She gazed out the window onto the small patch of earth where she grew herbs and roses. She would bury him there, beneath her favorite rosebush. And in the spring, when it produced fragrant pink blossoms, she would think of Blackie.
CHAPTER SIX
After dinner with Lillian, Ian was in the study reading when he heard the front door open and close, followed by his brother’s heavy footsteps and the sound of low cursing.
“Bloody hell . . . organic chemistry.”
As usual, Donald was muttering to himself. When he was alone—or thought he was—he was given to endless, rambling monologues about a wide variety of topics. Ian had enjoyed spying on his brother when they were young, and would occasionally remind him of something he had said the day before, much to Donald’s irritation. The enjoyment Ian got from this more than made up for the epithets his brother invariably hurled at him.
“Goddamn ridiculous,” Donald muttered from the front hall. “Why even bother with it?”
There was the sound of a boot dropping to the floor, then another, followed by a louder crash. Ian sprang to his feet and dashed to the foyer, where he found his brother standing over the fallen coatrack. Donald blinked when he saw Ian.
“What are you doing up?”
“Reading,” Ian replied, stooping to lift the coatrack.
“It’s all right, old man—I’ve got it,” Donald said, bending over his substantial belly to retrieve the fallen rack.
As portly as Ian was lean, Donald Hamilton was a whale of a man. Well over six feet tall, he towered above the average Scot, a fact he’d used to avoid bar brawls back in his drinking days. Aware of Ian’s eyes on him, he brushed street dust from his coat before hanging it up. “Don’t worry—I’ve not been drinking. The hallway was dark and I tripped.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you were suspicious—I would be in your place.”
The concession was unusual for Donald, and out of character, but Ian accepted it gratefully.
“The thought never crossed my mind.”
“Now you’re the liar,” Donald replied. “Of course it crossed your mind.”
“The point is, you haven’t been drinking—let’s just leave it at that. What did you trip over—the cat?”
“Don’t think so. Where is the blasted creature, anyway?” His brother pretended to loathe Bacchus, Ian’s black-and-white cat, but on more than one occasion Ian had found Donald asleep on the sofa, the cat draped happily over him.
“I expect he’s on mouse patrol, this time of night.”
“I’ll join him, then,” Donald said, lumbering toward the kitchen. “Except that I’ll be on beef patrol. You do have a joint around somewhere, I suppose?”
“There are a couple of leftover lamb chops from dinner,” Ian said, following him.
“Even better. How was dinner with Auntie Lillian? Did she give you an earful about your love life, or lack thereof?”
“How did you know?”
Donald laughed. “My dear brother, Lillian has been agonizing for weeks over whether to broach the subject with you.”
“You knew about that?”
His brother pulled the plate of lamb chops from the icebox. “Are there any tatties to go with this?”
“On the bottom shelf. So she already spoke to you about all this?”
“We didn’t scheme together, if that’s what you’re worried about. She asked me if I thought it was a good idea to say something. I told her absolutely not, so naturally she did it anyway.” He scooped a generous serving of mashed potatoes onto the plate with the lamb. “Got any cress?”
“There are turnips.”
Donald shuddered. “Thanks, anyway.”
“Still don’t like them?”
“I strive for consistency. Makes life easier. Be a good lad and fetch me a bottle of ginger beer, will you?” he called over his shoulder as he headed out to the parlor with his plate.
As Ian opened the cupboard next to the sink and reached down to grab a bottle, his hand brushed against something furry. He jerked away with a yelp.
Bacchus poked his head out of the cabinet.
“How the devil did you get in there?” Ian said.
The cat purred and rubbed against his leg.
“What’s going on?” Donald called from the other room. “A man could die of thirst around here.”
“Coming,” Ian yelled back, seizing a bottle and closing the cupboard door decisively. The cat sauntered into the parlor behind him. Donald was bent over the grate, stoking the fire. Silhouetted in the orange flame, his face looked almost childlike, but Ian could see puffiness and lines beneath his eyes.
“I don’t see why Lillian goes on about my love life, but doesn’t seem troubled about yours,” Ian said.
“My case is more . . . complicated.”
“You mean because of your weakness for drink?”
Donald rubbed his hands over the fire. “I should think a policeman’s salary would allow you to spend a bit more for heating.”
“I seem to recall a saying about beggars and choosers,” Ian remarked, handing him the ginger beer.
“Steady on,” Donald replied, lowering his bulk into one of the armchairs in front of the fire. “You know once I’m a proper doctor, I’ll pay you back tenfold.” He took a hefty swig from the bottle, then looked at it ruefully. “Not the same as the real thing. I do miss it. Don’t worry—I’m not giving in to temptation.”
“See that you don’t,” Ian said, lowering himself into the chair opposite Donald. He winced as a stab of pain shot through his upper back.
“Shoulder bothering you?” Donald asked.
“No,” he lied. Admitting it might lead to a discussion of the fire that killed their parents. The burns on his back were a constant enough reminder, and since Donald’s return, they had done their best to skate around the subject, a large hole in the ice of their carefully maintained smooth surface.
Bacchus sniffed at Donald’s plate and attempted to jump on the armrest of his chair, but Donald pushed him away.
“He likes you more than me,” Ian remarked.
“He likes my lamb chops—or would if I’d let him.”
The cat circled the chair, rubbing against Donald’s shins.
“No bloody chance,” he informed Bacchus, who began energetically grooming himself. “This lamb is quite decent. Where’d you get it?”
“Marchand’s.”
“I don’t trust that Frenchie. But then, I don’t trust anyone.”
“That must be a liability in medical school.”
“I don’t have to trust my instructors—I just have to learn from them.”
Ian smiled. “That reminds me of what I once said to DCI Crawford about Derek McNair.”
“That young ragamuffin who’s always lolling about?” Donald said, his mouth full of potatoes.
“I said I didn’t have to trust him, I just had to make him useful.”
“And have you? Made him useful?”
“He seems to think so. He was sniffing around today for more work.”