“I lived on an egg and poultry farm with my family.”
“Your adoptive family?”
“My family,” she agreed, as though not understanding the qualification.
“You went direct from the Edinburgh orphanage to the egg and poultry farm?”
“I believe so.”
“So your family came to the orphanage to claim you?”
She struggled and went pale. “I don’t remember.”
Canavan again found McKnight’s questions uncomfortably close to an interrogation, and could not resist a further intrusion. “The murder of this priest, Evelyn,” he asked, in a more sensitive tone. “Was the lamplighter responsible too?”
She looked at him helplessly. “I honestly cannot say. These memories…”
“Return in fragments?”
She nodded appreciatively.
Spirited groans from the next room now. She raised her voice as though to distract them. “It is difficult to explain,” she said, “and leads the police to think I am inventing my dreams. But I am not inventing them.” She looked at Canavan for support. “Do you believe me? Do you at least believe me?”
“We believe you,” Canavan assured her.
She was visibly relieved. “I’ve been terrified of sleeping for fear of what I might see next. I feel…ripped apart. Responsible, in some way.”
“You should not feel responsible,” Canavan said. “They are only dreams.”
She looked at McKnight for confirmation, but his face was blank. “The relation of the unconscious to the conscious mind,” he mused, “is somewhat like that of a cat to a house. During the day the cat is content to remain indoors, fully recognizing its boundaries, but unleashed at night, in dreams, it frequently travels beyond its owner’s jurisdiction. To places its owner might not recognize in the midday sun. To perform indecencies and indiscretions of which the owner might be ashamed.”
There was a climactic sigh from next door.
McKnight shrugged his eyebrows. “And of course we should never forget that there are many species of feline, from the humblest house-trained cat to the growling jungle tiger. And from the outside of the house it is not always possible to determine which sort of creature resides within.”
Evelyn found his exact meaning still unclear, but there was allusion to the early theories relating to Smeaton’s murder—that he had been torn apart by a wild beast—and she was not sure how to respond. “I hope,” she managed eventually, “that I do not house a tiger.”
“There would be no shame in doing so,” Canavan told her. “We do not blame a stomach, after all, for its appetite.” But he was aware of the expedience of the comment, which he doubted was theologically sound.
“In these nightmares,” McKnight went on, “did you happen to see the killer—this lamplighter—prior to the killings?”
“No—and I was torn from sleep as soon as the men were struck down.”
“And in the case of Colonel Munnoch?”
“As soon as…as soon as I saw the corpse. And heard a crack, like twisted bones.”
McKnight nodded grimly and whispered an aside to Canavan as though to an assisting surgeon. “Here we witness the suicidal impulse inherent in the nightmare. Most dreams bind the dreamer tightly within the sleep state, even conspiring with outside elements such as intrusive noises. But the nightmare is hopelessly self-destructive. Such is the strength of its disdain for the unconscious, for its host, and even for itself.” He turned back to Evelyn. “May I ask what format the dreams assumed prior to the actual killings? Were they nightmares, do you recall?”
“They were not nightmares. They were…nothing.”
“There was some sort of a story involved?”
“Nothing.”
“May I ask what you were doing in them?”
She seemed puzzled by the question. “Oh, I was not present in these dreams.”
McKnight frowned. “I beg your pardon, Evelyn? Did you say you were not present? In your own dreams?”
She nodded.
McKnight paused to consider. “So in your dream you were not actually in the New Town when you saw Professor Smeaton struck down? And you were not at Waverley Station when Mr. Ainslie was savaged?”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Not even implicitly? As an observer?”
“I observed it all, but not with my own eyes.”
“With God’s eyes?”
She seemed embarrassed by the notion.
“Forgive me, Evelyn, but I must understand this clearly. In your dreams you see things without participating, is that it?”
She nodded.
“So at the station, for example, you only saw people talking? Purchasing tickets? Moving for carriages? But you were not part of it yourself?”
“Is…is that unusual?” she asked, as though genuinely perplexed.
McKnight let the pipe smolder in his hand.
Canavan again sought to assist. “Such a dream would only make the explosion of violence, when it came, all the more shocking.”
“Shocking,” she agreed.
“Do you never,” McKnight asked her, “make an appearance in your own dreams?”
“I do sometimes.”
“Ah? And what do you do in such dreams? Walk the streets?”
“Aye.”
“Imaginary streets?”
“The streets of Edinburgh.”
“You see the city through your own eyes?”
“I see myself as I walk the streets.”
“Like a separate observer? You see yourself as others might see you?”
“Aye.”
“And you speak to men like us, as we are speaking now?”
“Exactly as we are speaking now.”
“But do you never have imaginary dreams? Vivid dreams?”
“My dreams are always vivid,” she insisted. “At Waverley Station, for instance, I saw everything with great precision. The streaks of soot on the walls, the nipped cigarettes on the platform, the cracks in the station clock…everything. And in other dreams I dare say I have more profound conversations, and more elaborate processes of thought, than I do in real life.”
