Edinburgh Midnight

by Carole Lawrence

“If you hear anything, will you let me know?”

  “Ye kin count on Jimmy,” the big man said, giving Ian a friendly slap on the back. “But ye didn’ come here tae see me. Who are y’after?”

  “Your . . . colleague. Have you seen him?”

  “Rat Face? He’s made ’isself scarce lately.”

  “He’s frightened, I suppose.”

  “Pure bloody terrified is more like it.”

  “Do you know how to reach him?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “When Terry McNee don’ wannae be seen, there’s nae findin’ him.”

  “Oiy, Jimmy!” shouted a tall, thin lad with shaggy brown hair. “Are ye blootered yet?”

  “I’m steamin’,” Jimmy yelled back. “Ma heid’s mince!”

  “Wannae fight?”

  “Ach, maybe later,” Jimmy said, and the man moved on.

  “Can we talk somewhere quieter?” said Ian, as the din in the pub had reached a deafening volume.

  “Aye,” said Jimmy. “Out back.”

  Ian followed his friend through the rear exit, once again stepping into the dim alley behind the pub. The ground was covered in mist, which swirled and twisted around their feet before twirling upward into the unseasonably warm air. The tinny sound of a concertina came from the pub, accompanied by drunken singing.

  “Haar fog in December,” Jimmy remarked. “It’s a bad omen.”

  His words sent a shiver through Ian. The last time he stood in this godforsaken alley, he was looking at the mutilated body of Nate Crippen.

  Jimmy lit a cigarette, the smoke joining the wisps of mist curling around his head. “What did ye wan’ tae talk about, then?”

  “Rat Face spoke of a new ‘presence’ among you—a kind of unifying force, uninvited but powerful.”

  “Aye,” Jimmy said, blowing a smoke ring.

  “What can you tell me?”

  “Not much. Some a’ the lads are receivin’ instructions if they do this or that, they’ll get paid a large sum fer it.”

  “And do they get the money?”

  “Aye. Every time.”

  “Where does it come from?”

  “No one knows. One morning there’s a note slipped under yer door with instructions, or ye find it in yer coat pocket. Or yer mate says he’s heard from so and so tae do this an’ that.”

  “And the money?”

  “Same thing. It jes—appears.”

  “No one’s ever seen leaving it?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Nope. It’s like he knows everythin’ goin’ on in this bloody town.”

  “What sort of things does he ask you to do?”

  Jimmy flicked his cigarette into the gutter, where it glowed briefly and died. “Bad things.”

  “Have you taken money from him?”

  Jimmy hung his head. “Aye. Once.”

  “What did you do for him?”

  “Don’ ask me that, mate,” he said quietly.

  “You wouldn’t know anything about a missing girl, by any chance?”

  “No. God, no.”

  “Her name is Bridie—”

  “I tol’ ye no!” Jimmy said tightly, his face red, big fists clenched, and Ian caught a glimpse of the criminal behind the friendly demeanor.

  “All right,” he said. “One more question. What about the big break-in later this week?”

  The question took Jimmy by surprise. He gulped like a fish gasping for air, his Adam’s apple jumping up and down in his neck.

  “Don’ know what ye mean,” he said lamely.

  “Rumor has it the target is Murray and Weston.”

  Jimmy’s body relaxed, which told Ian the jeweler was not the intended victim.

  “All right,” Ian said evenly. “If it’s not the jewelry store, what is it?”

  “Don’ know,” Jimmy muttered as a rat skittered across the muddy ground, headed for the garbage bins behind the pub. There was a rustling sound as the animal burrowed in between the containers.

  “Don’t know or won’t say?”

  “I really don’ know. He won’ tell anyone till the day of.”

  “How will he notify people?”

  “It’s different every time. Random, like. Could be a note in the post, or a telegram—anythin’.”

  “I can’t ask you to betray your mates, but this is important.”

  “I might not find out—’specially now that I’ve been seen talkin’ tae you.”

  “Is your life in danger?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “I kin take care a’ m’self.”

