Trick of the Light (27 page)

‘You are in custody now. You belong tae us.’

‘Anyone else see this disappearing letter?’ asked Mulholland sceptically.

Jean sighed. ‘No.’

‘And you went tae meet this man on your own?’ McLevy said to the smear. ‘No Hannah Semple? No Angus?’

‘They were busy, and I can look after myself.’

‘That’s what it looks like,’ Mulholland commented. ‘What with your knife planted in his corpse.’

‘Things are not always what they seem. He may well have been dead when I arrived.’

‘You couldn’t see?’

‘The room was dark.’

Jean sighed again. It wasn’t so much a matter of how she had got into the mess; there had been time to think on the hard bunk and she had a deep suspicion about who was behind all this. The problem was how to get out of it.

There was nothing she could do stuck in jail and Hannah Semple, redoubtable though she might be, did not have the wherewithal to untangle this web of deceit.

And her lawyers could do nothing. Not with the given facts. She was stuck like a cow in the mire.

No. There was only one hope.

And he was returning from the stained wall to stand before her.

‘Not whit they seem?
Is that the best you have to offer?’ McLevy declared.

‘I could say more. But it’s a waste of time. I’ll content myself wi’ this: I am innocent.’

‘That’s not much in the way of proof, Mistress Brash,’ Mulholland said remonstratively.

Jean shrugged. She had not taken her eyes off McLevy.

‘It leaves us with the facts as witnessed,’ he uttered soberly. ‘And I think they’re strong enough to seal your death warrant. Or if not execution, a long slow miserable demise rotting away in the Perth penitentiary.’

This was not music to her ears.

Not at all hopeful.

McLevy leaned in tight again and whispered the words, softly, as if he might utilise the mesmeric influences floating around Edinburgh.

‘Confess, Jean. Gang easy. Throw yourself on the mercy of the court; admit your guilt. It may work in mitigation. But you must confess.’

They were eye to eye now and she could not tell if he were challenging from what he truly believed or trying to push her to the limit of self-credence.

‘I’ll see you in hell first,’ she replied equally softly. ‘And answer me this: why would I want to kill him?’

‘Ye’d had a rammy the night before. He threatened you, perhaps. Self-defence, eh?’

‘Defence or no, I never touched the man.’

‘His blood on your hand, your knife in his rearward side. It’s more than enough.’

She shivered, not from any residual guilt but from a shaft of pain that had clamped around her neck.

Surely the inspector would believe her?

As if in answer, McLevy moved ever closer. His white parchment face filled her vision and, for the inspector’s part, he gazed into her green eyes and caught the delicate scent of French perfume.

They say that you should only smell a woman’s fragrance when in the act of love.

But there are other times.

‘Look in my eyes, Jean, he murmured. ‘Tell me you are innocent.’

There was a long moment as she held his gaze, her own regard unwavering.

‘I am innocent,’ she finally answered.

From Mulholland’s point of view all he could see was two heads together, like horses whispering in a field.

Then the silence was broken by a soft cruel laugh.

‘What a pity,’ said the inspector of police to the bawdy-hoose keeper, ‘your whole life contradicts that wee notion.’

Jean still did not waver.

‘You are a bastard, James McLevy,’ she said calmly.

Then, under her breath, as if she did not even want to hear the words herself she added, ‘
Help me.
’

‘Only if you confess.’

‘
Never
.’

His eyes searched hers then he jerked his head back and spoke loudly as if to a listening audience.

‘You will hang or end in prison. An old toothless crone. Either way, ye’ll die like a dog.’

‘And you’ll go to your grave knowing that I am an innocent woman. And you did nothing to assist me,’ she almost spat into his face, green eyes filled with a baffled fury. ‘Go to hell.’

That was that, then.

After Jean had been taken back to the cells by one of the female helpers at the station, McLevy and Mulholland stood in the main hall, pondering in their different ways upon what had passed in the interrogation room.

