by David Ashton
McLevy’s calm statement provoked another blustering response from Galbraith but if it was possible for a ruddy-faced man to turn white, it was happening before their eyes.
“How . . . how does this concern me, if I may ask?”
“Simple,” said the inspector. “Templeton will testify that you were one of his main customers.”
Galbraith was stunned into silence. He would be reported to the Medical Council.
“I shall be ruined.”
“Indeed you will, sir,” the constable confirmed solemnly. “And sore disgraced.”
McLevy carried on in this tenor as if staring into the grave of a dead reputation. “There may be some degree of clemency, Doctor Galbraith, but that is dependent upon your willingness to offer some cooperation.”
“In what?” asked a man desperate for redemption.
“In the small matter,” said James McLevy, “of a dead judge.”
Adam Dunsmore was back in Leith Station. Same room, same Queen above, Roach at his desk, Mulholland like a lamp-post at the door, and the inexorable figure of McLevy at the centre of the stage.
The Haymarket man looked as if someone had kicked him in the stomach as he listened to his rival bringing these unwelcome discoveries into the light of day.
McLevy ended the account of his investigation with a single succinct statement.
“Judge Pearson was addicted to arsenic. For priapic purposes. Galbraith supplied him.”
“That proves nothing!”
“It would, however, Inspector Dunsmore,” Roach said judiciously, “explain the amount of arsenic in the body.”
Having no intelligent response to that, Dunsmore took refuge in recrimination. “You assured me, Lieutenant Roach, that McLevy would be off this case.”
“I promised to stay away from Haymarket,” the inspector intervened with a straight face. “It’s true that Galbraith’s consulting rooms were in your parish, but his house is up by the university. Miles away.”
“Ye’re worse than a Highlander, McLevy!”
“The inspector stuck to his word though,” Mulholland chimed in from the doorway. “No denyin’ that.’
Roach nodded what seemed reluctant agreement with his constable, and the Haymarket man tried hard to control his umbrage at such persecution. “I know she did it. I have proof.”
“You have suspicion, that’s not enough.”
This comment of McLevy’s was the last straw.
“One of the servants saw her, through the keyhole,” Dunsmore blurted. “Dirty trollop!”
“A keyhole observation?” McLevy riposted. “Whit does that prove?”
“Boothroyd and her. In the room thegither, locked the door but the butler keeked in. She was unbuttoned, his hands everywhere. Up against the wall. Didnae even have the decency to lie down!”
Silence followed this graphic image.
“The servant will confirm such?” asked Roach.
“I have his sworn testimony.”
McLevy and Mulholland exchanged glances. So that’s what Dunsmore had up his sleeve – no wonder he’d been so cocksure – but now his case was shot to pieces.
“I’ll charge her anyway,” said Dunsmore bitterly. “The world will get to see her. A dirty little trollop.”
“What is the woman on trial for, inspector – murder or adultery?”
Dunsmore paid no attention to McLevy’s remark. “She killed her husband to enjoy her lover. I know it in my bones. One way or another – she poisoned him dead!”
A long silence ensued on all sides before Roach took command.
“I’ll deal with you later, McLevy. You may have stayed within the strict letter of your promise but that’s about all, the rest is wilful disobedience. You may leave.”
The inspector nodded, but just before departing, his eyes locked with the bitter angry gaze of Adam Dunsmore.
“Quack, quack, Adam,” he said. “Who’d have thought a nostrum seller could lead to such a pass, eh?”
“I hope you burn in hell, McLevy.”
Roach sighed as the other two shut the door behind them. Though Dunsmore had brought this upon himself, he felt some pity for the stricken man.
“Inspector,” he asked, reaching into a low drawer of his desk whence the clink of glass was heard. “May I offer you a small malt whisky – just to show that Leith is not completely beyond redemption?”
Dunsmore bowed his head, Victoria gazed into the middle distance and the liquid headed for the glass as if signalling an end to proceedings.
