by David Ashton
The inspector still did not say a word, and now it was Mulholland’s turn to misinterpret the lack of response.
He and the inspector, of course, had been angling for bigger fish, and who knows what Alan Grant might have said if they’d kept the pressure on?
Everything or nothing – who knows?
Too late now.
‘Well,’ opined Roach, turning away, ‘I have to deal with my learned friends. You, Mulholland, can help organise release of these upstarts – take Ballantyne and tell him to imagine that he is unleashing a nest of dung beetles.’
He signalled Mulholland to follow to the door and had a last word for the entity they had left behind.
‘McLevy, once you have finished standing there like Patience on a monument, perhaps you might join us lesser mortals in the humdrum life of Leith Station.’
Then he had another thought.
‘Oh by the way – my top hat has a large dent. Who is going to pay for that, I wonder?’
The door closed and both men were gone.
Of course Patience did not stand in the various memorials, she was on her backside and struggling to get away from a confining bond.
Not unlike Jessica Drummond in McLevy’s grip.
And the inspector had let her go. To trump himself.
Hoist by his own petard, to bring in another fanciful and unwelcome figure of speech.
The girl had moved fast. Roust the lawyers, get them to the judge, serve the papers, don’t look back.
Move fast. It helps when you’re young.
Betrayal is like ashes in the mouth.
Under an impugned moustache.
He felt such a pain inside – a sudden shaft, as if he had been pierced to the bone.
Was this love or some illness in the marrow?
Or is it much the same thing?
The inspector moved slowly to the door and slipped through it into another life.
The corridor was once more silent.
Inside the confines of the cell Daniel and Alan waited, not realising what was happening beyond their sphere and for the moment, it seemed, forgotten by the forces of justice.
Both had a jumble of thoughts running in their minds.
Daniel finally rose and dragged his twisted leg, which pained considerably after the night’s exertions, across the floor to peer up the now vacant corridor.
‘Thank God my sister was not taken,’ he said finally, his face hidden in shadow. ‘Think of the disgrace.’
‘Yes,’ came Alan’s voice in the dim uncertain light of the cell. ‘Think of the disgrace.’
Chapter 16
With a heart of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander;
With a burning spear,
And a horse of air,
To the wilderness I wander.
Anon, Tom o’ Bedlam
The Old Ship tavern divides into two dominions separated by a small door, the bar itself in a horseshoe shape where the publicans ply their trade.
One kingdom is that of the rougher element, where the young street keelies and their fancy girls with bright ribbons huddle thegither to pledge undying love, and plot mischief against a society for which they have nothing but contempt; where washed up nymphs of the pavé watch this youthful parade, envy the gay sparkle of eyes and avoid such mirrors where they might contrast what once they were and have now become.
Ghosts at a feast.
Sim Carnegie was in his glory in such a world; he trawled the various dives to pick up from informers what tit-bits of scurrilous gossip and petty crime had floated like scum to the surface, often ending up at the Old Ship where he entertained his cronies with such tales.
It was noticeable that he rarely bought a drink, perhaps thinking his adept company and fine stories were payment enough, but this night his companions were well nigh astonished to find Sim’s hand disappearing into his pocket and emerging, not with a grubby handkerchief, but coin of the realm with which he proceeded to buy not one but two rounds.
When twitted about this sudden largesse Carnegie tapped the side of his nose in a self-mocking gesture and mentioned a certain Mister Herbert Lawson whose letter had arrived at his office address with welcome news.
His mother’s lawyer and a dried up wee specimen, but honest enough considering the profession.
The news? Ah, that would be telling, but welcome enough that he had borrowed a sum to augment the miserable pittance he received at the Leith Herald!
Sycophantic laughter greeted that remark and as Sim turned to survey his empire from the top of the horseshoe bend his attention was caught by two figures sitting at a table through in the other room.
This was where the more respectable visitors to the tavern sat, occasionally sipping their tippeny ale and cocking their wee finger in the air.
Nonsense, of course; the other bar was marginally less noisy and had private booths where business might be secretly transacted, but the tobacco fumes were just as thick and the faces just as flushed with strong drink; perhaps a better brand, peat-whisky as opposed to spiel-the-wa’.
Such distinctions meant little to Sim; at this moment he was monarch of all he surveyed.
He swaggered through the connecting door and with a grin like a tipsy shark stood before the two figures.
They had seen him coming, but continued their deliberate ingestion of some much needed belly timber.
‘Leith Herald. The Monday edition,’ Carnegie said. ‘It will make bonny reading.’
From his salt herring and tatties, the poor man’s supper, Mulholland preferring a dish of sheep’s heid broth, James McLevy looked up at the puddock before them.
Both policemen had for the most part been silent since arrival, ordered, drank, ate; it had been a tiring and for the most part, unsuccessful day.
They had sadly been unable to procure a booth, which might have spared them this unsavoury invasion.
Since the inspector had continued masticating, while removing the odd small fish bone from his moustache, Sim put one hand in familiar style upon their table and leant in.
