The Painted Lady-TPL (6 page)

Authors: David Ashton

BOOK: The Painted Lady-TPL

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Then she was gone, leaving the artist standing there foolishly, one finger still outstretched.

Diary of James McLevy

Judith Pearson was put on trial and the crush of people inside the court as vulgar were it for the gaudiest theatre show. They were hanging from the rafters, every eye upon the accused woman. The Painted Lady.

Roach and Mulholland were there in official capacity and I thought to glimpse Jean Brash amid the throng. All roads lead to Rome.

The judge’s wife stood in isolation at the dock, serene, unruffled, in perfect repose as the dirty linen was well and truly hauled out in court, the butler’s view, though confined by the relevant aperture, being teased out in great detail. The passionate fumbling as buttons popped their moorings and his rendition of how the couple continued their frenzy against hitherto respectable wallpaper drew gasps from all sides.

Boothroyd blustered courtroom denial but throughout it all Judith remained calm, untouched by the accusation of keyhole carnality.

The source of arsenic identified, there was no proof of intent to poison and no trace had been found of the cyanide. The butler tried to imply that he might have seen her drop something into the hot toddy but retracted this under defence questioning and I felt that this was just a desperate throw by Dunsmore.

The Haymarket man, unlike myself, cut a poor figure in the witness box – like a vindictive ferret.

The verdict? Not proven. That is, we think you’re guilty but we cannae nail it down.

McLevy laughed to himself, laid down the pen, picked up his tin mug and wandered to the window. His city was glittering below in the shadows like a will o’ the wisp.

Where was Judith Pearson this night – in her lover’s arms or perhaps standing by the French windows staring out, while a high-pitched scream announced the death of something in the darkness?

A few months later in the garden of the Just Land, McLevy and Jean Brash sipped coffee while autumn leaves lost their moorings in the pale afternoon sunshine.

Hannah Semple had dumped down the tray, and then clomped off to prepare the magpies of the bawdy-hoose for evening exertions.

The two had reconciled whatever passage in the depths had caused friction between them and at least for the moment could enjoy the Lebanese infusion.

“I saw Judith Pearson,” Jean remarked out of the blue. “In the street. Face like a mask.”

McLevy dipped a sugar biscuit in the coffee just long enough that it softened but did not collapse, and munched the resultant compromise. “On her own, I expect?”

“I looked into her eyes,” said Jean. “They were like two black holes. A marked woman.”

“Boothroyd fled the city, as I knew he would.”

Jean winced as he slurped at the coffee, a sound not unlike water going down a plughole. “I wonder she didnae do the same – leave Edinburgh?”

McLevy’s thought was that perhaps the woman had nowhere else to go. “The judge’s wife risked all,” he announced portentously. “And ended wi’ nothing. Passion, desire, love – it’s a bugger, eh?”

“So they tell me,” came the ironic response.

“You make a good living out of it!”

“That’s
lust
,” she said with some asperity. “Not the same thing at all.”

Jean had often wondered to herself the reason why, in the artist’s studio, she had slipped away from the intended seduction. Perhaps because the created image had shown a version of herself that was not palatable.

A woman ravenous for admiration – it was not a pretty sight and she counted herself worth more than that. To hell with admiration.

She would never find it in the bloodshot eyes opposite, that’s for sure.

The inspector pursed his lips and snaffled another sugar biscuit. “Judith Pearson aye seemed so innocent in that picture. As if she were . . . deep drowned in love.”

He paused, biscuit poised in a strangely dainty hand. “I am reading Sir Walter Scott’s
The Heart of Midlothian
, and in it, a poor soul, Madge Wildfire, is betrayed by love and driven insane.”

“I know the story,” said Jean. “The fate is not uncommon.”

“Her last words are concerned with her own death,” he continued. “A song, ‘Proud Maisie’.”

“Tell me, thou bonny bird.

When shall I marry me?’

“When six braw gentlemen

Kirkward shall carry ye.’

The glow-worm o’er grave and stone

Shall light thee steady;

The owl from the steeple sing,

“Welcome, proud lady.”

Having recited the words, he decided not to risk dunking the second biscuit. Don’t push your luck. Then he became aware of something.

“Whit’re you looking at?” said James McLevy.