Nor Will He Sleep

by David Ashton

  Then like a ghost Stevenson appeared at the window, and as if summonsed a carriage drew up.

  It fitted the description provided by Tom Carstairs but the driver was no howling spectre – just the minister’s son.

  Yet the funeral could not yet be over, not unless they slid in the coffin and banged down the sods? The Church of Scotland was not noted for such lack of decorum.

  While the inspector puzzled this, Robert Louis shuffled out of the house and slipped into the coach.

  The carriage took off suddenly heading past McLevy’s vantage spot towards Albany Street and as he jumped out to follow best he could, a Cairn terrier dashed in front of him trailing back a long lead to its dumpy but fashionably garbed female owner.

  His foot caught the line and the inspector fell flat on his face.

  Had he time he would have first kicked the dog and then the woman but, ignoring her apologies though she seemed more concerned with the yelping canine, McLevy scrambled to his feet and ran off in hot pursuit.

  It was an unequal contest and the inspector was scarce fleet of foot – he puffed along in time to see the carriage far in the distance turn left at the end of Albany Street and disappear.

  The pursuer let out a howl of frustration and the woman with the dog retreated rapidly back into the park until this mustachioed madman had quit the scene.

  For a moment McLevy thought to run the length of the long thoroughfare in the hope that he might catch a glimpse of the vehicle to the left but common sense told him this was not an option.

  He stopped; his hands fell loosely by his side and he closed his eyes.

  Think, damn you.

  Never mind whether it was a conspiracy or accidental meeting, where the hell might they be going?

  His mind flipped back over the events of this case with a speed that belied the stolid set of his features.

  The church. St Stephen’s. It had tae be. That’s where it began, that’s where it would end.

  It had tae be.

  He turned and walked slowly in the opposite direction to that which the carriage had taken.

  It would swing back.

  It had tae be.

  Besides, it was his only hope, and when you have just the one hope – dress it up as best you can.

  McLevy had retraced his footsteps and made his way deliberately towards St Stephens. Eventually he stood before the uncompromisingly dour face and decided to try his luck at the rear of the building.

  And there it was.

  It had tae be.

  The empty carriage reins tied to a stone post, horse munching contentedly at a nosebag of oats. There was a small stables nearby, so the carriage would be for the minister’s usage – to visit the poor, no doubt.

  But to what other uses might it lend a hand?

  A small door was directly opposite the coach, but when he tried the handle, it was tight locked.

  Nothing, however, can withstand the might of the law.

  Or a criminal craftsman’s lockpicks.

  How McLevy had come by them was another tale, but he could use them like a born thief.

  Though he had never broken into a church before.

  Moments later, he was inside.

  The interior was gloomy, the sun having given up the ghost, though some grey light filtered through the tall, narrow windows.

  But sight was not at a premium.

  He could hear the faint murmur of voices from the bowels of the empty church and followed them down a series of deep, winding staircases, until he came to a partially opened door. Through the aperture he could see Robert Louis sitting, puffing calmly at a cigarette.

  Did the man ever stop smoking?

  Then he saw the other figure.

  Then he listened for a long, long time.

  Then he walked into the room.

  ‘I’ll give you the blessing of the law,’ James McLevy stated, with a heavy old revolver now hanging loosely in his right hand.

  It looked like a museum piece, yet had put an end to more than one life, especially at close quarters.

  The effigy moved back into the gloom, but Stevenson seemed unsurprised – indeed since his chair faced directly to the door, he had remarked what might have been a shadow of sorts, and was desperately hoping that it might help him get out of this predicament alive.

  For he was in no doubt that to provoke that psychotic fury was to kiss the girls goodbye.

  It was the best of all possible worlds that, instead of being some old biddy from the church, the shadow had turned out to be none other than the Thieftaker.

  Or had he somehow always known?

  ‘I am pleased to see you, inspector,’ he said. ‘Visitors are always welcome.’

  McLevy was in no mood for politesse.

  He must not be distracted for a moment from the pale outline that had moved to the side of the cell.

  ‘Whatever your changing form, I will address you by the name known tae me – John Gibbons, I charge you with two vicious, cowardly murders and one attempted.’

  ‘Jean Brash?’

  ‘Ye damned near killed her.’

  ‘What a pity. Just another whore.’

  Stevenson observed McLevy’s body stiffen with fury, but the policeman’s concentration was unwavering as he raised the revolver while his other hand reached into an overcoat pocket for the restrainers.

  ‘You will drop the cane and turn your back to me.’

  The effigy ignored this and spoke only to Stevenson.

  ‘Give me your blessing. You are my father.’

  Robert Louis provided no answer.

  ‘Turn before I bring you to your knees!’

  At McLevy’s command the effigy drooped as if winded, began to turn as bidden, but then whirled and lashed out with the cane – a ferocious blow which cut the inspector just above the eye, drawing blood at once.

  Another blow sent the revolver scudding out of McLevy’s hand. A howl of rage issued from the policeman as his fist smashed into the guts of his adversary, doubling over the effigy and sending him reeling backwards, a look of pain and astonishment on the mask of a face.