“But what about fantasy elements? You’ll agree that in dreams anything is possible and all reason suspended?”
“I am past that age,” Evelyn said with a hint of disdain.
“Oh?” McKnight frowned. “You think fantastical dreams are the domain of childhood whimsies?”
She agreed.
“And flights of the imagination? Works of fiction? Something of which one should be ashamed?”
“One can become irreversibly lost in, and corrupted by, the…the imag—the imagination,” she replied.
McKnight was curious. “May I ask where you learned that?”
But Evelyn seemed almost offended by the notion that she had acquired this belief, rather than formulated it herself.
“Have you never read Swift?” McKnight went on. “The fanciful stories of Poe or the adventures of Dumas? Your shelves are rather dry of such titles.”
“I am familiar with Monsieur Dumas,” she admitted. “I was a postulant at the Convent of the Sisters of St. Louis. Some of the Sisters were from France, and the library was stocked with French texts.”
“And your opinion of such writing?”
Her lips twisted. “Nonsense,” she said.
Canavan interjected again, intrigued. “A postulant, Evelyn? You didn’t make it to the novitiate?”
“I was not worthy.”
“But your family were religious people? To send you to a convent?”
“They did not send me there. I sent myself.”
“And you must have been deeply religious yourself until recently?”
She nodded. “After returning to Edinburgh I continued attending Mass for a while. At St. Patrick’s.”
Canavan nodded, thinking that he might have seen her there, though as a memory it was appropriately dreamy.
“Did the nuns,” McKn
ight asked, “discipline your imagination in any way?”
“It is the nature of women to be unnatural,” she said carefully, as though quoting some influential figure, “and it is in their own interests that their desires are monitored and where necessary trimmed.”
McKnight snorted. “Did the nuns tell you that?”
“Not the nuns.”
“Who?”
She did not answer.
“Might you recall the day you were actually removed from the orphanage?” McKnight asked. “Your family coming to claim you?”
“I have told you that…I do not remember this,” Evelyn said, tensing noticeably, and Canavan was disturbed that the Professor seemed to be returning to a sensitive region with calculated ruthlessness.
“May I ask if you were mistreated at the orphanage in any way?”
She shook her head evasively.
“Did you become aware of any exploitation?”
“I’m…not sure what you mean.”
“Children hired out for chimney sweep duties? To the cotton mills, or to clear drains? Nothing like that?”
“No.”
“Did you know of any lamplighter back then?”
“No.” But her fingers had clenched.
“Would you agree that there is a gap in your memory between the orphanage and your arrival in Ireland?”
“There are gaps in everyone’s memories,” she replied, and for the first time she stared at McKnight challengingly. “Are there no gaps in yours?”
“Well…” McKnight said, but, as though stung by the accuracy of the comment, he was momentarily silenced.
Beside him, Canavan spoke up.
“No one can remember everything, Evelyn,” he said. “And we’re not here to bring you any pain. But when we learned of your visions we simply had to speak to you. There are parts of this business that seem strangely relevant, and seem to have dared us to trace them to their source.”
“Ce Grand Trompeur?” she prompted, looking at him.
McKnight’s ears pricked up. “Aye—are you familiar with this term, Evelyn?”
“The Sisters had French texts, as I have said.”
“And they carried Descartes’s Meditations in their library?”
“I…I suppose they did.”
McKnight drew on his pipe. “Are you familiar with John 8:44?”
“It was left with Colonel Munnoch.”
“You did not see it inserted in his skull?”
“It was dark and misty.”
“And you were, after all, dreaming.”
“That’s so.” She raised her eyes fractionally, as though preparing for another attack.
“Is there any reason you can think of why he might have been exhumed?”
“No.”
“Any reason why he might have been called a murderer?”
“No.”
“Or any reason Ainslie might have been labeled the Great Deceiver?”
“No,” she snapped. “And nor do I know why Professor Smeaton was called the Persecutor of Innocence. You ask too much if you expect such answers from me.”
A silence ensued, so tight that McKnight’s eyebrows could almost be heard rising. “‘Persecutor of Innocence,’ Evelyn?” he asked. “We did not know of this.”
She looked away, embarrassed. “It…it was written in Latin on the church beside Smeaton’s body. I’ve already informed the police.”
“‘Innocentium Persecutor,’” McKnight whispered, and registered Evelyn’s barely concealed flinch. “It means nothing to you, naturally?”
“Nothing,” she agreed hastily.
“And if it did, you would no doubt have told us by now.”
“I would have no reason to lie to you.”
McKnight stared at her and ultimately seemed to decide that he could be correspondingly churlish. “Very well,” he sighed, and started rising.
“Then I fear we already have taken too much advantage of your hospitality. But you have given us much to think about, that is certain, and hopefully from your information we will soon derive some manner of a direction for a further inquiry.”
Abruptly Evelyn’s whole bearing changed, as though a curtain had been torn from her face. “You’re not…leaving?” she asked hoarsely.
“Unless you can think of a reason we should stay?”
