by David Ashton
McLevy hammered his low-brimmed bowler firmly on to his head as the wind was beginning to rise.
Timing is everything.
43
On doit des égards aux vivants: on ne doit aux morts que la vérité.
We owe respect to the living; to the dead we owe only truth.
VOLTAIRE
Arthur Conan Doyle stood like a ruined castle as the rain fell upon his shoulders. No more sailor’s cap and jacket, though he would use those soon enough; he was dressed for a funeral. Sombre. Black.
The service had been long, despite the driving rain, with some folk there purely out of curiosity and a great many Spiritualist followers come to pay respects.
The minister had done his best to combine Christianity with mesmeric forces and had got into a rare tangle, which had taken a fair time to unravel.
Then the head of the Edinburgh Spiritualists, a tall, ascetic man who might well have been an undertaker in another life, spoke at great length of the comfort Sophia would find in the other regions of being.
Doyle’s mind had drifted. He’d hoped his mother might accompany him but Mary Doyle was inclining towards the Anglicans these days and preferred to rest at home.
She was also a sensible woman and did not enjoy funerals. Plus the fact that anything to do with this whole business seemed fraught with danger and she would be pleased when her son was safely removed to sea for a while.
None of this was of any comfort to Conan Doyle as he brooded upon a lost love. A gentle, sensitive creature who had become the innocent victim of a madman.
McLevy could have told him differently but hadn’t the heart, and besides, as the lieutenant had put in summation, let sleeping dogs lie.
Roach in fact had been in attendance with the wife hanging on his arm. Indeed there were quite a few wifies clustered around the lieutenant’s gloomy form, possibly the whist club had doubled up with the ethereal forces.
Ballantyne had also put in an appearance, a home-knitted scarf knotted round his neck which both guarded against influenza and kept his birthmark concealed.
When at last the Head Spiritualist had concluded his sincere if overlong tribute, all the erstwhile mourners quit the scene and McLevy noticed that after solemn nods in his direction from both, Roach and Ballantyne walked down together with the gaggle of wifies chirping at the back, no doubt discussing the morals of Muriel Grierson and murder upon the stage in the same breath.
The inspector was intrigued by this odd pairing. Roach had no offspring. Perhaps he saw Ballantyne as a son of sorts? Or more likely was intent on keeping him away from McLevy’s baleful influence.
Anyway, they deserved each other.
Mulholland had found shelter under a tree, his wound aching in the damp, so the inspector and Doyle had the mournful scene to themselves.
They looked down at the tombstone, which bore the name of Sophia Adler and the one quote:
They that are after the flesh do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the Spirit, the things of the Spirit.
‘For to be carnally minded is death,’ said McLevy.
Doyle was jolted out of his chivalric melancholy.
‘What?’
‘That’s the rest of the saying. The Bible. Romans.’
Arthur sighed and looked at this strange man who had come into his life and brought its opposite. Death.
‘I am bound for Liverpool,’ he said.
‘Guard your wallet, they’re a shifty bunch down there.’
‘I shall not stay long. I am to be ship’s surgeon. On a steamship, the Mayumba. Cargo and passengers to and from Madeira and West Africa.’
‘Will ye see any flying fish?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘I’ve aye wanted to see a fish fly.’
For a moment they both looked once more at the tombstone and in unison removed their hats.
McLevy’s silent thought was that it was for the best that he had decided not to tell Conan Doyle about the resurrected father, the letters, plus the suspicion he had of Magnus Bannerman being possessed and used for murder. The young man had enough buzzing around in his head.
Perhaps some day. In the future.
For Doyle, he thought that he would never forget this woman. She was burnt into his heart.
He would recreate her one day though. Change the name a little but honour the essential memory.
In silence they both made goodbye in their own fashion to Sophia Adler and then walked slowly away.
Doyle suddenly stopped.
‘One day I will write,’ he said, ‘a detective to rival any in fiction. He is much in my mind.’
‘Will he be anything like me?’ asked McLevy, curious that he might have bred a doppelganger.
‘Not too much,’ replied Doyle. ‘Save in one attribute.’
‘And whit is that?’
‘A capacity for the unexpected.’
The young man grinned suddenly and McLevy let out a sharp bark of laughter before sticking out his hand.
‘Goodbye Arthur Conan Doyle,’ he said in formal tones.
‘Ignatius.’
‘Whit?’
‘My other name. Between the Arthur and the Conan.’
McLevy, who was only James, whistled.
‘An English king, martyred saint and Irish hero. A load tae carry.’
‘I have broad shoulders.’
Having said this, Doyle almost stood to attention.
‘Goodbye James McLevy, Inspector of Police.’
He took the proffered hand in his huge paw and the two men gazed at each other as the Edinburgh rain fell upon their bare heads.
Then they banged on their hats and parted company.
McLevy watched the giant figure wend its way down a sinuous path, into the trees and out of sight.
Was it his imagination or did the young man already walk with a sailor’s rolling gait?
McLevy stepped back to the disconsolate Mulholland who was feeling out of sorts.
‘Didn’t even say goodbye,’ he complained, as regards the departed Doyle.
