“Then let us toast to that eventuality,” she said, raising her glass.
As they clinked glasses, Ian noticed a tall, hulking fellow whom he recognized as the young man from the séance, Major Fitzpatrick’s son. Ian was surprised to see him at this very concert, but saw an opportunity.
“Would you excuse me for just a moment?” he said. Stepping away from his companions, he trailed the man discreetly, keeping his eye on the fellow as he wove in and out of the crowd. At first Fitzpatrick seemed ignorant of the fact that he was being followed, but he glanced in Ian’s direction, and they locked eyes. In one smooth movement, he ducked behind a group of people, and by the time Ian had picked his way through the throng of concertgoers, his quarry had vanished.
The bell announcing the end of the interval rang, and he returned to his seat to find Conan Doyle waiting for him.
“Whom were you following?” asked his friend.
“A young man who is going to some lengths to avoid me,” Ian replied as the lights dimmed. He spent the next hour happily lost in the buoyant imagination of Felix Mendelssohn, who could make even Scotland seem like a place of sunshine and promise.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“You really should have that seen to, you know,” said Donald, indicating the cut on Ian’s cheek.
It was Sunday afternoon, and the brothers were seated before the fire at Aunt Lillian’s, while she busied about the kitchen preparing the Sunday roast. In true Scots fashion, neither he nor Lillian mentioned their quarrel several days earlier, though there was an unaccustomed awkwardness between them. Donald’s presence helped—his dry wit and sardonic humor was a welcome distraction from the tension.
“It doesn’t appear to be healing,” his brother added, helping himself to more ginger beer. “Does it hurt?”
“Not really,” Ian lied. The truth was the cut stung as if freshly inflicted. Oddly, the pain from the scars on his back had temporarily receded—perhaps the slash on his cheek prevented him from noticing.
“I’ll give you some balm to put on. It may aid the healing process, but it will certainly help with the pain.”
“I said it didn’t—”
“You really should improve your skill at deception, brother. It won’t do for a detective to be such a pathetic liar.”
Before Ian could respond, Lillian emerged from the kitchen, her face red and sweating, blue eyes gleaming, her cheeks rosier and plumper than usual. There was unquestionably a change in her, which Ian put down to the actor playing Scrooge—but exactly what that meant was far from clear.
“You’re looking right bonnie today, Auntie,” Donald remarked. “Is that a new frock? The crimson trim brings out the rose in your cheeks.”
“Ach, get on wae yer nattering,” she said, deliberately exaggerating her Glaswegian accent.
Ian was amazed—Lillian never bought new clothes, insisting that the old ones were perfectly serviceable “for a woman of her age,” but now she was displaying the airs of a much younger woman. He was both pleased for her and a little bemused. Change in other people was baffling—especially those you thought you knew well.
Lillian placed bowls of cock-a-leekie soup on the dining room table. “Come along, before it gets cold,” she said, taking a seat at the head of the table. When it was just her and Ian on Sundays, they would dine in the parlor, but now the three of them ate in the formal dining room.
“If Alfie were here, he would insist on a prayer,” she said, placing her napkin in her lap. “But since we all believe in science rather than superstition—” she added, with a glance at Ian.
“I think perhaps we should have a prayer, in honor of Uncle Alfred,” said Donald.
Ian looked at him to see if he was being sarcastic, but he appeared entirely sincere.
Lillian rolled her eyes. “Surely you’re not—”
“No, I mean it. Let’s do one for dear Uncle Alfie.”
“If you insist,” said Lillian, but Ian thought she looked rather pleased. “Some hae meat and cannae eat. Some nae meat but want it. We hae meat and we can eat and sae the Lord be thankit.”
“And God bless Uncle Alfred,” Donald added. “Amen.”
“Why are you suddenly so concerned with Alfred?” said Lillian. “You weren’t that keen on him when he was alive.”
“I loved Uncle Alfie—everyone did.”
“You did put salt in his sugar bowl,” Ian pointed out.
“Only on April Fools’ Day.”
“You were quite the prankster,” Lillian agreed. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
“This soup is delicious,” said Donald. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had better.”
“Don’t try to distract me. It didn’t work when you were a child, and it won’t work now.”
“All right,” he said, putting down his soup spoon. “It sounds as if you have your eye on a fellow who may replace Uncle Alfie, and I’m feeling a bit wistful, is all.”
“What has your brother been telling you?”
“Only that there’s a certain actor in the Greyfriars Dramatic Society—”
“Idle gossip,” Lillian said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Donald smiled. “So you’re not—”
“I’ll hae nae mare o’it!”
“When she starts speaking Glaswegian, it’s time to move on,” said Ian.
“How is your case going?” she asked him.
“I saw a potential suspect at the concert last night, but I let him slip away.”
“Who might that be?” asked Donald.
“Jeremy Fitzpatrick. The late major’s son.”
“Tall fellow, slack-jawed and surly?”
“That sounds like him.”
“I was at school with him briefly, though he was some years below me. Quite impressive on the rugby pitch, if it’s the same fellow. Bit of a bully. I seem to remember he ended up going to Royal High School.”
“Yes, I think the major mentioned that at one point,” said Lillian. “Jeremy didn’t come to the séances very often, but when he did, his father seemed a bit nervous about it.”
“Wasn’t the major there trying to contact his wife?” said Ian.
“Aye, and he spoke to her on more than one occasion,” Lillian said, collecting the soup bowls. “She seemed like a lovely person. So refined and genteel.”
Ian and his brother exchanged looks, but Lillian was already on her way to the kitchen.
“Let us help,” Ian offered.
“Pish tosh,” she said from the doorway. “I may be no spring chicken, but I’m perfectly capable of serving supper to my favorite nephews.”
“You mean your only nephews,” said Donald.
“Only and favorite,” she replied, disappearing into the kitchen.
“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’” said Ian when she was gone.
Donald smeared butter on a piece of thick, crusty bread. “I suppose you think that’s proof your theory is correct.”
“Just look at her! She’s even been curling her hair.”