Ian found Donald in the kitchen, hovering over a pot of soup. Bacchus sat at his feet, tail twitching, eyes fixed on the stove. “Ah,” his brother said. “I wondered when you would show up. Hard day, was it?”
“You have no idea. That smells heavenly, by the way.”
“Split pea soup,” Donald said, stirring the pot. “With ham, carrots, and onion. Would you care for some?”
“I can’t think of anything I’d like better.”
He was tucking into his third bowl when Donald pulled up a chair and lit a cigarette. “So who failed to appear—you or her?”
“Beg pardon?” Ian said, the spoon halfway to his mouth.
“Obviously your assignation with Miss Stuart did not take place, so I wondered who was the guilty party.”
“How do you—”
“You come back earlier than I expected, with a ravenous appetite, making no mention of your meeting. If you had met and quarreled, you would have launched into an indictment of her personality flaws, yet you remain silent on the topic. I therefore concluded there was no meeting.”
“Your logic is unassailable, but I can’t help sensing Dr. Bell’s influence.”
“He believes in conclusions based on careful observation. Well?” said Donald. “What happened?”
“I failed to appear at the designated hour.”
“I thought so. Your demeanor is rather more sheepish than angry.”
“I had a reason, of course, but it was bad form on my part.”
“She’ll forgive you.”
“How do you know?”
“She has motive.”
Ian smiled. “Like a criminal?”
“If it’s criminal to be smitten with someone.”
“Bosh and bunkum, as DCI Crawford would say.”
“All you have to do is pick up the bill at the next meeting.”
“She’s ahead of you there,” Ian said, showing him the note.
“Ha!” said Donald, reading it. “Good for her.”
“Is there more bread and butter?”
“Lillian’s right.”
“About what?”
“You do have a hollow leg.”
Half an hour later, Ian relaxed in front of the fire while his brother poked at the logs.
“You don’t seem quite so jumpy around flames these days,” Donald said, lowering his stocky frame into the matching wing chair on the other side of the fireplace. Seizing the opportunity, Bacchus jumped onto him, turning circles on his lap. “Ouch,” he said as the cat kneaded his claws into Donald’s belly.
Ian smiled. “He does seem to prefer you.”
Donald sighed. “The very definition of a mixed blessing.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, then Donald said, “Do you think about it much?”
“The fire, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I dream about it quite a bit.”
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” said Donald.
“After that soup, I’d say you’re entitled.”
“We’ve not really talked about the fire much over the years.”
“No.” What neither of them said was that it was a nearly unbearable topic, one they only recently had begun circling warily.
“What were you doing in the basement that night?”
“Rex had gone down because of the thunder.”
“Yes, I remember how he hated it. Used to shiver uncontrollably.”
“I went down to comfort him and found him lying on a mattress in the corner. I curled up next to him and fell asleep.”
“If I were a religious man, I’d say it seems like Providence. If you hadn’t gone down there . . .”
“Rex and I were the only survivors.”
“And me.”
“Yes, but you weren’t—” Ian stopped. The topic was still sensitive between them.
“I wasn’t there,” Donald finished for him.
“I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“For years I felt it was my fault, and that if I had been there, I might have . . .” He looked away, absently petting Bacchus, who purred loudly, eyes half closed.
“I think I blamed you, too.”
“Of course you did. Big brother, supposed to look after you, and all that.”
Ian stared into the flames, which leapt greedily to consume the fuel they fed on. “I’m meeting with a man who might lead me to the culprit who set the fire.”
“This Nate What’s-his-name?”
“Crippen. Nate Crippen.”
Donald sighed. “You can’t leave this alone, can you?”
“Don’t you want to know who killed our parents?”
Donald looked at him with a mixture of apprehension and sadness. “I’m not sure I do.”
“Why on earth not?”
“I don’t see what good can come of it.”
“A criminal can be brought to justice!”
“Don’t pursue this, Ian. Leave well enough alone.”
“How can you call the murder of our parents ‘well enough’? What on earth is the matter with you?”
Extricating the cat from his lap, Donald rose from his chair. “I’m tired, and I have early morning rounds tomorrow.”
“What do you know?”
“Leave it, Ian. Take my advice and do not pursue this inquiry.”
Donald looked sad and defeated, even more than when he first appeared on Ian’s doorstep so many months ago. Ian realized any more attempts at conversation would be futile.
“Good night,” said Donald. Wrapping Ian’s dressing gown around his body, he padded off to his bedroom.
Ian sat gazing at the fire for some time. Finally, when the flames had burned down to embers, he, too, retired to bed, no closer to having answers to any of his questions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sitting in the parlor, you study your hands in the lamplight. Turning them over, you gaze with wonder at the finely calibrated bones, tendons, and sinew, all so carefully constructed, capable of so many things. Over the years, your hands have worked, caressed and constructed, mended and molded, most of the time without much thought on your part. Like most people, you took them for granted, pausing to ponder their workings only when something went wrong—a sprained wrist, a banged thumb, a burned forefinger. They were simply an extension of your brain, obeying its commands like a good servant.
