“The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come!”
“And in the third dream your friend the beggar appears much as the Ghost of Christmas Present.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“You said Madame Veselka told you to pay heed to your dreams. Didn’t your third dream presage your friend’s death?”
Ian frowned. “Yes, but one could argue I was simply worried about him.”
“I know what Lillian would argue,” Donald said mischievously. Yawning, he rose from the chair and stretched. “I’m all in. Mind if I retire?” The cat opened one eye and regarded him languorously before closing it again.
“Go on, then,” Ian replied moodily, staring at the leaping yellow flames of the fire.
“That wound on your cheek doesn’t seem to be healing. Would you like me to put some salve on it?”
“No—go onto bed. I’m sure you’re tired.”
“Want a word of advice?”
“Can I stop you from giving it?”
“Don’t take everything so seriously, brother,” he said, laying a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
Later, Ian lay in bed gazing at the starless sky, until his lids were so heavy he could no longer fight it, and sleep claimed him.
CHAPTER FIFTY
You arrive home late, breathless with victory. The flat is quiet except for the sound of gentle snoring from the back of the building. You pull off your gloves, flinging them onto the table in the foyer. A light drizzle has speckled your overcoat, and you brush it off impatiently before hanging the coat on the wall rack, along with your hat.
Blowing on your hands to warm them, you head for the sideboard. This calls for something stronger than tea—a celebration is in order. Uncorking the bottle of brandy, you pour a stiff shot or two into the snifter, swirling it for a moment to release the liquor’s heady aroma. Savoring the burn as it slides down your throat, you sit by the fireplace to relive the events of the past few hours.
Your planning was impeccable, your preparation perfect. Of course there was luck involved—there always is, in any momentous encounter—but you could not have timed it better. In fact, it all went so smoothly you wonder if perhaps you missed something. You take another swallow of brandy, eager for the sweet release of the spirit—not so much that you dull the quaver of excitement simmering in your breast, but just enough to slow the tremulous beating of your heart, so you can enjoy the triumph so dearly won.
The hand holding the glass trembles a little, not from fear but rather exhilaration. In all your years on this earth, you did not realize anything could be so entrancing, so fully engaging, as hunting another human. What began as a mission of vengeance has become a rarified pleasure, a secret pastime of such excitement that your only wish is that you could share it with someone.
But of course you can’t. No one can be trusted to keep your secret; you will have to keep your own counsel as you continue. Luckily, your mission is not over yet, you think as you drink eagerly from the nearly empty glass. There is more work to be done.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The next morning dawned so insistently bright and cheerful that Ian turned his steps in the direction of the Royal Infirmary before heading to police chambers. He half hoped Nurse Stuart would not be in, so he could leave a message and be on his way. But when he inquired after her, the same stern-faced matron he had met earlier informed him she would be out shortly, then disappeared with a disapproving glance into the bowels of the hospital. He did not know where Nurse Stuart lived, and did not care to know; looking for her at her place of employment struck him as a less intimate and therefore much safer option.
When she appeared, he had the impulse to flee—the sight of her auburn curls and freshly scrubbed face set off a panic he was scarcely prepared for. He had become accustomed to thinking of her as clear, firm handwriting upon a page, forgetting the flesh-and-blood person behind it. The reality of her physical presence was almost too much for his senses, and he took a step back as she approached, the heels of her boots clicking smartly on the polished floors.
Everything about her was too intense—her cheeks too red, her green eyes too deep a color of jade, her auburn hair too lustrous and shimmering. Even her scent was distracting—a combination of rose water and Brown Windsor spice soap.
“Why, Detective Hamilton,” she said in her brisk, matter-of-fact way. “What a surprise to see you.”
“Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” he mumbled, feeling the heat rise to his face, but also noticing with some satisfaction that the color on her cheeks also deepened.
“Not at all.” She smiled, displaying unreasonably white teeth. “After all, I believe you still owe me a dinner.”
“Ah, yes, so I do.”
“You really should have that cut attended to,” she said, peering at his face. “Would you like me—”
“No, thank you—I’m quite all right.”
There was an awkward pause, and then she said, “You must not think I have been languishing, waiting anxiously for you to pay attention to me.”
“I would not dream of it.”
“Because my life is quite full without you or any man.”
“I have no doubt of that.”
“I merely wanted to make it up to you for my beastly behavior earlier.”
“Understood.”
“Good. As long as that is perfectly clear.”
“Perfectly.”
She crossed her arms over her starched white uniform. “What do you propose?”
“Since we have had such ill luck at meeting for dinner, I thought perhaps you might accompany me to a play. My aunt is in a performance of A Christmas Carol at the Greyfriars—”
“Oh, yes, I had been meaning to see that. When shall we go?”
“I was thinking perhaps the Sunday matinee?” By then, he knew, the supposed jewelry store theft should be resolved, for better or for worse.
“Splendid.”
“And if we are not ill met by luck again, we might venture out for a bite afterward.”
“Agreed. Perhaps we may lift the curse by meeting at the theater first.”
“Precisely what I was thinking.”
