The look on the maître d’s face said it all. There was simply no redeeming a man who could not be bothered to show up—not once, but twice—on an assignation with such a charming young lady. Perhaps the monsieur was married and could not find a suitable excuse to give his wife, or maybe he was ashamed to be seen in public in flagrante—in any case, he was an ungainly and unforgivable bouffon, un idiot insensé, because only a man utterly without sense would think of committing such a grave méfait, a crime against all that is decent and proper and respectable.
Ian had to admire the man’s ability to communicate all this with a twitch of his mustache and a tilt of his sleek head. This time he did not have to ask for the note, which was thrust into his hand before he could utter a word.
I fear the maître d’ is of the opinion that you are an irredeemable lourdaud (an oaf). I may very well agree with him, unless you give me a reason not to. The choice is yours.
Once again it felt ridiculous to thank a man who was glaring daggers at him, so Ian simply slipped the note into his pocket, turned, and fled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Donald was already in bed by the time Ian arrived home, his rhythmic snoring rippling the air as Ian crept quietly into the flat. There was a note about some soup on the stove, but Ian was too exhausted to eat. Leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, he slipped into his nightshirt and crawled into bed. Once he was between the covers, though, the moon glared down at him so brightly that he felt it, too, had a message for him. He lay staring at it for some time, wondering why, with so many people anxious to communicate with him, he had so little useful information.
He was unaware of falling asleep, but found himself wandering a foreign landscape, a darkened wood with twisted trees and blackened branches. There was little sign of life as he wended his way down a narrow path leading to an unknown destination. The moon appeared as a glowing yellow eye, glowering coldly at him with neither goodwill nor compassion, as if daring him to solve the pressing questions that consumed him.
A thin sheet of mist covered the ground, and he could not see his feet. He felt as if he was floating rather than walking, gliding through the withered woods lightly as a cloud. As he approached a clearing, he felt inexorably drawn to it but also frightened of what he might find there. He stepped from the line of forest into the scrubby field and heard a long, low whistle. The sound pierced him to the very bones, freezing him where he stood. It was the signal his mother had used to bring him and Donald in for dinner. The sound carried surprisingly well in the glens and hills of the Highlands, and could be heard half a mile or more away. And here it was again, in this barren and lifeless landscape.
He looked wildly around the clearing, nothing stirring save the fog swirling at his feet. Then, across the stretch of abandoned grassland, his eye caught a flicker of movement. The mist seemed to be forming itself into a thin white tornado, spinning and whirling upward in an ever-rising funnel of fog.
Before his astonished eyes, the vapor congealed and transformed. Shadowy as a breath, it became more solid, finally assuming the shape of a hooded human figure. Frozen to the spot, he watched it glide slowly toward him. It, too, seemed to hover just above the surface of the earth, as if riding on the thin blanket of mist still swirling over the ground. Terror gripped him as it approached, but his limbs were as dead as the gnarled trees behind him. Try as he might, he could not move. He could only watch helplessly as the specter floated toward him, arms outstretched.
He tried to see the creature’s face, but it was hidden deep within the folds of the robe—he feared worse, that it had no face at all. But the apparition raised a hand to pull back the hood of its garment, and Ian caught his breath as he recognized his mother’s face.
She gazed at him sadly, her mouth moving as if in speech, but no sound came from her pale lips. His mother’s ghost—for so he knew it must be—stretched a hand toward his face, as if to stroke his cheek tenderly. But instead of a caress, Ian felt a sharp burning sensation, as if its fingers were on fire. He cried out and tried to pull away—and awoke in his own bed with the sound of his voice still ringing in his ears.
Gingerly, he put a hand to his left cheek, which still stung, and felt a thin line of raised flesh, as if a scar had already formed where the specter had touched him. Throwing off his covers, he sprang from his bed and lit the gas lamps with trembling hands. Going to the dresser mirror, he examined his cheek, which did indeed bear a red, throbbing gash. The burn scar on his shoulder began to pulsate as if in response, a constant reminder of the fire that he had so narrowly escaped.
