“He worked as a lineman for Caledonian Railway, though I’ve yet to find out much else.”
“You’ll have the help of that appealing little sergeant—”
“Dickerson’s a good man. But DCI Crawford won’t be much help; he’s much preoccupied with his wife’s health.”
“What’s the matter with her?”
“She’s been unwell, and he’s very concerned. I’m going to ask Donald for help.”
“I’m glad your brother has finally gotten hold of himself.”
“The death of our parents took a greater toll upon him than me.”
Lillian placed her napkin next to her plate and leaned back to gaze into the yellow flames of the fire. “Life takes things from all of us, Ian. Perhaps not evenly, or fairly, but loss is universal. You can wrap yourself in your own grief, or you can move forward. There is no middle ground.”
“But if we don’t stop to acknowledge loss and grief, how can we possibly go on?”
“The problem arises when we become lost in our grief, and it becomes more attractive than moving forward. We become frozen.”
“What are you trying to say, Auntie?”
She looked out the window, where a blustery wind shook the tree branches as if they were naughty children.
“Ian,” she said, “do you think it’s natural for a young man to have no one special in his life?”
Ian sighed; he knew where this was headed. “I know you and Uncle Alfred were blissfully married, but—”
“Can I tell you something about love?”
“Can I stop you?”
“You are young and handsome now, and no doubt attracted to pretty girls.”
“Auntie—”
“But that is not what love is. Love is like this bench,” she said, indicating the crude but sturdy wooden bench he kept near the fireplace, lopsided and riddled with ancient termite holes; it had been one of the few things to survive the fire.
“Your great-grandfather made it from an old oak tree on his land. The tree had provided shade and shelter to him and his flock of sheep all his life, and when it was felled by lightning, he saved the trunk and fashioned this bench. He was no carpenter, as you can see. And the years hav’nae been kind tae it,” she said, slipping into her native Glaswegian. “Eaten by termites, discolored by smoke and pipe ash, full of holes and nicks. But the more it ages, the more you love it, true?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s right.”
“My love for Alfred was the same—I loved him not in spite of his nicks and scars but because of them.”
“I know you loved Uncle Alfie, but—”
“This is not about my marriage to Alfred, nor is it about your parents, God rest their souls. It is about you.”
“Forgive me, but surely I may choose how best to live my own life?”
“You are mistaken in the notion that your life is separate from all others. That is a fiction. Your choices have an effect upon the people around you,” she said, pouring them both another glass of wine.
“Fair enough, but—”
“Especially those who care for you the most.”
“Are you suggesting I live my life to please others?”
“What I’m saying is sometimes you should listen to what other people have to say, and not be so bloody-minded. Your father was like that, God rest his soul—went his own way even when everyone around him was screaming at him to go the other way.” She paused, as if she’d said too much.
Ian leaned forward. “Aunt Lillian, was my father a good man?”
“Don’t ask me that. I am not the one to judge.”
“What do you mean?”
“Good heavens, look at the time,” she said, indicating the grandfather clock in the corner. “I must be off. I’m working the clothing booth at the charity jumble sale tomorrow.”
She fairly leapt from her chair—as much as her stiff joints allowed. Ian rose from the sofa and dutifully fetched her coat from the rack.
“I do appreciate your concern, Auntie, but—”
She took his hand in hers. Her fingers were thin as chicken bones, the skin around them loose and dry. But he could feel the strength pulsing through her veins—age had not diminished the force of her personality, nor dimmed her vitality.
“You know I regard you as if you were my own son.”
“Aunt Lillian—”
She put a finger to his lips. “Let me speak. I love my daughter, but as you know, Harriet and I . . . she was her father’s child, and when he went—well, we have never been close.”
“I am truly sorry.”
Harriet Grey lived in Dumfries somewhere—last Ian had heard, she was working as a schoolteacher, still unwed.
Lillian buttoned her coat and drew on a pair of yellow kid gloves. “I long ago gave up any hope she would marry, and resigned myself to a life without grandchildren. But you—there is hope for you yet, Ian. Don’t disappoint me.”
“I can’t—”
“I would regard any child of yours as my very own grandchild,” she said, pulling her hat down over her abundant gray hair. “Surely you know that.”
“I do,” he said, his throat thickening. “And I want more than anything not to disappoint you.”
“Then don’t.”
“Let me call you a cab.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—it’s not far, and the walk will do me good.”
“But it’s late.”
“Thank you for an excellent meal. Good night,” she said, and slipped out the door.
Ian watched her lean, straight figure negotiate the cracks and potholes in the sidewalk as she threaded her way down Victoria Terrace, disappearing around the bend as it curved toward the center of Old Town.
CHAPTER FIVE
She sat in the warm nook of her kitchen, planning her next move. There was nothing so delicious as the anticipation and preparation, the sweet fantasy of conquest. She gazed out the window as her cat, Blackie, rubbed against her shins, his arched back and half-closed eyes a perfect manifestation of contentment. Cats were so wonderfully expressive and supple in their unselfconscious enjoyment of sensual pleasure. Their movements were so controlled, so graceful, the ultimate in economy and efficiency. If only she could be more like Blackie, she thought as he leapt to the table in one smooth move.
“What do you think, my darling?” she asked, stroking his silky head. “Shall we do another?”
He smiled at her in the way cats do, narrowing his eyes to emerald slits.
“Who’s a lovely boy?” she said, rubbing the white, diamond-shaped patch of fur between his ears. “Who’s Mummy’s little charmer?”
Blackie purred and rubbed against her hand.
“I have a treat for you,” she said, spooning a bit of chopped liver onto his dish. “Come along, now, have your dinner.”
Blackie sidled up to the bowl and took a few delicate bites.
“Why can’t people be more like cats?” she murmured as she poured a fine white powder from a small green tin into a slim glass vial. Dosage was so important, and she was still adjusting to find just the right amount.