What Ian didn’t say was that his older brother was not the easiest of houseguests. Prickly by nature, he was even more irritable than usual since his recent decision to abstain from drink.
Crawford looked down at the string between his fingers. “You, uh, mentioned something about him helping me find a specialist.”
“What are her symptoms?”
Crawford gave a little cough and gazed out the window. “It’s to do with her digestion. If your brother could pop ’round in the next few days, I’ll explain it to him.”
“I’ll see what I can do, sir,” Ian said. He left the office, returning to his desk to catch up on paperwork. Darkness fell long before the end of the working day in Edinburgh in November. With the autumn equinox well behind them, the citizens were gearing up for the onslaught of a cold, dark Scottish winter.
Shortly after five, Ian stepped into the street and turned west toward his flat on Victoria Terrace. He had not gone ten steps when he heard a familiar voice behind him.
“Hello, Guv’nur!”
He turned to see the grimy face of Derek McNair—street urchin, thief, pickpocket, and one of Ian’s most valuable assets.
“Hello, Derek. How are pickings these days—hit any good marks lately?”
Derek’s face fell into a mock frown as he pushed a lock of unkempt brown hair from his forehead. “I tol’ you, I gave all that up.” His accent sported the laconic consonants and rolling vowels of England’s West Country.
“And I really believe you,” Ian replied without slowing his pace.
Derek trotted to keep up. He was slight and delicate of build and looked younger than his ten years, except for his skin, tanned and rough from life in the streets. “It’s true, I swear it!”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“You know what yer problem is, Guv’nur?”
“I have always longed for someone to enlighten me on that subject.”
Derek studied Ian’s face, then burst out laughing. “Yer a sly one, so help me.”
“Is that your diagnosis?” Ian said as they rounded the corner onto George IV Bridge.
“I was about ta say yer problem is that you’re suspicious of everythin’.”
“I should think a healthy dose of skepticism is a virtue in a police officer.”
“You’ve an unhealthy dose, is what I’m sayin’.”
“Whereas you’re just a sweet, trusting fellow, I suppose?”
“What kinda sense would that make fer an orphan like m’self? I’m forced to live by me wits, day by day, on Edinburgh’s hard an’ bitter streets.”
“While your eloquence is admirable, I cannot say the same for your honesty.”
Derek stood, arms crossed, barring his way. “Jes what do y’mean by that?”
“On Thursday last you were spotted pilfering meat pies from the butcher shop on Candlemaker Row—”
“Who says they saw me stealin’ pies?”
“—and on Saturday I saw you working the crowd at the Grassmarket.”
“I were jes havin’ a look at the ladies.”
“And if you don’t keep your hands to yourself, you may lose one of them someday.”
Derek frowned. “They don’ do that sort a thing anymore.”
“You mean chop off people’s hands for stealing?”
“Yeah,” he said. “They don’, do they?” Though still just a child, Derek liked to glide his hands over women’s bottoms. And in a thick crowd, he usually got away with it.
“This town is full of thugs and toughs. If you should chance to prey upon the wrong girl, she’s likely to have several sturdy brothers who would enjoy nothing more than pummeling some sense into you.”
“Don’ worry ’bout me, Guv’nur,” Derek insisted, but he looked uneasy.
Ian hoped the boy would take his advice. He would rather have Derek frightened than lying battered in back of a dark alley.
“Heard you were at’ morgue today,” the boy said, trotting after Ian as he resumed his brisk pace homeward.
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve eyes an’ ears in t’street, don’ I? Someone get murdered?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Well, let me know if I kin help. You know where t’find me.”
Ian smiled—it would be more accurate to say that Derek knew where to find him.
“Right,” he said.
“I mean it, Guv,” the boy said, peeling off as they reached Victoria Terrace. “Remember how I helped ye last time!”
“Wait—don’t you want some money?” Ian called.
“You kin pay me when I do some work,” Derek shouted back, disappearing around the corner as a gust of wind lifted a pile of leaves to scatter them into the night.
Ian couldn’t imagine how the boy could help, but he had no idea how the case would develop. It was, as his aunt Lillian would say, “early days yet.” He lowered his head and pulled the collar of his coat higher, pushing forward into the relentless Scottish wind.
CHAPTER FOUR
Aunt Lillian arrived at precisely half past six. Ian was a frequent guest at her house—their Sunday-night dinner had become a ritual—but the previous night she had been out late visiting a sick friend, so on this night he insisted on cooking for her instead. Ian had bought the best lamb chops he could find, serving them with neeps and tatties. Donald had evening classes on Mondays, but Ian cooked a couple of chops for him to have later.
“My, this is good,” Lillian declared, accepting a second helping and lifting her wineglass for a refill. “I see you’re working a murder case.”
“How on earth—”
“You are unusually preoccupied. A case of petty thievery seldom produces such a distracted state of mind that you attempt to pour the wine before it has been uncorked. And twice you paused to listen as though you were expecting someone.”
“I thought Donald might come back early.”
“Now you’re just blethering,” she said with a smile. Lillian enjoyed sprinkling her conversation with Scottish slang. “If you’d rather not talk about it, just say so.”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Fine,” she said crisply, pinning a wisp of hair back into the loose chignon at the nape of her neck. Aunt Lillian had the same lanky build and clear blue eyes as Ian’s mother, her only sister. Though she was nearly seventy, her spine was as straight as it had been in her youth, and her hands, though increasingly gnarled from arthritis, were steady as ever. They sat in silence for a few moments.
Finally, Ian said, “It’s a case of poisoning.”
Her eyes lit up, and her whole body snapped to attention, like a pointer on the trail of a grouse. Lillian Grey was in many ways a typical Scottish matron of her era, but she had the same fire and thirst for adventure that burned in Ian’s breast. He described the singular encounter with Sophia Jex-Blake and his subsequent visit to the morgue.
“Well!” she declared. “It sounds to me as though you have a real mystery on your hands. What do you know about this Thomas Caruthers?”