Nor Will He Sleep (27 page)

Or had they?

Carnegie would deny everything.

It would be George’s word against his and the old man would, with a little skilful questioning, cut a dislocated figure in the witness box.

They could prosecute Dunwoody for perjury, but would Roach wish to dive into that particular midden?

He would not.

The lieutenant would gladly settle for official release, because the only witness now vouchsafed he was no longer able to point the finger.

That’s what Roach would tell the lawyers, and conveniently forget to mention the fact the police had the wool pulled over their eyes.

Perhaps the law could confiscate the photos of the woman and the snake?

But that would just be evil-minded.

So they had everything and nothing.

Like so much in life.

The weather was unchanged, the gazebo held to its elegant lines, the peacocks wailed, Cupid took everlasting aim, the woman was unyielding – only the man had altered.

Jean Brash studied McLevy as he sooked noisily through his moustache at the best Lebanese coffee undulating in her delicate, porcelain cups.

He aye had problems getting his stubby fingers through the space between the handle and its rounded body. No doubt the man would prefer a large, tin mug, where his customary six lumps of sugar
could dissolve with room to spare.

From McLevy’s vantage, he would liked to have spent the rest of the day drinking this fine coffee, even with Jean’s beady eyes upon him.

The inspector had a lot on his mind, most of it in a whirling storm.

His surmise about events had proved correct. Next day, in fact this very one that stretched before him, having been informed about everything except the boa constrictor, Lieutenant Roach had
been undoubtedly relieved to set Daniel Drummond free, with adjusted and official explanation to the sharp-nosed lawyers.

Alan Grant had also been released, though there seemed to be an air of some restraint between the two students.

Plus the decision whether to prosecute George Dunwoody had been deferred, though the inspector wouldn’t have bet his next black pudding on a positive verdict.

Another thorn in the side was that though in fact McLevy had brought the chicanery of identification into the open, his lieutenant, as is the habit of superiors, appeared to blame him for not
spotting it in the first place.

‘I seem to remember,’ remarked Roach, with a mean cast to his eye, as they surveyed an emptying station, ‘that you, inspector, made promise that you would
cut Carnegie
down.
Or did my ears deceive me?’

‘I will eventually.’

‘Well you may recommence the process this very day.’

So he and Mulholland had been dispatched to trudge the damp streets and confront Carnegie in his newspaper office. As feared, they had been met with denial and disdain.

The man did not dispute knowing Dunwoody, but this was only as a contributor of insubstantial tittle-tattle, and most certainly not as a conspirator in supposedly manufacturing headlines.

But now, thanks to the police, Carnegie had another.

‘
SUSPECT RELEASED. WILL MY MOTHER’S KILLER EVER BE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE?
’

McLevy noted the fellow’s skin seemed dry-flaked, and there was a strong smell of last night’s whisky, but that aside, there was little hint of fallibility.

The inspector also remarked a white shirt and damask waist– coat.

‘Ye’re gey well attired these days. Have ye come intae money?’ he asked.

Carnegie seemed to find this very amusing.

‘Not yet,’ was the answer, a sneer never far from that long upper lip. ‘Not yet, but my legacy is within reach.’

He held out his hand as if to grasp something and closed it into a triumphant fist.

And so they left Sim in all his glory. And outside the newspaper offices, while the dull rain of May fell alike on saint and sinner, Mulholland, who had remained silent during the exchange, on
account of his intense dislike of Carnegie and the man’s connection to a certain Gash Mitchell, was instructed to scour the taverns once more, and hunt up any of Mary Dougan’s drinking
cronies they may have missed first time around.

The second murder had been neglected and overtaken by the rapid events surrounding the first, but surely somewhere in the woman’s past there must be cause for her vicious slaughter.

McLevy himself, niggled by the acid words of his lieutenant, had gone scouting round his financial contacts in the lower regions, but without success.

