Edinburgh Midnight Read online

  ALSO BY CAROLE LAWRENCE

  Ian Hamilton Mysteries

  Edinburgh Twilight

  Edinburgh Dusk

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Carole Bugge

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542008655

  ISBN-10: 1542008654

  Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, Dog Eared Design

  For Kegan Isaack,

  most excellent and awesome nephew

  and truly kind soul

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Coming back to Edinburgh is to me like coming home.

  —Charles Dickens

  CHAPTER ONE

  EDINBURGH, 1880

  December settled over Edinburgh in the winter of 1880 with the persistence of an unwelcome houseguest. The sky turned a pervasive, troubled gray, sporadically spitting snow over the city’s jumble of stone buildings, stolid and stoic as her inhabitants, who hardly knew what to expect from one day to the next. Occasionally a proper storm blew in from the west, blanketing the city in a layer of cottony snow, soft as sugar. But even that rarely lasted—no sooner would a hastily erected snowman spring up in St. Andrew Square than the mercury would rise overnight. The next day would find him a sad, dripping remnant with lopsided coal eyes, a tartan scarf dangling from his rapidly melting form.

  Even the festivities of the Christmas season provided little relief from the bleak weather, the holiday having been effectively banned in Scotland in 1640 as a “popish festival.” The citizens of Edinburgh continued to decorate their homes with evergreens, holly, and candles in the windows, but it was not an official holiday, and did not feature the gift giving, caroling, and feasting enjoyed by the English. The Scots were forced to wait for Hogmanay, or New Year, which they often started celebrating a week beforehand to make up for the lack of a proper Christmas.

  And so on a particularly dreary December morning Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton slogged his way through the remnants of a half-hearted snowfall already melting underfoot, making the cobblestones slick and treacherous, dripping from eaves in slow, steady droplets, like the inexorable ticking of a clock, as the old year wound down to its inevitable end.

  His destination was the High Street police station, along a route he had trudged more times than he could count in the past seven years. Passing an omnibus full of sleepy office workers on George IV Bridge, he turned right onto the High Street, past St. Giles and the Mercat Cross, the royal unicorn looking cold perched high atop the pedestal. The traditional site of proclamations and official announcements, the cross was also the historical venue for hangings, burnings, and other gruesome forms of public punishment.

  The sky was threatening more punishment of its own as Ian reached police chambers at 192 High Street. Mounting the solid stone steps, he swung open the heavy wooden door and entered the building that had become as familiar as his comfortable flat on Victoria Terrace. The desk sergeant gave him a drowsy nod—the weather seemed to have put a damper on everyone’s mood.

  The door to Detective Chief Inspector Crawford’s office was closed, which meant he was not to be disturbed. But no sooner had Ian settled at his desk with a cup of tea than the door opened, and his boss emerged. DCI Crawford did not look sleepy—he looked troubled. His thinning ginger hair sprouted in unruly wisps, and his blue eyes were narrowed.

  “Ah, there you are, Hamilton,” he said, plucking at his generous thicket of muttonchops. “Can you spare a minute?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Bring your tea,” said Crawford, heading back toward his office. The chief inspector was a large, ungainly man, and as he lumbered away, Ian was reminded of a red-haired walrus.

  “Close the door behind you, and have a seat,” the chief said, lowering his bulk into his desk chair, which creaked in protest. “You are aware that our most recent attempts to apprehend well-known criminals in the act were dismal failures.”

  “There was the Happy Land raid last week, and before that the Leith Dock gang—”

  “And we have the headlines to go with it,” Crawford growled, tossing a stack of newspapers at him.

  Ian glanced at the already familiar prose.

  LEITH GANG STRIKES AGAIN!

  MIDNIGHT RAID GONE WRONG

  EDINBURGH CITY POLICE FAIL AGAIN—IS ANYONE SAFE?

  Crawford sighed heavily. “The public is losing faith in us, Hamilton.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the criminals are growing bolder. The question is,” Crawford said, with a wave of his fleshy hand, “why they were such a disaster.”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself, sir.”

  The chief tugged at his ginger muttonchops. “It seems to me our usual sources have suddenly become unreliable.”

  “But why now?”

  “Precisely my question. Have any of your sources changed recently?”

  “No.”

  “Still working with that little street urchin?”

  “I am, and he has proven quite reliable.”

  “No doubt you reward him well enough,” Crawford sai
d, frowning.

  “I do indeed.”

