There was no signature, but Ian knew who had written it.
He looked at Derek. “Thank you,” he said.
“Don’ like it, mate. Not at all.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t read it.”
“Come off it,” the boy said, kicking at a pebble. “Y’all right, then?”
“Yes,” said Ian. “You take care, though, will you?”
“Ye know me, Guv—I kin look after meself.”
“See that you do. Good night.”
“Night, Guv,” the boy said, and with a final searching look, drifted off into the night.
Ian scanned the note once again, and as he did, a drop of blood fell onto the page. His hand went to his face, and his fingers came away damp. His wound was bleeding through the bandages on his face. Stuffing the note in his pocket, Ian continued toward his rendezvous. Several things were suddenly clear. His boiler room encounter was not a hallucination after all. After reading this, he would much rather it had been. And, as this man brazenly implicated himself in Bridie Mallon’s death, Ian knew where he lived. Most disturbingly, Turnbull did, too, if Greenside Row resident Nigel Metcalf’s description of the constable’s face was accurate—though what he was doing there was as yet unclear. This was bad, maybe very bad, but he refused to let it spoil his night. He would deal with it tomorrow.
Fiona arrived at Le Canard just a few moments after Ian, and they entered the restaurant together. The maître d’ could not hide his amazement—and disappointment—at seeing the two of them. Ian made no attempt to disguise his enjoyment of the man’s confusion.
“Bonsoir, monsieur,” he said with a wide smile, tipping his hat.
The maître d’ looked as if he had just tasted a particularly sour lemon. His attempt to twist his mouth into a convincing smile was heroic but doomed to failure. He showed them to a cozy table in the corner, seating them with the stiff smirk of a martyr facing certain death.
“So,” she said when he had gone. “Here we are at last.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Here we are.” The candlelight was soft, the air gentle, and a dozen delicious aromas beckoned. Ian was determined to put all thoughts of Edinburgh’s criminals aside for one brief evening.
“Well, then,” she said, running her finger over the lip of her wine goblet. “What now?”
“Tell me all about yourself.”
She laughed. “What do you want to know?”
He leaned forward.
“Everything,” he said. “I want to know everything.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my awesome agent, Paige Wheeler, as always. Much gratitude to Thomas & Mercer—Jessica Tribble, for her cheerful and steady presence, and Matthew Patin, for his excellent editorial advice and eagle eye.
Deepest thanks to Alan Macquarrie, scholar, musician, and historian, for his invaluable input, and for being such a gracious host in his glorious Glasgow flat, and to Anne Clackson, for being such a boon (and bonnie) companion. Special thanks to my dear friend Rachel Fallon for her generosity and loyal spirit, and for another wonderful stay at Villa Fallon. Much gratitude to my dear and accomplished cousin Jacques Houis—scholar, teacher, writer, translator—for his help and advice on French words and phrases. Thanks also to Anthony Moore for his sense of adventure, and for joining me on our many wonderful walkabouts in Edinburgh and beyond.
Thanks to Hawthornden Castle for awarding me a fellowship—my time there was unforgettable—and to Byrdcliffe Colony in Woodstock, where I enjoyed many happy years of residency, as well as Animal Care Sanctuary in East Smithfield, Pennsylvania, and Craig Lukatch and the fabulous Lacawac Sanctuary.
Deepest gratitude to my dear friend and colleague Marvin Kaye for his continued support, and for all the many wonderful dinners of mutton chops at Keens. Thanks to my assistant, Frank Goad, for his intelligence and expertise. Thanks, too, to my good friend Ahmad Ali, whose support and good energy has always lifted my spirits, and to the Stone Ridge Library, my upstate writing home away from home.
Finally, special thanks to my mother, whose patience in reading to us night after night was matched only by her talent at portraying so many characters, and who taught me the power of a good story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2017 Patricia Rubinelli
Carole Lawrence is an award-winning novelist, poet, composer, playwright, and author of Edinburgh Twilight and Edinburgh Dusk in the Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton series, as well as six novellas and dozens of short stories, articles, and poems—many of which appear in translation internationally. She is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee for poetry and winner of the Euphoria Poetry Prize, the Eve of St. Agnes Poetry Award, the Maxim Mazumdar playwriting prize, the Jerry Jazz Musician award for short fiction, and the Chronogram Literary Fiction Award. Her plays and musicals have been produced in several countries, as well as on NPR; her physics play, Strings, nominated for an Innovative Theatre Award, was produced at the Kennedy Center. A Hawthornden Fellow, she is on the faculty of NYU and Gotham Writers, as well as the Cape Cod Writers Center and San Miguel Writers’ Conferences. She enjoys hiking, biking, horseback riding, and hunting for wild mushrooms. For more information, visit www.celawrence.com.
Edinburgh Midnight Page 31