‘So, sir,’ he remarked, with the solemn timbre of someone who has imbibed well but not, in his opinion, too much. ‘How proceeds the investigation?’
‘It proceeds.’
The inspector went back to his meal. Mulholland had never left his, but Carnegie was not to be ignored.
Headlines were running in his mind.
‘My poor old mother lies in the morgue, her murder cries out for vengeance and the police pass time in a tavern. Draw your own conclusions.’
‘A man needs his provender,’ replied McLevy mildly enough, ‘and I didnae notice you flooding the station wi’ filial tears.’
‘I loved my mother,‘ Carnegie declared indignantly. ‘And my mother loved me!’
‘D’ye have that in writing?’
‘Indeed I do!’ was the triumphant response. ‘I have just received legal notice that I am her sole inheritor.’
‘That’s nice,’ McLevy said blandly. ‘Well, I have something tae tell you, sole inheritor.’
The inspector flicked a silvery piece of herring-bone in the direction of Carnegie’s greasy shoes.
‘If you don’t bugger off, I’m going tae pit you on the deck.’
Mulholland had found a strange shaped shard of bone in his broth and wondered idly if it was an eye socket, as Sim Carnegie took a prudent step backwards.
But then the constable’s attention was attracted by something behind Carnegie’s distasteful and unwelcome form.
‘God almighty,’ he muttered. ‘It’s like Waverley Station this night.’
Three young men had entered the tavern and at least one of them was not unknown. He wore a light coloured suit and dragged his leg like an unwilling dog.
They froze at the sight of the two policemen, but an imp of mischief charged by a sudden rush of fury possessed the inspector, and he beckoned the arrivals over. ‘Mister Drummond,’ he boomed. ‘May I introduce ye to Mist
er Carnegie, son of the dear departed Agnes, gone but not forgotten.’
And like a master of ceremonies, though still not budging an inch from where he sat, McLevy carried on with his spurious bonding.
‘Mister Carnegie – here stands afore ye, the dauntless leader o’ the White Devils.’
Daniel, who had foolishly shinned down a drainpipe from his room to celebrate his unexpected release with friends, thence returning to a location he should have avoided like the pox, pressed his cane to the floor, drew himself up to full height, and bowed.
Sim Carnegie was not impressed. In truth he had been surprised by a shaft of sudden fear at the look in McLevy’s eyes, but now was a chance for him to void his wrath against what he considered an inferior opponent.
The newsman took in the dandyish appearance, the silver cane, long hair, and filled his lungs.
‘You rampaged the night my poor mother died!’ he accused loudly and the words caused a silence in the crowd.
‘I know nothing of her death,’ replied the young man stiffly, conscious he was the focus of all eyes.
‘Oh, I wouldnae say that,’ offered McLevy, adding fuel to the flames. ‘I told you all about it, Mister Drummond.’
Daniel choked back a retort, thinking the inspector manifestly unfair and manipulative, but unable to deny the literal truth, and finding when he looked to Mulholland, that the constable’s eyes were calculating and not friendly.
‘I remember it well,’ announced Mulholland. ‘In your own drawing room. The gory details.’
What an idiot, Daniel cursed himself, to fall amongst thieves, but now if he could just extricate himself with a little dignity intact – dignity was everything!
‘A liar as well, eh?’ the tall, angular Carnegie looked down a long, slightly dripping nose, then raised his voice.
‘Educated thugs!’ he informed the whole tavern. ‘Creatures o’ privilege. Money buys learning, eh?’
In truth there might have been some veracity to that statement no matter the dubious source, but as various jeers added boozy support and Sim raised his hands like a Roman gladiator, Daniel bit his lip, turned, and limped off.
‘Like a whipped dog,’ crowed Carnegie and a chorus of mocking yelps followed the three young men as they hastily quit the tavern.
But there was an equally calculating look in the journalist’s eyes.
Gardy loo.
It’s best to beware when the press and the police find any measure of agreement, no matter how remote.
Outside Daniel tore himself free from his companions’ restraining hands, his face puce with humiliation at being such an object of ridicule.
‘That was a foolish venture!’
A furious assertion that would have brought little argument from the rest, save perhaps for the fact it had been his own idea. But they knew the mercurial whiplash to his temper and held their tongues.
To a certain extent he did inspire fear when in one of these rages, skin taut across the bones of his face, seeking for someone to blame other than himself.
‘I shall find my own way home. Leave me!’
With that, he turned abruptly and moving rapidly despite his crippled leg, was lost in the night.
A burst of noise from the tavern brought the other pair’s heads round, but it seemed more connected to a screech of music than derision, so they slid off into the shadows.
Music soothes the savage breast.
In the rough bar, an old shipwreck of a fellow with no teeth to speak of and one rheumy, glistening eye, had whipped out a battered fiddle to launch into a lively jig.
Two of the girls had started to dance, raising their skirts enough to provoke an equally lively reaction.
Sim grinned at all this, but then became aware that he was still the focus of McLevy’s hard stare.
