“Hello, Auntie,” he said, kissing her on the cheek as she closed the door after him. He handed her a bunch of greenhouse carnations, and she inhaled their sharp cinnamon smell, reminiscent of spring breezes and hope.
“Ach, ye shouldn’t have,” she said, her Glaswegian accent thickening in his presence.
“You’d never forgive me if I didn’t.”
She swatted him affectionately and bustled him into the front parlor, where a steaming teapot perched upon a lace antimacassar on the round rosewood table. She arranged the flowers in a vase and put them on top of the upright piano that had belonged to Emily. Lillian didn’t play, but she was determined to learn—the piano had been spared in the fire that killed her sister, which she took as a sign. Though she didn’t believe in a Christian God, Lillian saw no contradiction in being heartily superstitious. After putting the sausages and potatoes in a skillet over a low fire, she joined her nephew in the parlor.
The gas lamps were turned low, and a fire blazed merrily in the hearth. A lump swelled in her throat as Lillian thought of all the tea she and Alfred had shared together at this table. Still, she had had forty years with him before the heart attack ripped him from her. Lillian was inclined to focus on the positive, a trait that ran in the Grey family—though not, alas, in the Hamilton clan.
“Shall I be mother?” she asked as she reached for the pot.
Ian inhaled the aroma of steaming tea. “Hot and strong, just the way I like it.”
“You’re on a case,” she observed, handing him a cup.
“You never did miss much, Auntie,” he said, reaching for a raisin scone.
“Mind you don’t spoil your appetite for the sausages.”
“No fear of that,” he said, biting into the scone, sending crumbs tumbling onto the carpet.
“Who’s the lead detective?”
“I hope I am.”
“Oh, Ian—your first proper case!” she said, clapping her hands like a schoolgirl.
“It’s not official yet—”
“This calls for a celebration!” she said, ignoring his protestation. “We’ll have to break out something decent with supper.” She stood and reached for the empty teapot, suppressing a groan as her aging joints protested. The damp weather cut through layers of woolen clothing, making her knees swell and creak, but she was not about to let her nephew see that. She picked up the pot and headed toward the kitchen, doing her best to straighten her stiffening spine. She turned the sausages and potatoes, and returned with a bottle of single malt and two brandy snifters. After pouring them each a generous amount, she settled back into her chair. “All right—I want all the details.”
“Did you happen to read about the young man who was found in Holyrood Park yesterday?”
“One would have to be blind and deaf to avoid hearing about it—it was in all the papers.” She leaned toward him. “So it was murder? I thought as much!”
“You never cease to amaze me. What made you think that?”
She smiled. “If I give away all my secrets, I won’t surprise you anymore.”
He took a sip of whisky. “Perhaps you should be a member of the constabulary instead of me.”
“Well,” she said, “we both know why you joined the force.” She saw his lips tighten, and veered away from the subject. “Do you have any promising leads?”
“Not yet. That reminds me—are you still a member of the Amateur Photography Society?”
“I’m the treasurer!” she declared proudly.
“I wonder if you would be so kind as to lend me your expertise.”
“I should be delighted.”
“Are you free tomorrow?”
“I am.”
“Can you meet me at the morgue first thing in the morning—is seven too early?”
“Ach, nae—I’m up with the sun. Have you cleared it with DCI Crawford?”
“No, but I will.”
“How exciting. But let’s eat. I’m famished, and I’ll wager you are as well.”
“Let me help you serve.”
“Stay where you are.”
“But—”
“You can clean up, if you insist,” she said, bustling to the kitchen. Though utterly independent and self-sufficient, Lillian missed having a man around to wait on. She had enjoyed serving dear Alfie his tea, fussing and clucking over him, and now that Ian had taken his place, she was not about to let the opportunity slip by.
“Eat up, Skinny Malinky Longlegs,” Lillian said, sliding a hot plate of sausages, potatoes, and cress salad in front of her nephew. She enjoyed trotting out archaic Scottish phrases.
Ian grimaced. “Auntie—”
“You’ll never catch the eye of a young lady if ye don’t put on a stone or two,” she said, spreading some fresh butter on a scone.
“I’m not looking to catch anyone’s eye.”
“Your brother never had a problem with his appetite,” she replied as she bit into the scone, savoring the flaky sweetness. “Have you heard from Donald lately?”
“No,” he said flatly. “Last I heard, he was working his way through all the pubs in Glasgow.”
His older brother, Donald, had been on his way to a promising medical career when the fire took their parents, reducing all of the family’s possessions to ashes. Donald never recovered from the shock of returning in the middle of the night to find their home in flames, his younger brother trapped in the basement, their parents perished in the fire. He dropped out of the University of Edinburgh, and had spent the past seven years slouching around Scotland and the Continent, working odd jobs as a longshoreman, sheepherder, and bartender.
“Is he still gambling, then?” Lillian asked.
“And drinking.”
“What a pity,” she said, and silence settled over them. It was an uncomfortable subject, one she regretted bringing up.
“A leopard doesn’t change its spots,” Ian remarked, and she was sorry to hear the bitterness in his voice.
Outside, the rain beat hard upon the roofs of saints and sinners alike, hammering a steady, insistent tattoo upon the city’s ancient dwellings. Anyone with the misfortune to be out on a night like this might peer through the parlor window at the two people huddled before the crackling fire with envy at the cozy, peaceful scene. Lillian knew that her nephew’s mind was elsewhere, though—his long fingers fiddled with his napkin, and he gazed silently into the leaping flames.
“More sausages?” she offered hopefully.
“No, thank you.”
“Go on with you, then.”
He looked at her in surprise. “What?”
“I know well enough when you need to be alone. Get along—go play that damn pennywhistle or whatever it is you do when you need to think.”
He rose from his chair without arguing. “I’m sorry I’m not very good company.”
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Ach, gae on wi’ye,” she said in her thickest Glaswegian accent.
“Tomorrow, then? Bring your camera.”
“Seven o’clock sharp.”
He smiled. “I do adore you, Auntie.”