“Very well—I shall meet you there.”
He felt he should offer to pick her up, but reticence overcame him, and he merely nodded.
“Until Sunday, then,” she said. Turning crisply, she marched back down the hall from whence she came.
Ian felt his own steps lighten as he left the infirmary, walking with an unaccustomed buoyancy. Colors seemed more vivid; passing cloud formations suddenly captured his attention—he became caught up in the loveliness of their shifting abstract beauty. Dull gray cobblestones shimmered in the morning light; the clop of horses’ hooves summoned his racing heart to match their steady beat. He suspected what he was feeling was infatuation but regarded the timing to be utterly insane, given all that he was facing. He had not sought it out; he had avoided it as long as possible, and still the arrow had found his heart. And yet he could not but think of how the crimson in her cheeks matched his own, the gleam in her jade eyes as they met his. For half a mile he floated in a swoon of happiness; everything seemed possible, and the world opened to him like a flower.
But as he neared police chambers, his mood darkened. So much weighed upon his mind. The supposed threat to Murray and Weston’s jewelry store seemed unimportant in comparison, though he knew DCI Crawford did not see it that way.
He entered police chambers to find Sergeant Dickerson and Constable Turnbull hobnobbing at the tea station. Dickerson barely acknowledged Ian when he came over to pour himself a cup, and Turnbull turned away, his mouth set in its accustomed sneer.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” Ian said in as friendly a tone as he could manage.
“Mornin’, sir,” Dickerson mumbled without looking at him.
As Ian headed back to his desk, he heard the constable mutter something about “a blind beggar,”
adding, “Beggars can’t be choosers,” which caused Dickerson to snicker.
Ian spun around so fast the tea flew from his cup. Letting it fall to the floor, he grabbed Turnbull by the collar and threw him against the wall.
“What’s that you said?” he hissed, his face close to Turnbull’s. He could smell the oil oozing from his pockmarked skin, and the greasy hair tonic smeared over his cheap toupee.
“I was merely pointing out your little friend had it coming,” the constable replied smoothly. He seemed utterly unintimidated, which only increased Ian’s rage.
Tightening his grip on Turnbull’s collar, Ian pushed him harder against the wall, cutting off his air. “What would you know about it?”
“No—more—than—you do,” the constable gasped. Ian released his hold a bit, and the sneer returned to Turnbull’s face. “From what I hear, your father had it coming as well.”
That was it. Ian’s vision narrowed to a thin, dark tunnel, and before he knew what he was doing, he aimed a blow at Turnbull’s jaw, knocking him halfway across the room. Ian tensed, setting himself up for a return attack, but the constable picked himself up from the floor, smiling as he wiped a thin smear of blood from the side of his mouth.
“You’ll have to watch that temper of yours,” he said, wiping the dust from his uniform. “It’ll get you in trouble one of these days. Just like your dear old da.”
Ian was about to launch himself at Turnbull again but was suddenly aware the room had gone utterly silent. He turned to see everyone staring at him. Some of the men looked up from their desks, papers still clutched in their hands, while others gaped at him from the entryway, just arriving for the morning shift. Sergeant Dickerson stood, jaw slack, staring at him. The sound of Crawford’s door opening drew all eyes in that direction.
“In my office, now!” the chief thundered. “Close the door behind you!” he said as Ian entered.
Crawford heaved himself into his chair and tugged at his whiskers, as if he wanted to pull them out by the roots. “Blast it, Hamilton,” he muttered. “What the hell’s got into you?”
Ian stared at the floor, fists clenched, still trembling with rage.
“I asked you a question, Detective!”
“I lost my temper—sir.”
Crawford rose and paced the office. “Good God, Hamilton—what were you thinking?”
Ian bit his lip. “He insulted my friend.”
“Just words, man—hardly worth taking to fisticuffs over!”
“And my father.”
Crawford ran a hand through his thinning ginger hair, making it stand straight up in startled-looking wisps.
“Your father?”
“Yes, sir. He insulted the memory of my father.”
Crawford looked as if he were about to say something, then changed his mind. He took a deep breath and exhaled a gust of air. “I won’t have my men attacking one another. Do you understand?”
Ian chewed on his lower lip.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you were anyone else in the force—anyone—I swear to God I’d suspend you!” Crawford grabbed the piece of string from his desk and twisted it so hard it looked as if it might break.
“Turnbull is dirty—I know he is.”
“Look,” said Crawford. “I think it’s best you take it easy for a while. I shouldn’t have asked so much of you. You’ve enough on your plate as it is.”
“What about the upcoming burglary? Surely it’s—”
“I’ve stationed men at Murray and Weston round the clock. They’ve instructions to call for assistance if they see anything slightly suspicious.”
“But my intelligence suggests the break-in will be elsewhere—”
Crawford sighed and tossed his bit of string onto the desk. “So you’ve said.”
“Where did you get your information?”
Crawford hesitated. “Now, see here—”
“It was Turnbull, wasn’t it?”
“I have several sources—”
“You can’t trust him, I tell you!” Ian insisted. “Why can’t you get that through your thick skull?”
