by David Ashton
Cold dreary winter found her in the low dives, howking out the odd auld randie, or hanging at the edge of tables on the look-out for an unfinished drink or oddments of food.
All the barmen knew her and mostly turned a blind eye for she was not a quarrelsome soul.
But it was not a proud life.
Once she had been a real beauty, creamy, with a soft, curved body where men desired to bury their passion. All the young bucks. One especial – for a while her regular till he ran out of money.
Even then she favoured him, but a girl has to live.
And move on apace.
Then the hard knocks came.
One after another, queuing up.
She lost the prize, her bonny boy.
Not long ago she’d seen a face brought all the memories back, but when she poured out her heart, the drink had taken over and she ended raving like a loon.
When she awoke, she was alone.
This evil night her luck had run out in the Foul Anchor when she had tried to sneak a wee nip from the glass of an auld birkie who had shuffled outside to driddle agin the wind, and Mary had been caught by a sharp-eyed young barman.
He shoved her rudely to the door and a boot in the arse sent her skelping headlong into the dark, where she limped through the harbour cursing bad fortune.
Then she saw the figure skip towards her with an odd halting gait, light on his feet, face a white mask shaded under a wide hat, a silver cane in hand – a real dandy.
‘Are ye searching out adventure, young sir?’
To her slightly croaking enquiry, he bowed his head and moved closer. She pulled up her threadbare rags and arranged her mouth into a smile of welcome.
The wind was biting but thank God the rain had lost interest.
‘What is your pleasure? I ken them all.‘
The first cut is aye the cruellest they say, and when his cane slashed through the air at her throat, it was indeed a savage but surgical slice that drove the breath from her lungs with rendered agony.
She fell on her knees and, as the blows rained down with deadly precision, was mute like an animal to the slaughter.
At the very last, she looked up and through swimming eyes, a vision of the countenance above swirled like an illusion changing shape.
But – but – she knew that face!
She cried out a name that stopped him in his tracks for a moment. Then he struck deeper.
And then she knew no more.
Legend has it that the victim’s eyes will retain the murderer’s image on the retina.
But all that was reflected in her eye was the darkness.
And so she lay there.
Waiting for the morning light.
Chapter 20
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth –
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Dejection: an Ode
‘Death waits for every man and woman who walks this world, and those who have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God will be unredeemed! A Lake of Fire they will see before them but to the faithful what says the risen Christ?’
At this point the Reverend Jonas Gibbons – his rangy figure clothed in the robes of his Faith, unruly locks combed severely flat from a side parting, furze of face hair that framed the leonine features bristling with holy intent – paused and looked down from his pulpit at the packed congregation huddled together and steaming from the rain like a herd of cattle, before raising his hands to buttress the answer to this rhetorical question.
‘Be faithful unto death, and I will give you the crown of life!’
A quiet murmur of accord, which for the Church of Scotland was equivalent to a full-blooded Hallelujah plus angelic choirs followed by heavenly thunderbolts, came in response and the minister nodded gravely, then began anew.
‘For if we live near to God, if he is ever present on our right and left hand, by our side constantly, shall we not share in a blessed communion with heaven?’
The simple sincerity in his words and the resonance of delivery were evidence of an ability that drew the righteous from near and far.
Of course it is fine and worthy to hear the word of the Lord in all its glory, but if there is a charismatic appeal that might gild the sacred sensibilities of the female of the species, then may she not make the pilgrimage and drag her husband along for good measure?
One might have mistaken Lieutenant Roach for one such freighted accompaniment as he sat there beside his wife, for indeed their church lay a good three miles distant and the incumbent minister dry as grave-dust.
Roach’s presence on this day had, however, a perverse duality.
He was profoundly split, not unlike the old Adam, but instead of a tempting apple, his attention was torn between murder most recent and the word of God.
Matters were not helped by the fact that the pews in this church were apparently designed to cause maximum discomfort to those of a bony posterior. This was possibly meant to keep a reverent mind focused on the sermon, but in his case was having the opposite effect.
Why must worship be always couched in pain?
In the Deep South of America it was not so, but in the East of Scotland, it would seem, it was par for the course.
Of course golf was the other subject never far from Roach’s mind, but he rounded up his migrating thoughts and tried to concentrate.
Gibbons leant over and spoke softly, for he was intending to launch into the main body of his sermon and it was always wise to gather in the fold first and foremost.
‘For what says the 23rd Psalm? Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou are with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over.’
The words rested like a blessing on the bowed heads.
Now he had them in the palm of his hand – now he could talk about sin and redemption. Nothing crude or manipulative, for Jonas was far from an exultant revivalist. No – together they would walk the road.
The road to a sober Salvation.
Sadly, Roach’s mind had veered back to murder.
He had been roused from his bed at an unearthly hour of the Sabbath Day to be informed that a corpse had been found on a reputable doorstep, bearing the exact same marks as the one in the harbour.