‘What do you think, sir?’

‘I think,’ said McLevy, ‘justice will prevail.’

He shot a look sideways at Mulholland. The gap between himself and the constable was partly mended but McLevy could not rid himself of the suspicion that the details of the interrogation would find their way back to Roach. He had modulated his reactions accordingly but this was probably an unfair assessment of his constable and more to do with his own odd feeling of guilt that he had sidelined Mulholland because he found Conan Doyle’s company more bracing.

One thing for sure, things were hotting up. Murders right, left and centre, sliced sharpers in the taverns, acid-pourers in the markets and the only crime solved, that of burglary with a wee bit of hanky-panky perhaps thrown in.

As regards Jean Brash, he had warned her of the dangers of starting a war with the Countess and now it looked as if she had suffered the consequences.

And if the Countess was behind this, then it bore the marks of long-term planning.

Jean may have met her match.

How the hell could he get her out of this pickle?

Or was she guilty in any case?

She had a fierce temper and the knife to hand.

McLevy became aware that he was under scrutiny.

‘Your stomach’s kicking up a blue storm,’ Mulholland observed. ‘You need some fuel in the boiler, sir.’

Ratiocination pays little heed to animal needs, and McLevy had been oblivious to the organic growling noise that lamented a lack of sustenance.

‘Do you think the woman’s culpable?’ he asked suddenly.

But before Mulholland could answer, Lieutenant Roach emerged from his office and approached at a rate of knots.

‘Well?’ He demanded.

‘Guilty as hell. Dead to rights. Open and shut case. Hang her the morrow morning.’

Roach sighed at his obdurate subordinate.

‘I can exist without the sarcastic recitation, inspector. What is your
professional
opinion?’

‘It looks bad.’

‘Or good. Depending on the point of view.’

Having corrected the potentially skewed approach of his inspector, Roach glanced back to his office. In truth, though he derived a deal of satisfaction at the thought of McLevy putting Jean Brash though the wringer of the law and would keep an eagle eye on the process, he had other matters on his mind. Pressure building everywhere he looked.

The newspapers had got wind of the Morrison murder, possibly Doctor Jarvis had been talking in his club, and it was only a matter of time before the story broke. This he told McLevy before going on to a more immediate matter.

‘Mister Galloway is sitting in my office,’ he said.

‘Is he now?’

‘I still don’t like the fellow,’ muttered Roach. ‘But a father’s grief must be respected.’

Indeed the man had broken down in unexpected floods of tears at the sight of his son’s dead body. While his horses were slaughtered and gourmandised all over France, a carcass nearer to home had unleashed the water of wretchedness.

Roach had planked him down in his office to recover and was not looking forward to more dolour on return.

Sympathy came in short supply for the lieutenant. One of the few characteristics he shared with his inspector.

He did not like his heart disturbed because it brought great unease and he did not wish to delve into the reasons why. Men find emotions an alarming prospect.

‘I offered the poor man consolation that the killer of his son was under lock and key.’

‘That’s nice,’ replied McLevy.

Not an enthusiastic response and Roach was provoked enough to needle the inert responder.

‘Oh, come along, McLevy, you can surely allow yourself a wee gloat. The Queen of Crime dethroned, eh?’

Roach smiled at Mulholland who was po-faced as his inspector.

‘You should be rejoicing, James. Your greatest ambition realised. Jean Brash behind bars!’

‘But is she the killer?’ muttered McLevy.

Roach almost hopped in the air with delight that he had provoked this reaction.

‘Of course she is.’

‘Innocent till proven guilty, sir,’ Mulholland hazarded.

‘Yes, yes, but look at the evidence, man! Who else could it be – a Halloween ghost?’

Having made this, to his mind, unanswerable point, Roach prepared to return to his office.

‘Aye, well, Galloway should have pulled himself together by now,’ he announced as he departed the scene. ‘I hope so. But as I say, his consolation is the guilty party. In the cells where she belongs.’

