The Lamplighter

by Anthony O'Neill

  Without offering a word of explanation, however, Groves had walked away brimming with vindication. Evelyn was a whore’s progeny. And by his own admission possibly sired by the Wax Man. It said everything.

  An hour later, crossing Charlotte Square to the Lord Provost’s impressive abode, he took a lingering glance at the twin streetlamps—green-painted, gold-capped, and freshly polished—with a curious sense of providence. Rapping confidently on the front door with a lion-headed knocker, he was greeted by a cadaverous servant and ushered through lavishly appointed halls to a sitting room where the Lord Provost, the Right Honorable Henry Bolan, M.D., J.P. (the first physician to ascend to the post), was sitting, with an impressive bearing, as the celebrated painter George Reid applied the finishing touches to an official mayoral portrait. Bolan was fully attired in his scarlet and ermine robes, with gold medals, chains, and buttons gleaming, civic mace across his knees, sword at his side, and a deerhound snoring contentedly at his feet. It was the latter that first acknowledged Groves’s arrival, snapping awake long enough to raise its head and sniff the air in a vain attempt to identify the Inspector’s smug and apprehensive musk, before dropping its head between its paws and resuming its slumber.

  The servant glided across the floor to announce Groves’s arrival in his master’s ear. Bolan, his chin raised imperiously, at first seemed irritated by the intrusion, but at the mention of Groves’s name he paled visibly, shot a glance in the Inspector’s direction, immediately shook off his pose, thrust the mace into the servant’s hand, stood inadvertently on the dog’s tail, and swept across to direct Groves into a private room thick with vinous red curtains and brocade, to the muffled chagrin of the painter Reid.

  “You have discovered something?” Bolan asked earnestly. He was an immense and florid man, which only served to make his urgency all the more pronounced.

  “I merely wish to inform My Lord Provost,” Groves said, “that I am closing in on a certain suspect and feel close to putting an end to this grim chapter.”

  Bolan seemed unsure what to make of him. “You have the murderer in your sights, is that it?”

  “The one I have in mind might not have landed the fatal blows, but is surely tied up in the gruesome business and will doubtless lead me to a conviction.”

  Bolan drew air through his teeth. “Who? Who is this person?”

  But Groves had already committed himself to circumspection, and even fatigued and intimidated was still able to exercise caution. “It would be best if I do not make any accusations until I am ready to procure an arrest warrant.”

  Bolan regarded him for several seconds and finally nodded, as though he had no other option. “Very…very good.” He fondled the hilt of his sword. “You must surely know,” he added, thrusting out his chin, “how I feel personally affronted by these crimes?”

  “I understand how this must be so.”

  “Nothing like this has ever happened in my city.”

  Groves enjoyed hearing the idea given official endorsement. “That is certainly the case.”

  “I never knew Mr. Ainslie,” Bolan said. “But Professor Smeaton was close to my family at one point. And Colonel Munnoch, too; I served in the army with him, and I removed shot from his foot in the Crimea. So I had dealings, in short, with both men.”

  “It has been said to me, and I share your grief.”

  “Grief…yes.” Pronouncing the word with a hint of disapproval, Bolan now examined Groves some more, as though debating how much he should reveal. “You have been on the detective force for some time now, Inspector,” he stated, as though to reassure himself.

  “Twenty years and three weeks, My Lord Provost.”

  “And Chief Inspector Smith tells me you are a tenacious investigator.”

  “I would like to think so.”

  “As reliable as a donkey, he says.”

  “He said that, did he?”

  Bolan, still fidgeting with his sword, pressed on uneasily. “May I…may I share something with you in confidence, then, Inspector?”

  “Of course, My Lord Provost.”

  “Something I want to go no farther than these walls.”

  “Of course.” Groves felt honored.

  Bolan lowered his voice. “Both those men—Smeaton and Munnoch—I associated with them some time ago, certainly, and I can never deny this. But I was a friend of neither man.”

  Groves nodded. “I understand, My Lord Provost.”

  “Not a friend—an adversary,” Bolan insisted, and, staring at Groves, decided to go even farther. “They were God-fearing men, both of them, but they had what I regarded as extreme values.”

  Groves nodded.

  “Extreme values,” Bolan said again. “Ideals I did not share and of which I could not approve. Some years ago—so long ago I barely remember it all now—they solicited my membership in some club or cabal they were forming.”

  “The Mirror Society?” Groves asked.

  “The what Society?”

  “The Mirror Society.”

  “The Mirror—?” Bolan shook his head. “No, I’ve not heard of that. But I know they were seeking the assistance of a qualified physician, for reasons that were unclear.”

  “They never hinted at anything?” Groves asked.

  “The club was steeped in secrecy, of a brand that frankly I found threatening.”

  “They threatened you?”

  “Nothing like that, Inspector, but I fear…I fear that our disagreements were of a pronounced nature. And I fear that if such a long-standing animosity were ever made public…then I wonder if I myself might be considered a suspect in this terrible case….”

  Groves found the idea absurd. “I assure you that is not so, My Lord Provost.”

