Trick of the Light im-3

by David Ashton

  A pity he could not send the sketch itself by wire but science had not yet moved on that far. One day.

  The answer should arrive tomorrow, with any luck.

  He would also make it his business to catch up with Maisie Powers, who worked for the Countess but might possibly be persuaded despite her profound dislike of McLevy to divulge some titbits. The persuading was the problem.

  Oh, and he’d nearly forgot the faint lingering smell of that pomade from Magnus Bannnerman.

  He had sniffed at the single filament from the murder scene but the odour had disappeared.

  Even if he yanked a hair out of the man’s head and put both under the microscope to find some similarity it would still prove nothing.

  But it was something.

  A pattern was beginning to form.

  Somewhere.

  And then his mind shifted back to Conan Doyle. The way the big lump had been gawking at Sophia Adler did not bode well. Where the eyes gaze the heart follows.

  Yet there were depths to this fellow that intrigued McLevy.

  Arthur was also a talisman in this case; how, the inspector did not precisely know but he was certain that Doyle had a part to play.

  Tomorrow.

  It was going to be a busy day.

  30

  Out of the crooked timber of humanity no straight thing can ever be made.

  IMMANUEL KANT,

  Proposition 6

  Hannah Semple gazed through the cell bars at Jean Brash. The mistress was tired, bags under the eyes, missing her morning jolt of coffee no doubt.

  ‘This doesnae look good,’ the old woman announced.

  Jean sighed. Hannah would have made a great Job’s comforter all those years ago.

  ‘Whit did the lawyers say?’ she asked the visage before her, which resembled a bloodhound that had lost the trail.

  ‘They’re not hopeful.’

  Neither was Hannah. She had just spent two hours at the offices of Duncan Paterson, Jean’s expensive and knabbie-faced advocate who had circumlocuted his way round the legal houses before admitting that, as the facts stood, there was not a cat’s chance in hell of Jean getting out before trial.

  And after the trial, perhaps even less chance.

  ‘It would not have been so bad,’ pronounced the supercilious wee runt, who possessed a huge head that made him look as if he had been wrenched out of the womb by pair of cow pliers, ‘if Mistress Brash had not been found with her own knife impaled into the corpse and his blood upon her person.’

  ‘She was unconscious!’ Hannah had retorted.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Paterson had responded with a sideways sniff of a nose that could smell money at least three miles away, ‘the legal process does not recognise that particular condition as valid mitigation.’

  Paterson had promised Hannah that he would arrive at the station later to see Jean but for the moment his time would be best served by going through the preliminary evidence with a fine toothcomb.

  Give the wee puddock his due, he would accomplish this. He was one of the best advocates in the city, but the message the lawyer sent was not a cheerful one.

  ‘Ye’re stuck here till hell freezes,’ was Hannah’s pithy summing up, minus the legal jargon.

  Jean sighed once more.

  ‘I would kill for a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Ye already have,’ said Hannah with graveyard humour, ‘and I tried tae bring ye in a stone flask o’ the stuff but they widnae let me.’

  ‘How come not?’ Jean sat up a bit straighter, green eyes flashing with indignation.

  ‘That big stupit bastard of a sergeant at the desk. Murdoch. He said there might be poison in it. Tae help ye escape from justice.’

  Jean shook her head. Hannah hesitated, not wanting to pile it, on but events could not be undone.

  ‘I’ve mair bad news. If it’s no’ one thing it’s the other. Never rains but it pours.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Jean. ‘Me and catastrophe are well acquainted these days.’

  ‘Simone and Francine have flown the coop. Left a note this early morning. Awa’ tae gay Paree or wherever. Wee Lily Baxter’s in a hellish state, the whole house is in uproar.’

  Indeed Lily’s distress had been a pitiful sight to behold and the only person able to comfort her had been, surprisingly enough, Jessie Nairn.

  But then the news about Jean had arrived in addition to the mayhem and Hannah was off on her travels.

