“He did suggest it might be worth something to you.”
“He’s usually right.”
Donald took a bite of egg, delicately wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Forgive me, but your relationship strikes me as peculiarly mercantile. If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly—”
“I find him helpful,” Ian said, reaching for the cream. Bacchus sat at his feet, tail swishing, eyes on the cream pitcher. Ian knew Donald fed the cat from the table when he wasn’t around but didn’t think it worth confronting him; his brother would simply lie.
“Still, he does seem to have a price tag attached,” Donald said, scooping out another steaming mouthful of egg. A tiny, perfectly round drop of yolk fell on his lapel; frowning, he swiped at it with his napkin. Donald was not a tidy eater—when he came home in the evening, Ian could usually tell what he had dined on earlier.
“If you slept on the street every night, you might see things differently,” Ian remarked.
“Perhaps,” Donald said, batting away the black-and-white paw creeping over the lip of the table. Irritated, the cat skulked off, tail flicking impatiently. “But I don’t trust him.”
“Neither do I. Given half a chance, no doubt he’d rob me blind,” Ian replied, biting into a piece of toast smeared with currant jam.
“Then why do you continue to—”
“Because I need him. I trade in information, and not every source is eligible for sainthood.” Ian put down his toast and regarded his brother. “You must have come across some scoundrels in your travels.”
Donald laughed. “How very diplomatic of you. You mean my years of debauched wandering?”
“Whatever you care to call it.”
His brother leaned back in his chair and brushed the crumbs from his lap. “I not only knew them, for a while I was one of them—which is why I have a keen eye for the type.”
“He’s just a boy. And an orphan.”
“Aren’t we all?” Donald murmured, almost to himself.
“How are you managing to pay for medical school, by the way?”
“Believe it or not, I managed to accrue some savings in my years of wandering. Lillian is helping out a little. And next term I hope to get a post as teaching assistant. Which reminds me, I should like to pay for my share of the rent, starting this month.”
“Absolutely not.”
“But—”
“When you’re a successful surgeon, you can pay all the rent, if you like. But for now it’s out of the question.”
Donald rose from the table and folded his napkin neatly before tucking it into the monogrammed silver napkin ring, another gift from Lillian. “You’re a stubborn man, O Brother Mine, but I will defer to your will just this once. And now, I must attend rounds. Mustn’t be late, or HRG will not be pleased.”
“HRG?”
“His Royal Genius. It’s what I call Dr. Bell—behind his back, of course.”
“Mind you don’t get caught. He doesn’t strike me as someone with a well-developed sense of humor.”
“Of course, I do think the man is extraordinary,” Donald said, lumbering out to the kitchen with his plate. Ian thought he had gained a stone or so since giving up drink, but would never say anything to discourage his brother from his resolution.
“What are you up to today?” Donald said, returning, wiping his hands on a hand towel. Bacchus trailed after him, scanning the ground for discarded tidbits. “Mrs. McGinty’s pig on the loose again? Or are you leaving the barnyard patrol to Sergeant Dickers?”
“You mean Dickerson?” His brother knew the sergeant’s name perfectly well, but couldn’t resist goading Ian whenever possible. The habit was a carryover from their childhood, and Ian was used to it, though he wondered why Donald seemed compelled to needle him. “That reminds me—DCI Crawford said to thank you again for setting up the consultation with Dr. Bell.”
“My pleasure. I trust his wife is feeling better?”
“Much better, and he is indebted to you.”
“Nonsense. Bell’s the one who diagnosed intermittent inflammation of the bowel. And his treatment is positively ingenious. Instead of avoiding certain foods, he encouraged her to eat smaller meals at regular intervals. That and the occasional dose of laudanum seems to be effective in a majority of patients.” Donald sighed. “What a keen intellect.”
“To what do we owe such uncharacteristic modesty?”
“If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is predictability,” Donald said, taking a final sip of coffee. “Life is dull enough as it is.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Why, hello, Doyle,” Donald said, opening it. “What brings you here at this ungodly hour?”
“I was just passing by.” Arthur Conan Doyle stood on their doorstep, dressed in a handsome green tweed walking suit, belted at the waist.
Ian was gladdened at the unexpected appearance of his friend—the mere sound of Doyle’s voice lifted his mood. He had no doubt the young medical student had this effect on many people, with his good humor and kind blue eyes.
“You’d better come in,” said Donald. “It’s beastly out there.”
Doyle complied after stamping the snow from his shoes on the mat.
“You look quite the country squire,” Donald remarked. “All you need is a bird dog and a brace of pheasants over your shoulder.”
Doyle laughed in his open, sunny way. “I would sooner be out hunting than going to classes. I’m not a natural scholar like you.”
“The only thing that comes naturally to Donald is eating,” Ian said, coming through from the parlor, coffee in hand.
“I would sooner be a bit pudgy than a wraith like you,” Donald retorted. “You see how he torments me?” he asked Doyle, who smiled.
“I know you well enough to imagine you give as good as you get.”
“And so he does,” Ian agreed. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you, my dear fellow,” his friend said, giving his hand a hearty shake. “I expected you to be off chasing criminals.” He turned to Donald. “And I thought you might be headed to the infirmary for morning rounds.”
“And so I am,” Donald replied, wrapping a blue-and-green scarf around his neck. A gift from Aunt Lillian, the scarf represented the Hamilton hunting tartan, though Lillian herself was a member of the Grey clan.
“I’m on my way out as well,” said Ian.
“Splendid,” said Doyle. “Shall we walk together, at least as far as police chambers?”
“By all means,” Donald replied, though Ian thought he looked disappointed. Doyle was so agreeable that no doubt each brother would have preferred to monopolize his attention. “Come along, then,” Donald said as Ian reached for his cloak.
“Mustn’t keep HRG waiting, eh?” Ian said.
Doyle burst into his characteristic laugh, a sort of brisk bark; it reminded Ian of a well-fed seal. “Ha! I see your brother has shared his little nickname for Dr. Bell.”
“Not to be revealed upon pain of death,” Donald said, throwing open the door. “Come along, or we really shall be late.”