  “Thank you, Jimmy—you’ve been very helpful.”

  “Are ye lookin’ tae bring him in?”

  “It is my intent.”

  “Be careful. Some say he’s the devil himself.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Ian arrived at the Blackfriars Street Masonic Lodge just as the evening rehearsal of the Greyfriars Dramatic Society was getting underway. He had come not so much to watch as to check in on his aunt. He also knew Dickerson was likely to be there, and he did not like the way things had been left between them.

  A feeling of anticipation hung in the air as Ian entered the building. The Freemasons seemed to be ignoring the ban on celebrating Christmas—the front vestibule was festooned with fragrant boughs of evergreen, and a holly wreath hung on the door leading to the main hall. The aroma of apples, cinnamon, and cloves greeted him as he opened it.

  No sooner did he enter the hall than Clyde Vincent came loping up the aisle, a tin cup in his hand. “You’re just in time for a bit of grog,” the director said, thrusting it at him. “Come along,” he said when Ian hesitated. “The actors aren’t allowed any until after rehearsal. Don’t want people going up on their lines, you know.”

  Ian accepted it gratefully, taking a sip as Vincent watched, beaming.

  “What do you think?” he said. “It’s a family recipe.”

  “It’s very good,” Ian replied. He was very thirsty, and the hot spiced drink was comforting.

  “My mother always added cinnamon and cloves. The bits of apple are my invention. All right, everyone,” he said, turning toward the stage, where a few actors stood studying their scripts. “We start in five minutes.” There was no sign of Sergeant Dickerson, though Lillian stood near the wings, chatting with the actor playing Scrooge. Her cheeks were flushed, and she wore a smart blue frock Ian had never seen.

  Seeing him, she waved. “Ian—come meet our lead actor.”

  He complied, following Clyde Vincent down the aisle toward the stage. The director disappeared into the wings, dispensing instructions to a couple of stagehands.

  “Ian, this is Alistair McPherson. Alistair, this is my nephew, Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton,” she told McPherson, emphasizing Ian’s title.

  “Your aunt speaks glowingly of you,” McPherson said, shaking his hand warmly. “To hear her talk, you are defeating crime in the city single-handedly.”

  “My aunt is given to exaggeration,” Ian remarked, sizing him up. His hand was strong and muscular, but with few calluses. He was broad shouldered, but the lack of lines on his face suggested he did not work outdoors.

  “I am not,” Lillian protested. “Ian is the most gifted detective in the force. His superior officer told me so himself.”

  “Crawford said that?” Ian asked dubiously.

  “He did indeed. I sometimes work as a police photographer,” she told McPherson proudly. “I received an inquiry from DCI Crawford to do a sketch of a missing girl.”

  “Absolutely out of the question,” said Ian.

  “It’s really not for you to say,” she replied, frowning.

  “I already explained that you might be in danger. I don’t want to expose you to any more peril than necessary.”

  Lillian rolled her eyes. “You see it’s my nephew who exaggerates,” she told McPherson.

  “Perhaps it runs in the family,” he suggested with a smile.

  “Now that you know my profession, would it be rude of me to inquire as to y
ours?” Ian asked.

  “Not at all,” he replied.

  “Alistair—Mr. McPherson—is a jeweler,” said Lillian.

  “Indeed?”

  “Speaking of things running in the family, my father designed and made jewelry, as did his before him. You might say it’s in my blood.”

  “He’s very good,” said Lillian. “He made me this necklace,” she added, pointing to a thin pendant around her neck in the design of a flower. The petals were made of gold, with tiny inlaid pearls at the center.

  “It’s a lily of the valley,” McPherson said. “Because her name is Lillian, you see.”

  “Yes,” said Ian. He suddenly felt a twinge on his left cheek, and put a hand to his face.

  “That’s a nasty cut,” said McPherson. “Shaving accident?”

  “He scratched himself in his sleep,” said Lillian.

  “The mark of Cain,” McPherson murmured.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Ian.

