Shadow of the Serpent

by David Ashton

  Who amongst us has such unspotted conscience that the word ‘policeman’ will not cause just the merest tremor in the soul? The shadow of a passing sin?

  McLevy put on his idiot face and slid forward to confront Gladstone. He was near enough to sniff but all that came to him was a slight sour odour of sweat from the great man.

  ‘We are from Leith. We keep the streets safe. Do ye know Leith, Mr Gladstone?’

  ‘My father was raised there,’ was the somewhat formal response. ‘Before he left for pastures new, he had the honour to be a merchant of that parish.’

  ‘I never knew that. Did you know that, Mulholland?’

  McLevy turned away, addressing the remark to his subordinate who wished the ground to swallow him up such was the buffoon his inspector was presenting.

  ‘And what did he trade in, sir?’

  Gladstone’s face had set in rather stony lines, the cause unknown, the effect plain for all to see. He replied with the one word.

  ‘Corn.’

  McLevy took a deep breath and stepped off the edge of the precipice.

  ‘And d’ye ever come back, sir? Tae the auld place? Walk the ancient streets as it were?’

  Gladstone made no response. A flash of anger in his eyes. The silver-haired secretary stepped into the breach.

  ‘Mr Gladstone has many demands on his time,’ he said ambiguously. ‘Now, if you will excuse us?’

  ‘Oh, aye, aye, definitely.’ McLevy now appeared to be crushed and rather obsequious. ‘It’s just that we came all the way. From Leith. Tae see you, Mr Gladstone.’

  ‘And now you have, sir. Now, you have.’

  There was a moment when the two men’s eyes locked, bulls in a field, then Gladstone made his exit.

  Most of the entourage followed, leaving only the tall secretary and a few stragglers. The official looked down with barely concealed disdain at this dolt of a policeman now standing alone, Mulholland having retreated as far back as he could without actually fleeing the scene.

  ‘What is your name?’ the secretary asked abruptly.

  ‘McLevy. Inspector McLevy. At your service, sir!’ The inspector straightened up in what was perilously close to a parody of military readiness. ‘And whom do I have the honour of addressing, sir?’

  ‘My name is Horace Prescott,’ was the clipped response.

  ‘Horace? What a splendid appellation. Very close tae Horatius. The Captain o’ the Gate!’

  There was a cough from behind Prescott, it may even have been a smothered laugh, coming from a wee, fat, rather dissolute-looking cove who certainly was no great advert for the party of morality. The secretary’s cheeks pinked up but he decided to treat McLevy like the idiot the man undoubtedly seemed to be. Though when he attempted to introduce a silky menace to his tones it was inappropriately tinged with a growing petulance.

  ‘I assume you have a superior officer?’ McLevy nodded his head vigorously. ‘What is his name?’

  ‘That would be Lieutenant Roach, but it’s not worth your while talking to him. sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m afraid he votes Conservative,’ said McLevy. ‘Always has, always will. Ye’d be wasting your time.’

  From Prescott’s view, the implication that he would be trying to curry election favour with some nonentity of a police officer left the man almost gasping for breath.

  There was another sound behind him, this time verging on a definite snigger. His lips tightened and without another word he prepared to make a dignified and dismissive exit. But McLevy wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘I could swear I’ve remarked ye some time in Leith, sir. Have you ever visited, down by the docks maybe?’ Mulholland winced as the inspector ploughed gaily onwards. ‘There’s some pretty sights. When the ships come in.’

  Prescott had never met such a profoundly irritating person in his life.

  ‘I know little of the place,’ he snapped. ‘And I am happy to keep it so.’

  He strode off, the wee fat fellow after him with a broad grin on his face. The rest of the stragglers followed in an untidy scramble on the outside edge of which McLevy briefly glimpsed the woman with the thick glasses, body still hunched over her papers. Then she and the rest were gone. As if they had never been.