Outside in the main station McLevy’s face was sombre; despite his parting jibe, he felt . . . incomplete.
What had been said? What had been betrayed that he could not bring to mind? What had slipped him by?
Mulholland was by no means celebrating either – they had yet to face the wrath of Roach.
“The inspector has strong evidence that Judith Pearson is guilty of infidelity,” McLevy muttered. “And that furnishes hard and proven motive.”
“But you’ve demolished the case for poison,” the constable pointed out. “Arsenic no longer applies.”
McLevy made no answer. Something was obviously swirling in his mind and Mulholland wondered if it was the same image of vertical infidelity.
“Not such a sweet wee butterfly after all, eh?” he commented. “A Painted Lady. Caught in the act.”
The inspector had been replaying the meeting with Judith Pearson – what had she said? Caught? Once caught he might stifle their senses? And then what had slipped him by, the intuition that had been trying to throw rocks up from the depths, finally hit the mark.
Damnation!
McLevy moved off swiftly and called back to the still stationary constable. “If Dunsmore comes out with a gun looking for yours truly, tell him I’ve gone to consult an expert in Papilionidae!”
With that he was gone. Mulholland wondered whether to follow but he hadn’t been invited and besides it was Thursday, the Old Ship tavern would have sheep’s heid broth on the evening board, and it had been a long while since he’d had a decent meal.
A safer course of action by far.
Judith Pearson was caught indeed; amid elation and a certain dread as she stood before an impassive McLevy while her portrait hung between them on the wall.
Elation – when he had informed her that the arsenic found in her husband’s body was a result of the judge’s choosing and not hers.
Dread – that Dunsmore intended to press the case regardless and had sworn testimonial to her lubricity.
She nevertheless dismissed the butler’s evidence. Judith had banished him the previous day – the man had been devoted to her husband and had turned the servants against her. A despicable spy.
“But is his tale true?” asked the inspector, a sardonic glint in his eye. “Come along. You owe me some veracity, just atween ourselves. I am your knight in shining armour after all.”
The widow took a swift glance around as if to make sure no witnesses were present. “I . . . cannot deny I have some feeling for Mister Boothroyd and he for me.”
“Was it consummated?” he enquired bluntly.
The violet eyes flashed in anger. “That is not the matter of accusation. It is murder, and I am innocent!”
“Not quite.”
The force of these two words silenced her for a moment. “What do you mean?”
James McLevy looked around at the glass cases hung upon the wall. “I have been consulting with an expert in the field and he confirmed my suspicions.”
“As regards what?”
He did not answer the question immediately but looked at her as perhaps a collector of crime might regard a rare specimen. Then he whistled a Jacobite tune under his breath before launching forth.
“Let us suppose,” he began quietly, “a wife wishes to murder her husband and comes upon a perfect solution – use the man’s own obsession as the weapon against him.”
He crossed to where the Painted Lady lay quiescent in her cas
e, and continued. “When he caught a beautiful creature within his net, the husband would pinch the thorax to stifle consciousness, then pop the victim in the killing jar – you mentioned such on our first meeting, Mistress Pearson, and it lodged deep within my mind yet did not emerge until this very day.”
Judith was calm, her gaze unwavering.
“Death for the butterfly would be caused by a fermentation of crushed laurel leaves – hydrocyanic acid, otherwise known as . . . cyanide. As I say, a perfect solution for the husband.”
It was summer. Dusk was falling and some creature in the garden let out a screech of triumph or disaster, the noise piercing through the French windows. Neither player paid it any heed as she responded with the polite air of a good hostess. “But surely, does not cyanide taste of almonds? Sweet, sickly, difficult to disguise?”
McLevy banged his hands together, the lupine eyes lit with a yellow fire. “An old wife’s tale and, in any case, the husband has a heavy cold and whisky is a powerful masking agent!”