‘Hardly knows ye,’ was the unsympathetic response.
Mulholland snuffled into a hankie.
‘I think I’m catching my death here.’
‘You’re gey feeble these days.’
‘I’ve had a knife stuck in my ribs,’ rejoined the constable indignantly. ‘It tends to lower the resistance.’
McLevy nodded but made no move to go.
The rain suddenly stopped and a shaft of sun burst through the dark clouds.
A mist began to rise from the damp vegetation below and through it came the figure of a man in uniform. A grey outline that matched the haze and might even have been created out of it, so ghostly did the effigy seem.
McLevy saw it first and drew Mulholland further back into the shelter of the dripping trees. They watched as the figure approached from the opposite direction to that which the mourners had taken.
The man walked slowly, as if the incline caused him difficulty, but as he got closer they could see that his uniform was that of a Confederate officer, the slouch hat obscuring the face as his boots thudded dully into the damp earth.
He wore a cape of sorts over his shoulders and the mist seemed to cling as if attracted to the material.
At last he reached the grave of Sophia Adler and knelt down, again with difficulty as if his bones were creaking.
The sun vanished and mist swirled around to veil him once more as he swept off his hat.
Then after a long silence when Mulholland crammed the hankie over his nose so as not to let out a snorting wheeze, the strains of a song were heard. The voice was in tune enough but harsh as if unused to melody.
‘O Polly, O Polly,
It’s for your sake alone,
I’ve left my old father,
My country, my home.
I’ve left my old mother
To weep and to mourn,
I am a Rebel soldier
And far from my home.’
Then there was a creak of leather boots as for a moment they glimpsed the figure rise and bring up something in his hand. Then the figure was concealed once more and after some time, a single shot was fired, the sound absorbed in the muffled damp, but unmistakable enough.
‘Has he killed himself?’ whispered Mulholland.
‘Anything is possible,’ the inspector whispered back. ‘Let us investigate further.’
Mulholland took out his hornbeam stick as they walked cautiously towards the grave; bullets were no respecter of persons and he had scar tissue enough already.
But when they arrived, there was nothing to be seen.
‘Was it a ghostie, d’ye think?’ asked Mulholland, coming over a little Irish in the cemetery atmosphere.
‘I doubt it,’ responded McLevy, bending down to pick up something lying on the newly dug grave.
It was a revolver. Black. Shiny. He spun the chambers.
‘Empty,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he shot at the sky or maybe even God – ye never know.’
The east wind made an appearance and the mist lifted. They could now see clearly in all directions but there was no trace of the uniformed figure.
‘Like something in a dream,’ said Mulholland quietly.
‘Just so,’ replied the inspector. ‘Just so.’
Later on, a blackbird flew overhead and chattered indignantly at the two figures far below as Jean Brash and McLevy sipped their delicious brew.
Why the bird was in such a bate was not for them to know but it had just narrowly missed being impaled on the claws of a cat and considered the human beings in this garden to be partways responsible.
‘What a business, eh?’ said Jean Brash.
‘Uhuh.’
Having packed the snuffling Mulholland back to his lodgings, the inspector had found himself at a loose end and, as often happened in such circumstance, his feet had led him to the Just Land.
It was late afternoon, and the girls just getting used to being back in the house after their banishment, so things were quiet and Jean, it seemed, happy to see him.
They sat companionably enough in a little gazebo in the garden sheltered from the drizzle, and enjoyed a rare moment of peace together.
McLevy sniffed at his coffee with relish.
‘Whit d’ye cry this?’
‘Mountain Breeze. A Lebanese blend. Aromatic.’
He took a delicate mouthful and Jean watched with some approval because he had a tendency to gulp at things.
She shook her head at the story he had just told of events stretching from eighteen years ago till now.
One event he had not covered, however, was Henry Preger’s sudden death and her purchasing arsenic powder for the rats at an apothecary’s far away geographically from the Holy Land. But no more of that, safer ground in holding to where the inspector had led her.
‘More sugar biscuits?’ she offered.
Hannah Semple had brought out a large plate of the same and although warning McLevy no tae guzzle the whole lot doon at one snash, indicated her gratitude for his pulling certain irons out of the fire by absent-mindedly tapping the crown of his low-brimmed bowler as if to make sure his head was still inside.
McLevy took two of the proffered biscuits, dipped one in his coffee and sucked at the soggy mixture with pleasure.
‘And there’s no charge you can lay at his door?’ Jean asked, with a certain satisfaction, because she had been fond of Kirstie Donnachie and not happy about having to dole out the information to a policeman. It went against the grain.
‘No. I put it all before the lieutenant and he felt the same. Too long ago, unreliable witnessing, and a’body deid but one. Not a hope in hell.’
He tackled the second sugar biscuit in the same manner as the first.
‘John Donnachie, Jonathen Sinclair, is free. All he has to do is live with his own conscience.’
‘From what you say at the grave, he might seem to be settling accounts as best he could.’
‘If it was him. May have been a ghost.’
They laughed quietly and then saw two female figures come towards them.
‘We’ve covered that fish pond,’ said Maisie Powers. ‘Wire netting; that’ll keep the bugger out.’
