by David Ashton
‘I’ve been searching ye out everywhere, mistress,’ she said. ‘I have news tae relate.’
Hannah was dressed in her customary plain clothing, hair scraped back to expose the prominent forehead and stubby features.
She was no beauty, never had been, and now in her older years looked like the wreck of a ruin, but the keys round her waist proclaimed her keeper of the bawdy-hoose and she took that responsibility to heart.
One look at her face and Jean realised the news was not good.
‘Tell me,’ she said simply.
‘Wee Tam Marrison knocked at the door. I payed him. But I’d wish for better tidings.’
Marrison was one of the street keelies who operated as an unofficial network of spies for Jean, to keep her privy to any of the rough happenings in Leith.
‘There’s another one been found. Like Sadie Gorman. Split tae buggery.’ Hannah’s face was grim.
‘Do they know who the girl is?’ murmured Jean.
‘Not yet. McLevy was near hand, but the man got away in the fog. The inspector was bellowing like a bull.’
‘He wouldn’t be pleased,’ said Jean.
The remark was inconsequential, mundane, but both these women had been on the streets in their time. A part of that death belonged to them. They could feel it in their bones.
They stood on the stairs as if frozen in space. Above them, the tinny music of the piano played and some voices sang … ‘She was the belle of the ball, dear boys, she was the belle of the ball.’
Behind Jean, muffled through the door, came the faintest sound. As if someone had stood on an insect and the shell had cracked.
Francine, in the chamber, had just lifted the thin rod and brought it down like the hand of the Almighty. The blood began to criss-cross on the white body and trickle slowly this way and that as if searching for escape.
Lily squeezed for all she was worth. A grunt came in response from the spread-eagled form above.
She popped up her head and blew a kiss to Francine. The Frenchwoman wiped a bead of sweat from her brow, lifted the birch once more, and then let it whistle through the air.
Horace Prescott bit deep into his lip. It had been a hard campaign. This was the perfect end.
33
Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out:
The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards, and bedews the heavens.
JOHN WEBSTER, The Duchess of Malfi
The small axe was lifted and chopped down with an executioner’s relish. William Gladstone had risen early, too restless to lie abed, and thought at once of the recently felled sycamore.
And there it was, still lying where he had brought it low, branches broken off willy-nilly. An untidy carcass, this would never do.
He had begun at the top of the tree. Always work down. Always start from the top. The smaller, younger shoots were to be found there and could be sheared with the one stroke.
It was a most satisfying process to reveal the white flesh of the wood in the action of a single gesture, like peeling off a skin.
Tomorrow, Monday, the Midlothian vote was to be cast.
Already he knew that he had been elected for Leeds (a fine twist of the political system being that the one candidate could stand in two constituencies), and because of the spread-out nature of the polling days, he also knew that the national result would be a Liberal victory.
Nothing could stop him now.
He would give thanks to the Lord later in church.
He had noticed a recent tendency towards fragmentary thought. This must be resisted.
Administration was the highest form of politics and he would ruthlessly pursue that end.
Now was not the time for an excess of empire.
Disraeli was lost in a dream. England, the Israel of his imagination.
The coming economic force was America. He had, during their Civil War, made the mistake of apparently espousing the cause of the South and had his knuckles rapped. No more of that. Now he was more than ready to embrace our American cousins. They may lack finesse, but they did not lack money or the energy to make such and he could see a day when they would have weapons to spare.
Such a mixture of races could not help but produce a desire to conquer and they were welcome to it, as long as they did not train their guns on Albion’s shore.
No. Their countries would lie together. Like family.
A wild light came into Gladstone’s eye. Now, were this tree Benjamin Disraeli, he would chop him down to size, limb from limb, the head, the arms, the legs, chop, chop!
He had been increasing his activity to almost that of a frenzy, lifting the axe as he spied a juicy fat branch, just ripe, just ripe for destruction.
A voice broke in on this singular and most pleasant pastime.
‘You have a mark on you,’ it said.
For a moment, Gladstone was completely disjointed, the axe hanging in the air like a broken wing.
A man stood watching him, the early morning light behind his stocky figure. Gladstone did not recognise the voice or shape.
The whole house would now only just be rising, he was alone, he loved the solitude, who would dare sneak up upon him and disturb his privacy, his Sabbath chopping of the limbs?
The figure was dark-clad, bareheaded, still as a pointing finger, an ominous silent finger.
He moved away from the tree, holding firmly to the axe lest this be an assassin. But the man did not give the impression of madness and William knew from experience that while most assassinations on the Continent were attempted for reasons of politics, in this country they were almost always committed by madmen.
Then the dark imaginings cleared. Yes, he was safe. He recognised the man now.
‘You are the policeman,’ he said. ‘From last night. I saw you last night.’
‘And I saw you,’ the man replied with a peculiar emphasis to the words.
He moved at last, walking in slow deliberate steps past Gladstone to take in the grandeur of Dalmeny House and the estate.
Smoke was beginning to issue from the chimney pots of the house as the early morning fires were lit, and the raucous noise of a flock of hoodie crows, rising indignantly from a nearby field, signalled the onset of another day.