But had he truly escaped? He sank back into bed, perspiration soaking his nightshirt. The familiar objects of his bedroom, usually so comforting, were overshadowed by the memory of the vivid and disturbing dream. His hand went to the raised mark on his face, still burning and twitching. Surely it was impossible for a dream to infect one’s waking life—he must have thrashed around in his sleep, somehow scratching his cheek in the process. But he could still feel his mother’s fingers upon his skin, a touch he had yearned for these long seven years, only to find it carried not loving tenderness, but fire. And if he had scratched his own cheek, why was it in the exact spot his mother had touched?
The mark of Cain. The words appeared, unbidden, in his mind, as a shiver went through his body. But Ian had taken his brother in, sheltered him, cared for him. If anything, was he not the opposite of the murderous biblical figure? Why, then, did the phrase embed itself in his brain, repeating over and over like the terrible clanging of a death knell?
Pulling the covers up to his chin, he gazed out at the careless moon, with its ridiculous grin, so removed from human striving and suffering, and waited for the dawn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Donald’s efforts to coax Ian into eating the next morning met with limited success. Ian’s dream of the night before clung like a succubus, leaving him queasy and unsettled. Luckily, his brother was in such a cheerful mood he scarcely noticed Ian’s depressed state.
“So you missed her again, I see,” Donald said, slathering gooseberry jam onto his toast. “It’s getting to be a habit with you.”
Ian just nodded, slipping Bacchus one of his kippers. He never fancied smoked fish for breakfast, something Donald had either forgotten or chosen to ignore. The cat dragged the fish under the table and devoured it in three gulps.
“What happened to your cheek?” Donald said, peering at Ian’s face. “Did Bacchus do that?”
“No. I must have scratched it in my sleep.”
“Tell you what,” Donald said, pouring a liberal amount of cream into his coffee. “Why don’t you come to the infirmary with me? If she’s there, you can apologize. Mind you, she might tell you to bugger off, but might as well give it a go, eh?”
Ian stared at him.
“Am I being too vulgar?” said Donald. “You should hear the way medical students talk among themselves. Absolutely scandalous.”
“I don’t see what good an apology would do at this point.”
“Now you’re just sulking.”
“Is it my imagination, or is the cat starting to look more like you?” Ian said, pointing to a considerably more bulbous Bacchus, busy cleaning himself. “He certainly seems to have acquired your appetite.”
“You should know by now changing the subject is useless with me,” Donald said, rising from the table. “Come along—you’re going with me, like it or not.”
Ian offered little resistance—exhausted, he was relieved to let Donald step in and decide things for him. It was early, and as it was Saturday, he had plenty of time to get to the station house.
Since the weather had turned warmer, they elected to walk. It wasn’t far, and the exercise and brisk breeze lifted Ian’s spirits. Feeling revived, he took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of the city—meat pies and fish frying in oil, boiled cabbage, and fried onions all mixed with the smell of horse manure. The cries of seagulls hovering overhead blended with screeching ch
ildren dashing down dank alleys; the calls of street vendors mixed with the cackling of geese being led to market by their owner, a plump, apple-cheeked woman in a snowy bonnet and apron. Edinburgh was not a quiet place, nor a peaceful one, but it was rarely dull.
“Oiy, Guv!”
He turned to see the flushed face of Derek McNair, scrambling to keep up with the brothers’ long strides.
“Hiya,” Derek said, hopping along beside them, taking two steps for each of theirs.
Donald gave him a dour glance. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
“What happened to yer face?” Derek asked Ian, ignoring the question.
“A bar brawl,” said Donald.
“Last night? What happened?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t already heard,” said Ian.
“Heard wha’, Guv?” said Derek as they swung onto the Cowgate from West Bow Street.
“Nate Crippen was murdered.”
