Nor Will He Sleep (31 page)

‘Why?’

A quiet lethal question, unlike the rest.

‘Why whit?’

‘Why did he attack you, Jeannie – out of the blue? What had you done to provoke his wrath?’

That was what she hated about the man, these changes! And whit did he look like? An ill-farrant Toby Jug or was that the laudanum talking?

For the inspector was right.

It was also the thought that had plagued her. Every time her body ached, every time she saw the silver cane above, the swimming, swirling vision of that melting face, eyes slanty with evil
intent – why?

Why?

Even killers have their reasons.

She pointed to a small drawer in the bedside cabinet, where the jug was standing on a copper tray.

McLevy opened it to find a scrap of paper.

‘He left it behind. Keepsake maybe.’

A page from the bible, again underlined with a score of the nail.

Whoso loveth wisdom rejoiceth his father: but he that keepeth company with harlots spendeth his substance.

The inspector’s mind did not exactly leap to a conclusion, more gathered it in like part of a harvest.

‘When you rendezvoused with Stevenson, was it a public place?’

‘In the garden. The gazebo. Like yourself. Gentlemen callers.’

‘Open to all eyes, then?’

‘If you keek through the gates.’

‘Or hide across the street?’

Was Robert Louis the key? Whit kind of maniac would kill you for having coffee wi’ somebody?

Pain jagged into her thoughts as the laudanum began to lose effect – she’d need another dose, but damned if she’d do it in front of McLevy.

‘When you leave. Send Hannah up.’

He seemed lost in deep thought and provided no kind of answer.

It annoyed her for some reason, like the memory of their last meeting – the braw gallant, but not for her.

‘And for God’s sake get rid of that moustache. It’s an affright tae one and all.’

She almost giggled, then winced as the pain flamed her neck and back.

Again he made no answer, but reached out to her dressing-table mirror, where she had jammed a small crumpled photograph into one of the ornate fixings.

‘Where did you find this?’

‘Night we shot the students. It cheers me up.’

He looked at the image of a military man with his fragile son and law-abiding wife.

‘Mind if I take such?’

‘Is it a clue?’

‘Not material, I doubt.’

She waved her hand wearily.

‘Please go now.’

He moved to the door then, instead of opening the damned thing, spoke to the wooden panels.

Whit the hell was the point of talking tae a door?

In such solemn tones?

‘I swear to you, Jean Brash, that I will find this man and bring him to justice. I have no family, I have no kin; I have nothing except the law and I will bring it to bear.’

Then he was out the room.

In the silence, his words echoed in her mind.

I have no family, I have no kin.

Liquid welled up once more.

Though as she knew to the bone – tears get you nowhere.

And love is the very devil.

Robert Louis lay under the covers and shivered. This very morning, the funeral morning, as the house stirred and every floorboard creaked with intent to inter, the ague had
struck like a hammer blow.

One moment he had been half-listening to the scurry of various bodies as they sped through the house with a perfect entombment in mind – fingers twitching idly at a black but rather limp
bow tie – and the next he had been jack-knifed towards the nearest privy, where he vomited copiously and then had to switch like lightning as the other orifice began to expel with the same
velocity.

Stevenson had called faintly for a bucket, lest both might join forces to leave him in perilous mid-stream. There ensued an acerbic, more than ridiculous conversation with Fanny, conducted
through the privy door.

His wife, not to put too fine a point on it, had deep suspicion that her beloved yet slippery husband was evading his filial responsibilities, but the sounds of what might have been a swamp
emptying, with attendant odours, finally persuaded her that even his chameleon ability had limits.

Stevenson had then spent an eternity of evacuation before tottering to his bed, a now anxious Fanny behind, an arm on Lloyd’s strong young shoulder, and had not budged an inch since.

Was it the oysters from last night? He and Lloyd had consumed a dozen each, but the young man, admittedly the possessor of a cast-iron stomach, showed no sign of galvanic upheaval.

Or was some virulent airborne messenger sent by one of his Brownies who sensed his deep ambivalence, deeper as the event loomed, with regard to witnessing his father’s coffin being lowered
into the earth, himself holding one of the ropes, with the eyes of the world upon him and a maelstrom of grief and anger in his breast?

He had sought to provide an elaborate display of mourning – a hundred invited guests, carriages galore – but it was only an outward show.

For two days his father had gazed at him and seen nothing, and for two days Stevenson had done the same.

What do we see when we regard death in waiting?

And what do we remember, as the child looks up and the father looks down?

All those writhing thoughts and agonised doubts had been blown away to the four winds.

He was now beset with bucket and basin, arranged round his bed like sentinels. Mercifully, the writer had expurgated his meagre breakfast, plus whatever remnants of food may have resided in his
seething innards from the previous day, so all that was now left was what in common parlance was termed
the dry boak.
This consisted of retching to no great purpose, the stomach heaving
with nothing to show for it.

Some unkind Calvinist critics might describe authorship as such activity; those who root themselves in fundamental righteousness have their noses perpetually out of joint.

The precipitous defecation had also ceased, though Robert Louis had discovered to his cost that the slightest sip of water rushed through his system like a mighty flood.

A doctor had been summoned and prescribed a calming potion, but no sooner swallowed then it was spewed out like the Whale did Jonah, a tin bucket taking the place of biblical dry land, and had
Stevenson the strength he would have emptied it over the damned quack.

Meanwhile life went on for the dead.

Servants were already ferrying out vast amounts of funeral meats and whisky for the eventual return of the sorrowful mourners. The house not being large enough, the wake was to be held in a
nearby civic hall where sherry, port wine and ale linked up with John Barleycorn, and the tables were loaded to the brim with cold meats, pickles, cheese, hefty loaves of bread, cakes of all
denomination, and funeral biscuits baked by the widow’s own hand. All of this based on the premise that there’s nothing like the filling of a grave to give folk a healthy appetite.