  This was not part of his world.

  By chance his trajectory ended beside the open door and before the inspector could continue his furious response, the figure darted out of the doorway into the darkness beyond.

  McLevy scrabbled for the revolver and cursed to see that the firing-pin had been knocked askew so that the weapon would not fire.

  He hefted it anyway to give appearance of a lethal authority and prepared to follow the effigy; the blood was running freely down his face from the lacerated eye and he cast one scornful, savage glance at the writer, who sat as if frozen to the chair.

  ‘You are a bloody menace, Stevenson!’

  And with that he was out of the door.

  Robert Louis sat for a long moment, the cigarette dead in his fingers, and then let out a long gasp of air.

  He bowed his head in pain and anguish.

  This also was not his world.

  Chapter 48

  Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash

  Of battleaxes on shattered helms, and shrieks,

  After the Christ, of those who falling down,

  Looked up for heaven, and only saw the mist.

  Tennyson, The Passing of Arthur

  McLevy burst into the body of the kirk – blood-spattered, wild eyed, revolver in hand.

  The place was empty, pews gaping, organ pipes huddled together for company, the bare stone floor showing no sign of recent passage, and the pulpit looming overhead like the prow of a ghost ship.

  The inspector mopped at his eye with a hankie and gasped for breath. He had hurtled up the narrow staircase from the cell with best speed, but emerged to find nothing.

  His quarry could be anywhere; there was a plethora of side doors, some of which might even lead to the outside street, but McLevy had an instinct the man was still here.

  He calmed his breathing, held th
e hankie tight against welted, weeping skin, and waited.

  A hollow church.

  Silence.

  Then a faint scrape took McLevy’s gaze high up to the bell tower, part of which looked down upon the interior and a balustrade of sorts fenced off an area where a well-like staircase led even higher into the campanile.

  As the inspector strained his eyes, he thought he glimpsed a grey smear amid the dark surroundings of stained oak above, yet he could not be sure.

  There was a small access door on the south side, which no doubt led to the vestibule under the tower.

  So be it.

  He crossed swiftly, and began to ascend the constricted stairwell, which gradually became pitch black.

  McLevy walked like a blind man, hands outstretched, fingers hooking into the rough surface of the brick wall.

  At last the journey ended at a door, which gave way reluctantly with a faint screech.

  Was that not the sound he had earlier heard?

  The portal opened out to a cramped space enclosed at one end by the balustrade.

  There was also a man-sized rectangular opening that led to what appeared to be another flight of steps. But the inspector had no need to explore further.

  The effigy leant against the wall opposite in the dim light cast from the narrow windows.

  He still had his cane and McLevy still had his useless revolver.

  ‘I think,’ said the figure in some pain, ‘you have cracked one of my ribs.’

  ‘Only one? I’m getting old.’

  For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes, though inspector’s right was near closed with drying blood and swollen skin.

  And the effigy?

  There was a curious glitter that shone like winter sun on cold water – in fact his whole presence seemed to flicker with a strange inner light that rendered the watcher unsure whether this was a corporeal being or some strange projection from a magic lantern show.

  And yet McLevy could see sadness.

  Quickly as it materialised in the creature’s face, so swiftly did it disappear.

  A desire to belong.

  The fugitive could have easily found his way outside and disappeared into the streets while a fruitless search was made within the building.

  But he did not. Had not. Would not.

  Too late now.

  ‘Murder,’ said McLevy, lifting the defunct weapon, ‘is a vile business. I must ask you to accompany an officer of the law.’

  ‘You may have to kill me first,’ the effigy replied, skipping oddly this way and that.

  ‘That would be a last resort.’

  ‘My assumption also. You have had your chance and not done so. Do you lack the nerve to kill?’

  ‘I would not wish to do it.’

  Nor did he have the wherewithal, unless it was a bare-handit proposition.

  While he pondered the odds on that, the effigy made his move.

  He whipped the cane high up and down, aiming at his favourite target, the side of the neck.

  The inspector hunched up to deflect the blow, but as he did so, the missile changed direction and slashed into the knee of his standing leg.

  Despite the trouser covering, this savage cut numbed his leg and as he lunged forward the effigy swivelled around so that McLevy now had his back to the low balustrade.

  This was a parlous predicament.

  One push and he would fall to the pious flagstones below and they would have no mercy; it was a steep plunge that would break neck, back, and any other bone that was in the vicinity.

  Life or death.

  The effigy could not know McLevy’s fangs had been drawn and so he was also playing with his own life.

  Only one chance.

  Bluff and be buggered.

  He lifted the revolver and cocked back the hammer.

  ‘You leave me no option.’

  The figure seemed unafraid.

  ‘I will back my reflexes against the move of your finger. One cut, one thrust, and goodbye.’

  Whit a caper, eh?

  The blood was running freely once more, so that the inspector had to turn his head grotesquely to the side in order to get a decent view of his protagonist.

  Throw the gun and make a rush, though with just the one working leg that might be difficult.

