Edinburgh Midnight

by Carole Lawrence

  As Ian stood aside to let her pass, he pondered the nature of greed and want, both so evident in this jewel of the Scottish Enlightenment, luxury tucked amid horrific poverty and deprivation. Would this great lady, like Ebenezer Scrooge, awake one morning to find herself possessed of an unfamiliar humility, and find her place among the teeming mass of humanity? Would this Christmas season bring any Dickensian enlightenment among the rich of Edinburgh?

  He feared not. More likely the city’s privileged who guarded their wealth would, like Jacob Marley’s ghost, wander through eternity dragging a heavy chain fashioned of their own penury and greed. Most people, even when given a chance, did not mend their ways. The criminals he sent down would return to a life of crime straight out of jail. Wife-beaters would continue to beat their wives, repeat offenders would repeat their offenses, and the overprivileged would continue to abuse their servants and hoard their pennies. Only in fiction did enlightenment visit on Christmas Eve in the guise of one’s long-dead business partner.

  And yet . . . Madame Veselka’s prediction burned his ears. Did the answers he sought really lie in his disturbing and vivid dreams?

  The air was thick with threat of more snow as Ian turned onto the Mound, passing the National Gallery in all its neoclassical splendor. He loved to roam the halls of the museum, but he did not find its massive columns appealing. Edinburgh might be the “Athens of the North,” but he felt Ionic columns belonged in Greece, and looked out of place in Scotland.

  A Clarence carriage swooshed past him, headed in the direction of Waverley Station, a steam trunk tied to the roof. As it passed, a young girl poked her head out of the window and smiled at him. She was swiftly pulled back inside by her mother, only to be replaced by her brother, who stuck his tongue out. Ian smiled—the boy was about Derek’s age, though considerably more well-nourished. He wondered if Derek had any siblings, and realized he had never inquired about it, resolving to remedy that at some point.

  As he wound through the warren of streets beneath the castle, he wondered what news Rat Face had to tell, and what it would cost him. He had come prepared, he thought, fingering the coins in his pockets.

  He arrived a few minutes early, walking past the stalls of horses to the booth at the back of the stables. The barn was empty of people save for a young groom mucking out an empty stall. He took a seat at the wooden booth and waited. A gust of wind blew through the barn, and he looked up to see a pair of men standing a few yards away. They were unsavory types, one short and thick, built like a bulldog and twice as ugly. The taller one had a twisted lip and hands the size of dinner plates. It was plain by the look in their eyes they had mischief on their minds. Ian glanced at the rear of the building, remembering that Rat Face had slipped out that way when they had last met.

  The taller one took a step toward him, and Ian realized he had little time to make his escape. With one swift movement, he rose and started toward the exit. He did not move quickly enough, though, and felt the blow of a boot on the back of his calf; he stumbled and nearly fell. A hand grabbed him by the collar, pulling him back into the room. Wrenching himself free, he spun around to see Twisted Lip aiming a blow at his head. Ian ducked and drove his shoulder into the man’s torso, causing him to fall backward, just as the shorter one came at him, fists flailing. One blow caught him in the ribs, and Ian felt a searing pain as the man’s fist connected. Reacting quickly, Ian grabbed the man by the ears and drove his knee into his face, hearing the crunch of cartilage as his assailant cried out. The man staggered backward, blood spurting from his nose, momentarily blinded.

  Breathing heavily, Ian saw Twisted Lip rising unsteadily to his feet. He realized if he did not escape now, he might not survive. He could not hold off his attackers for long. Whipping around the corner of the booth, he dashed toward the gap between the rear stalls, toward the door at the back of the building. With a roar, Twisted Lip followed after him. In desperation, Ian seized a heavy rubber feed bucket and hurled it at him. The big man brushed it away as if it were made of parchment, and kept coming. Ian’s eye was caught by a gleam of metal on the side of a stall, and he reached for it, his fingers closing around a metal hoof pick. Holding it firmly, he slashed the curved blade at Twisted Lip’s face, cutting a deep gash in his cheek.

