“No. We’re just going out to the hall.”
Dickerson cocked his head to the side, like a confused spaniel. “Sir?”
“Come along.”
The hall was empty, but just to be sure, Ian climbed half a flight up to the next landing. Dickerson trudged after him, brushing crumbs from his uniform.
“Wha’ is it, sir?” he said when they reached the landing.
Ian explained what Crawford had said to him, as the sergeant listened closely, biting his lip. “Any questions?” Ian said when he was finished.
“Jus’ one, sir.”
“Yes?”
“How on earth are we t’know who’s lyin’, sir?”
“‘Ay, there’s the rub.’”
“Oh, that reminds me, sir—I’ve sommit I need t’mention.”
“Don’t tell me you’re doing another Shakespeare play with the Greyfriars Dramatic Society.”
“Not exactly.”
“What, then?”
“It’s, uh, Dickens this time.”
“Dickens?”
“Yes, sir. The society is doin’ A Christmas Carol and I’m t’play the Ghost of Christmas Present.”
“Good on you, Sergeant.”
Dickerson smiled nervously and fingered the shiny brass buttons on his uniform. “D’ye think—I mean, will DCI Crawford . . . will he—”
“Will he approve? I should think it depends on what frame of mind he’s in when you tell him.”
“Good point, sir,” Dickerson said, an anxious expression on his ruddy face. The chief’s moods were as unpredictable as the squalls rolling in from the Firth of Forth.
“Tell you what,” Ian said. “I can tell him if you like—do what I can to make him cheery, and then drop it casually.”
“Oh, would ye, sir?” the sergeant said, his eyes moist.
“It’s the least I can do,” Ian said, “considering that you started me on my own thespian career.”
“An’ you were bloody good as Old Hamlet’s ghost, sir! D’ye wan’ a part in this production? Because I can ask the director—”
“No, no,” Ian replied hastily. “I’m quite happy to keep my theatrical exploits in the past.”
“Whatever y’say, sir—but if ye change yer mind—”
“Much appreciated, but it’s not likely.”
There was the sound of a door opening on the landing below them. Ian peered down the stairs to see Constable Turnbull exit the police chambers, a searching look on his rutted face, lips compressed in determination. As the constable walked down the single flight to the main entrance, Ian wondered if Turnbull had seen him and Dickerson leave.
“Yon Turnbull has a lean and hungry look,” he murmured.
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“We should get back inside.”
“Aye, sir. Were that Constable Turnbull leavin’ jes now?”
“It was.”
“You don’ like ’im much, do ye, sir?”
“I don’t trust him,” Ian remarked.
But the question now facing him was whom, if anyone, he could trust.
CHAPTER TWO
The day passed in a flurry of routine and paperwork, as was often the case on a Monday. The city’s unluckier miscreants were in custody after being apprehended over the weekend. With the excesses of Saturday night behind them, the denizens of Scotland’s capital settled down to the dull if familiar workday ritual, and before Ian knew it, the clock chimed five, signaling the end of his shift. He had spent the day pondering what Crawford had told him. The sergeant had thrown him meaningful glances all afternoon—apparently Dickerson’s idea of discretion didn’t include facial expressions. Ian resolved to speak to him about it, but before he could say anything, Dickerson slipped away to attend rehearsal.
Ian was already regretting his agreement to join his Aunt Lillian at a séance later that evening—he disapproved of her passion for the occult, but somehow had let her persuade him to join her at Madame Veselka’s weekly meetings. Hastily donning his cape, he swept out the door before DCI Crawford could block his escape with another impossible request.
The sun had already long ago retired for the night, the air crisp and cold as he headed for his aunt’s flat. His brother, Donald, had rolled his eyes at breakfast when he heard of Ian’s plans for the evening, and in truth Ian couldn’t blame him.
“So you’re going to indulge Lillian’s superstitions?” he had said, smiling in his superior, ironic way as he pierced another sausage with his fork. Donald was never a sylph, but his recent decision to forsake the bottle had only increased his already prodigious appetite. “What good could possibly come from that?”
To his dismay, Ian had no good answer. He had made the promise last week, in the heat of the moment, after Lillian delivered a passionate defense of spiritualism, a glass or two of his favorite single malt having loosened his resolve. He regretted it almost immediately, but the sight of her eager face had haunted him all week, and he had neither the heartlessness nor the courage to cancel on her.
And Donald had certainly enjoyed lording his foolishness over him. “Who knows?” he had proclaimed with mock sincerity, chewing on sausage as he poured more coffee. “Maybe you’ll have a visitation of your own.”
Now, crossing George IV Bridge as a cold wind picked up, swirling the remains of the last snowfall, he trudged onward as a tram passed by full of weary-looking passengers. He wondered if some were the same who had passed him that morning. Even the pair of sturdy bay geldings pulling the vehicle looked tired, though he could tell from the length of their stride that they were stable bound. Horses always knew the direction of their barn, and no matter how weary, quickened their pace when they were headed home. Ian wished he were in front of his own fire, toasting his feet in front of the flames.
Any regrets vanished when he saw his aunt’s delighted expression as she answered the door.
“Right on time, you are,” she said. “Come in out of the cold, won’t ye?” Aunt Lillian had lived in Edinburgh for years, but when she got excited, her Glaswegian roots showed in her accent. “I thought we’d have a wee bite before we go,” she said, leading him into her cozy parlor, where a fire blazed merrily in the grate. “Nothing fancy, mind you—just a bit of cock-a-leekie soup and a nice hunk of cheddar.”
“Can I help?” he asked as she fussed about setting the small round oak table she used for informal suppers.
“Why don’t you give the fire a poke? Won’t be a minute,” she said, bustling into the kitchen. “And you can open that bottle of Montrachet, if ye’d be so kind.”
Aunt Lillian was tall and straight and thin, so much like her younger sister that sometimes when he saw her from the corner of his eye, Ian imagined for a moment his mother was still alive. It was an empty fantasy—it was long these seven years since his parents had been laid to rest in Greyfriars graveyard. Since their untimely death, he had grown even closer to his aunt. Though very different temperamentally, she shared her sister’s build and facial structure, as well as mannerisms and vocal inflections. Being with her fed his hunger for his dead mother.