  While the inspector whistled softly to himself, an outraged Mulholland returned to his side.

  ‘You made a terrible bloody fool out of me!’ he accused bitterly.

  ‘With God’s help and your own efforts, the situation may yet be remedied,’ came the opaque reply.

  McLevy looked past his indignant constable into the body of the hall. It had not yet emptied, people stood around in clumps still chewing over the words of William Gladstone, but he did not see a likeness he recognised.

  ‘Don’t think I didn’t fathom what you were up to,’ Mulholland said through gritted teeth. ‘You wanted to look in his eyes. Well. What did you see?’

  ‘Power,’ replied McLevy. ‘But for good or ill, that I do not yet know.’

  The constable threw his arms to the heavens that McLevy could entertain the slightest doubt over a man so widely regarded as the sentinel of truth and probity, but the inspector’s mind had shifted back to the small, windowless dining room of the tavern where they’d filled their bellies.

  The dried skulls of the sheep had been arranged all round the walls, lighted candles placed between the horns.

  It was meant to be decorative but had struck him as just so many intimations of death.

  27

  Come forth thy fearful man:

  Affliction is enamoured of thy parts,

  And thou art wedded to calamity.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Romeo and Juliet

  The Serpent held out a hand before him and noticed the fingers to tremble a little. That was good. Nerves. A man without nerves was a fool who deceived himself.

  He moved over to the window and looked out over the lights of the city glittering fitfully in the darkness. He had already been out earlier in that darkness, to set the scene as it were. But now he had returned to wait for the appointed hour.

  Some solid banks of fog were beginning to build up. That was good, good for business. What was it the old fellow, regimental batman, ancient mariner, whose gnarled hands were supposed to attend to his every need, had said this morning as he scraped out the ashes?

  ‘We’ll hae a sea haar the nicht. I feel it in my bones. Cauld as the grave, sir.’

  He mimicked the near-incomprehensible accent perfectly, speaking aloud in the silent room, then moved restlessly away from the window to regard himself once more in the stained, cracked, full-length mirror.

  Now, there was no going back. Now, it had to be done.

  Had the word from the South been cheerier, the early election forecast more promising, he may have considered a halt to the mission. But no, let’s be honest old chap, even with the advent of good tidings, the matter must run its course. He had the taste for blood now.

  And it was such splendid sport, to be out in the field once more, not sending others out to risk for him.

  It was all a matter of timing. When to play the cards.

  On an impulse, he tried to mould his features to those of Benjamin Disraeli, the drooping eyes he could manage but not that splendid nose, that would need some construction. The mouth was possible, hinted at a certain lubriciousness, a delving into dark corners. The reflected mouth smiled at the thought.

  For had Disraeli not written, possibly on his knees at the time, to the comely Lord Henry Lennox, ‘I am henceforth your own property, to do what you like with …’?

  He dropped the pretence and sneered at himself. But was he not the same? A creature to be used? An instrument, not of pleasure though, but of ruin? His potency dependent on those above? In this case, not even the dignity of direct command, a suggestion here, an implication there, an elegant oblique silence after a subject raised.

  A creature. That was all.

  The Serpent was suddenly filled with t
he venom of self-hatred. He spat, quite deliberately, into his own face and watched as the saliva slid down his mirror image.

  Then he cheered up immensely. Good to get that off one’s chest. Think of the rewards from on high. Favours bestowed. The power granted. Beyond his peers. No one would deny him. He would be indispensable. Above all others.

  Nerves, that was it. Before going into action. Not long now, this was the tricky one, trick o’ the light, all depended on the timing, repeating himself, not a good idea.

  He moved away from the mirror and took stock. He knew the time and place, the mark was set, part of the money paid, the route reconnoitred; all he had to do … the Serpent took a deep breath. Relax. Not the first time, old chap. Think of yourself … as the Hand of God. Royal appointment. Relax. That’s the stuff to give the troops.