“No kiddin’? How?”
“We found him in the alley next to the pub. His throat was slashed.”
“Good Lord, Ian,” said Donald, his face darkening. “And now you’re in danger as well. I told you to give this up, but evidently you didn’t listen.”
Ian said nothing. He supposed Donald would eventually find out, but he was not going to reveal the detail of the Glasgow smile. It would only support his brother’s already entrenched position.
“Any idea who done it?” said Derek as they approached Grassmarket Square.
“None,” said Ian.
The Saturday open-air market was in full swing as they passed a juggler entertaining a crowd of onlookers. He was thin and wiry, dressed in a tattered tuxedo complete with top hat, his face sporting a jet-black, elaborately waxed mustache and goatee, which made him look a little like popular images of Satan. He caught Ian’s eye as they passed, and gave a little wink. It was like being winked at by the devil.
A sleepy-looking boy in a long white apron was sweeping the front stoop of Edinburgh’s oldest pub, the White Hart Inn, which in a few hours would be filled with heavy-drinking drovers, shepherds, and farmers. It was a long day for the men who rose before dawn to bring their wares to the market, and the pubs lining the Grassmarket would do a brisk trade when the day was done.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Donald said as they turned onto Vennel Street.
“Surely that is obvious from your reaction,” Ian replied tightly.
“Do you expect me to stand silently by as you put yourself in peril?”
“May I remind you danger is part of my profession?”
“This wild goose chase has nothing to do with your job as a policeman,” Donald replied as they passed the Flodden Wall. The wall was one of the city’s oldest, erected in 1513 after a disastrous Scottish defeat at the Battle of Flodden, which resulted in the death of the Scottish king, James IV. “In fact, I doubt DCI Crawford would be pleased to hear you are off chasing phantoms on your own.”
“Clearly they are not phantoms,” Ian said hotly, “as a man is dead.”
“Do you intend to be the next victim?”
“Certainly not,” Ian replied as they stepped aside to let a wagon piled high with hay pass, the broad wheels wobbling on the uneven cobblestones. He breathed in the sweet, musty smell, and was instantly transported to their neighbor’s barn in the Highlands, when he and Donald would sneak over to ride the horses.
“So, Guv,” said Derek. “What’re ye gonna do now?”
“Find out who killed Nate Crippen and why.”
“See here,” said Donald. “Why can’t you just drop all this nonsense?”
“Why are you so anxious to stop me?”
“I should think that would be obvious. I don’t want you to end up in an alley with your throat slashed.”
“I can look after myself.”
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“Do you?”
“Obviously it’s someone able to kill a man virtually under your nose and get away with it.”
They stood at the corner of Keir Street and Lauriston Place, in the shadow of the infirmary’s massive clock tower.
“Guess I’ll be on my way, then,” Derek said, scuffing his shoe against the paving stones. He looked up at Ian, the sun glinting off the red highlights in his mop of hair. With better clothes and a proper haircut, he would be a decent-looking lad, Ian thought.
“Here,” he said, handing the boy some coins. “Buy yourself breakfast.”
“Ta very much,” Derek said, pocketing the money. “Oh, any chance a’ that bath sometime?”
Ian stole a glance at Donald, who exhaled loudly through his nose. “He can come tomorrow night, after Sunday roast at Lillian’s,” he told Ian.
Derek grinned widely, displaying surprisingly pearly teeth. “I like yer aunt—she’s all right by me.”
“I can’t tell you how gratified I am to hear it,” Donald replied drily.
The boy licked his lips. “Sunday roast, eh?”
Donald lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t press your luck.”
“I’ll be off, then,” Derek said. “Sorry ’bout yer informant. That’s a bad break.” He sauntered away, whistling.
Watching his retreat, Donald shook his head. “I still don’t trust that boy.”
“As I told DCI Crawford, it is only necessary that he be useful.”
“How is old Toshy?” Donald said as they walked through the iron gates and up the paved path to the august building.