He moved around suddenly, almost as if dancing a jig to end up at close quarters to her, near enough to smell a fragrant perfume. “Cyanide also leaves little or no trace and so to forestall suspicion the wife insists upon a post-mortem, confident that nothing will be found.”
Her face betrayed little and, as McLevy hammered home to the end of his deduction, he had the errant thought that she would be a bugger to shift in the witness box.
“But irony thickens the plot. The husband’s own addiction provides proof of poison. Arsenic. Wrong toxin in the right body. Small wonder ye fainted.”
McLevy let out a whoop of laughter but Judith remained unmoved, her beautiful face like polished marble.
“It is a fine story,” she remarked. “Tragic and yet with a grotesque humour.”
“That’s how I like them!” McLevy abruptly changed tack. “The wife is in a desperate plight, correctly guilty for the wrong reason, and so she has a last wild throw of the dice.”
Now his eyes bored into her for he was angered both by his own gullibility and her manipulation. “Ye brought me into the equation, fed me what you could, hoped for the best, and set me loose.”
“And what you have found has set me free.”
The inspector nodded acknowledgement. Nothing he had said so far had moved her at all; a bonny murderess with ice in her veins. “I shall acquaint Adam Dunsmore with my more recent discovery. He will not thank me for it but it may give the prosecution some bullets to fire.”
A hidden smile and for a moment the expression on Judith’s face mirrored exactly that of the portrait as he continued. “You will be held up to ridicule and shame, lustful acts exposed to one and all. Naked to the bone.”
“I am prepared for that,” she answered simply.
“And all for nothing, eh?” said James McLevy.
“Nothing?”
“Jardine Boothroyd is a shallow creature. He will not stay the course. He will leave you. By the bank of the river. Abandoned – like a wrecked ship.”
For a moment there was the slightest quiver in the muscles of her countenance. “You are wrong. Quite wrong.”
A savage grin came over his face and she felt as if something had stabbed her in the heart. He moved to the door and then, as if struck by something, turned back.
“One thing aye puzzled me. Why did the judge commission the damned painting in the first place?”
“So that he could own me, I believe,” she answered, steadying herself. “Like a butterfly inside a case.”
He smiled at the irony of that and took his leave.
“Goodbye, mistress. I’ll see you in the court.”
After the door had closed, Judith Pearson let out a long shuddering breath. What was to come would be a dreadful ordeal but Boothroyd would not desert her – surely? The flame would burn. Always.
She stood alone. Surrounded by the dead.
The artist was in masterful mode. Afternoon light shone through the skylight window as he positioned Jean Brash in front of his provisional study, powerful hands cupped in proprietary fashion over her eyes.
He had spent a frenzied night of passion but instead of feeling sated, desire seemed to have been sharpened further. And this would be another hungry woman.
The hands removed with a flourish, he stepped back.
“Well? Have I captured my prey?”
She looked at the drawing executed in firm bold lines, with swatches of bright colour, mostly azure blue, swirling round her head and shoulders like mist-demons.
Jean Brash in all her dubious glory. Boothroyd had captured her all right. Only too well.
She was well aware of his rapacious intent this day, unlike the first, which had a playful quality. Now it had hardened in the way he looked at her and brushed his body against hers while covering over the eyes.
Now were McLevy on hand he would no doubt remark: do not complain when what you’ve invited walks in the door.
“Well?” he asked impatiently.
“It is very striking,” she murmured. “Cruel. And accurate.”
“And what do you see?”
“An indulgent, selfish woman.”
He laughed, moved round so that they were face to face, and reached out his hand.
“But a very attractive one. I particularly admire the line of your neck. It is very beautiful. You see? Here . . .” his finger traced the line on the paper and then switched to lightly touch her neck. “And – in the flesh.”
Jean wheeled away to don her outside coat, speaking as she did so. “I thank you for the appreciation, Mister Boothroyd, and I shall arrange for a cheque to be sent for your work so far. You may keep the drawing.”