  He summoned up a picture that always turned his bones to water. The first time she had come to him, the little fleshly beast.

  The Serpent had been asleep and awoke, heart pounding, to find her at the foot of his bed, golden hair loose to her shoulders. She wore a nightdress he himself had approved and bought. Appeared chasteness itself in the shop, a thick cotton swathe behind which youthful modesty might rest, but now it seemed the very emblem of temptation.

  And then it fell, by some strange motion, as if a snake had sloughed its skin, to the carpet.

  A naked female is the most terrifying mystery.

  She was part in shadow, he could make out the shape of her long young body glowing in the dark. But all that was immediately visible, a shaft of moonlight through a high window playing the pander, was one bare foot.

  One slender white foot, on a red carpet.

  And then it moved. Towards him. And all else followed. Foot, ankle, calf and thigh. Then perdition.

  He’d tried to resist, to protest, but such speech is difficult when the mouth is so otherwise occupied.

  From far below the castle walls, there came the sound of laughter. Harsh, jeering laughter from an unknown source.

  The Serpent found his lips dry. Surely a cigar was called for? His case was on the table. He crossed, took one out, Dutch, can’t beat the Dutch, lit it up, and found he was calm again.

  The operative had her part to play. And so had he. Flesh could wait.

  Somewhere a church bell struck nine hours. Not long, now. Not long, now. Action.

  28

  Behold I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep,

  But we shall all be changed.

  I CORINTHIANS, 15:51

  The Old Ship was one of the finest taverns of the Leith port, not like some of the other dives in and out of which McLevy had fought his way, hauling to a reckoning many a thief, while the man’s lava Venus hung on to the back of the police uniform trying to scratch his arresting eyes out.

  Indeed there were drinking dens in the harbour area which fell silent and lost half their customers at the sight of himself and Mulholland walking through the door.

  The constable was feared for his hornbeam stick plus the skill with which he wielded the implement and McLevy for his fury of response should violence threaten.

  The story still did the rounds of the night he, as a young constable, and Henry Preger, a notorious lifetaker and close-quarter mangler whose massive fists had smashed many a policeman to his knees, battered hell out of one another in the Foul Anchor tavern while Preger’s wee pillow-wanton, Jean Brash, looked on in pure amazement.

  Preger had made a sneering comment about the death of Sergeant George Cameron, and his hope that the worms were crawling up a certain orifice to enjoy a fine Highland feast. Teuchter pudding.

  Then, as Milton put it so poetically, all hell broke loose.

  Some say the fight lasted near one hour and a half, some say longer. But, at the end of it, Preger lay bruised and writhing on the sawdust planks while Jamie McLevy walked out of the door into the night without a backward glance.

  That night, he made his name. He had taken everything Preger could throw at him, and, at the end, danced a wild jig round the body of his foe, howling out a Jacobite song, and putting the fear of God into all who watched.

  McLevy was not so sure he could do it now. He was carrying a bit of weight these days, but that could work in his favour. Ye might assume the bulk would slow the motion, but he still possessed fast hands. And feet.

  McLevy had a dram of peat reek whisky set out before him. He lifted it and drank. A dark thought came. It is often so with whisky.

  Fast hands, but they hadnae been fast enough to save George Cameron. His vanity had seen to that. Perhaps one day he would forgive himself, perhaps one day, when the promise was fulfilled.

  The inspector sighed and looked around the tavern.

  The Old Ship. He felt at home here, well as much home as anywhere. The place had a generous size to it, great staircases, thick walls and the cosy rooms panelled with moulded wainscot. He loved the big stone fireplaces that had witnessed many a deep carouse, and appreciated most keenly the wooden cubicles where a lone man might be private unto himself.

  On return from West Calder, Mulholland had sprung a surprise on him. Often it was their custom to share a glass at the end of a week and chew the fat till closing time, but it would seem that your man had begun to develop social pretensions to go with his general sookin’ up, and he was away to a musical recital in a respectable house. The Roach house no less. This very night.