  His attacker fell to his knees, gasping. Ian did not linger to see how much damage he had done. Taking to his heels, he lunged toward the exit, pulling the door open so violently he nearly wrenched his shoulder. Emerging into the alley at the back of the barn, he took off at a dead sprint and did not stop until he could run no longer. Slowing to a steady walk, he turned onto Johnston Terrace and hailed the first hansom cab he saw.

  A light dusting of snow had fallen, softening the clatter of wheels against the cobblestones, as the cab whisked him away into the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Bridie Mallon trudged up the stairs of the building on Leith Walk for what felt like the hundredth time. In fact, she had only been working for the tenant in 4F for a few months, but the five flights were wearing even for one as young as she. After slogging through the foot or so of snow that had fallen on the previous day, she was already tired, having cleaned two flats earlier that day. She longed to be carousing with her sweetheart, Bill, who worked in a slaughterhouse, but here it was only Monday evening, and with Saturday so far away.

  Her friend Mary, who worked for the same man previously, told her that the money would be left in a carved wooden box on the sideboard every week, and she was not to inquire as to the identity of the tenant, nor discuss the job with any of her friends. She was to come only on Tuesday evenings, after sunset.

  Bridie readily agreed, as the wages were twice what she normally commanded, but as time wore on, she became increasingly discomfited at working for someone whose face she had never seen. She didn’t even know his name. In all the time she had cleaned the flat, she had never spied so much as a gas bill. It was always empty, and it appeared that the flat immediately below his was unoccupied. She rarely saw any other tenants, and when she did chance to pass a smartly dressed young man last month, he tipped his hat politely and hurried down the stairs.

  When she asked Mary why she had given up such a lucrative job, her friend made a vague comment about the stairs, which Bridie saw as a dodge. Mary was about her age, fit as a fiddle, and certainly more than able to navigate the climb. Grateful for the money, Bridie did not pry, swallowing her curiosity for a job she could ill afford to turn down.

  This week Bridie had decided to show up a day early. She couldn’t see what harm it would do to come on a Monday, and if she ran into him, at least her curiosity would be satisfied. Turning the key in the lock, she opened the door slowly, feeling the same apprehensiveness and unease she always did as she entered the empty flat. Going to the cleaning cupboard in the kitchen, she took out the tools of her trade—feather duster, rags, broom, mop, and bucket. Not every customer let her use their cleaning tools—some insisted she bring her own—but this flat was always well stocked with soap powder, borax, and anything else she might need.

  Having gathered her supplies, she began to work. Bridie enjoyed singing to herself to help the time pass. Sometimes she sang good wholesome Catholic hymns she had learned in her native County Donegal, but today one of her favorite murder ballads popped into her head. She supposed it was wicked, but she dearly loved murder ballads, and her favorite was “Henry My Son.” The Irish version of the ancient ballad “Lord Randall,” it was the story of a young man who, having been poisoned by his lover, has come to his parents’ house to die.

  Where have you been all day, Henry my son?

  Where have you been all day, my beloved one?

  Away in the meadow, away in the meadow

  Make my bed, I’ve a pain in my head

  And I want to lie down

  Bridie had heard the song was based on a real thirteenth-century English earl who was poisoned by his wife, but whether true or not, it seemed to her wonderfully sad and poign
ant. It was a sweet tune, too, every bit as good as the popular “Barbara Allen.” She preferred the tale of the murderous lover to the one of a woman’s sweetheart dying merely from her neglect.

  Moving on to dust the mantel, she sang with gusto. Her voice was good enough for church solos; ever since she was a wee lass, people had commented on her sweetness of tone.

  What did you have to eat, Henry my son?

  What did you have to eat, my beloved one?

  Poison beans, poison beans,

  Make my bed, I’ve a pain in my head

  And I want to lie down

  Working swiftly now, Bridie moved on to the small office just off the parlor. There was a desk that was always locked, which Mary had said she was not to ever try to open. It had never occurred to Bridie to try, but for the first time, she saw the key protruding from the middle drawer. Had her mysterious client left it there by accident, or was it a kind of test, to see whether she could resist the temptation to pry? Bridie had never been good at resisting temptation. Not a week went by when she didn’t report some small transgression or other to Father Connelly at confession.