Legend had it that hoodie crows pecked the eyes out of the newborn spring lamb, it being a soft target. We all like a soft target.
Still facing away, the man spoke as if addressing the scene before him, as if he were pronouncing in a court of law.
‘My name is James McLevy. I am an inspector of crime. My parish is Leith in the city of Edinburgh.’
‘I believe you may have told me some of this in our previous exchange,’ replied Gladstone dryly. ‘I have an excellent memory.’
McLevy turned round. His face was sombre. It had been a hard long night which had slipped like a knife into the belly of this day. He had not washed or shaved, not had even a sniff of coffee, and now he was about to embark upon a line of questioning which had Roach been aware of same would have laid the good lieutenant prostrate on the putting green.
He stared blankly at the Great Man.
It was said families all over the country had Sweet William flowers on their table in his honour. Well, we’d see how sweet.
Gladstone for his part sensed a challenge, as one tiger will smell another in the jungle. But he forbore to ask the fellow why he was abroad, at this hour, in this place, for it has been often noted that he who asks the first question betrays a weakness.
‘You have a mark on you,’ repeated McLevy.
The inspector pointed at the right hand which held the axe and Gladstone let the implement fall on to the trunk of the dead sycamore. He then inched back his sleeve to reveal two livid scratches on the underside of his wrist which the inspector had espied.
‘Nature’s revenge,’ the thin harsh mouth arranged itself in a smile of sorts as he gestured towards the tree. ‘The first cut I made yesterday, one of the branches caught me. I was
careless. One cannot afford that.’
He lifted the left hand to display its covering stock and was there an element of mockery in his tone?
‘One must be alert. At all times. The world is full of menace. If you may observe … I have lost myself a finger.’
‘Some lose more than that to menace,’ replied McLevy. ‘Some people lose their lives.’
A silence fell between them. Gladstone sat down on the tree, his back upright and his powerful dark eyes fixed on McLevy. He waited for the next move.
The inspector sniffed the morning air. It smelled clean enough, especially after the acrid smoke of the night before, but was it untainted? What other faint odour came wafting from Sweet William in the light morning breeze?
He began his interrogation. Place it under what guise you will, tiptoe around it as you may, he was about to put the future prime minister of this glorious country under the cosh of justice.
‘The servants of your abode in George Street have confirmed to me that, at some point last night, they cannot remember exactly when, your absence was noted. It was assumed you had gone out for a walk. After your supper. A perambulation. Is that correct?’
‘Indeed. I also cannot remember the exact time. But, it is my custom to do so after the exertion of addressing a large gathering such as we had at West Calder,’ replied Gladstone almost placidly.
‘Ye left by the side door?’
‘Also my custom. The gentlemen of the press are wont to gather by the front. Their presence is not always welcome, I had been enough public that day.’
‘Ye returned some time after midnight and then insisted on an immediate carriage to bring you back here. Is that correct as well?’
‘It is. I realised that what I needed most of all was the soothing presence of my wife.’
‘She wasn’t with you, then?’
‘She had remained at Dalmeny. The throng tires her.’
William shook out a large handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously.
Whatever benefits Mrs Gladstone uxoriously provided, it would seem unblocking the sinuses was not one of them.
‘When ye walked, where did ye go?’
The Great Man blinked at such a direct question.
‘I am afraid I cannot tell you,’ was his concise reply.
‘Why not?’
‘The mist. The fog. It was so devilish thick. I was like a lost sheep. Sore perplexed. I wandered for what seemed like an eternity. It took me some hours even to retrace my steps home to recover from what I must confess was an error of judgement on my part. But the Lord saw me through; he often does to my enemy’s discouragement and my own salvation.’
This had tripped off the tongue with an ease of practice. He then switched subject. Politicians do that.
‘I am reading from Sir Walter Scott, these hectic days. The story of Guy Mannering.’ A smile of sorts twisted the harsh mouth, but his eyes were watchful. ‘I find it most … illuminating. Do you know the tale?’
‘It is about treachery.’
‘And salvation, sir. A man’s salvation!’
‘But not through God. Through human agency. An auld gypsy woman and a Lowland farmer.’
‘God is behind every human act, sir.’
Gladstone laughed abruptly as if he had scored a debating point. He looked back towards Dalmeny House where a door opened and the figure of the skinny, hunched woman emerged, thick glasses pointing towards them. Gladstone, from his sitting position, waved vigorously and she lifted her hand a moment in reply before going back swiftly into the house.
‘My personal secretary,’ said Gladstone. ‘I would be lost without her.’
He laughed again and clapped his hands together as a sign perhaps that the exchange was drawing to a close, but the inspector was not to be deflected.
‘Ye say ye wandered in the mist?’ he pursued.
‘I did indeed. Sore perplexed.’
‘Would your footsteps have led you as far as Leith?’
‘As I have already informed you I knew not where I was,’ rejoined Gladstone with a tinge of asperity. ‘But I doubt I ventured as far as Leith. You seem to have, if I may say so, sir, an obsessive regard for the place.’
