Donald pulled at his pipe thoughtfully, exhaling a cloud of tobacco vapor. “No, I don’t think so. Optimistic, perhaps, but . . . surely a change of heart is always possible, at any age.” He regarded his brother with one eyebrow raised. Ian knew the look. “Have you someone in particular in mind?”
Ian looked down at his empty whisky glass. “I’ve been having disturbing dreams lately.”
“Oh?”
Ian told his brother about the three strange dreams, and their odd, vision-like quality.
“Dickens would approve,” Donald remarked when he had finished.
“Good Lord, you’re right,” Ian said, suddenly aware of the connection he had not seen before. “The creature with the candle on his head is much like—”
“The Ghost of Christmas Past,” Donald finished for him. “And the apparition of our mother bears a strong resemblance to—”
“The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come!”
“And in the third dream your friend the beggar appears much as the Ghost of Christmas Present.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“You said Madame Veselka told you to pay heed to your dreams. Didn’t your third dream presage your friend’s death?”
Ian frowned. “Yes, but one could argue I was simply worried about him.”
“I know what Lillian would argue,” Donald said mischievously. Yawning, he rose from the chair and stretched. “I’m all in. Mind if I retire?” The cat opened one eye and regarded him languorously before closing it again.
“Go on, then,” Ian replied moodily, staring at the leaping yellow flames of the fire.
“That wound on your cheek doesn’t seem to be healing. Would you like me to put some salve on it?”
“No—go onto bed. I’m sure you’re tired.”
“Want a word of advice?”
“Can I stop you from giving it?”
“Don’t take everything so seriously, brother,” he said, laying a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
Later, Ian lay in bed gazing at the starless sky, until his lids were so heavy he could no longer fight it, and sleep claimed him.
CHAPTER FIFTY
You arrive home late, breathless with victory. The flat is quiet except for the sound of gentle snoring from the back of the building. You pull off your gloves, flinging them onto the table in the foyer. A light drizzle has speckled your overcoat, and you brush it off impatiently before hanging the coat on the wall rack, along with your hat.
Blowing on your hands to warm them, you head for the sideboard. This calls for something stronger than tea—a celebration is in order. Uncorking the bottle of brandy, you pour a stiff shot or two into the snifter, swirling it for a moment to release the liquor’s heady aroma. Savoring the burn as it slides down your throat, you sit by the fireplace to relive the events of the past few hours.
Your planning was impeccable, your preparation perfect. Of course there was luck involved—there always is, in any momentous encounter—but you could not have timed it better. In fact, it all went so smoothly you wonder if perhaps you missed something. You take another swallow of brandy, eager for the sweet release of the spirit—not so much that you dull the quaver of excitement simmering in your breast, but just enough to slow the tremulous beating of your heart, so you can enjoy the triumph so dearly won.
The hand holding the glass trembles a little, not from fear but rather exhilaration. In all your years on this earth, you did not realize anything could be so entrancing, so fully engaging, as hunting another human. What began as a mission of vengeance has become a rarified pleasure, a secret pastime of such excitement that your only wish is that you could share it with someone.
But of course you can’t. No one can be trusted to keep your secret; you will have to keep your own counsel as you continue. Luckily, your mission is not over yet, you think as you drink eagerly from the nearly empty glass. There is more work to be done.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The next morning dawned so insistently bright and cheerful that Ian turned his steps in the direction of the Royal Infirmary before heading to police chambers. He half hoped Nurse Stuart would not be in, so he could leave a message and be on his way. But when he inquired after her, the same stern-faced matron he had met earlier informed him she would be out shortly, then disappeared with a disapproving glance into the bowels of the hospital. He did not know where Nurse Stuart lived, and did not care to know; looking for her at her place of employment struck him as a less intimate and therefore much safer option.
When she appeared, he had the impulse to flee—the sight of her auburn curls and freshly scrubbed face set off a panic he was scarcely prepared for. He had become accustomed to thinking of her as clear, firm handwriting upon a page, forgetting the flesh-and-blood person behind it. The reality of her physical presence was almost too much for his senses, and he took a step back as she approached, the heels of her boots clicking smartly on the polished floors.
Everything about her was too intense—her cheeks too red, her green eyes too deep a color of jade, her auburn hair too lustrous and shimmering. Even her scent was distracting—a combination of rose water and Brown Windsor spice soap.
“Why, Detective Hamilton,” she said in her brisk, matter-of-fact way. “What a surprise to see you.”
“Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” he mumbled, feeling the heat rise to his face, but also noticing with some satisfaction that the color on her cheeks also deepened.
“Not at all.” She smiled, displaying unreasonably white teeth. “After all, I believe you still owe me a dinner.”
“Ah, yes, so I do.”
“You really should have that cut attended to,” she said, peering at his face. “Would you like me—”
“No, thank you—I’m quite all right.”
There was an awkward pause, and then she said, “You must not think I have been languishing, waiting anxiously for you to pay attention to me.”
“I would not dream of it.”
“Because my life is quite full without you or any man.”
“I have no doubt of that.”
“I merely wanted to make it up to you for my beastly behavior earlier.”
“Understood.”
“Good. As long as that is perfectly clear.”
“Perfectly.”
She crossed her arms over her starched white uniform. “What do you propose?”
“Since we have had such ill luck at meeting for dinner, I thought perhaps you might accompany me to a play. My aunt is in a performance of A Christmas Carol at the Greyfriars—”
“Oh, yes, I had been meaning to see that. When shall we go?”
“I was thinking perhaps the Sunday matinee?” By then, he knew, the supposed jewelry store theft should be resolved, for better or for worse.
“Splendid.”
“And if we are not ill met by luck again, we might venture out for a bite afterward.”
“Agreed. Perhaps we may lift the curse by meeting at the theater first.”
“Precisely what I was thinking.”
“Very well—I shall meet you there.”