Jamie McKenzie was a member of this tribe, having at least a nodding acquaintance with many others. One of Edinburgh’s vast army of leeries, he ventured forth upon the heels of daylight, tramping through the town as twilight deepened into dusk, the instrument of his trade held aloft as he approached each gas lantern atop its cast-iron post.
The sun was just slipping behind Castle Rock as Jamie set out from his home in Craig’s Close, past the Isle of Man Tavern, where poet Robert Ferguson once rubbed shoulders with the notorious Deacon Brodie, as members of the famed Cape Club. Jamie wasn’t much given to socializing. The left side of his face was disfigured, making him wary of encounters with his fellow man. He had been so since the age of six, when he wandered too near to a horse his father was shoeing. The gelding was skittish and delivered a kick to the side of young Jamie’s face, caving in his cheekbone and leaving him blind in one eye. He had developed a preference for nighttime; for him, the lamplighting profession was ideal.
But Jamie was well-known around town, regarded fondly by citizens accustomed to his familiar figure as they trudged home from their day’s labor. There was something comforting in the sight of his long, spidery form wending through the alleys and wynds, his flint held aloft, a scarred but stalwart Prometheus. They called him Long Jamie, for he was well over six feet and as thin as a parson’s gruel. Children sometimes danced behind him, making up rhymes and songs about him. Sometimes they were cruel, children being what they are, but most often they were stories of his nightly adventures—which, seen through a child’s eye, were romantic indeed.
On this night, no packs of children followed him; though the rain had abated, a stiff wind whistled along Cockburn Street. Jamie didn’t mind—he enjoyed solitude, and if the cold wind caused the denizens of Edinburgh to hide behind closed shutters, so much the better.
He spied Sally McGrath huddled beneath the eaves of the Hound and Hare. Though the fancy ladies of the New Town referred to her as a “fallen woman,” Sally was lively and kind, often sharing her profits with her fellow night travelers. On more than one occasion she had treated Jamie to a bowl of stew or tatties and neeps at local eateries.
But Sally was well past her prime, and times were hard for an aging prostitute—dangerous, too. Jamie imagined she needed the money badly to venture out on such a chill night. He tipped his hat, indicating there were no policemen nearby—had he seen a copper, he would have whistled. She smiled at him and drew her cloak closer.
As he trudged up the hill, Jamie sang a popular ballad, “My Highland Laddie.” Enjoying the sound of his own voice, he stopped to light the lamp at the intersection of Cockburn and Lyon’s Close. He was just about to begin the second verse when something lying in the alley caught his good eye. Thinking it was one of the town’s many inebriates overcome by alcohol, Jamie ventured into the narrow passageway to rouse the man.
“Oiy!” he said, prodding the still form with his toe. “Git up wi’ ye—time t’gae home.”
He gave the man another poke, dislodging his coat collar and revealing his face. With a sharp intake of breath, Jamie McKenzie realized what he was looking at was not a drunken man, but a corpse. Jamie staggered backward, his knees turned to butter. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he flung down his pole and lurched down the street in the direction of the police station.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Ian returned to his flat on Victoria Terrace to find it dark and still. As he reached to light the flame on the gas lamp, something brushed against his leg. Startled, he gave a yelp. At that moment, it occurred to him his brother might be playing a trick on him, as he had so often when they were children. Donald loved to scare people, and Ian, two years younger, was his prime target. His heart leapt at the thought his brother had returned. Guilt had nagged at him all day for his treatment of Donald the night before. Ian knew he had allowed the years of worry and resentment to build up into the outburst against his brother. In spite of his intentions, his better self had not prevailed, and more than anything he wished he could take back every harsh word.
“Donald?” Ian said, grasping for the matches he had dropped on the floor. His hand touched something furry, which began to purr loudly, and he realized what had rubbed against his leg. “Good Lord,” he said. “What are you doing scaring me half to death?”
The cat responded with a plaintive cry Ian recognized as a demand for food.
“Come along, then,” he said, finally managing to light the lamp. “Have you run out of mice to eat so quickly?”
The cat looked at him quizzically. There was a black smudge on its nose, as if the feline had been poking around behind the stove. Ian had to admit there was something fetching about the animal’s aquiline visage, with its long nose and round eyes—it was a rather uncatlike face. Bacchus accompanied Ian to the kitchen, swerving back between his feet as though trying deliberately to trip him.
“Steady on,” Ian muttered. “If I fall and break my neck, you won’t be having your dinner.”
He pulled some meat from the previous night’s roast and put it in a bowl on the floor. Bacchus sniffed at it and crouched over the bowl, pecking delicately at the meat.
“That should hold you for a while,” Ian said. “You’re not staying, you know,” he added. Candle in hand, Ian explored the rest of the flat for any signs of Donald. He was disappointed to find all the rooms dark and silent. He opened the closet in the spare bedroom, searching for his brother’s belongings, but he wasn’t sure whether Donald had arrived with luggage. His coveting Ian’s dressing gown was entirely in keeping with his character; Donald always enjoyed giving him a hard time.
Finding a rucksack in the back of the closet, he pulled it out to examine it. Inside were two pairs of trousers, a handful of shirts, and various toiletry items. Hope danced in Ian’s chest—perhaps Donald would return for his things, and Ian could apologize. As he lifted the pack to return it to the closet, a deck of cards tumbled out of the front compartment. He bent to pick it up but recoiled as if stung.
The skeletal faces on the cards, by now too familiar, grinned up at him, mockery in their terrible, empty eyes. He counted the cards with trembling hands—to his relief, they were all accounted for. But the discovery was deeply troubling. He slipped the deck back into the rucksack, threw on his cloak, and set out in the direction of his aunt’s town house. Lillian would know what to do.
She greeted him warmly as usual, a woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders. He recognized the tartan as his uncle Alfie’s Clan Grey.
“What brings you out on such a night?” she asked, drawing the curtains on the cold, thin rain spitting from the sky. “Come sit by the fire and have a wee bowl o’ leek and potato soup.”
As they ate, he told her the story of Donald’s abrupt arrival and even more precipitous departure.
“Dear me,” she said. “You were rather harsh with him, weren’t you?”
“There’s more,” he said grimly, and told her about the pack of cards.