PROLOGUE
EDINBURGH, 1880
As he trudged up the steep incline to the top of Arthur’s Seat, the moody volcanic ridge looming over the city of Edinburgh, Stephen Wycherly could not stop shivering. It was a wretched midwinter Wednesday afternoon; the sky was spitting rain, and a chill breeze blew in from the Firth of Forth, cutting through his already damp overcoat. But the fit of trembling that seized him as he reached the summit was more from dread than the biting February wind. Clutching the letter summoning him to this godforsaken spot, he shielded his eyes from the rain and looked around. He had not seen another soul on his lonely trek up the hill, which was hardly surprising—who in his right mind would venture out in this weather? And why did his tormentor insist they meet on this jagged outgrowth of rock on such a day?
Stephen fingered the money in his pocket. It was all he had—he hoped it was enough. He never imagined he would be a victim of blackmail; it was like a bad dream. He glanced at his watch—already ten minutes past the appointed meeting time. His heart leapt at the prospect of having arrived too late for the assignation. The ruin of his reputation suddenly seemed a small price to pay to escape the creeping terror overtaking him as he gazed down at the city of Edinburgh. He was just about to leave when he became aware of a figure approaching from the steeper trail that ascended the summit from the east. The man smiled when he saw Stephen, but there was no friendliness in his face, no warmth in those icy eyes.
“You came,” the man said. “I did not think you would.”
“Of course I came,” Stephen said, projecting a confidence he did not have. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Very well,” his companion agreed. “Wait—what’s that?” His gaze was fixed on a point over Stephen’s shoulder, and, his instinct for self-preservation overcome by curiosity, Wycherly turned around to look.
That was all the distraction the other man needed. Stephen felt the garrote around his neck before he could turn around again to face his opponent. Flailing, he staggered backward, hands clawing vainly at his throat as his attacker tightened the ligature. The last thing he heard before consciousness slipped away was a soft voice in his ear.
“There, there, now—it will all be over soon. Sweet dreams.”
Holyrood Park was deserted as Christopher Fallon began his long trek beneath a bleak February sky. His wife said he was a fool for taking exercise in such weather, but then, Bettina thought he was a fool for most things he did, so he didn’t let it bother him. The lamb stew she was making would taste even better after a brisk walk. His job as a cobbler required long hours sitting bent over a last, but as it was midweek market day, he had taken off earlier than usual. He enjoyed stretching his legs as he roamed the windswept plain sandwiched between the majestic Salisbury Crags to the west and Arthur’s Seat to the east.
The rain of the past few days had thinned to a light mist, and visibility was limited, but Christopher enjoyed this kind of weather—no use trying to explain that to Bettina, who would just roll her eyes and say he was daft. He was humming a little song to himself when he saw a dark shape on the ground to his right. Taking a few steps toward it, he peered through the mist to make out what it was. His first thought was that it was a crumpled heap of clothes lying in the damp soil. Just as he was wondering who would leave a bundle of rags in the middle of Holyrood Park, he got close enough for a proper look. He had been right about the clothes—but what was in the clothes made his limbs go cold. The body of a young man lay sprawled upon the rocky ground.
“Mary, Mother of God,” he muttered, wiping his damp forehead, sweating in spite of the chill air. He looked up—the body lay beneath the summit of Arthur’s Seat, the craggy ledge directly overhead. He had heard of people casting themselves to their death from its rocky heights, but had never given the stories much thought. The poor fellow was obviously dead—that much was clear from the vacant, staring eyes and unnatural stillness of the body. There were bruises and scratches on his face, and the odd angle of the limbs made Christopher’s head go woozy. It was as if the fellow had been tossed like a rag doll from the rocks above, arms and legs all higgledy-piggledy, as his wife would say. Christopher’s legs took off at a run before he was aware of having willed their flight.
High above, a pair of pale eyes gazed down upon the scene, and a smile came to the face of the one who watched as Christopher hurried back in the direction from which he had come.
CHAPTER ONE
A young man with unruly black hair stood upon the summit of Calton Hill in the wee hours of a Thursday in early February. He peered up at Arthur’s Seat, looming moodily over the city of Edinburgh, as a thin dawn pushed through the wintry sky.
From his perch, Detective Inspector Hamilton was contemplating whether the young man who had plunged to his death the day before had taken his own life—or whether he had been pushed. Stephen Wycherly’s body had been found less than twenty-four hours ago, and already the newsboys were crying the story from every corner of the town.
Ian Carmichael Hamilton was long and lean, solid as a caber, the wooden pole tossed by beefy Scots at the Highland games he had attended as a boy. Having joined the Edinburgh City Police barely out of his teens, he had risen through the ranks; now at the age of twenty-seven, he was the youngest member to earn the rank of detective inspector. It had never been his intention to follow his father into the police force. As a boy, he was forever scribbling stories, intent on becoming a great writer—the next Sir Walter Scott, according to his aunt Lillian (though he preferred Shakespeare and Poe). His dreams of literary immortality died in the same fire that took his parents, his home, and his childhood. He turned instead to the study of crime—though he still secretly wrote poems he shared with no one.
Firmly convinced the fire was set deliberately, Ian transferred his fierce ambition to pursuing criminals, his determination so dogged that some on the force found it extreme. Now he saw an opportunity to prove himself worthy of his new rank. He didn’t just suspect Wycherly’s death to be murder—he willed it so. As a writer, Ian believed he had a keen eye for the truth, the ability to see through the masks people wore. He believed writers and policemen shared the knack of seeing the darker side of their fellow man. It was not always a gift, he knew—and once you had it, you could not turn your back on it.
Eyes trained upon the ascending ridge of rock, he tried to imagine how a would-be murderer could drag someone up there against his will. It would be nearly impossible, especially if the victim was a muscular fellow in his twenties. No, Ian thought, it was more likely he knew his attacker. They had gone up together on some pretext; young Wycherly had been taken unawares and pushed to his death. Ian imagined his last moments, hands clawing the air as he fell, the face of his killer the last thing he saw before death.
He shivered and drew his cloak around his shoulders. Made of good Scottish wool, it had been sheared from shaggy Highland sheep, woven on Borders looms, and sold in the High Street shops lining Edinburgh’s famed Royal Mile. A gift from his aunt Lillian, it bore the green-and-blue Hamilton clan hunting tartan. And now, standing upon these ancient hills as his ancestors had for centuries, he was wrapped in a cocoon of his aunt’s love. The rest of his family gone, it was just the two of them now, alone in a tremulous and tumultuous city.