  As she peered at the key dangling from the lock, so shiny and inviting, her palms began to sweat. She thought of Father Connelly, imagining his disappointed look when she took her place among the other sopranos in the choir, his warm brown eyes mournful, despairing of ever saving her weak and sullied soul. She took a step away from the desk, busying herself with dusting the bookshelves along the far wall, humming “Holy Innocents,” a sober hymn that Father Connelly liked, hoping it would mend her wicked thoughts.

  Lovely flowers of martyrs, hail!

  Smitten by the tyrant foe,

  On life’s threshold, as the gale

  Strews the roses ere they blow

  But the more she tried to divert her attention from the desk, the more of her consciousness it occupied, until her entire brain was consumed with the image of a giant, gleaming key. Finally, unable to stand the torment any longer, she flung down her feather duster and lurched across the room to the desk. With trembling hand, she grasped the key and turned it. The sound of the bolt clicking softly into place sent shivers of terror through her, yet she continued, gently sliding the drawer forward on its well-oiled hinges.

  The drawer contained a single manila folder. Licking her lips, she lifted it carefully, set it on the desktop, and opened it. Inside was a thin stack of yellowing newspaper articles cut out of various publications—the Scotsman, the Edinburgh Evening Courant, and others. There were over a dozen articles all told, but the subject matter was the same. They were about the mysterious fire that had claimed the lives of an Edinburgh detective and his wife seven years ago.

  Bridie remembered it well—tongues wagged around town for weeks afterward. Many theories were advanced, from an accidental blaze to arson. As one of the victims was a policeman, it was thought the fire might have been set by a criminal he had sent down. Even more outrageous claims were made by more superstitious folks—some claimed it was the ghost of Deacon Brodie, come to exact revenge for his hanging a century ago.

  No one was ever arrested or charged, and the tragedy slipped slowly into the background of a city that was no stranger to violence. But the mysterious client on Leith Walk had carefully saved these clippings, though to what end Bridie could not fathom. Was he hoping to someday solve the case? Was he a member of the police force himself, perhaps a friend of the dead man, bent on avenging his death?

  With a sigh, Bridie placed the articles carefully back in the envelope. She could tell no one about this—certainly not Mary, who would see it as a betrayal. And Bill, bless him, was like a mewing babe when he got the drink in him. Anything was likely to spill out of his mouth when he was in his cups, and like as not, he’d have no memory of it the next day.

  No, this would remain her secret, though its significance was lost on her. Even Father Connelly would not hear of it. She had plenty of other sins to confess, and felt no compunction about keeping this one to herself.

  As she reached down to return the envelope to the drawer, Bridie heard the sound of someone ascending the stairs with light, quick steps. A bolt of panic shot through her as she heard the front lock slide quietly in its chamber, and she dropped the envelope to the floor. She barely had time to turn her head as the door to the flat opened. She did not hear the harsh caw of the raven perched on the windowsill, as it watched the scene inside the flat with sharp, beady eyes, hard and black as coal dust.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “You should probably avoid strenuous activity for a while,” Donald remarked, looking at Ian’s ribs. “In fact, you might take some time off.”

  “Impossible,” Ian said, wincing. Donald was seated on the sofa, examining his brother’s injuries. When Ian stumbled in after disembarking from the hansom cab, Donald had immediately ordered him to seek medical treatment. When Ian refused to go to the infirmary, his brother had fetched his medical kit.

  “There is considerable bruising, and while I don’t think you have a cracked rib, I can’t guarantee it,” Donald said, winding a bandage around Ian’s torso. “You should avoid exacerbating the injury.”

  “Thank you for your advice,” Ian said, pulling on his shirt. The effort was painful, and he turned away to avoid his brother’s gaze.