By the time he’d got there, McLevy plus Mulholland were already on hand, the path scoured for evidence, all of which was bagged. Roach had then made a decision to keep all of this under wraps, for a variety of reasons.
Luckily the corpse had been discovered so early that there were no witnesses to the police activity. Heriot Row, in any case, prided itself on the avoidance of neighbourly contact. An Englishman’s home may be his castle, but for the Scots, a net curtain will suffice.
And for such Roach was profoundly thankful.
Of course discreet enquiries would be made up and down the street, but they would be couched as if concerning a night-time incident, a disturbance of the peace, and due to the aforesaid net-curtain mentality Roach could almost foretell that nothing would emerge.
Under wraps. As far as possible. For the moment.
If someone like Sim Carnegie got a hold of this story, the investigation would be hopelessly compromised.
It involved a world-famous son of Edinburgh, so until such time as guilt was ascertained, unwelcome and unsavoury publicity should be buried in the pit of the dunghill where they belonged.
He had informed the City police; they had agreed with his conclusion and in fact were delighted to let Leith run with the investigation.
Because if something went wrong, they, the City police would be in the clear and he, Roach, would be buried deep in the bunker of shame.
But McLevy had his teeth firmly into this new murder by the time his lieutenant had arrived, so it was too late.
Besides the original cr
ime was in their parish and Roach had somehow become personally embroiled in the whole atrocity – that’s the trouble when you take to the streets.
And that dent in his best hat demanded vengeance –
‘Robert – stop talking to yourself,’ his wife’s whispered tones broke into this internal symposium.
‘I was praying,’ he muttered defensively.
Mrs Roach shot him a look. She knew fine well that in common with most men he only prayed when in a predicament or was bidden to from on high, and neither of the cases applied because the sermon was still proceeding.
The minister had traversed the valley of the shadow of death with his congregation, guided them to the sunny uplands of a potential heaven should a decent Christian life be lived, but he was careful not to make it sound too easy a task.
The devil was aye on hand. Though if you looked him full in the face he would wither on the vine.
Auld Hornie would come again, though. Reborn. An eternal vigilance was needed.
On the watchtower of his soul, each man must scan the horizon for dark riders.
Live near to God that He might say, Well done, my good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of Thy Lord.
The minister bowed his head for a moment in deep thought, his strong sinewy hands resting on the huge reading bible that lay before him on the pulpit.
As Roach shifted uncomfortably once again on his persecuted rear-end, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. They were sitting in one of the side pews and the lieutenant was at one end, somewhat marginalised from the main body of the kirk.
A young man had stepped forwards from the shadows, and Roach recognised the sandy hair and open, broad face of John Gibbons, son of the manse.
‘Here,’ said John quietly, a glint of humour in the light brown eyes. ‘This may provide assistance, sir.’
He slipped Roach a small cushion, which proved to fit neatly under the suffering flesh, and then stepped back out of sight.
When the thus-relieved lieutenant brought his attention back on course, the words of Jonas Gibbons had an uncanny pertinence.
He at last raised his head, solemnity etched into his face like fissures in a holy statue.
‘A good woman has died,’ he announced. ‘A devout spirit who worked night and day for the Lord and for the church of St Stephen’s. Her reward will be in heaven and all who knew this dear soul can attest to the good deeds and worshipful diligence that was her way.
‘Kind to her neighbours and believing in the true path, Agnes Carnegie will be sorely missed by all her friends in this place.’
If amongst the godly females who had shared duties with Agnes there might have been some reservations, due to the fact that the woman was a terrible gossip, aye poking her nose intae other body’s business with a tongue sharp as a pike’s teeth, they were nowhere manifest upon their countenances, and indeed the fate of the poor sowl was sorrowful enough to allay any such qualms.
‘Murdered!’ Jonas Gibbons suddenly thundered, tacking somewhat towards the Old Testament. ‘An innocent lamb tae the slaughter! May the vengeance of the Lord descend upon the godless sinner who perpetrated this vile act. May the forces of law and order bring this killer under the heel of justice and let him suffer the due and severe consequence of stringent retribution!’
More than a few glances, including his wife’s, were cast Roach’s way, but his attention was fixed on a separate pew, reserved and paid for by the Stevenson family.
There sat the mother-widow Margaret, beside her a striking woman with beautiful but heavy features and eyes that seemed to be fixed beyond this world. The youth on Margaret’s other side was thin-faced, with a straggly moustache, and bore a self-generated semblance to the most absent member of the clan.
Despite the convulsion at Heriot Row, after all how many decent households find a dead body on their doorstep, Margaret Stevenson had insisted upon going to church.
This was her habit. This was her rock. And besides, the Reverend Jonas Gibbons would soon be officiating at the funeral of her dear husband.