  “Hmph,” Crawford grunted. Rummaging through his desk drawer, he pulled out a piece of paper. “Here’s a list of our known informants. I’d like you to check out each one of them for reliability.”

  “That’s quite an assignment, sir.”

  “Which is why I picked you, Hamilton. You should be flattered.”

  “‘He that loves to be flattered is worthy o’ the flatterer,’” Ian replied. “Sorry, sir—just slipped out,” he added, seeing Crawford’s face darken. The chief hated it when he quoted Shakespeare.

  “See here, I don’t expect you to do it overnight. Take what time you need.”

  “Can I have Dickerson?”

  “Can you trust his discretion?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Very well—but keep it to yourselves, at least for now.”

  “Will do, sir,” Ian said, rising from his chair. “How is your wife doing?”

  “Better,” Crawford said, beaming. “Her appetite is much improved. That Dr. Bell really is quite the genius—sees things other people don’t. Please thank your brother for intervening on my behalf.”

  “I will, sir,” Ian said, and left the office.

  As he headed toward his desk, he caught the eye of John Turnbull, a sallow, narrow-shouldered constable who attempted to hide his premature baldness with an unconvincing, ill-fitting toupee. He had tried to sabotage Ian’s last case because he thought Ian had humiliated him in public. The expression on Turnbull’s pockmarked face was pure contempt, which his sickly smile did nothing to conceal. Ian had never liked the constable, and had always suspected the feeling was mutual, but now there was no doubt the two were enemies. As he returned to his desk, he wondered if perhaps he should begin his investigation with Turnbull.

  “Morning, sir.”

  He turned to see the smiling face of Sergeant William Dickerson. Like DCI Crawford, Dickerson was fair of skin with ginger hair, but nearly a foot shorter, like a miniature version of the chief, minus the whiskers. As usual, he carried a bag from Daily Bread, the bakery on Cockburn Street.

  “Morning, Sergeant,” said Ian. “What have you got today?”

  “Selkirk bannock,” Dickerson replied in his rolling Lancashire accent. “Fresh outta oven, couldn’t resist.” A buttery raisin loaf, Selkirk bannock was originally made of barley meal, but was now commonly made with risen bread flour. It was Dickerson’s favorite, probably accounting for half a stone or so of the excess weight around his middle. “Would ye like some, sir?”

  “No, thank you. Do you have a minute?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Dickerson said, wiping his mouth.

  “This way,” Ian said, heading toward the front entrance.

  “Shall I get my coat?”

  “No. We’re just going out to the hall.”

  Dickerson cocked his head to the side, like a confused spaniel. “Sir?”

  “Come along.”

  The hall was empty, but just to be sure, Ian climbed half a flight up to the next landing. Dickerson trudged after him, brushing crumbs from his uniform.

  “Wha’ is it, sir?” he said when they reached the landing.

  Ian explained what Crawford had said to him, as the sergeant listened closely, biting his lip. “Any questions?” Ian said when he was finished.

  “Jus’ one, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “How on earth are we t’know who’s lyin’, sir?”

  “‘Ay, there’s the rub.’”

  “Oh, that reminds me, sir—I’ve sommit I need t’mention.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re doing another Shakespeare play with the Greyfriars Dramatic Society.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s, uh, Dickens this time.”

  “Dickens?”

  “Yes, sir. The society is doin’ A Christmas Carol and I’m t’play the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

  “Good on you, Sergeant.”

  Dickerson smiled nervously and fingered the shiny brass buttons on his uniform. “D’ye think—I mean, will DCI Crawford . . . will he—”

  “Will he approve? I should think it depends on what frame of mind he’s in when you tell him.”

  “Good point, sir,” Dickerson said, an anxious expression on his ruddy face. The chief’s moods were as unpredictable as the squalls rolling in from the Firth of Forth.

  “Tell you what,” Ian said. “I can tell him if you like—do what I can to make him cheery, and then drop it casually.”

  “Oh, would ye, sir?” the sergeant said, his eyes moist.

  “It’s the least I can do,” Ian said, “considering that you started me on my own thespian career.”

  “An’ you were bloody good as Old Hamlet’s ghost, sir! D’ye wan’ a part in this production? Because I can ask the director—”

  “No, no,” Ian replied hastily. “I’m quite happy to keep my theatrical exploits in the past.”

  “Whatever y’say, sir—but if ye change yer mind—”

  “Much appreciated, but it’s not likely.”

  There was the sound of a door opening on the landing below them. Ian peered down the stairs to see Constable Turnbull exit the police chambers, a searching look on his rutted face, lips compressed in determination. As the constable walked down the single flight to the main entrance, Ian wondered if Turnbull had seen him and Dickerson leave.