‘A young lassie was murdered there, last night,’ said McLevy flatly. ‘Cut down in the streets. Not far from the church of St Thomas which your own father founded.’
The great man bowed his head as if in prayer or he may have been reflecting that the inspector’s previous ignorance of the Gladstone family connections to Leith when they spoke at West Calder had been miraculously converted.
‘How dreadful,’ he murmured.
‘A hazard of her profession.’ McLevy’s mouth had gone dry. He was near the edge and dying for a cup of coffee.
‘Ah. A fallen woman.’
‘Especially after she was battered,’ replied McLevy, with savage black humour.
Gladstone’s head came up sharply.
The inspector made no secret of his eye’s journey to where the axe lay on the tree. ‘Chopped tae buggery.’
William’s mouth tightened at the brutal tone. He inclined his head questioningly as if to say, and what is my part in all this?
‘A man of your favour was seen in the neighbourhood,’ McLevy’s mouth got even drier, ‘and I was wondering …’
Now, as Mulholland’s Aunt Katie would say, ye’re walking on the hen’s eggs here, Jamie boy. Watch where ye put your big sclaffie feet.
‘I was wondering if you might have seen something?’
‘See? What could I see? I was nowhere near the place and blinded by the fog.’
McLevy persisted. ‘Perhaps a man running. Glimpsed through the haar. Reflected in a shop window. Blood on his hands. Looking at you.’
‘I saw nothing.’
‘Thirty years ago, there was a similar crime. A divine punishment perhaps. A scourge of the unworthy. Did ye see nothing then?’
‘Thirty years ago?’
‘Aye. Ye walked the streets then. After the funeral of your daughter.’
There was a dreadful flash of anger in the Great Man’s eyes, then he launched himself bolt upright.
‘How dare you!’
‘It is only a question.’
‘It is an insult!’
‘I am sorry you perceive it so.’
Gladstone looked into the cold, slate-grey eyes of the inspector and struggled to contain a mounting fury.
‘I trust these insinuations are not what I perceive them to be, inspector. There is, however, a limit to my patience and you have gone far beyond it. Far beyond!’
As if in response to his outburst, there was a call from the house as the figure of Horace Prescott emerged followed by three other men.
McLevy knew he had but little time.
‘That aroma from you, sir. Is it identifiable?’
‘What? What?’ The People’s William almost jumped up and down in exasperation.
The inspector sniffed. ‘It has a sort of tarry redolence. I was trying to place it.’
‘It is carbolic soap. I use it every morning. For sanitary purposes!’ Gladstone almost snarled.
‘Very healthy,’ agreed McLevy as Prescott, hastily dressed and moving it must be said somewhat stiffly, arrived with his bully boys.
One of them, a small podgy specimen, put his hand on the inspector’s shoulder only to be shaken off, but any further confusion was stilled when William Gladstone raised a controlling hand aloft.
It was an orator’s gesture but there was enough power in it to stop them all where they stood, including McLevy.
Horace was addressed in a voice which brooked nothing but complete obedience. Gladstone in command once more.
‘I shall explain the circumstances later, Mr Prescott, but for the moment, be so good as to escort this man from the estate and make sure that he does not return. Good-day, Mr McLevy.’
Gladstone then spun on his heel and marched off without a backward glance, dismissing past events and exchanges out of
hand.
The hoodie crows returned to the field, their squawks filling the silence.
‘Well, well, inspector, it would seem as if you have strayed into the most severe reprimand it is within my power to arrange. Your stupidity demands no less,’ said Prescott, a cruel glint in his pale-blue eyes.
McLevy had fallen quiet, his eyes on the departing Gladstone as he walked rather jerkily towards the house.
‘I shall make it my business to inform your superior officer, the fellow with the fishy name, Roach, that’s the fellow, the Tory lickspittle, and then the man above him, and so on and so on as far up the chain of command as I can spread the word.
‘I intend to make sure that you regret your blundering idiocy for as long as is humanly possible. How does that appeal to you?’
Again the inspector had nothing to say. The hunched woman came out of the house again and moved quickly down the path to meet Gladstone. They conversed for a moment then turned to go back inside, her strides matching his with some ease.
‘Who is that woman?’ McLevy asked as if trying to delay the inevitable.
‘Jane Salter,’ broke in the voice of little George Ballard who had been dying to join in the fun. ‘Plain Jane, that’s her name to all the boys. But, your name, inspector. Your name … is mud!’
He roared with laughter at his own joke and slapped Prescott hard on the back. The secretary’s face whitened and, for a moment, he almost keeled over.
But then he recovered and pointed silently towards and beyond the iron gates of Dalmeny House where the crest of the Earl of Rosebery was wrought for all to see.
‘Get back to where you belong,’ he said.
McLevy was escorted to the gates and put out like a dog that had performed its business on the carpet.
They watched him walk down the carriage drive that led to the main road, the ground already chewed up by many wheels and sticky going.
Ballard glanced up at the sky darkening above and then at Prescott whose face was clenched and cold, an evil twist to the lips.
‘With a bit of luck,’ the little man pronounced with glee, ‘it’ll rain on the bastard all the way home.’