  “I pity any doctor who has you as a patient,” Donald said, returning the roll of gauze to his medical kit. “As Lillian would say, you’re a thrawn puggy.”

  “Isn’t that a case of the pot calling the kettle—”

  “Very well; we’re both stubborn monkeys. But that does not excuse your cavalier attitude toward your injuries. Now then, let’s have a look at that leg. Turn up the gaslight a bit, would you?”

  Ian complied, standing patiently while his brother completed his examination. Bacchus was curled on the sofa next to Donald, eyes half closed, purring. The cat did indeed seem to prefer Donald, sleeping on his bed most nights, though Ian suspected it was because his brother fed him at table, a practice Ian did not approve of, though admittedly he was occasionally guilty of it himself.

  “Bacchus is putting on weight,” Ian said. “You shouldn’t slip him so many scraps during meals.”

  “Nonsense. He’s perfectly healthy. If I left it up to you, he would be a Skinny Malinky, just like you.”

  “You seem to have acquired Lillian’s love of Scottish slang.”

  “Stand still,” Donald said, dabbing iodine onto Ian’s leg. “I don’t want to spill this on the carpet. I saw Fiona Stuart today, by the way. She asked after you.”

  “Ouch,” said Ian as the liquid stung the cut on his leg.

  “Stand still!” Donald commanded. “There—finished,” he said, putting the cap back on the bottle. “I don’t understand what she sees in you.”

  “Perhaps nothing.”

  “Rubbish. It’s obvious she fancies you. You should do something before it’s too late.”

  “I have more pressing matters on my mind,” Ian said, pouring himself a tumbler of whisky.

  “Cheers,” said Donald.

  Ian hesitated, glass halfway to his lips.

  “I have my ginger beer,” said Donald. “Carry on.”

  “Right,” Ian said, lifting the glass. “Cheers.”

  Donald leaned back on the couch, idly stroking Bacchus, whose purrs increased in volume. “Any idea who sent these thugs, or what they were after?”

  “I have some theories.”

  “Is it possible they were ordinary thieves?”

  “Their sole intent seemed to be to give me a thrashing.”

  “And you’ve never seen them before.”

  “No.”

  “Is it a warning, do you think?”

  “Either that or an attempt to put me out of commission for a while.”

  “Or worse.”

  “If they had intended to kill me, they would have brought weapons.”

  “Such as?”

  “Guns, knives—cudgels at the very le
ast.”

  Donald stood up and poked the fire. “I don’t like it. You should ask DCI Crawford to be taken off the case.”

  “I don’t think the attack is related to the séance murders.”

  “What, then?”

  “The meeting with Rat Face was about our parents’ death.”

  His brother stared at him. “Give it up, Ian. For God’s sake, I implore you.”

  “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

  Donald turned away. “I don’t know anything—but obviously your life is in danger.”

  “I already told you they weren’t there to kill me.”

  “But next time they might! And what of Rat Face? Perhaps they have done away with him already.”

  Ian downed the rest of his whisky. “He can take care of himself,” he muttered, but he didn’t entirely believe it. The truth was, he was worried about his informant.

  “Did they strike you in the face?” Donald asked, peering at him.

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s bleeding.”

  Ian put a hand to his left cheek. It felt wet. He looked at his fingers, smudged with blood.

  “Does it hurt?” said Donald.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “It’s in the same place as that other nasty cut.”

  “Maybe I did get hit there during the fight and didn’t notice. There was quite a lot going on.”

  “The mark of Cain,” Donald remarked. “I’ll put some salve on it.”

  “Why did you say that?” Ian asked as his brother opened a tin of liniment.

  “What?”

  “About the mark of Cain.”

  “I was just nattering. Hold still.”

  Ian complied, inhaling the aroma of mint and cloves as his brother smeared the medicine on his cheek.

  “There,” said Donald. “That should help.” He stretched and yawned. “I’m all in. Early day tomorrow. I’m going to turn in. I suggest you do the same.”

  “I will.”

  “There’s a joint and some boiled potatoes in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”