“Perhaps he wasn’t everything you imagined he was.”
“What do you mean?”
Donald stretched and sighed. “This is no time to malign the dead. Forgive me.”
“Are you referring to the rumors about him being corrupt? Because I don’t believe them.”
“Quite right you are. I’m sorry I said anything, truly.”
They stared into the flames for a while longer, as drowsiness settled over the room.
“Well,” Donald said with a yawn, “it’s late and I’m knackered. Being sober does that to you.” He rose and stretched himself, padding across the carpet in the direction of the bedrooms. At the doorway, he turned and smiled—not the weary, ironic smile of the man, but the sweet, shy smile of the boy Ian remembered. “Just like old times, eh, Brother?”
Ian knew that no matter how much they pretended otherwise, those days were gone forever. Looking at his brother’s face, shiny with sweat and hope, he didn’t have the heart to say so.
“Aye,” he said. “Just like old times.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Elizabeth Sutherland, known to her friends as Betty, bustled about her kitchen with more energy than usual Wednesday evening. Though the death of her tenant was upsetting, she was now the object of curiosity and sympathy, a state she found most gratifying. Her neighbors were treating her with unusual deference—even bossy Mrs. Porter who ran the rooming house next door had laid a hand on her arm, clucked her tongue, and said, “Poor dear—how are you getting on?” To which Mrs. Sutherland had replied she was doing as well as could be expected under the circumstances, and that it was most disturbing to have a tenant murdered under your own roof (she felt justified including that last detail, untrue though it was, since Mr. Wycherly had lived under her roof, even though he wasn’t actually killed there).
The next morning, a lemon cake with real buttercream frosting arrived with a thoughtful note from Mrs. Porter expressing her sympathy, saying if there was anything she could do—anything at all—to please let her know. Other expressions of sympathy and concern arrived from other friends and neighbors—tins of sweets, notes and cards, and even a bouquet of flowers from elderly Mr. Grant, who owned the barbershop on the corner.
Being a kind soul, Betty Sutherland was of course saddened by Mr. Wycherly’s untimely demise, but she didn’t feel herself to be in any danger. She and Mrs. Porter (of the luscious lemon cake) had reached the conclusion he had probably been killed over a gambling debt or some other character flaw. He had seemed such a nice young man, but you never knew about people—she had run a boardinghouse long enough to know the most genteel exterior could hide a dope fiend, dipsomaniac, or inveterate gambler. Though she continued to encourage the impression that the murder had happened under her own roof, she didn’t really believe the killer would turn his eye upon her. She was merely the unlucky lad’s landlady, nothing more.
And so, Wednesday evening when the doorbell rang, she bustled down the hall to answer it in high spirits, thinking it was perhaps another cake, or a vase of flowers. Just to be safe, she lifted the lid to the letter slot and peered through, to find herself staring into the eyes of the urchin who claimed to be working with that handsome detective inspector Hamilton. Though doubtful as to the boy’s veracity, she had sent a message to the detective. If the message reached him, she knew the boy was on the level—it wasn’t uncommon in Edinburgh to pay street Arabs a few pence to carry information to and fro.
“Mrs. Sutherland?” the boy said. “I got a reply from Detective Inspector Hamilton.”
“What is it?”
“Kin I come in?”
“Are you alone?”
“Aye.”
She unlatched the door and admitted him into the foyer. He was a scrawny fellow, small for his age, she judged, without knowing exactly how old he was. Though he was slight in stature, his eyes shone with keen intelligence. At least his face and hands weren’t too grimy, she thought; he appeared to have bathed in the last week or so.
“Wipe your feet,” she said, and he complied, removing his cap respectfully. “I expect you’d like some soup.” The city was awash with boys like him, and a body couldn’t take care of all of them. But she had noticed him licking his lips as the aroma of cabbage soup wafted in from the kitchen, his stomach rumbling loudly.
“Thank you, mum,” he said as he followed her down the hall.
“So, what’s this message, then?” she asked once he was settled in the corner nook of the kitchen, loudly slurping down leek and cabbage soup and stuffing his cheeks with hunks of brown bread.
“Detective Inspector Hamilton says he’ll call on ye t’morrow.”
“Very well,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice the flush spreading from the base of her neck upward. The thought of another visit from the dashing detective made her go a bit wobbly in the knees. “Did he say anything else?” she asked, turning to stir the soup to hide her reaction.
“No, mum,” her visitor mumbled through a mouthful of bread.
“Don’t gulp your food,” she said. “It will give you indigestion.”
“Yes, mum,” he replied, swallowing with a loud gulp. “Sorry, mum.”
She turned around and peered at him. “Derek, is it?” He nodded, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Please tell the detective inspector he’s welcome to stay for a bite to eat if he comes in time for breakfast. I’ve just bought some fresh cress, and I can make him an omelet.”
“Very good, mum,” Derek responded. “Or,” he added slyly, “ye could jus’ give me what ye got an’ I’ll give it to ’im.”
She frowned. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Things can get lost so easily in transit.”
“You kin rely on me, mum.”
“It would be better if I gave it to him myself.” In fact, she wasn’t all that certain the object she had found was of any use—but it was an excuse to see the handsome detective inspector again.
“Suit yerself,” said Derek, shoving more bread into his mouth.
Before the boy left, she gave him a couple of old shirts and a pair of darned socks. She tried not to think about where his mother might be or why a lad like him was on his own as she watched him head off down the street, but she had to admit there was something heartbreaking in the cockiness of his stride. The fact that he wasn’t seeking her pity made her that much more inclined to give it.
She retired back to her kitchen, to have a bit of soup herself before bed, when there was another knock at the door. Thinking the boy had returned, she hurried out to the hall. But when she peered through the mail slot, she saw a face she recognized.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, opening the door. “What on earth brings you here at this hour?”
Her visitor smiled enigmatically as she closed the door behind him. “I came to see how you were faring after the dreadful news.”
She sighed. “It was quite a shock—to you as well, I imagine.”
“Yes, poor fellow.”
“You were a good friend to him, I know.”