  Surely he wasnae going tae hop towards death?

  The effigy made a dart forward and as McLevy automatically crabbed back in retreat, he felt the polished wood of the balustrade against his legs.

  The cane whistled through the air again, to land with jarring force on his collarbone, and though he grabbed at it, his hand was too slippery with his own blood.

  His head was swimming, as previous exertion began to take its toll and the inhabited world seemed to be fading, swirling, like a nightmare.

  The effigy bared its teeth.

  Killing time.

  McLevy gathered his strength.

  Survival.

  Then a voice floated up from beneath.

  The thin personage of Robert Louis Stevenson had emerged to see them high above and had taken a hand.

  In the empty church his voice echoed with a strange foreboding, as he stood isolated on the flagstones.

  ‘John – my boy – I must tell the truth, no matter the cost!’

  Words that froze the combatants for different reasons, the effigy jolted at being thus addressed, and McLevy wiped at his eye with his sleeve and wondered what the hell the man was up to now?

  It had better be good.

  Stevenson cut an anguished figure as he struggled for words to address the pale, distant outline.

  ‘I have been to see many doctors and they have told me the same thing. My wife – ’

  He broke off. An abject confessional figure in the church where he was raised.

  ‘My wife and I – have tried for children these many years. She has two progeny from previous liaisons, a fertile womb, but – the fault – is mine.’

  The effigy was stock still as if paralysed.

  ‘I am sterile,’ the regretful but inexorable voice rose in the air. ‘The seed cannot find a path. It has no strength and I – I must tell you. You – could never be my son. Fate has decreed it otherwise.’

  A terrible silence.

  ‘Mary Dougan knew many men, rest her soul. Never, never could you be my son.’

  A sudden scream issued from the effigy and he hurtled forward.

  McLevy realised his intention and tried to intercept the man before he hurled himself over.

  As they struggled, the effigy twisted round so that he was underneath, with McLevy grappling to retain some hold on the man, who was as slippery as a snake.

  Now the death that the killer sought might well be his own, and the perversity of this attempted rescue would have amused Old Nick himself.

  As McLevy looked down, the blood pouring from his wound, his opponent smiled and then spat deliberately into the inspector’s one good eye.

  The shock blinded McLevy for a moment and that was enough.

  The effigy twisted gracefully out of his grasp and then slipped away to let gravity take its course, spiralling headfirst through the air to land with a sickening crunch, arms outstretched like a cruel parody of the crucified Christ.

  Stevenson, with a very shaky hand, lit up another of his thin cigarettes and gazed at the newly-dead arrival.

  There was another howl as a man ran forward from the front of the church. Jonas Gibbons in full ministerial garb, his mane of hair near electric at what he had just witnessed.

  He cradled his son’s body up against his chest and turned a grief-stricken face upwards.

  ‘Murderer!’ he screamed at McLevy, who with hands and face awash with blood seemed to justify denunciation. ‘Murderer!’

  Chapter 49

  Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk.

  Thoreau, Journal

  Queen Victoria looked down with clear features on the three men
who had gathered at an hour far beyond her bedtime.

  ‘What a mess,’ was Roach’s somewhat ungrateful comment on the story thus told.

  McLevy said nothing. His eye was killing him, despite the pastoral care of Ballantyne, who had during the salving of deep lesions excitedly brought the inspector up to date with the Carnegie outcome. A triumph of detection that had been accomplished by Constable Mulholland with the aid of a wee toatie insect and Ballantyne’s gimlet scrutiny.

  The inspector’s leg was hurting also, but if he stuck the thing out straight, it behaved better.

  Mulholland himself sat quietly enough in the office. He felt no great sense of achievement and besides there was no need to rub the battered bride’s neb in the bowl of barley.

  One of his Aunt Katy’s sayings. Strange he had not thought of her in a long time. Perhaps he was developing a mind of his own?

  ‘And what is your verdict, McLevy?’ asked Roach querulously. In fact the only more annoying occurrence than the inspector laying down his version of the law was when he took the opposite course and said nothing at all.

  For a moment the anguished face of Jonas Gibbons brought itself into McLevy’s mind.

  ‘Don’t keep secrets,’ grunted the inspector. ‘They come back tae bite ye.’

  ‘I’ll keep vigil on such as regards my future conduct,’ Roach muttered.

  ‘What a nest of vipers,’ announced Mulholland. ‘God knows how you got through it, sir.’

  McLevy tried to flex his leg and winced at the pain.

  ‘It wasnae easy.’

  ‘But you solved the case!’

  ‘I’m sure congratulations are in order,’ said Roach dourly. ‘I take it Stevenson will make a statement tomorrow?’

  ‘Unless he has some other sleight of hand tae perform.’

  McLevy puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘The only thing ye can rely on with that will o’ the wisp is that he’ll hae tobacco on the go.’

  The inspector then surprised his colleagues by banging the flat of his hand upon the lieutenant’s desk. Not in temper – more as if he were trying to banish a troublesome imp of hell.

  ‘I’ve met some souple creatures in my time, but that mannie takes them all!’