  ‘God knows whit the Just Land is like this very moment. You’re no’ there, I’m no’ there, big Annie’s there but she’s a soft touch; these magpies will be up tae high doh. Hingin’ frae the rafters.’

  Jean made a quick decision.

  ‘We will close the place for a week at least.’

  ‘Whit?’

  ‘The girls can find their own way home, they’re big enough. Back to their families or wherever. We have too much on our plate. One less thing to worry about.’

  Hannah thought for a moment. It made sense. With a few reservations.

  ‘Whit about the clients?’

  ‘They can whistle.’

  ‘What about wee Lily?’

  ‘She can stay. Feed the fish.’

  Indeed Lily was often to be found by the ornamental pond, staring into the water with rapt concentration as the piscine layabouts swam around.

  Perhaps she had been looking for better days.

  ‘She’ll need company.’

  ‘Who do you suggest?’

  ‘Jessie Nairn,’ replied Hannah surprisingly. ‘She’s kind tae Lily and Jessie tellt me when we were hingin’ oot the washing that if she ever goes back to her family in Paisley, she’ll get her throat cut.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Her family.’

  ‘Then she can stay with Lily.’

  ‘Whit about me?’ It had suddenly dawned on Hannah that she had no wish to share a bawdy-hoose with a doleful deaf-mute and a snippet from Paisley.

  ‘You will bide in the safe house in Laurie Street and continue to organise the search for this acid man.’

  ‘But Simone’s run away and left us in the lurch!’

  Jean straightened up a bit more to resemble the proud mistress of the Just Land.

  ‘It is a matter of principle,’ she said firmly.

  Besides, she had a hidden hope that should they find this slimy wee bastard and stick some lighted Halloween splinters under his fingernails, he might well provide some much-needed answers.

  Somebody had plunged a knife into Logan Galloway and it wouldn’t be the Countess, too refined by half.

  The outside door to the cells creaked open, with a noise that made Jean wince, and Ballantyne entered.

  ‘I’ve been sent to inform you, madam,’ he said to Hannah, ‘that your visiting time is up. Regulations.’

  ‘Have I no’ seen you before, my mannie?’ speired Hannah, a wicked glint in her eye. ‘Inside the Just Land wi’ two big hizzies hingin’ on your arm?’

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ replied the constable, his birth-mark flaming at the thought. ‘That’s not on my patrol.’

  ‘I could’ve sworn otherwise,’ said Hannah. Then she turned to Jean Brash who was smiling a little at the byplay, any humour being welcome in this situation. ‘I’ll do what you’ve tellt me, mistress. Your wish. My command.’

  With that ironic statement to hide the worry in her mind, Hannah looked Jean straight in the face, nodded her head in determined fashion and then left.

  Ballantyne did not follow but fished in his pocket and produced a slightly creased, sealed envelope.

  ‘This was handed in for you,’ he said to Jean.

  As he motioned to give it over, Jean held up her hand.

  ‘Are you not concerned there may be poison within, or perhaps even a dagger to help me evade your clutches?’

  ‘No,’ replied Ballantyne with serious mien. ‘Sergeant Murdoch held it up to the light. Jist paper inside.’

  He inserted it carefully through the
bars, bowed his head respectfully and left.

  Jean sniffed the envelope. It was scented. She did not recognise the writing, which was small and somewhat crabbed.

  But as soon as she read the opening words, it was like a stab in the heart.

  Indeed, it was meant to be so.

  She could almost hear the gloating voice.

  My dear Jean,

  I am so sorry to hear of your misfortune. It must be terrible to feel that the whole world has turned against you and that everything you worked so hard to build up can be of no consequence when you are behind a prison wall.

  I shall attend the trial and each time you look up, there will be my eyes fixed upon you. I know it will be hard when they strip off your fine clothes and I hope they do not cut off your beautiful hair lest it suffer infestation.