Carnegie’s boasting to Roach had put the inspector onto the track regarding George Dunwoody, and he had wondered if the same might apply again with the new clothes and money to burn
–
not yet
the man had said, about his legacy.

So what was the source of this largesse?

He had had no luck, however, and McLevy felt badly in need of a wee breather.

He had hardly slept the previous night, tormented by unsettling images of Jessica Drummond, hair tumbling down, deep dark eyes, white teeth biting into russet skin; all this provoked a churning
welter of feelings.

A younger, more vulnerable self had appeared, and this scared him more than any homicidal maniac.

Was he awake or was he asleep?

He hoped to God he would not do something daft, as men in love were wont to do.

But he was not in love, was he? Jist – short of sleep and besieged by pictures.

Only in one place could a man find respite and response.

The Just Land. A bawdy-hoose.

Only with one person, acceptance despite all.

Jean Brash. A bawdy-hoose keeper.

Only with one taste, manna untainted.

The purest coffee. From the fragrant Lebanon.

So here he was in the garden. Peace on the cards.

But for how long?

‘I had a visitor,’ Jean remarked with an air of innocence.

‘Oh?’

‘An acquaintance of yours.’

‘Such as?’

‘A teller of tales.’

The gleam in her eye was indication enough.

‘Stevenson?’

‘None other.’

‘That mannie travels near and far.’

Still not having quite forgiven him for the contretemps at the tarred gates, though this was mitigated by the fact that the tethered peacocks and small-fire had rid her of the students, Jean
sowed a snap more mischief.

‘A real will o’ the wisp. Charming as ye like.’

McLevy’s hand had once more found its way to the plate of sugar biscuits and he bit off a near half, before making an indistinct reply.

‘Uhuh?’

There was definitely something on his mind; usually Jean could rely on the mere mention of an interloper to provoke a nippy retort, but the only further reaction was the disappearance of the
remnant of the sugar biscuit.

‘Robert told me you have a second murder on hand.’

‘He didnae lie.’

‘Mary Dougan. Puir soul.’

‘You would know her?’

‘She was once a sweet kittie. Fell amangst thieves.’

‘Certainly did. Onything ye can say of her?’

‘Her best love was him. He left. She declined. For close to a year, no-one saw her.’

‘Put not your trust in writers.’

An edge there right enough, then his head came up, eyes fierce. No matter what had turned him inwards, a case would always bring out the wolf.

‘You will keep this second murder to yourself.’

‘I keep
everything
to myself.’

As they stared each other out, Hannah Semple stuck her head from one of the upstairs windows.

‘Mistress,’ she bawled. ‘The horse has collapsed in the cellar. Wan o’ the struts. Rough usage nae doubt.’

‘Horse?’

For a moment McLevy was lost, before remembering that the Berkeley Horse was a piece of apparatus that was used for flagellation purposes, in the lower regions of the Just Land.

He knew it merely by name and wished no further acquaintance.

Jean had more intimate cognition, but the actual spread-eagling of clients, whipping and squeezing of hanging flesh, utilisation of cane plus thistle, then nettle in season and omnipresent
leather with an edge to cut steel, was left to Lily Baxter and Maisie Powers. The big girl being new to the job, however, hefty, and occasionally over-enthusiastic, must have put too much strain on
the device.

‘All right, Hannah!’ Jean bawled back. ‘I’ll be in directly.’

‘Ye better. I’m no’ a joiner.’

The window shut, though Hannah managed a ritual glower in McLevy’s direction, as if he had been somehow responsible for the equipment malfunction, while Jean rose to her feet.

In a way she was oddly discomfited. Of course she was proud of her profession and the inspector, if not from a personal experience, realised fine well the inner workings of a bawdy-hoose. Yet at
this moment, for some reason she could not identify, she felt strangely exposed.

As if under foreign scrutiny.

‘Whit was Stevenson doing here anyway?’ McLevy asked suddenly.

