He felt his aunt’s hand tighten around his own. And for a brief moment, the heaviness surrounding his heart evaporated like smoke. A happy vision of the past swam before his eyes. The house in Queens Gate still stood, his mother in the kitchen, her head wreathed in steam from the kettle, his father’s hoe clanking as he tinkered in their small back garden. Ian’s eyes swelled and burned, his throat constricted, and he longed to call out to his mother.
But that was followed by a cold, hard anger as reality pressed its way through his joyful vision. This was nothing but a ruse. The medium had somehow wrangled information from his aunt, and was using it in an attempt to trick him. He stood up abruptly, tipping his chair over. The tiny woman to his left gave a little yelp as it clattered to the floor, and everyone else looked up at him with alarmed expressions. The exception was Madame, who remained seated, her eyes closed.
“This is absurd,” he declared. “I’m leaving.”
As he strode from the room, the medium’s voice floated after him, unperturbed and calm. “To some, much is given. To others, much is taken away. Of both, much is expected.”
He snorted in disgust and stalked out, seizing his coat and hat from the front hall rack. The door banged with a hollow thud behind him. As he stood on the street in the cold winter wind, his fury gave way to regret. Once again, his rage and impatience had gotten the better of him; he had embarrassed his aunt and everyone else in the room. There was no excuse for it—his behavior was churlish and selfish, and he owed them all an apology. He glanced at the building behind him. There was no point in going back now—he would wait until another time, he reasoned, hoping it was common sense and not cowardice prevailing. A white plume of smoke curled up from the chimney, quickly dissipating in the chill air.
Pulling his hat low over his face, he hunched into the wind and headed toward Victoria Terrace. Donald was on call at the infirmary, so Ian had the flat to himself, with only his black-and-white cat, Bacchus, for company.
Flinging himself into a chair by the fire, he attempted to read, but the volume of Robert Louis Stevenson stories that had so recently consumed him failed to draw his attention. Putting the book aside, he roamed the flat restlessly, Bacchus following him, meowing plaintively. Thinking the cat had probably not been fed, Ian found some leftover haddock in the icebox, and scooped a generous portion into the cat’s dish. Bacchus sniffed at it, flicked his tail, then picked at it delicately.
“You’ve bamboozled me into a second supper, have you?” Ian said.
The cat gazed up at him with innocent round eyes, blinking slowly.
“Thought so. Still, I don’t suppose it’ll hurt you.”
The doorbell rang. Glancing at the kitchen clock, Ian saw it was nearly ten. He went to the front door and peered through the peephole to see Aunt Lillian standing on the stoop, her thick shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders. A stab of guilt pierced his heart as he flung open the door.
“Where’s Donald?” she said, stamping her feet to shake off the snow clinging to her boots.
“At the infirmary,” Ian said, taking her wrap.
“At this hour?”
“Doctors must learn to keep all hours,” he said, hanging the coat on the bentwood rack in the foyer. “Tea?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
She followed him into the parlor, settling in front of the fire while he busied himself in the kitchen. Bacchus followed, curling around his legs.
“Get on with you,” Ian said. “You’ll get no more food from me.”
The cat ignored him, almost tripping him as he poured the boiling water into the pot.
“Now then,” Lillian said as he laid the tea tray on the sideboard, “would you like to explain what on earth got into you?”
Ian frowned. “If you’ve come for an apology—”
“Why would I expect that from someone as bloody-minded as you?”
Ian picked up the poker and gave the logs in the fireplace a shove. “I was about to say I owe you one.”
“Well,” she said. “Let’s have it, then.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s it?”
“What else do you want me to say?”
“An explanation would be nice.”
Ian leaned against the mantel, arms crossed. “You told her about my nickname, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“She could not possibly have known what my mother called me unless someone told her.”
“I told her nothing.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me.”
“Is that a question?”
“No,” he said, pouring her tea. “It’s a statement of fact. You wouldn’t lie to me, so clearly she got the information some other way.”
“How, Ian? How on earth would she ferret out something like that?”
“I don’t know, but I mean to find out.”
“You’re being childish. Why can’t you accept there are things in heaven and earth—”
“Not dreamt of in my philosophy?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Ghosts don’t walk the earth, Auntie. Shakespeare may have been a great writer, but he lived in a time of superstition and ignorance.”
“You say I’m no liar, yet you’ll not believe me when I say I’ve spoken to my dear departed Alfred?”
“There’s a difference between lying and self-delusion.”
Lillian shook her head sadly. “You’re a hard one, Ian.”
“I believe in scientific evidence, Auntie, not the rantings of some third-rate trickster.”
“Those facts you hold so dear won’t keep you warm on cold Scottish nights.”
He had no reply. He stared into the fire, the thirsty flames wrapping themselves around the logs, greedily consuming the wood even as they flickered dimly and died.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning Donald was already at breakfast when Ian shuffled in.
“You look terri—” Donald began, but a look from Ian silenced him. “Have some kippers,” he said, pointing to a covered dish on the table.
“No, thank you.”
“Eggs, then.”
Ian sank into a chair, rubbing his forehead. “Is there coffee?”
“Help yourself,” Donald said, waving a plump hand toward the coffee service on the sideboard.
“Thank you,” Ian said, pouring himself a cup from the matching pitcher. Made of fine bone china, the entire set was a gift from Lillian, with a pattern of tiny bluebells, a reminder of spring in the Highlands.
“I take it things did not go well last night,” Donald remarked.
“They did not.” Ian considered whether to tell his brother what transpired, but thought better of it. He had not yet sorted it out in his own mind, still troubled and confused by both Madame Veselka’s behavior and his own.
“Oh, by the way, that little street urchin stopped by for you,” Donald said, slicing off the top of his soft-boiled egg and placing it on his plate.
“His name is Derek,” Ian said, spooning sugar into his cup.
“He claims to have information for you.”
“Did he say what it related to?”