  “Sorry—it just popped into my head. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “He’s not offended—are you, Ian?” said Lillian.

  “All right, everyone,” said Clyde Vincent, entering from the wings. “Places for Act One. Would you care to stay and watch?” he asked Ian. “By the way, where’s that sergeant of yours? I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him tonight.”

  As if in response, the door swung open and a flushed Dickerson hurried in. “Sorry t’be late,” he told the director. “I were finishin’ up a bit of police business.”

  “Hello, Sergeant,” said Ian, stepping out from behind Vincent.

  Upon seeing him, Dickerson’s face flashed surprise and annoyance, but he quickly recovered. “Hello, sir. What are you doin’ here, if ye don’ mind my askin’?”

  “Apart from seeing my aunt, I wished to speak with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you have a minute?”

  Dickerson looked toward the stage, where Vincent was assembling the company. “I think they’re about t’start—”

  “This is more important. Where did you go off to today?”

  “I were tryin’ t’find more out about the major’s son. I tracked down one of the major’s mates from the military, and he tol’ me the lad is troubled. Got into some sort a’ scrape in school.”

  “You’re a bit late in delivering that news,” said Ian. “I already know about all that.”

  Dickerson frowned. “I were jes tryin’ t’take initiative, sir.”

  “Next time why don’t you ask me before you go off chasing a lead on your own?”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied tightly.

  “Look,” said Ian. “I need to know I can trust you.”

  “How could y’ever doubt that?” Dickerson said, his blue eyes tragic.

  “Well, you’ve been spending a lot of time with Constable Turnbull lately, and I—”

  “He likes me! Treats me like an equal. Makes me feel important, like.”

  “But he’s not to be trusted—”

  “How would you know? You’re so busy tellin’ me wha’ I done wrong, puttin’ me in my place.”

  Ian felt his face redden. “I never—”

  “Lecturin’ me on this an’ that, so’s I don’ forget who’s in charge. Well, I don’ forget, but I don’ always have t’like it, either!”

  “Sergeant Dickerson, are you ready?” Clyde Vincent called to him from the stage.

  “I were jes comin’,” Dickerson replied. Turning back to Ian, he said, “Oh, and Gretchen tol’ me that Mr. and Mrs. Nielsen haven’t been comin’ t’seances near as long as they claimed. She said they’ve only been there fer two, maybe three months at most.”

  “That’s odd—why would they lie about it?” Ian mused.

  “Sergeant!” called Clyde Vincent.

  With one last glare at Ian, Dickerson turned and stalked toward the stage.

  Watching him go, Ian felt a stab of pain in his cheek. When he put his hand to it, there was blood on his fingers. Cain’s words from the Old Testament popped into his head. I am not my brother’s keeper.

  If he was not his brother’s keeper, Ian wondered, whose keeper was he?

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Donald settled into his armchair and took a swallow of ginger beer. “No doubt you are right about this Constable Torn—Tern—”

  “Turnbull,” said Ian.

  They sat before the fire in the parlor, Bacchus curled up on the sofa next to them. The logs crackled merrily in the grate, casting a warm glow around the room, but Ian’s mind was far from the serene setting on Victoria Terrace.

  “You must let the sergeant make his own mistakes,” said Donald. “He will discover his error soon enough.”

  “But what if he realizes it too late?”

  “What are you afraid will happen?”

  “It could be ruinous.”

  “For Dickerson?”

  “And the force. I don’t know what Turnbull is up to, but I don’t trust him.”

  “It sounds as if your sergeant has fallen under his spell.”

  “He must know he is playing with fire, and yet—”

  “From what you say, it sounds as though he is doing it to spite you.”

  “I cannot understand how he could avoid realizing what Turnbull is,” Ian said, taking a drink of whisky, deep and bitter and comforting. “So many ills in life are the result of a refusal to face the truth.”

  His brother rose and plucked a clay pipe from the rack over the fireplace. “Do you imagine you have a monopoly on the truth?”