  “Or…or even worse,” Bolan went on, “I fear that my association with such men, if indeed they were involved in something untoward—I fear that such a connection, as tenuous as it is, might be fodder for scandalmongers.”

  Groves nodded sympathetically. “I understand, certainly.”

  “And if any of this were made public, you see, it could prove most damaging to my reputation. To what I have achieved in the past and my aspirations for the future. This is why I have been so eager for a solution and have made my interest plain. I cannot afford to have my good name discolored by rumors.”

  “That would be most unfair.”

  “I have my family to think of,” Bolan said. “And if they were to suffer because of some distant association…it would be unjust.”

  “Unjust,” Groves agreed.

  Bolan swallowed, uneasy with the plaintive tone. “Then I hope we have understood each other.”

  “I would be happy to think so.”

  “And you will certainly mention this meeting to no one?”

  “You may rely on me, My Lord Provost.”

  The Lord of the Burgh looked at me as a trusted brother, but I had the sense he was not telling all he knew, there were secrets about the deceased he did not want to reveal, he did not want to discolour their names any more than he had, or discolour his own name in doing so.

  “Very well,” Bolan said again. “Then you will see fit to inform me when you feel in a position to make an arrest?”

  “I am confident that will be very soon,” Groves agreed.

  “It…it is as I wish it,” Bolan said, and finished on an appropriate note of civil solemnity. “It is a dastardly business, Inspector. A truly evil business that brings good to no one, and I can only pray our streets are not further blemished with blood.”

  “I pray also,” Groves said.

  Bolan released him to the care of his deathly servant and returned to the sitting room to resume his pose with the deerhound at his feet, and when Groves departed he noticed George Reid adding to the painting, with a couple of deft strokes, a sheen on the man’s brow that might well have been sweat.

  Slamming a door on his way out of Central Office that evening, Groves was so consternated that he barely noticed a dislodge
d fragment of masonry bouncing off his head. He donned his hat and wandered aimlessly through the streets, thrilled and dismayed in equal parts by the curious encounter with the Lord Provost. It was unquestionably a significant conversation, of the type he would lovingly record in his casebook, but he was also vaguely disappointed with his failure to pursue all the apparent avenues of interrogation. He wondered if he had been too accommodating of Bolan’s desire for secrecy, as understandable as it was, and he speculated as to what arts of diplomacy the Wax Man might have employed in a similar situation, if indeed the Wax Man would have asked any questions at all.

  Absently watching his shadow bloom and recede under the streetlamps, he suddenly became aware of some distant choir in an improbably festive refrain, and he found himself inexplicably drawn to its source, being the ugly Cowgate church of St. Patrick’s, the principal Roman Catholic worship house in the Old Town. Like Smeaton, Groves had an ingrained distrust of Papists—they stank of incense and performed rituals that were flamboyantly arcane—but, recalling Evelyn’s background, as well as the words of the Corstorphine minister, he recognized a serendipitous opportunity to reclaim his authority with some intimidating questions. So he digressed to the friary and met Father Withers at the door, addressing him with curled nostrils and stiff cadences.

  “You take services here, do you not?”

  “Every day,” the priest assured him as the choirboys trilled.

  “Do you know all your parishioners?”

  “That would be difficult,” Withers admitted. “But are you sure you won’t come in? I have some logs on the fire.”

  “I’m quite comfortable here, thank you. Would you happen to recall an Irish lass if I described her?”

  “I can certainly try.”

  Groves furnished him with a well-worn description, now appended with the adjectives sly and two-faced.

  “And you would be well advised to be honest in your answers, Padre,” he added. “Which I say in the best interests of the lass, as well as yourself.”

  “Oh, but I have an idea to whom you refer,” the priest said, with no intention of being secretive. “A most mysterious girl, invariably attired in black, as you suggest.”

  Groves narrowed his eyes. “What do you know of her?”

  “She no longer frequents our church. Though she might well attend Mass elsewhere.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “You would need to ask her, Inspector. I know only that she was given to…odd behavior.”

  “What type of odd behavior?”

  But at this point Withers became distracted. “Are…are you certain you won’t come in?” he asked, squinting at Groves’s forehead. “There seems to be a line of blood above your left eye, Inspector…coming from under your hat.”

  Puzzled, Groves put a hand to his brow and, drawing it away, examined his fingertips.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” the priest asked.

  For a moment, looking at the blood, Groves wondered if he had done so much thinking recently that his skull had exploded. But then he recalled the sting of the falling masonry and wiped his forehead with a pocket handkerchief.

  “I’m perfectly well, thank you,” he said irritably. “But the lass,” he went on, determined not to be distracted. “What type of odd behavior?”

  “Well, the girl…the young lady…”

  “Aye…”

  “She seemed attentive most of the time…you might say angelic.”

  “Go on.”

  “But on occasion she seemed to take exception, most inexplicably, to parts of the liturgy.”

  “What do you mean by ‘exception’?”

  “She would rise in the pew, and spit out some sort of imprecation, and storm off.”

  “Imprecation?”