But now you regard them with something like awe. Yesterday, these hands fired a gun that killed a man. Even a short time ago, you would not have thought them capable of such an act—would not have believed it lay within your own heart—yet here you sit, a scant day later, contemplating the done deed.
A tingle slides down your spine, burying itself in your groin, as you strive to remember every detail: his nervous manner, the astonished look on his face when he realized he had trusted the wrong person. There was something touching about gazing into someone’s eyes when they are looking back at yours and seeing eternity. The sense of power and inevitability took you off guard, though to your credit, you did not let it get in your way. Your will was resolute, and if the finger that pulled the trigger trembled a little, that only made the conclusion more satisfying. His surprised look turned to one of recognition, as though he understood why he had to die. That was especially gratifying—after all, what was the point of vengeance if the offender had no understanding of his punishment? You almost felt sorry for him—almost, but not quite. He was deserving of his fate, and so much the better if he was aware of it as well.
You pour a little tea from the pot—cold now, the milk congealing on top of the cup in an unappetizing swirl. You rise to put some more coal on the grate. The embers pop and glow, sending faint fingers of flame into the air. You can’t afford to spend much more time contemplating past deeds. There is so much more to be done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The next morning Ian rose at dawn and left before his brother was awake. The mercury had risen overnight, and the air was radically warmer.
The springlike temperature was disorienting, and a sullen sun struggled to break through a low cloud cover as he walked toward the station house. As he turned onto the nearly deserted High Street, the quiet was broken by the slow clip-clop of hooves. Cob the milkman perched upon his gently swaying cart, pulled by Timothy, his big chestnut gelding. The milkman tipped his cap, and Timothy swiveled his ears in Ian’s direction as they passed. Returning Cob’s gesture, Ian thought about how horses were able to express so much emotion through their ears. Neither of his parents was keen on horses, but Ian remembered Donald teaching him how to read a horse’s mood from the position of its ears. He sighed, wishing his brother trusted him enough to reveal whatever secrets he carried so close.
As he approached police chambers at 192 High Street, he was surprised to find Jed Corbin leaning against the front door, chewing on a meat pie.
“Morning, Detective.”
“What brings you out so bright and early?”
“I’ll grant you it’s early. Not very bright, though, is it?” the reporter said, glancing at the overcast sky.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Corbin?”
“I propose an exchange of information.”
“You possess knowledge I might find useful?”
Corbin smiled, bits of pie crust clinging to his teeth. “I do.”
“What do you require in exchange?”
The reporter spread his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “Merely a tidbit or two on the Elizabeth Staley investigation—exclusive, of course.”
“And what have you in exchange?”
“Information on the death of Major Fitzpatrick.”
Ian tried not to show his surprise, but it was no use. “Indeed?” he said tightly.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Corbin, tossing his leftover crust into the street, where it was seized by a diving seagull that seemed to appear out of nowhere. “Impressive animals,” the reporter said, watching it fly away with its prize. “Perfect opportunists, utterly without scruples.”
“Like journalists?”
Corbin clutched his heart. “You wound me deeply, Detective.”
“What is this information you refer to?”
“The major received a visitor at approximately nine p.m. the night before his charwoman discovered his body.”
“Who was this visitor?”
“Alas, that’s as much as I know.”
“How did you come by this information?”
Corbin smiled. “A journalist never reveals his sources.”
“And a policeman never comments on an ongoing investigation,” Ian replied curtly. “Good day, Mr. Corbin.”
As he turned to leave, the journalist grabbed his sleeve. “We had an agreement!”
“I agreed to nothing,” Ian said, extricating himself, “but answer me one question and I shall consider your request.”
“That’s not good enough. I want an assurance on your part.”
“Very well—if you answer truthfully, I shall give you something to put in your paper.”
“What is your question?”
“How did you find out about the major’s death?”
“I had you followed.”
“By whom?”
“A young fellow in my employ. It isn’t against the law, you know.”
“Interfering with a police investigation is.”
“I assure you, it is not my intent to interfere, only to obtain information.”
“Here is something for you, then. Elizabeth Staley was undoubtedly murdered.”
“How?”
“A blow to the head.”
“With what object?”
“I have already given you two details, which is more than I promised.”
Corbin sighed. “Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.”
“You are no beggar, Mr. Corbin—you are much more like that seagull you admired so much.”
“Any journalist who fails to seize opportunity will never be successful.”
“Nor will any policeman who blindly trusts the press.”
Corbin smiled. “You strike me as a man whose trust is hard to come by.”
“Thank you for the information, Mr. Corbin. Good day,” he said, opening the door to enter the building.
“Anytime,” the reporter called after him. “I’ll be in touch.”
The night shift was ending when Ian entered, the officers finishing their last cup of tea, filing papers, writing up case notes. DCI Crawford was a stickler for paperwork, and while Ian disliked it as much as the next man, he approved of the chief’s zest for organization.
