You will pay for your crimes
I’ll come for you when you least expect it
Since receiving it earlier in the day, he had languished in a torpor of indecision. He thought of going to the police, but what could they possibly do about such a vaguely worded threat? He could imagine them ridiculing him—and he would be half inclined to agree with them. What on earth could they do, indeed?
No, he thought, better to collect his wits and come up with a plan. He was no stranger to battle strategy and resolved to treat this just like another campaign. Analyze the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses, and act accordingly. But the letter writer had the advantage of anonymity—how could he create a defense against an unknown enemy? His mind searched vainly for a foothold of some kind, anything to tip the scales in his favor.
The letter had given him one advantage. It had put him on his guard, no small thing for a seasoned military veteran, he thought as he poured himself a glass of whisky from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. Outside, the sky was rapidly losing light, as the sun slunk off to a long December slumber. A shiver slithered down his spine as he contemplated a sleepless night alone in the empty flat. His son had gone back to school, his wife long dead—how he yearned for her company on this cheerless and lonely winter’s eve.
Downing the tumbler of whisky in one gulp, he tightened his hand around the pistol in the pocket of his dressing gown. The feel of the metal against his fingers calmed him—the gun was a familiar friend, his only ally in the upcoming struggle with this mysterious foe. He settled in the wing chair at the far end of the study, where he could see through to the parlor and foyer beyond. The dining room and bedroom were invisible to him, not being in his line of sight, but it was the small kitchen in the back of the flat that worried him most. He had double-locked the door leading to the alley behind the building, wedging a chair beneath the door handle, but a determined assassin could surmount that defense. And so he leaned back in his armchair, resolved to spend the night awake, the gun at his side.
The cuckoo clock over the mantel chirped the hour as a thin line of sweat trickled down his forehead. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry from anxiety and whisky. He craved another drink, but needed a clear head. He licked his lips and tried to relax, listening to the hollow sound of his own heart beating against the cage of his chest. The room continued to darken as the last of the evening light slid across the windowpanes, and he rose to light a fire in the grate. The flicker of gaslight did little to lift his spirits or warm the chill in the air as he resumed his solitary watch.
A knock at the front door sent a jolt through his body and triggered an intake of breath so sharp he nearly choked. He crept slowly to the door, his hand on the pistol in his pocket, and peered through the peephole. A warm rush of relief flooded his body as he saw the person standing on his front stoop.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, opening the door. “Come in.”
His visitor smiled. “Who were you expecting?”
“No one—never mind. Would you care to join me in a wee dram of whisky?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Now then,” he said, locking the door behind them, “what brings you here on such a cold night?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning dawned bright and clear, and Ian awoke shortly after sunrise. When he emerged from his bedroom, Donald was already humming away in the kitchen while Bacchus kept watch at his feet, scouring the floor for stray bits of food.
“Poached eggs and ham,” Donald said. “Coffee is on the stove.”
“Continue to make yourself this useful, and you may become a permanent fixture,” Ian said, pouring himself a cup of the aromatic black liquid.
“Is it too strong?” Donald asked, breaking an egg carefully over a pan of boiling water and vinegar.
“Just right,” Ian lied. Donald’s coffee was always too thick and bitter, but Ian had no desire to dissuade his brother from his domestic inclinations.
Neither of them mentioned last evening’s discussion. The pale sunlight streaming through the front windows erased the previous night’s dismal mood, and neither of them seemed willing to break the spell of what promised to be a more cheerful day.
“You said last night you have morning rounds at the infirmary today?” Ian said as they sat down to eat.
“Yes,” Donald replied, delicately breaking his poached egg, bright yellow yolk spilling across his plate. “Dr. Bell’s duty to HRH Victoria seems to be at an end, at least for the time being.”
“Mind if I accompany you?”
“Won’t you be late to work?”
“DCI Crawford isn’t expecting me until later. I told him I would be out investigating Elizabeth Staley’s murder.”
“Arthur has a taste for that sort of thing. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you,” Donald said, spreading butter liberally on a piece of bread. “And if you’re lucky, you might run into Nurse Stuart,” he added with a sly smile.
“Is that meant to be clever?”
“I stand by my opinion that there is a mutual attraction.”
“Then you will be gratified to know we are having dinner together tonight.”
Donald leaned back in his chair. “Well, well. Don’t tell me you’re taking my advice at long last.”
“I wouldn’t take too much credit if I were you,” Ian said, reaching for the bramble jelly. “She caught me off guard, and I consented.”
Donald’s mouth hung open. “She caught you—do you mean to say she invited you to dine?”
“Quick on the uptake, you are,” Ian remarked drily.
“Well, goodness me, brother, isn’t that just too topsy-turvy for words?” Donald said, tossing a bit of egg to the cat, who lapped it up greedily.
“See here,” Ian said, “the more you revel in the situation, the less likely I shall be to continue to see her.”
“Blackmail? From my own little brother?”
“Why do you take such keen interest in my private life?”
“I should think that was obvious, as I have none of my own,” Donald replied, his face more serious.
“Oh,” Ian said after a moment. “I see.”
“Vicarious pleasure seems to be all society allows those such as I. So I implore you not to deprive me of that one small consolation.” His voice had regained its jaunty, taunting tone, but Ian sensed the pain behind it.
“Very well,” Ian said, rising from the table. “You may observe, mock me, play the matchmaker—whatever makes you happy.”
“My happiness would involve considerably more than that,” Donald said, mopping up the last of his egg from his plate. “But I shall have to console myself with the glacial progression of your love life. Do try to step it up a bit, won’t you?”
Ian did not reply. Though he was not without sympathy, he found the subject of his brother’s predilections disquieting, and did not know how to respond.
Fifteen minutes later they were seated in the back of a hansom cab as it rattled over George IV Bridge. Congestion was at a minimum at such an early hour, and they soon turned onto Lauriston Place, passing through the infirmary’s wrought-iron gate bordered by its twin stone columns.