Crawford took a step back, as if he had been struck. There was a deadly silence as Ian realized what he had done. Neither of them spoke for some time, then Crawford said, “I think it’s best you go home. You’re obviously unfit for duty.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over me. It’s just that—”
“You are officially suspended until further notice.”
“But sir—”
Crawford turned and gazed out the window. “That will be all, Detective.”
“Please, sir—”
“I said that will be all.”
Ian knew the chief well enough to realize that retreat was the only option at the moment. There was a chance he might be malleable later, but now there was no point in arguing. Ian left the office, closing the door behind him.
Most of the men turned away when he entered the main room. There was no sign of Sergeant Dickerson or Constable Turnbull. He couldn’t help wondering if the constable had taken Dickerson aside to poison his thoughts further, but could not stop to worry about that now.
Throwing on his cloak, he headed for the exit, but heard his name being called as he was about to open the door.
“Beg pardon, Detective Hamilton?”
Turning, he saw Sergeant Bowers looking at him sheepishly.
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“A gentleman come in early this mornin’ an’ asked tae see ye.”
“Did he give his name?”
“I asked ’im, but he said he’d come back later.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Tall, powerful lookin’, with strong hands. Broad shoulders, like an ox. Oh, an’ he had an accent.”
“What kind of accent?”
“Foreign—Dutch, maybe.”
“Could it have been Norwegian?”
“Might be—I’m not so good with accents an’ all.”
“Thank you, Constable,” said Ian, and was out the door before Bowers could utter another word.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Ian was not entirely pleased to see the familiar figure of Jed Corbin striding toward him as he descended the steps from the station house. The reporter’s face was red from exertion, and he appeared to be out of breath.
“Good morning,” he began, but Corbin cut him off.
“I’m afraid it’s bad news,” he said, breathing heavily.
“What is?”
“It’s the Fitzpatrick boy.”
“Jeremy—the major’s son?”
“Yes. He’s dead.”
A bolt of shock and disappointment shot through Ian. His chief suspect—dead. “What? H-how?” he stammered.
“Apparently he was run over by some swell in a speeding carriage near the Grassmarket.”
“When?”
“Late last night.”
“Why am I hearing of this only now?”
“I only just found out, and came to you straightaway.”
“Why did no one file a police report?”
“It seems to have been an accident.”
“Were there witnesses?”
“Everything I know is secondhand. I’m heading down there now if you would like to come.”
Without answering, Ian shot his hand into the air and flagged down the very next passing cab.
“The Grassmarket,” he said as Corbin scrambled in after him, “quick as you can.”
When they alighted from the cab, the scene at the Grassmarket appeared to be that of a typical Thursday morning. Residents shuffled sleepily down the streets, yawning, tired from the festivities of the previous day. A low, flat hollow beneath the rising granite of Castle Rock, the Grassmarket had been a marketplace since the Middle Ages. It was still littered with remnants of yesterday’s midweek open-air market, animal droppings, straw fallen from drovers’ carts, bits of twine and string,
discarded sweets wrappers. As Ian gazed across the wide expanse, his eye caught a cloth bag of marbles fallen from some lad’s pocket. As he bent to pick it up, another hand snatched it away. He straightened up to see the grimy, soot-streaked face of Derek McNair.
“I’ll tae’ that, if ye don’ mind,” the lad said, pocketing the marbles. “Finders keepers, an’ all that.”
“Have you been following me?”
“Nope. Jes so happens I’ve a meetin’ wi’ me lads nearby, an’ I saw ye drive up in a hurry. What’re ye investigatin’?”
Ian exchanged a glance with Corbin. The reporter knew Derek—the Scotsman had paid him for information on more than one occasion—but didn’t trust him to keep a secret any more than Ian did.
The boy seemed undeterred by their reticence. “Is it ’bout the fella what fell under the carriage yesterday?”
“What do you know about that?” said Ian.
He shrugged. “Me mate saw it all. Tol’ me ’bout it this mornin’.”
“Which mate is that?”
“Danny.”
“Does he have a last name?”
“Danny O’Leary. Lives wi’ his mum over yonder,” he said, pointing to a small, two-story house with dormer windows. “She works fer the family what lives there. He’s one a th’lucky ones—got a proper home, even if it is servant quarters.” He said this with no hint of self-pity; it was a simple statement of fact.
“Can you fetch him?” asked Corbin.
“A’ course. I’m seein’ ’im anyhow.”
“He’s one of your ‘Irregulars’?”
“Yep. Today’s our weekly meetin’.”
“The lad shows real initiative, doesn’t he?” Corbin asked Ian.
“If that’s what you call a group of miscreants to assist him in his somewhat shady endeavors.”
“We ain’t miscreaints,” the boy said, frowning.
“Street urchins, then.”
Derek crossed his arms. “Look, Guv, do ye wanna talk wi’ Danny or not?”
“I do indeed, and I’m willing to reward him for his time.”
Derek grinned. “My cut is ten percent—no, make that twenty.”
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