filled him with dread; a year ago it would have been unthinkable. Yet here he was, comforted by the presence of three other sentient beings in his home. (Donald had debated the issue of whether Bacchus was indeed sentient, though the cat seemed to prefer him to Ian, which Donald claimed only proved the contrary nature of felines.) Ian gazed at the emerging moon as it struggled bravely through the clouds, before he finally fell into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

  He awoke to the aroma of bacon and coffee. Throwing on a spare dressing gown, he went through to the dining room to find Derek and his brother feasting on coddled eggs, black bread with jam, and thick slices of bacon.

  “Good morning,” Donald sang out. “I’ve just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

  “What makes you so blasted cheerful today?” Ian said, sitting across from Derek, who was stuffing his face as fast as he could.

  “’E’s jes foun’ out classes are off t’day,” the boy muttered through a mouthful of bread, a bit of jam dangling from his chin.

  “Really? Why?” Ian said, pouring himself some coffee.

  “Conan Doyle stopped by a while ago to say Dr. Bell is attending to the Queen and has canceled all his morning lectures.”

  “The Queen?”

  “Yes, didn’t you know? Dr. Bell is HRH Victoria’s personal surgeon whenever she’s in Scotland.”

  “Another reason for his arrogance, I suppose,” Ian said, pouring cream in his coffee.

  “He’s not as bad as all that. Doyle gets on with him famously.”

  “Conan Doyle gets on with everyone.”

  Disappointed at hearing he had missed his friend, Ian looked at the hall clock. “Good Lord, it’s after nine. I’m late! Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “You were sleeping so peacefully. And you didn’t ask me to wake you.”

  “Blast,” Ian muttered, gulping down the rest of his coffee.

  “At least have some breakfast,” Donald called after him as he hurried back to the bedroom to get dress
ed.

  Ten minutes later he was more or less ready, though the stubble on his cheeks was evidence of his hasty ablutions. Grabbing a slice of bacon, he shoved it between two slices of bread before throwing on his cloak.

  “You’ll get indigestion!” Donald called after him as he rushed out the door.

  It was not far to police chambers, but as he was late, Ian hailed a cab and was soon dashing up the stairs two at a time. He found Sergeant Dickerson already at his desk, engrossed in a pile of papers.

  “Studying more investigative techniques, Sergeant?” Ian said, sitting at his own desk.

  “Actually, sir, I were jes workin’ on my lines fer the play,” he said, slipping the papers into a drawer. “You weren’t here yet, an’ I had a few minutes t’spare. Sorry, sir.”

  “I’m the one who should apologize for being late.”

  “Everythin’ all right, is it, sir?”

  “The fact is, I overslept.”

  Dickerson shook his head. “You’ve been workin’ too hard as usual.”

  “Not hard enough, I should think—I don’t have any useful leads on who killed Miss Staley.”

  “It’s only been a day, sir. Have you interviewed other people what attend séances?”

  “That’s precisely what we’re doing today. We’ll start with Madame herself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bring your notebook. Have you seen DCI Crawford?” Ian said, glancing in the direction of his office.

  “I don’ believe he’s come in yet, sir.”

  That struck Ian as odd, but he said nothing. He hoped Crawford’s wife had not taken a turn for the worse.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Come along.”

  It wasn’t far to Blackfriars Street, just the other side of South Bridge. When they arrived at Madame Veselka’s residence, the front rooms were dark and quiet, and Ian thought no one was at home. But when they knocked, a light went on in the back of the flat. Quick footsteps were followed by the sound of heavy bolts sliding in the front door, which opened to reveal the medium’s young servant, Gretchen. She wore an apron over a plain gray frock, her blond braids wound around her head. Even in such unassuming attire, there was something attractive and fresh about her. Her skin glowed with the vitality of youth, her pink cheeks sprinkled with a light dusting of freckles and her cornflower-blue eyes bright and inquisitive.