  Seemingly the constable had a fine tenor voice and Mrs Roach, the good lieutenant’s wife, had noted his prowess in their church, which Mulholland had chosen to attend, no doubt to ingratiate himself even further.

  Despite the constable’s lowly office, she had roped him in with a view to future duets amidst some of the young ladies of her artistic circle. Tenors being in short supply.

  McLevy had been firmly discouraged from any possible attendance in case he brought down the tone, an element of revenge for Mulholland after his being made to look like an imbecile at the Gladstone meeting. The inspector told himself he did not mind because he hated that tight-arsed cultural genteelity which had no connection to any kind of life he had ever come across.

  Though, truth to tell, he was a bit sore nevertheless at the exclusion. McLevy disapproved people keeping secrets except, of course, for himself.

  He had wrung from the constable at least that Mulholland would make no mention of their tiptoeing to West Calder should he be offered a shortbread biscuit by the man of the house, but say merely that the investigation was continuing its course.

  It comforted the inspector somewhat that Lieutenant Roach would have to sit through the entire programme of high-flown musical tributes to the sensitivity of human nature, because one thing that he and Roach shared was a profound distaste for such functions.

  The lieutenant’s wife was one of these women who were always doing good or something approaching it, and spent her life wrenching the poor bugger from one committee meeting to another when the man would rather have been at home reading his golfing periodicals or out on the course.

  Doing good. The unco guid. What they preach, they do not practise. McLevy’s lip curled. The dirty squalid world they sought to alleviate was created almost entirely by a financial system and usage that they themselves supported with great enthusiasm.

  If you scratched these good folk hard enough, you would find nothing but a fear of contamination. They would seek to forget the painful, suppress the disagreeable and banish the ugly. The city council was even now, under the Chambers Improvement Act, engaged on pulling down the slum buildings and erecting in their place so very little and, such as it was, laid aside for those they considered honest hard-working artisans and the like, so that the poor were more and more crushed together like rats in a cage.

  And the respectable citizens of the New Town who had left so much of the Old Town to rot, walked on the maze of small bridges and pathways above, making sure that no one was keeking up their skirts.

  They looked down on the seething mass b
elow, pitied their lack of religion and morality, which was surely the cause of this misfortune, and met in committees to shake their heads and consider guidance.

  McLevy took another dram of whisky and shivered slightly as the raw spirit hit his throat as hard as Preger had done, all these years ago.

  Twice, in the fight, he had almost given up the ghost, the once especially when he had found himself face down on the dirty floor of the tavern spitting out blood, with the crowd howling and the man’s boots planted in front of him, one drawn back to finish the job. Then the memory of George Cameron on that hospital bed and strangely enough a wink from Preger’s wee whore, glimpsed through the V in the man’s legs, drove him on. He slipped the kick and punched up into the bastard’s groin. A hammer blow.

  A man on the ground is not necessarily a man defeated. McLevy looked down to find that his hand was clenched into a fist. A woman’s shadow fell across it.

  ‘How the hell did you know I was here?’ he demanded.

  Joanna Lightfoot managed a faint smile but the haunted look he had noticed on their first meeting seemed more pronounced.

  ‘Your landlady said I might find you in this place. It being your custom of a Saturday night,’ she replied.

  ‘That is private information she had no right tae divulge!’

  He looked at her indignantly and made no move to invite her to sit, but she did that anyway, feeling the heat of some curious glances from the tavern regulars. She’d had to gather up her nerve in order to enter in the first instance. Women of her class were simply not seen in such an establishment.

  She slid into the cubicle seat opposite him, taking off her bonnet, and put her small bag upon the table. He glared at her as if she was the last person in the world he wanted to see but Joanna had some knowledge of him by now.

  Enough to discern that his first impulse would be to put her at disadvantage.