As his lieutenant passed by, Ballantyne looked up shyly from his desk, hand over to hide a wiry insect he had found crawling around inside. The creepy-crawly bush telegraph had obviously passed on word that succour was to be found in the Leith Station at a certain outpost.

Roach gave him an approving glance then turned to almost strike a pose like a man addressing his golf ball.

‘The evidence is inconvertible, McLevy,’ he declared roundly. ‘Tie up the case and hammer in the nails. Then get on to the Morrison matter. Crime never sleeps!’

With that admonitory assertion, he opened the door to his office and disappeared inside.

He had managed to annoy McLevy no end.

‘With any luck Mister Galloway will assuage his grief by swiping the good lieutenant over his head wi’ the jawbone of an ass,’ he muttered.

‘Or even a horse,’ Mulholland said.

McLevy went back to something he had observed when viewing the corpse.

‘Did ye examine the death wound?’ he asked.

‘I did.’

‘We’ll hae to wait for Doctor Jarvis in the morning but – it would appear to me that it was a
sinister
blow.’

‘My opinion also. From the left.’

‘Jean Brash is right-handed. And a stab frae the back. That’s not her style. She would face you.’

Mulholland nodded. That made sense of sorts but nothing you might prove.

‘She would strike from the front,’ McLevy surmised.

‘Into the stomach and up.’

‘Or down,’ added the inspector, a grim smile upon his face. ‘One thing for certain sure, constable. There’s too many knives in this city.’

And too many dead bodies. 

28

De poney run, he jump an’ pitch,

An’ tumble massa in de ditch;

He died, an’ de jury wonder’d why

De verdic was de blue-tailed fly.

T
RADITIONAL
, ‘The Blue-tailed Fly’

Edinburgh, 1864

My Dearest Melissa,

Now it is almost over. The hounds of hell are still on my trail but I will fox them yet!

This city is a contrast to the other but underneath the fine buildings and straight lines of the streets the same poverty exists, only Edinburgh hides it better. Beneath its skirts, as it were. Glasgow makes no secret of its privation.

East and West. North and South. Nothing changes.

I find I am beginning to be affected by the strange ways of the people here and the even stranger part I have been asked to play in this war.

The news I receive is not good. The steamer Juno ran the blockade all the way from Greenock into Galveston as you no doubt have heard, but we lost the
Emma Henry
and the Iona was in offshore collision with another steamer whose captain was drunk as a skunk, and while his own ship survived ours went to the bottom.

Not much justice there, I am afraid.

The Iona now lies in the deep waters of the Clyde with fish swimming all around the great load of coal that she had shipped on board for the Atlantic crossing.

It is as if the Fates have lined up against us, and I know there are those who pour scorn on such superstitious nonsense, but I have seen grotesque events on the field of battle that have made me sometimes doubt my Christian reason.

For instance a bullet that was headed straight for me beside a river was intercepted by the poor unwitting body of one of my own men who had stepped up to return me a newly filled flask of water.

It was my fate to live and his to die. The chance was on my side that moment.

The single shot marksman who had climbed up on a bluff by the water was himself brought down by John Findhorn with a buffalo rifle that had been, so he told me, in his family for generations.

He lost it on the retreat from Gettysburg, along with his life.

But I repeat myself, do I not? I have surely told of John’s death before.

And Fate? What does it mean? A force beyond us that works its will despite our puny efforts to dictate otherwise.

Like God without the beard.

I have been spared. But for what cause?

Ever since I arrived in this dank country, this Scotland that the natives hold in such great esteem that they leave the place in droves while lamenting their lost heritage, I have felt as if it was meant to be.

That every move I made was predestined, ordained, as if there is no other place on earth for me to arrive at and exist.

Is this not a kind of madness?

My mind is fragile. Like a shipwreck that water snakes swim in and out of, through the skeleton bones that once held the hull in place now with great gaps between them.