Ian was amazed to see the beautiful Caroline Tierney lingering just beyond the entrance.
Crawford looked at the sergeant with newfound respect. “Is she—you’ve been seeing her?”
“Yeah, sorta, like,” Dickerson said, blushing furiously.
The chief inspector shook his head. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
“If ye don’ mind, sir.”
“You’re an inspiration to us all. Off you go, then.”
“Yes, sir—thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Ian said, “for saving my life.”
“T’weren’t nowt, sir—anyone woulda done it.”
“But you’re the one who did.”
“Right—I’ll just be off, then.” Tipping his hat to Lillian, he walked quickly to where Caroline waited for him. He took her arm, and the two strolled off together down the hall.
“Cheeky devil,” Crawford remarked, watching them.
“I never would have taken Dickerson for a ladies’ man,” Lillian said.
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy,’” said Ian.
“For Christ’s sake, Hamilton, why can’t you quote a proper Scottish writer like Robbie Burns?” Crawford said.
“I shall endeavor to do so from now on, sir.”
Crawford stroked his whiskers. “Wonder what she sees in him?”
“What any sensible woman sees in a worthwhile man—kindness,” Lillian remarked.
“Is he a good fellow, Hamilton?” Crawford asked.
“It’s not every day a man saves your life, sir.”
“I’m afraid I must ask you all to leave now,” the nurse said, fluttering about the bed like a restless white bird. “Mr.—er, Detective Hamilton needs his rest. And who might you be?” she asked sharply, looking in the direction of the entrance.
Standing in the doorway was Derek McNair, hat in hand. Beside him stood Donald Hamilton. He did not look well, but he looked sober.
“We’re here to see DI Hamilton, miss,” Derek said, stepping forward.
“Well, you shall have to wait awhile,” she replied tartly.
“Donald,” Ian said, reaching out a hand toward him. “I was afraid you—”
His brother frowned. “Afraid I was the killer?”
“No . . . afraid you were dead,” Ian said. His mouth was having trouble forming words.
“That’s enough,” the nurse said sternly. “Out you go—the lot of you.”
“Come along—we’ll get you some tea in the canteen,” Lillian said, bustling them out. “I know the way. Would you care to join us, Chief Inspector?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I must be getting home,” Crawford replied, putting on his hat. “Oh, and on behalf of the Edinburgh City Police, I’d like to add you to our roster of sketch artists, if you don’t mind.”
“I should be honored,” said Lillian. “On one condition.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“That you stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ I’m not that much older than you are.”
“Of course—sorry,” Crawford replied, nonplussed.
“You’ll get used to my aunt,” Donald remarked. “In time.”
Ian smiled. It wasn’t often he saw the detective chief inspector put in his place, much less by a woman.
“Mind you take care of this one,” Crawford told the nurse, with a glance at Ian. “We need him.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said. “Now off you go.”
“‘Good night, sweet prince,’” Donald said to Ian before following the others out of the room.
Within moments of their departure Ian’s eyes had grown unreasonably heavy, and by the time the nurse returned from the linen supply closet with fresh towels, he was asleep. He dreamed of roaming Highland meadows, thick with purple heather in the spring, his brother at his side. When the nurse came back to check on him, she thought she saw a little smile on his face. When she pulled the covers up to his chin, he murmured something she couldn’t quite make out—it sounded like “Sorry.”
“Don’t know what ye have to be sorry about,” she murmured, gazing longingly at his face, “but I hope you have a lass waiting for you somewhere.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
“I still maintain you acted like a fool,” Lillian remarked to Ian a week later as he and Donald shared a glass in front of her fireplace. Ian and Lillian drank sherry while Donald sipped from a bottle of ginger beer.
“That’s a rather harsh assessment,” his brother commented.
She frowned at him. “He nearly died, Donald.”
“I had good reason,” Ian said.
Lillian drained the last of her sherry and set the glass down. “There are only two kinds of people who may behave idiotically with impunity—the very young and the very old. You, unfortunately, are neither.”
“And you, Auntie?” said Donald. “Surely you are not old enough to qualify, either.”
Lillian drew herself up. “Flattery is the province of fools—those who give it and those who believe it.”
“Is it flattery to suggest that your eternally youthful quality belies your age?” Ian asked.
“Ach, enough of this,” his aunt said, rising from her chair with as much grace as she could manage. Ian suppressed an impulse to help—she still believed she was hiding the discomfort of her arthritic joints. She poked at the fire and turned to Donald. “When will you find out about your application to the university?”
“By the end of the month. Hopefully I will find my own place to live by then.”
“I don’t see why you should do that,” said Ian.
Donald avoided his gaze. “I’ve gotten on your nerves long enough.”
“Isn’t that rather for me to say?”
“Surely you don’t want me to stay.”
“I have no objection to it, so long as you—”
“I very much plan on remaining sober.”
“Then I see no problem with it.”
Lillian refilled her sherry and sat down again. “Did you really think Donald could be the strangler?”
“By then I didn’t know what to think . . . not really, I suppose.”
“You jolly well did,” Donald said. “Those blasted cards put you in a proper funk.”
“I even suspected Rat Face for a while,” said Ian, “with his skill at cards.”
“I should hardly think he was capable of such feats,” said Lillian.
“One thing you learn as a policeman is that anyone may be capable of anything.”
Lillian turned to Donald. “Is it true you met the killer—did he really try his trick on you?”
Donald nodded. “When I saw the cards, I made an excuse to leave and went to fetch a policeman, but he ducked out into the night straightaway.”
Lillian shivered. “To think that could have been you . . .”
“Poor Pearson wasn’t so lucky,” Donald added. “But I thought you said he knew about the cards?” he said to Ian.
“He did. Derek told him when they had breakfast together. I imagine he was ambushed—he wasn’t very fit, probably not much of a fighter.”
“I still can hardly believe that story Sergeant Dickerson told about the gang of football hooligans,” said Lillian.
The sergeant had told of his adventure repeatedly. Each time, it acquired a new layer of absurdity, until one would think he had been kidnapped by marauding Vikings.
“And that young urchin—what has become of him?” asked Donald.
“I persuaded him to take up residence at the Dean Orphanage,” Lillian said with a satisfied smile.