‘I told you. A visit. Like yourself. On the scrounge.’

‘For what?’

‘Information.’

He frowned.

‘I have a favour tae ask.’

‘I might have known.’

The request was made and involved Jean’s superior contacts with a squalid profession in the nether reaches of Leith’s financial strata.

She nodded acceptance, but wondered if there might come a day when a man came to see her off his own bat.

Every woman born has thought this at some point.

What every man born thinks is a different matter.

‘I’ll see whit comes out the woodwork,’ she announced as she turned to go, brushing stray crumbs from her dress. ‘Goodbye, James.’

Then he shot out a question that stopped her in motion.

‘Jean – have ye ever been in love?’

Cupid was now a staging post for various garden birds of late, and despite a regular morning scrub, had developed a streaked, worn-out appearance as if the job was getting too much for one
demigod.

Finally the Mistress of the Just Land found a word or two in response.

‘Whit – whit put that into your head?’

‘Jist answer the question!’

‘I have a broken horse tae mend.’

‘It’ll keep.’

Silence.

She came back a little and looked down at his face, which resembled a lost dog at the races.

‘Well?’ he growled.

Silence.

‘Once or twice.’

‘Whit was it like?’

‘Terrible.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

McLevy took up the last sugar biscuit and crammed it whole into his mouth. The sight did not entrance.

‘Why are you asking?’ said Jean Brash.

‘No reason,’ replied James McLevy.

She peered closer. That damned moustache of his had hidden something, but now it was clear.

‘Ye shaved gey close this morning.’

‘Did I?’

‘Usually by this time o’ the day, your chin has a blue tinge.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘And you have a clean collar, now that I think of it.’

He had muffled up in his heavy coat, but she caught a glimpse of unexpected colour.

‘Is that a purple tie?’

‘I found it in a drawer.’

Hannah opened the window again and banged it shut without uttering a word.

Jean took refuge in mockery.

‘You have a’ the symptoms of a braw gallant. Is it for my benefit?’

‘It’s no’ for anybody’s benefit,’ he blurted out.

‘That’s sad.’

‘I jist found it in a drawer!’

He had, in fact, in front of the breakfast mirror, swithered over the thought that he might visit Jessica Drummond to witness what he hoped might be admiration in her eyes at his part in the
freeing of her brother; had thought to dress in such a way that might further augment his standing, but lost the inclination as the morning wore on.

Jean was certain now that something was going on in his heart in which she did not play a role, and it cut her right through to the core.

Guilt and hurt.

Both married to anger.

For a moment their eyes met, then she turned and walked away abruptly.

He did the same, but just as he reached the iron gate and wrenched it open, Jean called across the lawn.

‘Oh and James – you asked about love? It’s the very devil.’

Then she wheeled round and the house door slammed, followed seconds later by the crash of the iron gates.

One of the male peacocks suddenly leapt into the air and landed on a low-lying branch.

He let out a cry of strangled triumph and the female lifted her head for a moment, no doubt wondering if his passionate assumption would last the course.

Stevenson had been part of many strange situations in his life, witness his first visit to Silverado, where the deserted mining village perched like a rusty parrot on the
shoulder of the North Californian hills, hemmed by rubble, abandoned machinery and poison oak. He had felt immediately at home.

Now he was a stranger at home and in a predicament that put other geographical vicissitudes to shame.

He had observed from the window, as the afternoon wore on, a crowd of students of both camps, scarlet and white, faces daubed accordingly, gather in numbers in the street directly before his
house.

In the main the young men were silent, solemn, and though Fanny, Lloyd and his mother openly gawked at the other window, Robert Louis lurked behind the curtain like Polonius, trusting he would
not meet the same Shakespearean fate.

He enjoyed the limelight, but the last time these ruffians had laid hands upon him it had taken divine intervention to save the day.

No matter they had not known his identity, it would have been small comfort as the cold sea closed around him to hear a distant voice