  “Not blasphemy, exactly…just something expressing disapproval.”

  “She did not like what you were saying, is that it?”

  “It seemed so. It was unpleasant, certainly, but not without precedent. I tried to tolerate it, but it reached the stage where an approach was necessary, and I was on the verge of confronting her when I noticed that she was no longer attending. I hope no ill has come of her?”

  Groves belatedly realized it was a question, but he did not deign to answer. “Which part of the service provoked the outbursts, do you recall?”

  “There was one time during the Offertory of the Victim,” Withers admitted, “when she seemed especially put out. She rose and snarled something—I think it was in Latin, as indeed the prayer was—and fled as if possessed.”

  “And what is this Offertory of the Victim?”

  The priest smiled indulgently. “It follows the Consecration of the Wine. The congregation offers the Victim—the body and blood of Christ—to the Lord God as sacrifice.”

  “A sacrifice,” Groves echoed, pondering it. “Anything else?”

  “It’s difficult to remember every incident, though I think she flinched, as if stung, whenever the name of the Agnus Dei was invoked.”

  “The…?”

  “The Lamb of God. Who takes away the sins of the world.”

  “Aye,” Groves said, feeling that the taint was becoming clearer now, for far from the bleating doe she had appeared at their first meeting it was obvious that the woman was prone to vicious, even violent, turns of character. It was not enough to arrest her—not yet—but his nostrils flared with anticipation and excitement. “Have you ever heard of a certain Mirror Society?” he asked.

  He examined the priest closely, but saw no evidence of evasiveness behind his answer. “The Mirror Society? Why, no…”

  “Did you know Professor Smeaton?”

  “He was a man I tipped my hat to,” the priest answered carefully, “and I mourn his death. But I was not a companion of his.”

  “He had no association with your church, then?”

  “I would regard that as most unlikely.”

  “This might have been twenty years ago, or more.”

  The priest shrugged. “I was very young then—a novice.”

  “Did you ever hear of Smeaton contacting a certain monsignor?”

  The priest considered. “I don’t recall any monsignors based in Edinburgh at that time. There were a few, I suppose, who passed through.”

  “Any of these you recall in particular?”

  “There was Monsignor Dell’ Aquila, of course,” the priest said, and in the background the hymns abruptly faded. “From the Vatican. He arrived here in a cloud of great secrecy, as if on an urgent mission. Yes, I remember that most clearly.”

  “And who was he, to have traveled from such parts?”

  “A famed demonologist, Inspector—an exorcist. The most experienced in all the Church.”

  “A sorcerer?”

  “A priest who casts out spells and devils. A small, uniquely somber man. He looked very much as though he had been to hell and back. Which is,” Withers added, “to be expected, I suppose.”

  “Is it possible he was summoned by Smeaton?”

  “Well, Inspector, of that I can’t say. As far as I’m aware, Monsignor Dell’ Aquila never uttered a word about his purpose in the whole time he was here. Though when he left, as I recall, there was certainly hanging about him an atmosphere of defeat.”

  “Defeat?”

  “He looked at least ten years older, and he had shed a considerable amount of weight.”

  “And where is this monsignor now, Padre? Where can he be contacted?”

  “Oh, I regret that’s no longer possible.”

  “He won’t speak to me?”

  “It’s not that he won’t speak, Inspector,” the priest said grimly. “It’s that he can’t speak.”

  Groves read the implication with dismay. “He’s dead?”

  Withers nodded. “On a visit to Dublin,” he explained as the choirboys resumed with some sprightly new noel. “He was cut down one evening in front of St. Mary’s Cathedral and ripped to pieces as if by wolves. It was most uncommon,
as I recall.”

  Chapter XVI

  ARTHUR STARK, book dealer and publisher since 1855, had personally printed pamphlets by Marx, Engels, and the newly founded Fabian Society and was exceedingly sensitive to the notion that private enterprise had a way of inhibiting knowledge and exploiting desperation. He sometimes tried to convince himself that his was a vocation of civil—if not divine—good, and to assuage his conscience he frequently supplied books free of charge to charities and educational institutions. And he had once been a penniless university student himself, surviving on stony bread, restrained tea leaves, and the vaporous dreams of some future prosperity. So he was hardly unsympathetic to the gaunt and sallow young man who now stood hopefully on the other side of the counter.

  But just the previous night he had been examining his accounts, a distasteful procedure in his trade, and he was acutely aware that if he was to keep his business afloat he would need to revive and exercise some ruthless trader’s instincts. Without them he might not last another two years. He had little saved for any contingency. Barely enough to maintain his beloved presses. And almost nothing to continue rewarding his assistant for exceptional performance, as he so liked to do.

  “Let me see…” he muttered, shuffling the old books in his hands and squeezing them like market oranges.

  “The condition’s fair, I hope?” the student asked.

  “Not unacceptable, not unacceptable, but…but these are not what you might call sought-after items, lad, I hope you understand that.”

  The student nodded. “Yes…I appreciate that.”

  “And, er…” Stark faltered, “and I cannot offer you much, you know, I cannot offer you much.”