‘I meant what I said. Bugger off back where ye belong.’
The very stillness of his form, flatness of tone was warning, and the journalist was not a stupid man.
But as he retreated, Sim could not resist a parting remark.
‘Mulholland? A wee piece of news. I hear tell that Gash Mitchell is back in the city.’
The constable’s face betrayed nothing.
‘You heard the inspector,’ he said quietly. ‘Get out.’
The fiddler had switched to a slow air as Carnegie made his exit. Folk had gone back to their business and he was no longer centre of attention as he called back from the door.
‘Monday edition, gentlemen. Well worth the read.’
‘Oh, one thing?’ McLevy called in response. ‘Big Susan confirmed your whereabouts.’
‘Only right.’
‘Gave her word. But she might have given you something else as well. As a bonus. She’s a generous girl.’
The journalist’s protuberant Adam’s apple jerked spasmodically for a moment, then he managed a dismissive sneer and left the scene.
Big Susan had said nothing of the sort, but it’s all grist to the mill.
Both policemen were silent. Mulholland’s mind was full of jagged images.
The young girl lying, limbs askew, neck broken. No sign of her assailant, no proof to hand.
Rose Dundas. Still dead. Still lying there.
On a dark night. Such as this one.
The fiddle’s tune was slow and stately. Grief hung under the strings. A funeral air.
‘If Gash Mitchell is back,’ the constable said softly. ‘All he needs to do is make one mistake.’
‘And you’ll be there wi’ bells on.’
‘That I will.’
There was a moment of silence before the constable made further utterance.
‘One thing. Carnegie was right. He may have let the name loose. But I should have hung her murder round that bastard Mitchell’s neck.’
To McLevy’s knowledge it was the first time he had ever heard his constable swear.
‘The proof was lacking.’
‘In my head. It is proven.’
The exchange over, Mulholland stood and gestured towards an empty glass.
McLevy nodded,
‘If you’re buying, I’m drinking.’
When the constable returned with a hooker of whisky and sma’ beer for himself, the inspector had sunk back into the reverie that had taken possession of him since they entered the tavern.
He sooked noisily at the dram, fell back into silence, and then asked a sudden and surprising question.
‘Whit d’you think tae Jessica Drummond?’
Mulholland considered. Surely she was not a suspect?
‘Stands her ground.’
‘A cow does such. In the field.’
There was an odd look to the inspector’s eye that put the constable in mind of a child lost at market.
‘I noted she kept looking at you,’ he remarked finally.
‘Did she? That would be forensic.’
‘And you kept looking at her.’
‘That’s my job. Scrutiny.’
Mulholland sighed. It had been a day interminable.
Thank God tomorrow was Sunday.
He’d be glad to get back to the bees.
Chapter 17
Teach me to feel another’s woe,
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
Alexander Pope, The Universal Prayer
There is a kind of rain in Edinburgh called ‘skelp-the-wean’s-backside’, where a fiendish wind, usually from the East, drives the downpour horizontally above the ground.
If coming from behind, it hurls the victim headlong into lampposts, sharp corners, or sends him careering helplessly down a steep hill to meet some watery fate.
If from the front, it blinds the vision and cripples the joints, so that the very effort of walking seems an affront to nature. A stark convulsion. No mercy.
Such a vicious monster had been unleashed by the city gods for reasons of their own; it had commenced some fifteen minutes before a
nd cleared the roads like the Great Plague save for one tiny, whimpering figure that made its way down the broad unprotected expanse of North Charlotte Street.
The figure left behind a trail of little spots of blood that were swept to instant oblivion by the elements.
Thomas Archibald Carstairs, known because of his diminutive frame to his fellow students as ‘the Runt’, had canvassed hard and earnestly to be allowed into the sacred fraternity of the Scarlet Runners and to take part in his very first raid.
This had proved no more successful than that of the James Gang robbing the First National Bank of Northfield, Minnesota.
The Runners had shinned up the walls of the Just Land, Tom being thrown up first to provide a fulcrum with rope for the rest, and then found themselves in the pitch black of the garden with only the peacocks’ cries to guide them.
For this was the objective. To pluck feathers from their tails and add them to the stash of trophies and deeds of derring-do that would be valued and judged against the paltry exploits of the White Devils.
Tom had tried not to grin in the dark lest his nervous teeth gleam and give away position – this was the Just Land, a bawdy-hoose, full of danger and disease – but he was a man among men, hat pulled over to hide his blond hair and blue eyes, mouth tight shut and fingers ready to lift the booty from these effeminate wailing willies.
What an adventure!
As may be gathered Thomas was not a natural cutthroat; a studious good natured boy often the butt of his boisterous fellows, now was the chance to show his mettle.
A hero in the making.
In other words a born innocent and defenceless destination for a load of buckshot.
As are we all.
Everything went well at first, as it so often does.
After that, the devil took a hand.
They stumbled over what seemed like myriad snakes in the grass, setting off a tinkling sound as if the fairies had been disturbed in their nocturnal pursuits, and then?
All hell broke loose.