It was inconceivable, when the minister looked down, that she should not be looking up.
Fanny had reluctantly agreed to accompany her, and Lloyd was press-ganged to be the representative male of the family.
The titular head was conspicuous by his absence.
It was well known that wild horses could not drag Robert Louis Stevenson into a church, especially this one, where his youthful rebellious spirit had been whittled at by the notched blade of Holy Scripture.
His declared atheism at the age of twenty-three had provoked his mother into agonised distress and his father into the grim prophecy that eternal damnation had just walked in the door.
Be that as it may, the possibly eternally damned Robert Louis had other business on hand, not completely disconnected to the man who now sat more comfortably upon a cushion.
Police business.
Margaret caught Roach’s stare upon her and returned it placidly, before fixing her attention once more in a heavenly direction.
The lieutenant had walked them all down to the church, thinking it was the least he could do, then was astonished to find his own wife waiting for him by the bleak vertiginous steps of St Stephen’s.
In all the stramash he had completely forgotten that she had persuaded him to come and hear this preacher who had inspired such pious admiration throughout the city.
But there she was. And here he was also.
As far as Mrs Roach was concerned, he had left early on some police errand and would turn up on time.
Her husband was never late.
Which he was not, and since his inspector was taking care of business at the station, it was as well to carry on in the direction of Sabbath travel.
And so, in they all went together.
And here they all were.
Within the fold.
John Gibbons emerged from the shadows to kneel, accepting silently Roach’s nod of thanks for posterial deliverance, as Jonas Gibbons, having at length praised the late Agnes and commended her to a guaranteed deliverance, raised both arms in the air.
An unexpected, pallid streak of sunlight burrowed through one of the church windows and illuminated him like an angel, as his strong voice rang amongst the flock.
After all, he was their Shepherd.
‘Let us pray,’ he said simply. ‘Let us pray for the departed soul.’
He began the opening words of the Lord’s Prayer and the congregation joined in the swell of heavenly tribute.
Here endeth the lesson.
Chapter 21
The way out is via the door. Why is it that no one will use this method?
Confucius, Analects
He had slept badly. Dreamt a wasteland of dead trees where he, as shivering young man, fled for his life, pursued by yelping hounds. His father appeared and promised to help but only if the youth gave God a barley-bannock as payment. This he refused to do and the old man shook his hoary locks, tears of grief running down his face.
He took the young man to the edge of a grey stone stairway that led to an iron-studded door dripping with candle grease and gobbets of red melted wax. The old man then vanished with a sorrowful prophecy that the barley-bannock sin and other such iniquitous transgressions would return in the form of a beast with two heads.
The young man opened the door to find a dark void, and when he peered far below, saw a white slab, luminous in the surrounding shadows.
There seemed to be a body on the slab, but he failed to construe the features.
Then he heard the beast. Heavy in tread, smelling like an addled midden, grunting as it lumbered upwards.
He could see its shape, but not yet clearly if it had two heads. And if so, which to cut off first? For the hero had suddenly been granted a sword in hand, rusty and mottled with age, but sharp enough surely to hack through a throat.
The beast let out a terrifying roar. It had smelt the prey. Its breath was like a poisonous g
as and the young man was now pinned to the very last step that led to nowhere.
He raised the sword, but it melted in the heat.
Stevenson woke in a fierce sweat, which rapidly cooled, leaving his night-clothes wrapped clammily around his thin body like a shroud.
He reached out for his tobacco pouch and muttered an oath on finding it empty.
Were dreams of such nature from bad conscience as the preachers would prate, or a darker, deeper place that took no account of such paltry concepts?
One way or another, they were his constant companions.
By the night-light Robert Louis could make out Fanny’s outline buried under blankets in the other bed, safe in the arms of Morpheus. So he slid out quietly, donned dressing gown and slippers, then padded off to find his mistress.
Madame Nicotine was in the hall within his jacket pocket, sheathed in leather and waiting with open arms.
He quickly rolled a life-saving cylinder, lit a Lucifer and smoked at once where he stood.
An addict knows not time or place.
A clock somewhere chimed a muffled tribute to five o’clock, beyond the witching hour but according to some smack dab in the middle of Auld Clootie’s temporal reign.
The front door rattled in a gust of wind and Stevenson regarded it thoughtfully.
It lacked a flight of stone stairs but what was behind?
The void?
Eternity?
Or just a wee, wet street?
With cigarette in lips like a Mexican bandit, Stevenson turned the heavy key that secured the house against Satan’s legions and threw open the door.
He had hoped to find the void, the unimaginable inchoate darkness, where all possibilities branch off in disparate directions like so many shooting stars, giving rise to other possibilities, other worlds, where anything might happen at any moment, an ever-changing kaleidoscope of shapes and events that might change in Protean splendour.
But no. It was a wee, wet street.