“That’s what Dr. Littlejohn calls him. How did you—”
“I have my ways, brother—you should know that by now.”
“You would make a splendid investigator.”
“Dr. Bell believes medicine is an investigative science.”
“How is the old blowhard?”
“He’s a brilliant doctor, you know.”
“I’ve no doubt of that.”
“What do you have against him?”
“I just think he fancies himself a bit too much.”
“You might fancy yourself, too, if you were—speak of the devil,” Donald said, as the man himself came striding briskly toward them. His graying hair was as tidy as his trim, athletic figure. Ian put his age as early forties, a man in his vigorous prime.
“Ah, Hamilton—early as usual, I see,” he said, rubbing his hands together. They were well shaped, with long, tapering fingers—the hands of a skilled surgeon.
“Good morning, Dr. Bell,” said Donald.
His subservient manner in Bell’s presence rankled Ian. Feeling his own face redden, he stared down at his feet.
“And good morning to you, Detective Inspector. What brings you to our corner of the city?”
“He’s come to see Conan Doyle,” Donald lied, to Ian’s relief. He had no wish to share his romantic entanglements—or lack thereof—with Dr. Bell.
“I hear you and young Doyle have struck up a bit of a crime-fighting partnership,” said Bell. “Mind you don’t distract him from his medical duties.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ian said, unable to hide a certain coldness in his tone. He was aware Donald was glaring at him, but ignored it.
But Bell seemed to have other things on his mind. If he noticed Ian’s attitude, he did not remark upon it. “I’ve an intriguing case I thought you might find interesting,” he told Donald. “Like to come have a look?”
“I would be delighted,” his brother said. “See you tonight,” he told Ian as he followed the great man down the hall. “Good luck,” he added with a smile before they turned the corner to the corridor leading to the wards.
“Good luck indeed,” Ian muttered under his breath. The morning sun streaming through the tall windows reflected off the polished floors, momentarily blinding him. He blinked, and when he looked up, he saw an angular figure in a crisp white nursing uniform approaching.
“Can I help you, sir?” she said, walking smoothly toward him, her sturdy shoes seeming to glide over
the tiled floor. Her snowy white apron and the way she floated down the hall reminded him of the ghostly apparition of his dream.
“I, uh—I was looking for someone.”
“I thought perhaps you were seeking treatment for that wound on your cheek,” she said, peering at his face.
“No, I . . .”
“Yes?” she said, tilting her head to one side. Nearly as tall as Ian, she was a handsome woman of about forty, with clear gray eyes set over high cheekbones in an austere face with a firm jaw. Something in those steady eyes told him she was not one to be crossed. Or maybe it was the square set of her shoulders, confident attitude, or commanding contralto. He had heard Donald speak of the infirmary’s fearsome head nurse, and had no doubt that was the very person now confronting him.
“Are you Nurse Meadows?”
Her eyes narrowed. “And how would you come by that information?” The slight lilt in her voice suggested her origins lay across the Irish Sea.
“I’m a friend of Conan Doyle,” he blurted out. Her face relaxed into what was nearly a smile.
“Ah, young Arthur, is it? A fine lad—I know the Doyles from back home.”
“Ireland?”
“Aye. They’re a respectable family there—prosperous and all, you know. Too bad about that father of his,” she said, shaking her head.
“Yes, he’s spoken of the troubles with his father.”
“Such a pity, so it is. Such a fine fellow, to be saddled with a da like that. So you’re after seeing young Arthur? I’ll take you to him.”
“But first, I was wondering—”
“Well?” she said, crossing her arms. “Go on, then, spit it out.”
“Do you happen to know if Nurse Stuart is in today?”
“So that’s the reason for your visit,” she said with a smug smile. “Thought you were hiding something.”
Ian felt himself redden. “Well, I—”
“She’s not on shift today. Just as well—she’s been distracted lately, and now I know why.”
“It’s not really—”
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