  “Yon Turnbull has a lean and hungry look,” he murmured.

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “We should get back inside.”

  “Aye, sir. Were that Constable Turnbull leavin’ jes now?”

  “It was.”

  “You don’ like ’im much, do ye, sir?”

  “I don’t trust him,” Ian remarked.

  But the question now facing him was whom, if anyone, he could trust.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The day passed in a flurry of routine and paperwork, as was often the case on a Monday. The city’s unluckier miscreants were in custody after being apprehended over the weekend. With the excesses of Saturday night behind them, the denizens of Scotland’s capital settled down to the dull if familiar workday ritual, and before Ian knew it, the clock chimed five, signaling the end of his shift. He had spent the day pondering what Crawford had told him. The sergeant had thrown him meaningful glances all afternoon—apparently Dickerson’s idea of discretion didn’t include facial expressions. Ian resolved to speak to him about it, but before he could say anything, Dickerson slipped away to attend rehearsal.

  Ian was already regretting his agreement to join his Aunt Lillian at a séance later that evening—he disapproved of her passion for the occult, but somehow had let her persuade him to join her at Madame Veselka’s weekly meetings. Hastily donning his cape, he swept out the door before DCI Crawford could block his escape with another impossible request.

  The sun had already long ago retired for the night, the air crisp and cold as he headed for his aunt’s flat. His brother, Donald, had rolled his eyes at breakfast when he heard of Ian’s plans for the evening, and in truth Ian couldn’t blame him.

  “So you’re going to indulge Lillian’s superstitions?” he had said, smiling in his superior, ironic way as he pierced another sausage with his fork. Donald was never a sylph, but his recent decision to forsake the bottle had only increased his already prodigious appetite. “What good could possibly come from that?”

  To his dismay, Ian had no good answer. He had made the promise last week, in the heat of the moment, after Lillian delivered a passionate defense of spiritualism, a glass or two of his favorite single malt having loosened his resolve. He regretted it almost immediately, but the sight of her eager face had haunted him all week, and he had neither the heartlessness nor the courage to cancel on her.

  And Donald had certainly enjoyed lording his foolishness over him. “Who knows?” he had proclaimed with mock sincerity, chewing on sausage as he poured more coffee. “Maybe you’ll have a
visitation of your own.”

  Now, crossing George IV Bridge as a cold wind picked up, swirling the remains of the last snowfall, he trudged onward as a tram passed by full of weary-looking passengers. He wondered if some were the same who had passed him that morning. Even the pair of sturdy bay geldings pulling the vehicle looked tired, though he could tell from the length of their stride that they were stable bound. Horses always knew the direction of their barn, and no matter how weary, quickened their pace when they were headed home. Ian wished he were in front of his own fire, toasting his feet in front of the flames.

  Any regrets vanished when he saw his aunt’s delighted expression as she answered the door.

  “Right on time, you are,” she said. “Come in out of the cold, won’t ye?” Aunt Lillian had lived in Edinburgh for years, but when she got excited, her Glaswegian roots showed in her accent. “I thought we’d have a wee bite before we go,” she said, leading him into her cozy parlor, where a fire blazed merrily in the grate. “Nothing fancy, mind you—just a bit of cock-a-leekie soup and a nice hunk of cheddar.”

  “Can I help?” he asked as she fussed about setting the small round oak table she used for informal suppers.

  “Why don’t you give the fire a poke? Won’t be a minute,” she said, bustling into the kitchen. “And you can open that bottle of Montrachet, if ye’d be so kind.”

  Aunt Lillian was tall and straight and thin, so much like her younger sister that sometimes when he saw her from the corner of his eye, Ian imagined for a moment his mother was still alive. It was an empty fantasy—it was long these seven years since his parents had been laid to rest in Greyfriars graveyard. Since their untimely death, he had grown even closer to his aunt. Though very different temperamentally, she shared her sister’s build and facial structure, as well as mannerisms and vocal inflections. Being with her fed his hunger for his dead mother.

  He had also come to love and respect his aunt for her own sake. Fiercer and more independent than her sister, Lillian was forceful and opinionated, and had become a strong guiding presence in Ian’s life. So when she suggested that he accompany her to one of her precious séances, he had found it impossible to deny her.

  “There we are,” she said, placing two steaming bowls of soup on the table. “If you wouldn’t mind fetching the bread and cheese we’ll get started.”