By now she was at the door, the suddenness of her movement taking him completely by surprise. “But will you not . . . stay a while?”
“No,” she replied, fixing him with a regard that could only come from the Mistress of the Just Land. “To tell you the truth, Mister Boothroyd, I do not much like what I have seen before me.”
Then she was gone, leaving the artist standing there foolishly, one finger still outstretched.
Diary of James McLevy
Judith Pearson was put on trial and the crush of people inside the court as vulgar were it for the gaudiest theatre show. They were hanging from the rafters, every eye upon the accused woman. The Painted Lady.
Roach and Mulholland were there in official capacity and I thought to glimpse Jean Brash amid the throng. All roads lead to Rome.
The judge’s wife stood in isolation at the dock, serene, unruffled, in perfect repose as the dirty linen was well and truly hauled out in court, the butler’s view, though confined by the relevant aperture, being teased out in great detail. The passionate fumbling as buttons popped their moorings and his rendition of how the couple continued their frenzy against hitherto respectable wallpaper drew gasps from all sides.
Boothroyd blustered courtroom denial but throughout it all Judith remained calm, untouched by the accusation of keyhole carnality.
The source of arsenic identified, there was no proof of intent to poison and no trace had been found of the cyanide. The butler tried to imply that he might have seen her drop something into the hot toddy but retracted this under defence questioning and I felt that this was just a desperate throw by Dunsmore.
The Haymarket man, unlike myself, cut a poor figure in the witness box – like a vindictive ferret.
The verdict? Not proven. That is, we think you’re guilty but we cannae nail it down.
McLevy laughed to himself, laid down the pen, picked up his tin mug and wandered to the window. His city was glittering below in the shadows like a will o’ the wisp.
Where was Judith Pearson this night – in her lover’s arms or perhaps standing by the French windows staring out, while a high-pitched scream announced the death of something in the darkness?
A few months later in the garden of the Just Land, McLevy and Jean Brash sipped coffee while autumn leaves lost their moorin
gs in the pale afternoon sunshine.
Hannah Semple had dumped down the tray, and then clomped off to prepare the magpies of the bawdy-hoose for evening exertions.
The two had reconciled whatever passage in the depths had caused friction between them and at least for the moment could enjoy the Lebanese infusion.
“I saw Judith Pearson,” Jean remarked out of the blue. “In the street. Face like a mask.”
McLevy dipped a sugar biscuit in the coffee just long enough that it softened but did not collapse, and munched the resultant compromise. “On her own, I expect?”
“I looked into her eyes,” said Jean. “They were like two black holes. A marked woman.”
“Boothroyd fled the city, as I knew he would.”
Jean winced as he slurped at the coffee, a sound not unlike water going down a plughole. “I wonder she didnae do the same – leave Edinburgh?”
McLevy’s thought was that perhaps the woman had nowhere else to go. “The judge’s wife risked all,” he announced portentously. “And ended wi’ nothing. Passion, desire, love – it’s a bugger, eh?”
“So they tell me,” came the ironic response.
“You make a good living out of it!”
“That’s lust,” she said with some asperity. “Not the same thing at all.”
Jean had often wondered to herself the reason why, in the artist’s studio, she had slipped away from the intended seduction. Perhaps because the created image had shown a version of herself that was not palatable.
A woman ravenous for admiration – it was not a pretty sight and she counted herself worth more than that. To hell with admiration.
She would never find it in the bloodshot eyes opposite, that’s for sure.
The inspector pursed his lips and snaffled another sugar biscuit. “Judith Pearson aye seemed so innocent in that picture. As if she were . . . deep drowned in love.”
He paused, biscuit poised in a strangely dainty hand. “I am reading Sir Walter Scott’s The Heart of Midlothian, and in it, a poor soul, Madge Wildfire, is betrayed by love and driven insane.”
“I know the story,” said Jean. “The fate is not uncommon.”