  But here I am, taken with the vanity of outward show when it must be inner suffering that concerns you.

  An agony twisting like a knife, more painful with each passing year, which will only cease with your own cessation.

  I wish you the strength to bear such suffering.

  They say that in prison each day is like a year, each year an eternity. What a dreadful prospect!

  I would think that nothing can comfort you now but I offer you what love and affection lies within my breast.

  Yours,

  A friend

  Jean Brash closed her eyes and crumpled up the letter in her two hands.

  The words she spoke were like an incantation or prayer of malediction.

  ‘I’ll see you buried yet, Countess,’ she muttered. ‘And I’ll spit in your grave when they lower you down.’

  ‘Dearie me. That’s no’ very nice,’ said a voice.

  She had heard the door creak while reading and assumed it to be Ballantyne keeking in to check she wasn’t trying to choke herself to death on the paper.

  But it was McLevy, with a tin mug in his hand inside which an evil-looking brew was slopping up against the sides like a muddy black tide.

  The brew smelt strong and acrid with a sense that it might once have been coffee.

  ‘It’s the station special,’ he said. ‘Made by Sergeant Murdoch’s own fair hands.’

  He passed it carefully through the bars, the mug being just wide enough for the gap.

  She passed him the letter in return. Tit for tat.

  While Jean sipped, nose screwed up, mouth pursed at the awful taste, McLevy squinted at the letter, holding it at arm’s length for deciphering.

  ‘You need ocular assistance,’ she remarked.

  ‘I have the drift,’ he replied.

  Jean took another hungry gulp at the coffee and nearly spat it back into the mug.

  ‘That sergeant of yours is worried I might poison myself but he’s near beat me to it.’

  McLevy handed back the letter without immediate comment on the contents.

  ‘Ye best keep that safe. Evidence at trial.’

  ‘Whit good will it do?’

  ‘Depends on the accused.’

  The inspector had a big smile on his face and Jean was at once wary.

  A policeman’s smile is second only to a politician’s in terms of potential treachery.

  ‘Alfred Binnie,’ he announced. ‘That’s his name as I am told by cable from London town this morning.’

  ‘Who might that be?’

  ‘The acid-pourer. Handy wi’ a knife as well.’

  Jean had a feeling that she was being manoeuvred in the mind; was McLevy holding out some hope?

  ‘And I think I know where tae find him.’

  She said nothing. It would come. McLevy chuckled annoyingly to himself.

  ‘How mony occasions have we twa sat together?’

  ‘Every time there’s misery in the land,’ she replied grimly as he chortled away, as if at some private joke.

  ‘How’s your neck?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ye had an ache there.’

  ‘It’s better now.’

  ‘It’ll be worse after trial.’

  His face was serious all of a sudden.

  ‘The Countess. She is too clever for you, Jean.’

  ‘I wouldnae say that.’

  ‘She set a trap and in you walked like a blind fool.’

  Jean threw the dregs of coffee from the tin mug onto the cell floor and McLevy frowned to see such desecration, but she had used the displacement for her own calculation.

  ‘That means you believe me innocent.’

  ‘It is of no matter.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I can provide no proof.’

  McLevy leant in close to the bars so that his big white face filled up the space like a huge balloon.

  ‘She has you beaten, Jean, every way you turn – admit the fact.’

  ‘I’ll never admit it.’

  ‘Then help me prove otherwise.’

  ‘How?’

  This was the second time in days that the inspector had glimpsed a look of naked entreaty in her eyes and he wondered at the feelings it provoked in his heart.

  A cruel affection. One fights the other.

  Love like a trail of blood.

  He ignored any depth of thought and returned to facts.

  ‘Maisie Powers. She left your establishment.’

  ‘I caught her jinking on the side. That’s against the rules of the house. They all know the rules.’

  ‘Yet ye dealt with her kindly?’

  Jean nodded.

  The girl’s brother had been a hopeless opium addict and the reason for Maisie selling her wares outside of the Just Land was to clear his debts with the suppliers.

