“And you’ve never seen them before.”
“No.”
“Is it a warning, do you think?”
“Either that or an attempt to put me out of commission for a while.”
“Or worse.”
“If they had intended to kill me, they would have brought weapons.”
“Such as?”
“Guns, knives—cudgels at the very least.”
Donald stood up and poked the fire. “I don’t like it. You should ask DCI Crawford to be taken off the case.”
“I don’t think the attack is related to the séance murders.”
“What, then?”
“The meeting with Rat Face was about our parents’ death.”
His brother stared at him. “Give it up, Ian. For God’s sake, I implore you.”
“What do you know that you’re not telling me?”
Donald turned away. “I don’t know anything—but obviously your life is in danger.”
“I already told you they weren’t there to kill me.”
“But next time they might! And what of Rat Face? Perhaps they have done away with him already.”
Ian downed the rest of his whisky. “He can take care of himself,” he muttered, but he didn’t entirely believe it. The truth was, he was worried about his informant.
“Did they strike you in the face?” Donald asked, peering at him.
“No. Why?”
“It’s bleeding.”
Ian put a hand to his left cheek. It felt wet. He looked at his fingers, smudged with blood.
“Does it hurt?” said Donald.
“Not at the moment.”
“It’s in the same place as that other nasty cut.”
“Maybe I did get hit there during the fight and didn’t notice. There was quite a lot going on.”
“The mark of Cain,” Donald remarked. “I’ll put some salve on it.”
“Why did you say that?” Ian asked as his brother opened a tin of liniment.
“What?”
“About the mark of Cain.”
“I was just nattering. Hold still.”
Ian complied, inhaling the aroma of mint and cloves as his brother smeared the medicine on his cheek.
“There,” said Donald. “That should help.” He stretched and yawned. “I’m all in. Early day tomorrow. I’m going to turn in. I suggest you do the same.”
“I will.”
“There’s a joint and some boiled potatoes in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks.”
“Good night, then,” Donald said. Picking up his medical bag, he headed toward his bedroom.
“Thank you for the medical care.”
“I’ll send you my bill in the morning.”
“Donald?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think our father was murdered because he was about to expose corruption within the force?”
His brother sighed. “Good night, Ian.”
Bacchus twitched his tail and sniffed the air, then followed Donald into his bedroom.
Left alone, Ian sat staring into the flames of the fire in the grate before retiring to his bedroom. He lay awake for some time, Madame Veselka’s words running through his head. Ghosts ill-treated do not rest easy. Secrets long buried cry for the air of truth. Look to your dreams . . .
He found himself standing in front of Waverley Station. It was nighttime, and he was looking for someone. He turned to see a tall man approaching, dressed in a long green robe, wearing a holly wreath on his head. In his hand was a flaming torch. Ian recoiled when he saw the torch, but as the man drew nearer, he realized it was Brian the blind beggar. Ian took a step forward, but as he did, his friend began to dissolve into a mist in front of his eyes. Within moments, there was nothing left of him but a thin wisp of white smoke.
Ian awoke with a start, surprised to find himself in his own darkened bedroom. He lay for a while pondering the meaning of the dream, until finally sleep claimed him once more.
CHAPTER FORTY
Early the next morning, Ian stopped at the office of the Scotsman. When he asked to see Jed Corbin, he was directed to a cubicle by the window. Walking through a cloud of cigarette smoke, past men in shirtsleeves hunched over their work, Ian spied Corbin scribbling away furiously at his desk, buried in piles of reference books, periodicals, loose paper, and broadsheets. At his elbow was an ashtray full of cigarette butts.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” the reporter said, removing a stack of magazines from a nearby chair. “Have a seat. Just give me two seconds to finish this sentence, if you don’t mind,” he said, turning back to the notebook in front of him.
Ian perched on the chair, surveying the controlled chaos of the newsroom.
“There—all finished,” Corbin said, laying down his pencil. “Can’t keep inspiration waiting, you know. Now then, what can I do for you?”
“A friend of mine is missing.”
Corbin leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “Oh?”
“A blind beggar by the name of Brian McKinney.”
“Usually sits in front of Waverley Station—erudite chap, on the witty side? Has an amazing sense of smell?”
“That’s him.”
“I know him well.”
“I thought you might.”
“How long has he been missing?”
“I haven’t seen him since Friday, in front of St. Giles. I thought you might have heard something.”
Corbin rested his cigarette on the already overflowing ashtray. Seeing Ian stare at it, he smiled. “Filthy habit, I know. I imagine newsmen smoke even more than coppers. Oiy, Jack!” he called, snapping his fingers at a passing boy. “Tell Cooper I’ve gone out on a story if he asks, eh?”
The boy nodded. “Aye, sir. Anythin’ else?”
“Fetch me a candle, would you?”
The lad disappeared round the corner, returning with a long white taper, which he handed to the reporter.
“Well done,” said Corbin, flipping him a coin. “Buy yourself a bag of sweets.”
The boy caught it deftly and slipped it into his pocket. “Yes, sir!”
“What’s the candle for?” asked Ian.
The reporter winked at him. “I’ll just grab my coat. I have an idea or two of some people who might know something.”
Minutes later, they were striding along Cockburn Street toward Waverley Station.
“Useful fellow, young Jack,” Corbin said as a wagon piled high with winter wheat passed them, pulled by a muscular dapple-gray. The farmer tipped his hat and flipped his whip, which the horse ignored. Not increasing its pace in the least, it plodded on as if bored with the whole affair.
“I believe Jack knows that urchin friend of yours,” Corbin added.
“Derek McNair?”
“Yes. It seems McNair organized a bunch of boys into a club of some kind, a group of—”
“Irregulars.”
“Is that what they call themselves?”
“Actually, I suggested the name when he told me about them.”
“I suppose they’re up to no good.”
“I suspect you could get them to do just about anything if you paid them enough.”