And who had deemed it necessary to take the life of one of those wretched souls? What sort of person had so violently ripped poor Elizabeth Staley from the ranks of the living, so intent on her death that they were willing to risk the hangman’s noose?
Rounding the corner onto George IV Bridge, Ian caught a glimpse of the castle on its perch high atop the dark rock overlooking the city. The spot was an obvious one for a fortress—indeed, there had been a royal castle there at least since King David’s reign in the twelfth century, and a fort of some kind for many millennia prior to that. But though easy to defend, parapets were lonely, removed from the everyday hustle and bustle of humanity—the price of safety was remoteness and isolation. Drawing his cloak closer to his body, Ian contemplated his own impulse for solitude. Had he made a bargain that was no longer viable? Humanity was messy and untrustworthy, but by isolating himself, was he not turning away from life itself?
Crime solving was seldom glamorous. Much of the time, it was merely sad—an overworked husband turning to gambling or stealing, first out of desperation to provide for his family, later just for the thrill of it. The more he got away with, the more invincible he felt, until he made the mistake that landed him in jail. Ian knew it all too well—the shocked looked of recognition, eyes narrowing like a cornered animal’s as the detective strode in accompanied by a brace of uniformed constables. That was followed by an unconvincing plea of innocence, which soon gave way to a snarl of defiance as the suspect was placed into custody. Later, in court, there was the defeated sag of the shoulders when the man was sentenced to his fate—invariably leaving behind a family in worse shape than before.
Then there were the career criminals, thoroughly degraded human beings who had lost all sense of honor or shame. Ian was intent on bringing these miscreants to justice. They had no care for others, no sense of moral responsibility. He did not like to think such creatures existed, yet knew better than anyone that they walked largely undetected amid the swarm of humanity that was Edinburgh.
These cheerless thoughts were interrupted by his arrival at his flat on Victoria Terrace, and he opened the door to the friendly smell of beef and cabbage. His brother appeared in the foyer, an apron tied round his bulging middle, hands covered in flour, his face flushed. Bacchus sauntered in behind him, tail swaying languidly.
“I say,” said Ian, hanging up his cloak. “You’ve been busy on your day off.”
“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” Donald said, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “I’ve just put the pie in the oven, so it’ll be a while till supper.”
“It smells brilliant.”
“Beef and cabbage, peas and tatties—good hearty Scottish fare.”
“I bought some cress,” Ian said, handing it to Donald.
“That will do nicely,” his brother said as Ian followed him into the parlor.
Ian looked around for signs of Derek. “Where’s—”
“Master McNair decided he’d had enough of my company and set off to poach chickens, pinch apples, pick pockets—whatever young scallywags do.”
“You didn’t—”
“I was gentle as a lamb. He was just restless—you know how young people can be.”
“Still, it’s a cold night.”
“I’ll wager he’s endured colder.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Ian said, pouring himself a brandy and sitting by the fire. Bacchus crept onto his lap, purring loudly, turning circles until he was satisfied with his perch. The cat’s weight was comforting, the flames mesmerizing, and Ian felt his eyelids grow heavy. The next thing he knew, he awoke with a start, Donald’s voice in his ear.
“Dinner is served.”
Ian rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry—I fell asleep.”
“And here I thought you were just ignoring me,” Donald said, spreading a linen cloth on the mahogany table. “You were out cold.”
“‘He that sleeps feels not the toothache.’”
“Dear me, have you a toothache?”
“I was quoting—”
“Ah, yes,” Donald said, heading for the kitchen, Bacchus trotting after him. “Your penchant for quoting the Bard doesn’t annoy me nearly as much as it does DCI Crawford. You really should take pity on the poor fellow,” he said, returning with two steaming plates of food. “Now come along, before it gets cold.”
The meat pie was mouth-watering, though Ian’s hunger certainly played a role in his appreciation. After several minutes, he put down his fork and regarded his brother.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?”
Donald flicked a bit of meat toward the cat, who picked at it delicately. “I spent some time in Glasgow during my rambles. Learned it from an old salty dog who liked his drink as much as I did—fat lot of good it did him.”
“What happened to him?”
“His liver finally decided it had had enough. I was with him at the end—not a pretty sight. And yet I kept on, telling myself the lies all drunkards do,” he added with a sigh.
“Never mind,” Ian said. “You’ve sorted it now.”
“Have I? I often feel I’m a step or two ahead of my demons, and sometimes I can feel them breathing down the back of my neck.”
“Conan Doyle’s father suffers from the affliction.”
“Ah, yes, so Arthur has said.”
Ian felt a pang of jealousy knowing his friend had confided the same things to his brother as he had to Ian, then chided himself for such petty thinking.
“Amiable fellow, isn’t he?” Donald said, a bit of cress hanging from his lower lip.
“Very. I’m a bit surprised by his interest in crime.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my travels, it’s that people are full of surprises.”
“Does that include our parents?”
“Especially our parents. Do you know why I eat more than is good for me?”
“I’ve a feeling I’m about to find out.”
Donald shrugged. “Not if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s important I learn the truth.”
His brother stared into the fire’s glowing embers. “I don’t wish to tarnish our father’s memory even further, but . . .” He heaved a sigh that seemed to reach to the bottom of his soul. “You’re aware he treated me rather differently than he did you.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I believe he found me disappointing.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
Donald dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
“It’s not your fault, though it was many years before I accepted that. His treatment of me shaped so many things about me, including my attitude toward food.”
“I always felt you enjoyed food more if it wasn’t yours.”
Donald rose and put another log on the fire. “That’s because I was forced to steal it when I was a child.”
“What do you mean?”
“Father felt I was too plump, so he did his best to deprive me of food.”
“Good Lord. Why on earth—”
“He thought my appearance was . . . unmanly.”