  By supplying them with her stock in trade.

  But then you ran a high risk of the pox and it was instant dismissal for that reason. Jean ran a clean house; it could not be otherwise.

  She had felt sorry for Maisie and given her a small sum of money to cushion the blow.

  The girl had been grateful for small mercies.

  The brother had died not long after, so it was all for nothing.

  And Maisie?

  ‘She sells her body for the Countess now,’ McLevy offered, as Jean’s silence had stretched.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘She may have inside knowledge. I need tae tap upon it. She will not talk to me.’

  ‘No wonder. You threw her mother in jail.’

  ‘I caught her shoplifting.’

  ‘For her own daughter’s wedding!’

  Maisie’s older sister, rendering McLevy somewhat unwelcome in the family circle.

  He glared at Jean.

  This was developing into an unseemly fracas despite the deadly situation.

  ‘The law is the law.’

  ‘Aye. Kiss my backside, said the rich man.’

  McLevy took a deep breath. He’d be damned if this woman would distract him from his bounden duty.

  ‘You must get word to her that I am to be trusted.’

  ‘How can I do that? I am in the jail.’

  ‘And liable to stay there!’

  He bawled this into her face from short distance, eyes almost popping in fury.

  Jean took thought. This was her only hope at present, popeyes or not.

  It went against the grain having to provide a policeman with her official approval and if word spread, she would lose face amongst the fraternity, but needs must when Satan holds the reins.

  ‘Calm yourself down, James,’ she said primly. ‘You’ll give your body a seizure.’

  She removed a thin gold ring with a tiny inset gem from her little finger.

  ‘Show Maisie this. She aye admired it. Say it’s hers with my blessing for the right information.’

  Jean dropped it into his hand.

  The tiny circlet of gold glinted against the hard skin of his palm. Resting where the line of life crossed over.

  31

  It’s a damned, long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way.

  OLIVER G
OLDSMITH, She Stoops to Conquer

  Maisie Powers looked at the ring as it lay in McLevy’s hand and near spat on it. The hand that is, not the circlet.

  He had tracked her down to one of the smaller taverns by the dockside, the Green Lady, a respectable enough place where they at least washed the floor now and then, where she was in the habit of treating her aged mother, Molly, to a mid-morning dram before starting the day’s labour.

  Luckily the old harridan had not yet arrived and the inspector was in a hurry to get out before Molly got in.

  ‘I dae this for Jean,’ said Maisie. ‘No’ for you. Give back the ring. This is for free.’

  Jean Brash is dead meat unless you help me, had been his opening remark.

  It got her attention and he still had it, no matter how grudging.

  ‘I’m looking for a man. Small, plump, nasty piece o’ work. Maybe has a London cant,’ he murmured, re-pocketing the ring.

  Maisie hesitated. She had heard what had happened to Simone. This could be dangerous for the health.

  ‘Whit’s he to do wi’ Jean?’

  ‘She is in the frame for murder. I think he hung the picture round her neck. Him and the Countess.’

  Now it was a shiver. The Countess ruled by fear. One glance from the eye was enough. She paid well and looked after the herd of whores like prime cattle. But you did what you were told. You took your licks.

  He noted the hesitation as this thought passed through her mind and resisted the temptation to push further.

  Finally Maisie spoke slowly, softly, unlike her usual strident tone; so quietly that he had to lean in at the table where they sat.

  ‘The top room. A man stays up there. Since a wee while ago. We never see. He comes and goes by the back.’

  ‘Whit about the dogs?’

  ‘They must like him.’

  ‘Ye never see? Tell me a wee bit more.’

  She took a breath.

  ‘Thank God it wisnae myself.’

  ‘Tell me, if you please.’

  ‘Lizzie Jessock. Big lump o’ a girl. She didnae last.’

  McLevy raised his eyebrows enquiringly; not another murder surely?