“But you said—”
“Good Lord, man!” Crawford sat back heavily in his chair and gazed at him with such longing and sadness that Hamilton lowered his eyes. The chief inspector turned to look out the window at the battalion of raindrops assaulting the town. “Go home,” he said. “Go home to your empty flat and your cold supper.”
“It’s not exactly empty, sir.”
“You have a paramour?”
“No, sir.”
“A pet—a dog or a cat?”
“Not exactly.”
“What, then?”
“A mouse.”
“You have—a mouse? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Go home to your mouse, then, Hamilton.”
Ian gave a little salute, something Crawford had never seen him do before. “Thank you for the whisky, sir.”
“Next time you might consider not swilling it down so quickly.”
Crawford thought he saw a smile tug at the corner of the detective’s mouth.
“Yes, sir.”
He turned on his heel and left the station house, the click of his boots crisp against the polished floor. Crawford sat staring out the window for some time before rising stiffly from his chair and shrugging on his coat. He plucked his green tweed hat from the coatrack and perched it atop his balding pate. The hat was a gift from his wife, who was neither fat nor little, bless her. Her long hands were cool and dry, and he longed to feel them on his forehead. But even her touch couldn’t smooth the churning in his stomach, he thought as he nodded to the desk sergeant on his way out—and all the rains of heaven couldn’t wash the stink of sin from the streets of Edinburgh.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Ian arrived at his flat to find all the lights burning brightly. As he removed his cloak, his brother called to him from the parlor.
“You’re back late.”
Ian entered the parlor to find Donald in front of the fireplace, feet propped up on the grate, a book on his lap. He wore Ian’s crimson dressing gown, though due to his size, it didn’t come all the way round his middle.
“I stopped at the station house, and DCI Crawford offered me a scotch,” said Ian.
“Was it decent?”
“He seemed to think so.”
“Lucky you, being able to drink. Oh, before I forget, a small urchin of dubious origin stopped by—said he had a message for you.”
“Oh?” Ian said, his exhaustion vanishing. “What was the message?”
“He said he tried to collect something from the landlady, but she insisted on giving it to you in person.”
“Did she tell him what it was?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Damn! Her stubbornness may have cost her her life.”
“How on earth do you know such a fellow?”
“That’s my dressing gown,” Ian replied, ignoring the question.
“It looks so good on me, I supposed you would want me to have it.”
“That robe belonged to Uncle Alfred. Lillian gave it to me.”
“She wouldn’t want you to be stingy,” he proclaimed, drawing the coat around his bulky frame.
“May I point out that you are seated before my fire, reading my book—”
“It’s jolly interesting, too,” Donald said. “Inside the Criminal Mind, by Guillaume de La Robert. Where did you get this?”
“From an odd fellow I met at the library.”
“Are you in the habit of frequenting the library for companionship? How tragic.”
“I was doing research. He’s a reference librarian.”
“Well, he knows what he’s talking about. This book almost makes me want to be a criminologist. Oh, don’t worry,” he added in response to Ian’s look, “I have quite enough on my plate reapplying to medical school.”
“Do you still have total recall of everything you read?”
Donald fingered the tie of the dressing gown, and Ian noticed his hands trembled. “Another reason to give up the bottle—it was beginning to affect my memory. Can you still remember everything you hear?”
“Sometimes I wish I could forget some of the things I hear.”
“A gift and a curse,” Donald said, stretching himself. “By the way, can I stay with you for a while? It would be a pity to let that extra bedroom go to waste.”
Ian looked down at his brother, trying to appear careless and casual. He could feel Donald’s nervous energy. “Yes,” he said. “But the dressing gown stays with me.”
“If you insist.” Donald shrugged, projecting unconcern, but Ian knew it was to maintain his fragile equilibrium. Lillian was right—Donald was the weaker of the two, torn apart by the intensity of his emotions.
“Is there anything to eat?”
“There’s a cold joint and some roasted potatoes in the icebox,” Donald replied. “I thought you might come home hungry.”
“Stay as long as you like if you continue to make yourself useful,” Ian said, going out to the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway, astonished at the sight that greeted him.
Perched on top of the counter, looking very much at home, was Mrs. Sutherland’s black-and-white cat. Ian turned and charged back into the parlor. “What on earth is that animal doing in my—”
“Oh, I forgot. A little redheaded chap brought him round earlier—Sergeant Snickers—”
“Dickerson.”
“He said you needed help with a mouse problem, thought maybe the cat would be a solution.”
“He has some cheek—”
“Do you?”
“What?”
“Have a mouse problem?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“There you are, then—problem solved.”
“I never—”
Donald rose and stretched himself. “I know, little brother, you don’t like other people making decisions for you. But maybe in this case it’s a turn of fortune. What’s the creature’s name?” he said, wandering into the kitchen.
“Bacchus,” Ian said, following him.
Donald clapped him on the shoulder. Ian winced from the impact against his injured flesh, the burned area still sensitive to touch.
His brother didn’t notice, turning away to rummage through the kitchen cupboards. “Perfect! The Greek god of sensual pleasure. God knows you could use more of that in your life.”
“How do you know?”
“A brother can sense these things. Ah, this looks decent,” he said, pulling a jar of plum chutney from the cupboard. “Now let’s see about that joint of beef, shall we?”
After devouring a good-sized portion of roast beef and boiled potatoes, Ian felt quite anesthetized. He sank down in a chair in front of the fire, staring into the glowing embers, and felt his head begin to droop.
Donald was sprawled on the couch, his head buried in the book George Pearson had given him. “Fascinating stuff, this. I was just reading the chapter on motives for murder.”
“What did you learn?”
“They run the gamut, but the Seven Deadly Sins are a good place to start—greed, revenge, jealousy. What about your fellow—any ideas?”
“I’m leaning toward revenge, though I’m having trouble connecting the dots.”
“Dear me.” Donald lit another cigarette. “Still, how convenient to have miscreants and murderers walking among us, so that the rest of us may lead virtuous lives. They’re like the pustules in an otherwise healthy body, siphoning off the toxins of society.”