“Very. You have excellent taste.”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and bustled away, quick as a schoolgirl. Apparently being in love conquered the stiffness of arthritis, at least for a time. He was happy for her.
In fact, he thought as he left the building, he was rather happy with everyone. As he walked, with the city spread out before him like a flower, Ian realized that just as Ebenezer Scrooge had begrudged others his money, he had withheld his feelings. He was as stingy with his emotions as Scrooge was with his pennies; could it be that he was having the same kind of change of heart as Dickens’ famous miser? If a fictional character could have a spiritual awakening, surely he could as well. It was simply a matter of perspective, of seeing things differently. The circumstances of his life had not changed, but perhaps he had. Like Scrooge, surely he could let go of the memories that haunted him. Perhaps choosing to live differently was even more courageous than facing bullets.
The sound of Christmas carols floated across the darkened landscape, and Ian was suddenly filled with a warm regard for his fellow man; the unexpected surfeit of emotion made his throat swell and his eyes burn.
He had not gone far when he saw the familiar figure of Derek McNair approaching. There was something different in his stride—his usual bounce was gone, and though his expression under the streetlamp was difficult to read, Ian thought he looked chastened.
“Hello, Master McNair.”
“Evenin’, Guv.”
“What brings you out tonight?”
“Got sommit fer ye,” he said, digging a piece of paper from his pocket.
“Who gave you this?”
“Fella I never seen afore. Ugly, like, wi’ a face that looks like it’s been knocked around.”
“You weren’t by any chance near the Bank of Scotland last night?”
“What, durin’ the robbery an’ all? I wish I had, Guv—heard ye took ’em by surprise. Well, ain’t ye gonna read that?”
“You haven’t by chance read it first, have you?”
“Me? Naw—I can’t read, Guv.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Well, only a bit. An’ why would I read a note meant fer you?”
“You don’t seriously expect an answer to that.”
“Read it, would ye?”
“Why, are you expecting a reply?”
“Jes read it, mate!”
Standing beneath the light of the streetlamp, Ian complied, and the words chilled his heart.
Did you ever stop to think how the Nielsens found out about the séances? Have fun with that.
PS You’ll never find the girl. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll take care to stay out of my way from now on.
There was no signature, but Ian knew who had written it.
He looked at Derek. “Thank you,” he said.
“Don’ like it, mate. Not at all.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t read it.”
“Come off it,” the boy said, kicking at a pebble. “Y’all right, then?”
“Yes,” said Ian. “You take care, though, will you?”
“Ye know me, Guv—I kin look after meself.”
“See that you do. Good night.”
“Night, Guv,” the boy said, and with a final searching look, drifted off into the night.
Ian scanned the note once again, and as he did, a drop of blood fell onto the page. His hand went to his face, and his fingers came away damp. His wound was bleeding through the bandages on his face. Stuffing the note in his pocket, Ian continued toward his rendezvous. Several things were suddenly clear. His boiler room encounter was not a hallucination after all. After reading this, he would much rather it had been. And, as this man brazenly implicated himself in Bridie Mallon’s death, Ian knew where he lived. Most disturbingly, Turnbull did, too, if Greenside Row resident Nigel Metcalf’s description of the constable’s face was accurate—though what he was doing there was as yet unclear. This was bad, maybe very bad, but he refused to let it spoil his night. He would deal with it tomorrow.
Fiona arrived at Le Canard just a few moments after Ian, and they entered the restaurant together. The maître d’ could not hide his amazement—and disappointment—at seeing the two of them. Ian made no attempt to disguise his enjoyment of the man’s confusion.
“Bonsoir, monsieur,” he said with a wide smile, tipping his hat.
The maître d’ looked as if he had just tasted a particularly sour lemon. His attempt to twist his mouth into a convincing smile was heroic but doomed to failure. He showed them to a cozy table in the corner, seating them with the stiff smirk of a martyr facing certain death.
“So,” she said when he had gone. “Here we are at last.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Here we are.” The candlelight was soft, the air gentle, and a dozen delicious aromas beckoned. Ian was determined to put all thoughts of Edinburgh’s criminals aside for one brief evening.
“Well, then,” she said, running her finger over the lip of her wine goblet. “What now?”
“Tell me all about yourself.”
She laughed. “What do you want to know?”
He leaned forward.
“Everything,” he said. “I want to know everything.”