Pouring a cup of tea, he retreated to his desk while his sleepy colleagues prepared to go home, yawning as they pulled on their scarves and greatcoats. Though Ian did not want to admit it, even to himself, the reporter’s words had hit home. Whom, really, did he trust? A while ago he would have said Lillian, but they were on shaky ground. As for Donald . . . putting thoughts of his brother aside, he pulled out his notebook and began studying his case notes on the death of Major Fitzpatrick.
Sergeant Bowers approached Ian’s desk.
“I’ve a note for ye, sir,” he said, fishing a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “Sorry it’s a bit creased—I didn’ want tae lose it, so it’s been in my pocket.”
Ian was about to ask who it was from when he looked at the handwriting. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said, smiling.
“Don’ ye want t’know who—”
“Tall young woman, auburn hair, rather cheeky?”
The sergeant’s eyes widened. “I don’ know ’bout cheeky, sir—”
“Forceful, then.”
Bowers grinned. “That she were, sir. Forceful, definitely.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” he replied, lingering as if he wished to say something else.
“Good day, Sergeant,” Ian said amiably. The constable tipped his hat and sputtered a quick farewell before joining his colleagues leaving the building.
Ian looked at the note again. Eight o’clock tonight at Le Canard. Do endeavor to be punctual this time. He smiled as he tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. No recriminations, no demand for an explanation; just a simple declaration in the form of a command: be there.
The front door swung open, and a somewhat bedraggled Sergeant Dickerson shuffled in. He looked half asleep. There was beard stubble on his chin, and half-moon shadows beneath his eyes. He clutched a crumpled bakery bag, which he tossed onto his desk before falling into his chair.
“Rough night, was it?” said Ian.
“Rehearsal went long, an’ I had trouble sleepin’.”
“Any particular reason?”
“It were Scrooge, sir.”
“Beg pardon?”
Dickerson pulled out a soggy piece of Selkirk bannock and bit into it absently. “I kept thinkin’ ’bout how a man gets to be like that. No friends, no love, carin’ only ’bout work.”
“He is an extreme character,” Ian agreed.
“Sad, really. I can’t help feelin’ sorry fer him.”
“It turns out all right in the end, though.”
“On account a’ the ghosts, yeah.” He shivered. “Wouldn’t like t’go through a night like that m’self, mind you. Would ye care fer some, sir?” he said, holding out the bakery bag. “There’s another piece.”
“You look like you need it more than I do.”
“I’ll be all right, sir. What’s on fer today?” he said, fetching himself a mug of tea.
“I’d like you to interview the rest of the major’s neighbors—anyone you can find in the vicinity who might have known him—shopkeepers, bootblacks, newsboys. Find out anything you can about his habits, his history, his family. And do your best to find out who visited him at around nine o’clock the night before he was killed.”
“A visitor, sir?”
“Apparently. But that’s all I know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And mind you, take n
otes.”
“Will do, sir—don’ go anywhere wi’out my trusty notebook.”
“Good man. That should keep you busy for a while,” Ian said, rising and putting on his cloak.
“Where’re you off ta, sir, if ye don’ mind my askin’?”
“I am going to interview a woman who claims to converse with ghosts.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ian’s knock on Madame Veselka’s door received no response, and he was about to leave when he heard the sound of meowing from inside. Going around to the front window, he peered in through the French lace curtains. The same fluffy white Persian was perched on the window seat, mewing plaintively. Taking a deep breath, he rapped on the windowpane. Alarmed, the cat darted away. After a moment, he heard a door slam from within the flat. He could make out a person walking through the parlor, and Gretchen’s face appeared at the window. Lifting the curtain aside, she beckoned to him to go around to the entrance.
“I’m sorry if I’ve come round too early,” he said as she opened the door. She wore a tartan robe over a long white nightgown, and pulled the robe tighter as she led him into the parlor. There was a lingering odor of gardenia perfume, and the aroma of coffee from the back of the flat.
Seeing the look on Ian’s face, Gretchen said, “I have just put on the kettle. You would care for some coffee?” Rather charmingly, she pronounced it “ca-fay.”
“Thank you,” he said.
Tugging her robe closer, she disappeared into the rear of the flat. The cat sauntered back into the room and perched in the same spot as before. Curling its tail around its body, the Persian regarded him with unblinking blue eyes, as if daring him to transgress. A shiver went up his spine as Ian remembered that cats were often regarded as familiars for witches. Not that he believed in any of that nonsense, of course—still, the animal’s sapphire eyes were uncanny, following him around the room as he wandered from the sofa to the front window. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but keeping an open mind and expecting nothing was often the best investigative approach.
The beaded curtains swayed, a soothing sound like the soft rustle of leaves, and parted to reveal Madame Veselka, dressed in a Japanese kimono. The garment was black silk, with a yellow and crimson floral motif, which set off her black hair admirably. Her hands were devoid of jewelry save for a large ruby on the fourth finger of her right hand.
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