Lily Baxter, who had linked arms with the bigger woman, grinned and mimed some creature with sharp claws trying to get through to the fish.
Maisie burst out laughing.
‘She’s a daft wee devil,’ she announced; then, after a ritual scowl at McLevy, faced Lily and pronounced slowly.
‘C’mon. I’ll race ye tae the door.’
Off they went, Lily leading the way by a mile, the shrieks sounding like two children on the loose.
‘I have invited Maisie to come and join us,’ said Jean, as if it were a Masonic Lodge proposal. ‘She will take over from Francine. What she lacks in finesse she will make up for in vigour and Lily can guide her.’
She caught a look in McLevy’s eye and said firmly.
‘At the moment they are just friends.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Maisie tells me that when she leathers the clients she will imagine your face upon their backside.’
‘Very kind.’
Then Jean’s face became serious.
‘I’ve meant to tell you. Jessie Nairn was buried with due dignity. All the girls were on hand.’
McLevy wasn’t sure how much dignity a tiding of magpies would bring, but contented himself with a nod.
‘What’ll happen tae the Countess’s place?’
‘Oh, someone will buy it,’ said Jean airily. ‘It’s well enough equipped.’
He shot her a look but decided not to pursue this conversational bearing.
A low-pitched yowl came from the direction of the garden wall.
‘That bloody cat!’ Jean exclaimed.
‘Whit?’
‘The reason we had tae cover over the pool. It had one of the big fish out flopping on the grass!’
An offended black shape sat on the wall, just missed aim upon a fat bird and now the pond was out of reach.
‘Bathsheba!’ McLevy spluttered. ‘Whit’s she doing here?’
‘Who?’
‘Bathsheba. My cat. Well, comes tae visit. Whit’s she doing up here?’
‘Hunting,’ said Jean grimly.
McLevy called out to the animal, which promptly jumped off the wall and disappeared.
‘Seems to know you well enough,’ Jean commented dryly.
The inspector shook his head. It was a long haul from his attic to this garden; feline ways are mysterious indeed.
He reached for another sugar biscuit.
‘I have to thank you, James,’ said Jean suddenly. ‘The Countess. She had me down and out.’
‘Ye’d have thought of something,’ he grunted.
‘I’m not so sure. Are you all right?’
She noticed that he had stopped in mid-stream, the sugar biscuit dipped into the coffee but not withdrawn.
A twinge of pain had hit him in the chest and he’d had another flash of that damned figure from the dream.
‘I’m fine,’ he replied.
And he was. Indigestion can take many forms and he had been eating haphazardly too much of late.
Unfortunately the sugar biscuit had now dissolved in the coffee. He tried to fish it out but things just got worse as the remnants swirled around.
‘James McLevy, what a mucky creature you are,’ scolded Jean, throwing away the dregs and giving him a clean cup into which she poured a fresh brew. ‘Here!’
He accepted this, doled in his usual four spoons of sugar, and sat back meekly enough as if he and Jean were an old married couple, she tutting at his incapacity.
But in fact she was a bawdy-hoose keeper and he was a man knee deep in murders.
This last adventure would keep him going for a while, though.
‘That poor girl,’ said Jean as if she had read his mind. ‘No matter what she di
d. To be shot like that. And die not knowing.’
‘Well, she knows now,’ he muttered.
The inspector keeked out of the gazebo and looked at the dull sky, wondering what might be going on in the spirit world; it would be busy up there.
He caught a trace of concern in Jean’s gaze and smiled at her as he prepared to drink his coffee.
‘Whit a caper, eh?’ said James McLevy.
The McLevy Mysteries
Shadow of the Serpent
In Edinburgh,1880, election fever grips the city. But while the rich and educated argue about politics, in the dank wynds of the docks it’s a struggle just to stay alive. When a prostitute is brutally murdered disturbing memories from thirty years ago are stirred in McLevy who is soon lured into a murky world of politics, perversion and deception – and the shadow of the serpent.
Fall from Grace
Based around the terrible Tay Bridge disaster, the story begins with a break-in and murder at the Edinburgh home of Sir Thomas Bouch, the enigmatic, egotistical builder of the bridge. With the help of brothel madam, Jean Brash, McLevy finds the murderer but much more is yet to unfold – arson, sexual obsession and suicide.
Trick of the Light
After Confederate officer, Jonathen Sinclair, arrives in Edinburgh to purchase a blockade-runner from Clydeside shipbuilders he is betrayed to the Union forces and shot dead. McLevy teams up with Arthur Conan Doyle to find the agents responsible and Sinclair’s missing money. Meanwhile, a beautiful young spiritualist, Sophia Adler, is the toast of Edinburgh with her dramatic séances. However, she could yet prove to be the deadliest woman McLevy and Conan Doyle will ever encounter.
Available from www.polygonbooks.co.uk
About the Author
David Ashton was born in Greenock in 1941. He studied at Central Drama School in London from 1964 to 1967, starring in The Voyage of Charles Darwin, Brass, Hamish Macbeth and Waking the Dead. His most recent performance was in The Last King of Scotland.