“She found somethin’ she wants ye t’see.”
“Would you run along and tell her I’ll call on her first thing tomorrow?”
“Righto, Guv’nur,” Derek said, but didn’t move.
“Well? What’s keeping you?”
“Dashin’ all ’round town builds up an appetite. An’ Freddie’s hungry too—aren’t ye?”
Freddie nodded vigorously.
“Fine,” Ian said, fishing half a crown from his pocket. “Here.”
“Thanks, Guv’nur,” Derek said, slipping it into his pocket.
“Now get along. And stop calling me Guv’nur.”
“Whatever you say, Guv’nur.”
The boys darted off, laughing. Ian tugged the brim of his hat lower, pulling his collar up against the chilly night, and continued in the direction of his aunt’s town house.
The air smelled of salt and seaweed as he trudged up the hill. The wind was shifting, bringing in sea air from the Firth of Forth to the northeast. Born in the arctic waters of the North Sea, the firth cut a deep slash into Scotland’s east coast, bifurcating the land at the narrow stretch boasting its two greatest cities, Glasgow and Edinburgh. Lying at almost the same latitude on the map, they were the last two metropolitan hubs, beyond which lay the wild expanse of the Highlands and the outer islands scattered along Scotland’s shores like broken pieces of birthday cake.
Tugging tired children behind them, pedestrians plodded by, laden with packages. Everyone seemed sunk in gloomy contemplation, struggling silently up the hill in the early February darkness.
Ian was relieved to see the gaslights blazing brightly in the front windows of his aunt’s town house. He was glad he had accepted her offer—more like a commandment—to join her for a drink. Though a midweek meeting was not one of their established rituals, it was doubly welcome after the past few days. His glum mood brightened when Lillian’s front door swung open, bringing the welcome sight of her face, wreathed in smiles. In her left hand was a bottle of cream sherry.
“Ach, you’re just in time for a wee dram.”
He kissed her cheek, soft and crinkled as tissue paper.
“Hello, Auntie.”
“Come in and close the door behind you—no need to heat the whole outdoors,” she said, trundling down the hall as he followed obediently behind.
“So,” she said as they settled in front of the fire, “tell me how your case is going.”
“Not well. And today Sergeant Dickerson made a fool of himself over a pretty face.”
“Dear me. What happened?”
As he recounted the incident involving Caroline Tierney’s visit, he saw his aunt trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smile.
“Your sergeant is a red-blooded young man,” she said, laying a hand on his. “You mustn’t be so hard on him—allow him some of the foolishness of youth.”
“We can’t afford foolishness when lives are at stake.”
“But you were only interviewing a young woman whose brother had the misfortune to be a victim.”
“A crime investigator must learn to cultivate objectivity.”
“Dear me, that’s harsh.”
“You can’t always know whether the charming person sitting opposite you is a murderer.”
“Is that why you have no one special in your life?”
“We’re not discussing my personal life,” he replied stiffly.
“Do you consider it less important than your professional life?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
She shook her head sadly. “What a pity. All the flowers of Edinburgh going unplucked because you feel you have to remain ‘objective.’”
“‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.’”
She gave a dismissive wave. “Ach, Ian, don’t use your intellect as a weapon.”
“I know you had an idyllic marriage to Uncle Alfred, and I’m very glad for you. But the ‘flowers of Edinburgh’ will manage to struggle on without me.”
“Is it because of your shoulder?” she asked softly.
“I’d really prefer not to discuss it,” he replied, feeling the heat rise to his face.
She sighed and pulled her aged limbs out of the armchair. Ian saw her effort to disguise the discomfort, but she couldn’t entirely mask the stiffness in her bones. Flooded with remorse, he laid a hand on her arm.
“Forgive me, Auntie—it’s been a trying week.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, dear boy,” she said, reaching for a new bottle of sherry in the liquor cabinet. “It’s just that I want so much for you to know the deep pleasure of true love.”
“Maybe I will someday,” he said. “Don’t give up on me just yet.”
But even as he said the words, he didn’t believe them.
“So the case, then?” she said eagerly, pouring them each a second glass.
“I can’t find a link between the victims. They seem so different, yet there must be something connecting them.”
“Is it possible they were killed by different people?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“If I tell you, it must not leave this room. We’re not releasing this detail to the public.”
“You have my word.”
He told her about the strange cards found on each victim. She drained the rest of her sherry. “Dear me,” she said, tapping the empty glass with her finger. “Could the link be gambling?”
“I have no evidence to suggest that.”
“Maybe the only connection is that they both knew their killer.”
“I’m not convinced of that, either.”
“But why kill a perfect stranger?”
“I’m convinced there’s logic there, but I’m missing pieces of the puzzle. Once I find them, the story will flow as fluidly as—”
“As the Greek myths you used to love as a boy?” Lillian said softly.
“I loved all sorts of stories, especially ones my mother read to me.”
“I liked the ones you wrote yourself best—full of heroes and mythical creatures and marvelous adventures. I always thought you were going to be a writer, in fact. We all did.”
Ian thought about telling his aunt about his poetry but decided against it. He stared into the fire, the flames greedily licking the air, yellow as a dragon’s tongue. He longed for the certainty and safety of fiction—in real life, monsters weren’t always vanquished, and heroes didn’t always win.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The streets were nearly deserted when Ian left Lillian’s. He wove his way home, waving off cabbies who tipped their hats to offer their services. It was a short walk, and he was soon at his flat on Victoria Terrace.
The moment Ian reached his front door, he knew someone was there. He had not left the gaslight on in the parlor, yet a yellow flame flickered in the front window. His body stiffened as he eased the door open slowly, taking a single step into the foyer. He smelled onions frying, and the sound of whistling came from the kitchen. The tune was familiar, an old reel his mother used to play on the piano. He reached for the umbrella in the stand next to the door; as his hand closed around the handle, he heard approaching footsteps. He raised the umbrella, ready to strike, as the intruder stepped into the front hall. Seeing Ian wielding a weapon, he took a step backward.