“But…your…your questions.” She had pushed herself to her feet, and the stricken look on her face was heartbreaking. “There must be more….”
“There is little more we can ask at this stage.”
“But you will be coming back?”
“If we can be of assistance, then there will be no avoiding it.” The Professor smiled faintly. “Provided you feel in the mood to accommodate us, of course.”
“But…but I have been helpful, haven’t I?”
“Of course.”
“And there is a good chance you will achieve progress?”
“We certainly hope that is the case.”
“And you will inform me of anything that you discover?”
“As you will inform us?”
“As I…aye, of course.”
But she looked so wretched that Canavan could barely bring himself to leave, wanting to linger in the room, to communicate a sense of assurance or a flash of understanding—anything. But her eyes were fixed stubbornly on McKnight, and she looked too distressed even to notice him.
“Your toy, Evelyn?” the Professor asked. He had taken a parting glance at her shelves and discovered between the books an incongruous rag doll.
“Not…not mine,” she said, as though accused of some indiscretion. “There is a family downstairs for whom I sometimes make toys.”
“It’s quite a skill.” The doll was of shop standard.
“I make all sorts of things,” she added hastily. “Tea cozies, kettle holders, and needlework. It is a duty to be industrious and always occupied.”
“Very practical. But is it not perhaps also corrupting?”
She looked genuinely alarmed. “What do you mean?”
“Might not a child be inclined to invest the doll with a life of its own?”
“I…I would hope not.”
“But it is so very lifelike.”
“It is nothing but rags,” she said firmly.
“Alas, and it will never be more,” McKnight agreed, as the two men left.
“I must express my disapproval,” Canavan said as they stepped onto the rain-slickened cobbles.
“An admonishment?” McKnight suggested, with what seemed to Canavan a maddening attitude of contentment.
“I thought you were unnecessarily harsh with her.”
“I agree I was harsh.”
“Then I must add my disappointment that you do not in any way seem ashamed.”
“Nonsense, lad,” McKnight said, relighting his pipe. “Did you notice the look of dismay on her face when I announced we were leaving?”
“A natural reaction, I would’ve thought. After all the questions, there still were no answers.”
McKnight shook the match out. “No,” he said. “The truth is she wants us to be brusque and uncompromising. She needs us to flay her, if that’s what it takes, to induce the revelation that is destroying her from inside.”
Canavan snorted. “It’s as if you believe she’s really admitted to a role in the murders.”
“Oh, I have no doubt of it.”
“Aye? And what exactly did she say to incriminate herself?”
“Everything.”
“Everything.”
“You heard her.”
But the Irishman, exasperated, could not bring himself to ask for the details. “So what’s your aim, then? To lead a lamb to slaughter?”
“To lead her to the truth, and let her do the rest.”
“She’s vulnerable, I ask you to remember that.”
“Volatile,” McKnight agreed. “Did you notice the way she repeatedly tugged her gloves up her wrists? I suspect she was attempting to co
nceal the scars of a suicide attempt.”
Canavan felt a flush of anger. “Then why twist a knife in the wound?” he asked, and a passerby turned, surprised by the outburst. They were halfway up Candlemaker Row.
McKnight stopped and looked at his friend patiently. “We are here to cauterize the wound and drain its poisons. I certainly have no interest in inflicting further damage. It is our task, indeed, to shield her from those who in their haste might seize her prematurely, and do more harm than they could ever imagine. If I did not consider myself a sort of guardian angel”—and here he reached into his jacket—“I would not have taken this.”
He produced a black-bound book.
“A Bible,” Canavan said, taking it with a frown.
“A Douai Bible. Remarkably similar to my own.”
“You lifted it from her shelf?”
“When she was not looking. Before others discovered it.”
Canavan was puzzled.
“Check it, if you wish,” McKnight said. “John 8:44: ‘He was a murderer from the beginning.’ The entire page is missing.”
Canavan moved to the corner, where gas lamps swept down the street like a line of votive candles. In the fluttering light he leafed through to the final Gospel and discovered that the page had indeed been torn out, leaving nothing but another serrated edge clinging to the binding.
“But this…doesn’t incriminate her,” he protested. “Any more than it incriminates us.”
“Truly, I would prefer to believe you.”
Canavan drew a breath. “And then there’s the lamplighter,” he noted. “The figure she has already identified as the killer.”
“Ah, yes, the lamplighter…” McKnight said skeptically as the midnight omnibus rattled past.
“What, you don’t believe even that, I suppose?”
“Oh, I think her conviction is certainly real. But of the lamplighter himself…I believe he has always been a convenient scapegoat.”
“So you know who he is, too?”
“You could say I have a fair idea.”
Canavan briefly considered a further expression of doubt, but ultimately could not contain his curiosity. “Who?” he asked tightly.
But McKnight only narrowed his eyes at him reprovingly. “Good Lord,” he said as the streetlamps flickered and faded eerily, “I would have thought that to you, of all people, that would have been fundamentally obvious.”
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