  “Certainly not, but at least I—”

  Donald pulled a pouch of tobacco from his pocket and began stuffing the pipe. “Forgive the tautology, but people are only human, after all.”

  “But—”

  “The truth is often hard and frequently bruising. Can you really blame them for not having the stomach to face it?”

  “It’s not going to go away, and any attempt to circumvent or deny it can lead to disaster.”

  “And yet so many men spend their lives dancing around the inevitable, trying to avoid what’s plainly in front of their face.”

  “Precisely my point! Building one’s life on a bedrock of lies is insupportable and disastrous, and yet—”

  “It is common,” Donald said, taking a box of matches from the desk drawer.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Except for you, the heroic truth-seeker.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Donald lit his pipe, wisps of blue smoke curling around his head. “It certainly informed your choice of a profession.”

  “As a medical man, you seek truth as much as I do.”

  “Ah, but my field is nature, not human behavior.”

  “You deal with diseases just as ugly as murder—cancer, consumption, typhoid.”

  “Without having to gaze into the souls of my fellow man.”

  “But—”

  Donald sat back in the chair and puffed at his pipe. “Has it ever occurred to you that some truths are better left unspoken?”

  “I don’t see why—”

  “Because people aren’t ready for them, Ian. Take my own situation, for example—”

  “You have overcome your weakness for drink admirably.”

  “That is not what I was referring to.”

  “Oh,” said Ian, looking away. “I see.”

  “Do you, brother? Do you really see? Most people regard me as a pervert, an aberration. A monster. Is that what you see when you look at me—a monster?”

  “Certainly not—don’t be absurd.”

  “But are you ready to face the truth about me—about who or what I am?”

  Ian held his head in his hands. He did not care to think of his brother’s private life. He knew what Donald did with other men, but could not pretend to understand it. It was a chasm between them, perhaps unbreachable, and it filled him with misery. “I don’t know. It’s so difficult to—”

  “I
rest my case. People turn away from the truth because it is too difficult—too painful—to even think about.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence between them. Then Ian said, “Do you think I’m pompous?”

  His brother gave a short laugh. “Of course you are. So am I. It runs in the family.”

  “Odd—that’s the second time tonight I’ve heard that phrase.”

  “Don’t make anything of it,” Donald said. “It’s just coincidence. Aunt Lillian has enough superstition for the lot of us.”

  “I see you put some evergreen over the mantel. And a bit of mistletoe on the windowsill.”

  “That’s not superstition—it’s just holiday spirit.”

  There was another silence, as they listened to logs crackling and hissing in the fire.

  “Are you going to see Lillian in the play?” said Ian.

  “We’d jolly well better, or we’ll never hear the end of it. Besides, I’m fond of Dickens. Always have been.”

  “Do you think . . .”

  “What?”

  “Do you think people really get a second chance?”

  “If they don’t, then I’m bloody well done for.”

  “What I mean is—”

  “Do angels and ghosts interfere to change the course of a life? I think not—but I wager Aunt Lillian might take issue with that.”

  “What I meant to say is, are some mistakes too dire to recover from?”

  “Some, I suppose. But surely not all.”

  “Do people ever really change, though? Is Scrooge’s redemption wishful thinking?”

  Donald pulled at his pipe thoughtfully, exhaling a cloud of tobacco vapor. “No, I don’t think so. Optimistic, perhaps, but . . . surely a change of heart is always possible, at any age.” He regarded his brother with one eyebrow raised. Ian knew the look. “Have you someone in particular in mind?”

  Ian looked down at his empty whisky glass. “I’ve been having disturbing dreams lately.”

  “Oh?”

  Ian told his brother about the three strange dreams, and their odd, vision-like quality.

  “Dickens would approve,” Donald remarked when he had finished.

  “Good Lord, you’re right,” Ian said, suddenly aware of the connection he had not seen before. “The creature with the candle on his head is much like—”

  “The Ghost of Christmas Past,” Donald finished for him. “And the apparition of our mother bears a strong resemblance to—”