Ian smiled; it was impossible to react in any other way to Doyle’s presence. “You’re a welcome sight. What brings you here?”
“Mendelssohn,” Doyle replied, producing a pair of tickets from his waistcoat pocket. “They are doing his Scottish Symphony and Hebrides Overture, along with some Gypsy airs by Sarasate, with the composer himself as soloist. We’ve just enough time to get there if we leave now—we shall have to dine afterward, I’m afraid.”
“But my work—”
“Surely you are allowed one night off! To be honest, you look as though you could use it.”
“Well, I must admit—”
“That’s the spirit!” Doyle cried. “Fetch your coat and we’ll hail a cab straightaway.”
Moments later Ian was seated beside his companion in the back of a hansom cab as it rattled along the High Street, the chestnut gelding trotting at a vigorous pace upon the urging of his master, whom Doyle had promised half a guinea if he made good time.
“I was handed these tickets by Dr. Bell himself just as I was leaving the infirmary,” Doyle said. “He had quite forgotten he’d purchased them until he discovered them in his waistcoat pocket. He had another engagement, so he gave them to me.”
“It is encouraging to hear that he’s human after all,” Ian remarked drily.
“You mustn’t be too hard on him. After all, the man is a genius, and certain allowances must be made. I know he can be rather full of himself, but one must expect a degree of arrogance in men of talent.”
“I was accused of being arrogant myself today,” Ian said. “By my sergeant, of all people.”
Doyle sighed. “He doesn’t much care for me.”
“Why on earth not?”
“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he regards me as a rival.”
“Good Lord. What on earth for?”
Doyle laughed. “You have no idea how much he admires you, do you?”
“I’m afraid you have an exaggerated idea of his regard for me. After all, he just informed me that I am arrogant.”
“He is angry at you.”
“Whatever for?”
“For allowing me into your confidence on your cases. He sees that as his role alone.”
“I shall have to have a chat with him.”
“That would only make things worse. I fear the only thing that would satisfy him would be putting an end to our friendship.”
“I have no such intention.”
“I am glad to hear it. Well, here we are,” he said, as the cab jolted to a stop. “I would say our driver has earned his fare,” he remarked as they alighted into a light drizzle.
It had been some time since Ian attended a concert, a failing he resolved to address as soon as he heard the opening strains of Mendelssohn’s Hebrides Overture, with its moody, lilting melody, the strings crescendoing like waves against the towering rock formations of Fingal’s Cave. He had been there with his parents as a boy, captivated by the mysterious majesty of the place just as the young Mendelssohn had been some forty years earlier. The music washed over him like a fountain, a pure sensual pleasure so intense it was startling.
At the interval he and Doyle joined the crowd of people enjoying drinks in the lobby bar. After ordering a glass of whisky, Ian was taken aback to see another familiar face among the crowd. At first he thought he must be mistaken, but there was no mistaking the abundant red locks and green eyes. Dressed in a jade velvet frock with matching hat, Fiona Stuart was hard to miss. Panicked, he tried to duck behind a marble column, but it was too late—she had seen him. He half hoped she would ignore him, but he should have known better. After a quick word to her companion, a slim youth with a cherubic face surrounded by blond curls, she clasped her hat tighter to her head and strode firmly in his direction.
“How surprising to see you here, Detective Hamilton,” she said frostily. “I did not take you for a music lover.”
“Miss S-Stuart,” he stuttered. “Allow me to beg your forgiveness—”
“What on earth happened to your face?” she said, peering at the cut on his cheek, which still smarted as though it was a fresh wound.
“It’s nothing, just a slight—”
“Ah, good evening, Mr. Doyle,” she interrupted, seeing him approach.
“Why, Nurse Stuart! What a pleasant surprise! May I buy you a drink?”
“That is most kind of you.”
“What are you having?” he asked, rubbing his hands together heartily, as if scrubbing for surgery.
“A glass of Madeira would be lovely, thank you,” she replied, and he left to fetch it. She turned back to Ian. “Now, then, Detective, you were saying?”
“I fear any attempt at justification for my inexcusable rudeness would only serve to put me in a worse light.”
“Not at all. I should be delighted to hear your explanation. At worst, it should prove amusing. If it’s convincing enough, I may just give you the chance to make it up to me.”
“The fact is, I—”
But they were again interrupted by the arrival of the yellow-haired young man Fiona had been with when she saw Ian.
“Hello, Freddy,” she said as he approached, a frown on his attractive features. He was dressed as something of a dandy, in a light-blue frock coat, matching cravat, and striped trousers. His boots gleamed with polish, and his skin had the sheen of untroubled youth.
“I say, old girl, I was wondering if you had been abducted by Bedouins.”
“I’m so sorry,” Fiona replied, without sounding very contrite. “I saw some friends and got distracted. Allow me to introduce Detective Ian Hamilton, Edinburgh City Police. This is the Honorable Frederick Chillingsworth-Smythe.”
“A copper, eh? How jolly!” he said, shaking Ian’s hand. He had the soft, delicate hands of a man who had never known manual labor. His accent was posh central London, probably Kensington or Knightsbridge. “I say, do you catch a lot of criminals?”
“Not as many as I’d like, I’m afraid.”
“Looks like one of them got you on the cheek with his cutlass,” the young man remarked as Doyle arrived with a glass of Madeira for Fiona.
“Thank you,” she said. “Arthur Conan Doyle, may I present the Honorable Frederick—”
“Oh, blast it all—just call me Freddy,” he said, shaking Doyle’s hand warmly.
“That hardly seems appropriate for a man of nobility,” Doyle remarked.
“Stuff and nonsense—I’m only a baronet. Bottom of the pecking order, don’t you know.”
“How are you liking the concert?”
“Oh, it’s terribly jolly—don’t you agree?”
“Terribly jolly,” Doyle agreed, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. He wasn’t exactly making fun of the young man—he was too kind for that—but was obviously amused.
“That Sarasate is quite the pip, even if he is a foreigner.”
“The Gypsy melodies are wonderfully evocative,” Doyle agreed.
Fiona sipped her Madeira. “This is lovely, thank you—just what the doctor ordered.”
“I’m not a doctor yet,” he replied with a smile.