This cornucopia for the sad at heart was guarded by beady-eyed butlers, some hired, some borrowed from neighbours, but all watchful that the help – also in the main hired – did not
untimely reap the harvest of sorrow.

Luckily, given his internal tribulation, Stevenson saw nothing of this, but he could hear horses neighing, reins jingling, and the sound drove him deeper under the covers.

The Watcher across the street observed the principal funeral carriage, four black horses tossing their heads, the coffin behind glass, a solid burnished casket, brass gleaming in the pale
sunlight, for the weather had relented somewhat upon this momentous day.

Other carriages ranged behind all the way down Heriot Row stretching back to Abercrombie Place, horses stamping their hooves, whinnying and whickering, steam rising from their flanks, for it was
a good day to raise a gallop.

Sadly they were all headed for the New Calton Burying Ground, where galloping was not the norm.

None of this interested the Watcher.

He had eyes only for the carriage directly behind the funeral coach.

A murmur from some spectators – the assemblage had attracted a curious crowd – signalled figures emerging from number 17.

Bob Stevenson, a tall elegant gentleman, cousin of Robert, took the lead with the widow Margaret, wife of the departed Thomas, veiled from vulgar scrutiny, holding firmly to his manly arm.

Another couple followed.

Fanny Osbourne, striking features obscured by the swaddling clothes of mourning, had her arm equally firmly hooked into the elbow crook of a tall, thin fellow with a lean and hungry face.

But it was not
him
!

Lloyd Osbourne, the woman’s son. A usurper. Imposter.

And not
him
!

The carriage was entered, both men ensuring the delicate sex to be safely ensconced before Lloyd followed suit; then Bob Stevenson walked to the funeral carriage and gravely – as befitted
the privileged status of Chief Mourner – spoke quietly to the coachman.

The vehicle jolted into motion, then cousin Bob swung lithely into the family coach with undeniable elegance, and off went the procession.

Minus the one who must be found.

The Watcher also moved, for he had business to pursue and duties to observe, but would return with time to spare.

He had no plan as such but he could feel the powers gathering within.

Fate.

Destiny.

Finally in hand.

Like a silver cane.

Mulholland entered the station to find bedlam, as various self-important citizens gathered round the ominously still figure of Lieutenant Roach. The more sensible fathers, who
had decided their sons deserved what they got and hell mend them, were no doubt occupied with affairs of commerce, but there were enough paternal petitioners, with various lawyers at hand, to keep
the pot boiling.

The new arrival towered over the swarming crowd, caught Roach’s gaze from the back, and was gratified to see that there was a certain flinty obduracy to his superior that did not bode well
for the hectoring horde, had they but the wit to realise it.

Mulholland skirted the edges and slid in behind his beleaguered commander, signalling up one of the constables, Ewan Sinclair, a hefty specimen who sported the mid-burgeoning of a prize keeker
from the student rammy.

Folk high, low, lawful or otherwise often took Mulholland for a soft mark, due to smooth skin and blue eyes, but these latter were like chips of ice as he trained them on the nearest combatants.
With the bruised but hulking figure of Sinclair looming up on the other side, the two caused more than a little unease, as if arrest were merely waiting in the wings.

When policemen gather, no-one stands safe.

A silence fell, or rather there was a cessation of clamour and Roach took full advantage. Mind you, to be truthful, though it was useful to have men at each arm, he would not in fact have been
disquieted to face the yammering host on his own, for he had awoken that morning and announced to his wife –
enough is enough!

Mistress Roach lay unsure whether this referred to their marriage, the opera, or life in general. She had little chance to question her husband further, because he levered himself out of bed,
donned slippers, struggled into a far from flamboyant dressing gown, then stalked off to the dining room where two cold, hard boiled eggs and a small mound of salt awaited the pleasure of his
company.

The memory of those eggs, smoothly composed behind the shell, now sustained him.

He took a deep breath.

Robert Roach was about to make a speech of sorts.

‘Your offspring,’ he began crisply, ‘have broken the peace and assaulted my officers. If by chance you harbour any doubts, please look around you.’

Indeed throughout the station many a plastered eyebrow, bandaged jaw, and discoloured cheekbone was manifest, in addition to the afore-mentioned bruised keeker.

‘The injuries caused have not so far threatened life, though who knows what complications may ensue, but at least two of my men have had to be dispatched to the infirmary.’

Like so much in life, factually accurate yet not
quite
true.

Ballantyne had indeed been sent to the nearest hospital, but that was because his mother worked there as head nurse, and since the station cupboard had run short of supplies the constable had
been instructed to scrounge what he could in the way of salves, plasters and bandages.

Sinclair, despite being a Highlander with little sense of urban direction, had been posted along to make sure the other did not get lost in the dark.

They had returned laden with contraband, and while Ballantyne basked in the unaccustomed acclaim, the young constable was somewhat reserved, as if something was on his mind.

Of course none of these supplies was passed through to the equally bruised and battered students in the cells.

The force looks after its own.

Only natural.

‘In view of the severity of physical damage incurred by my officers in pursuance of their duty,’ Roach continued, ‘I have no option but to press charges, and I will do so
without fear or favour!’

In fact there was no pretext to this attitude; the lieutenant had seethed through the whole night and opened his eyes to a fury cold as the boiled eggs.

This was a violent affray, lives could have been lost, especially those of his own foot-soldiers, and it would be a mistake to think that the rigid cast of his normal demeanour encased a heart
of pure stone.