Trick of the Light im-3

by David Ashton

  ‘Hold your hand!’

  Arthur Conan Doyle stood in the tavern doorway, a massive figure of due retribution.

  ‘I have reason to believe that music box is not your property. I respectfully ask you to hand it over and we will find an authority that may pronounce upon this matter.’

  A frozen silence followed this highfalutin assertion, for in truth Conan Doyle was not sure how a Knight Errant might address three dancing whores in a Leith tavern.

  Seth Moxey rose slowly to his feet, hand sliding to a side pocket where a short thick stub of sharpened iron had its dwelling place. He preferred close quarters and often allowed his opponent to haul him tight before delivering a lethal blow.

  The two keelies rose also, taking the parental cue, one fitting a set of knuckledusters, the other unveiling a lead cosh.

  Doyle took note of all this and raised his hands in a pugilist’s posture, left extended, right cocked under his chin. His slightly protruding eyes gave the misleading impression of fear but life for six months in a whaler is not a penny arcade and physical terror never would find purchase in his psyche.

  He waited. The keelies split ranks so that they were on each side with Seth facing the target straight on.

  All in silence.

  But this was not a seal cub.

  Finally Seth spat onto the floor just beside Doyle’s stout walking shoes.

  ‘Are you accusing me of theftuous activity?’ he asked, in a parody of Doyle’s high tone.

  ‘If the cap fits,’ replied Arthur.

  Out of the blue, both keelies moving with practised stealth slid into action, attacking simultaneously while Seth weaved this way and that searching out an opening for the iron that had magically appeared in his hand.

  The knuckleduster twin received a straight left that smashed him backwards, while the other, cosh upraised, benefited from an upwards right hook as recommended by that expert on pugilism, James McLevy.

  This caught the keelie in the throat, sending him spluttering to the floor, and as Doyle whirled round he smacked Seth full in the mouth with a lashed blow that loosened one of the man’s few remaining teeth.

  Moxey let out a strangled roar of pain and fury ready to kill the man who had done this.

  Doyle moved to grab the music box but as he did so, Agnes, who was wearing a long white crushed gown with a train almost like that that of a bride that trailed over the floor, threw her skirt up in the air and jammed it over Doyle’s head, enveloping him in filmy gauze which smelled of far from exotic female secretions and effectively blinded him. In this state he was wrestled to the floor and when Agnes whisked away her bridal dress, Doyle found himself looking into the bleeding face of Seth Moxey.

  It was not a pretty sight.

  Moxey spat out some blood, then rested the point of the iron in the soft flesh under Doyle’s chin.

  Arthur’s arms were pinioned one on each side by the twins, with Seth kneeling on his chest crushing the breath out of him. Not a promising situation.

  ‘Where would ye like me tae begin?’ asked Seth digging the point of his iron spike cruelly into the skin.

  ‘It matters little to me,’ choked Arthur.

  ‘Mebbye I’ll split your guts, pull them out like a washing line eh?’

  ‘Go to hell,’ was the defiant response.

  A wild light came into Moxey’s eyes; he lifted the spike till it hung directly above Conan Doyle’s face.

  Agnes was alarmed; she knew her man well and had no wish to see him kill without profit.

  ‘Let him be, my bonny boy,’ she advised. ‘Take his money and kick his backside out of here.’

  The barman opened his mouth to agree. He had watched all proceedings with a jaundiced eye but had no wish to see murder on his premises. Business was slack enough. Then he observed something behind the gathering that sent him back to wiping at the dirty glasses with an equally dirty cloth.

  ‘Too late,’ replied Seth, prising the loose molar out with his tongue and spitting it to the floor. ‘I have incurred a loss. Tooth for a tooth.’

  He gazed into Doyle’s eyes and lifted the spike higher so that it hung as Excalibur in the tobacco smoke that swirled around like mist hanging over the Dozmary Pool.

  But there was no Lady of the Lake on hand and Conan Doyle realised with a sickening thud that this was not some ebullient adventure. This was the real world.

  For a moment the face of Sophia Adler flashed into his mind. Would he be a voice in her mind from the dead? Would she close her eyes in the shared experience of a departed soul? Would he reach out to her for comfort?

  A trickle of blood ran from the corner of Seth’s mouth, giving him the appearance of a Halloween vampire.

  The whores had grouped behind him as if waiting to be fed. White-faced. Innocence fled.

  ‘Kiss yer life goodbye.’

  Whether Moxey intended to plunge downwards or merely meant to terrify the tethered Arthur must be left in the annals of unfinished actions because a hornbeam shaft cut through the fog of nicotine fumes and cracked upon Seth Moxey’s wrist.

  A howl of pain, then the circle of whores fell back to reveal behind them like a coup de théâtre the tall figure of Mulholland.

  Beside him was James McLevy. Hands in his pockets, lips pursed, a cheery glint in his eyes.

  ‘Aye, Seth…life’s a bugger is it not?’

  A somewhat cryptic statement that had its roots in the fact that he and Mulholland had spent all day in the station fielding increasingly urgent demands from Lieutenant Roach – himself a conduit for his own chief constable and many other Masonic worthies – regarding Gilbert Morrison, the murdered man, a member of one of the most powerful lodges in the city.

  The demands were that the case be solved at once, the murderer found, order restored, God put back in his heaven and all the rest of it.

  Walter Morrison had insisted that his faint was to do with a wave of grief and not the word JUDAS. The extant brother then took himself off, refusing to disclose any of their past commercial or personal activities, citing an unblemished life of respect for convention.

  McLevy had contacted his reputable financial sources; it is amazing how many skeletons rattle around inside the cupboards of certain bankers of high standing.

  The inspector was familiar with these restless bones and knew how to play an inviting tune upon them.

  Only one thing emerged that he did not know already.

  He was confirmed in the particulars of the brothers being ruthless, treacherous and duplicitous in dealings but that was only to be expected in business.

  Now they were of a solid – well, perhaps the beheaded Gilbert lacked a certain density – financial standing, but some eighteen years previous, when they were cutting their teeth in the maritime market, there had been rumours of an overextension of capital.

  However, a large amount of cash had of a sudden been brandished at all and sundry, putting paid to vile rumour.

  Where this pecuniary injection had its origin no-one knew, but McLevy’s informant was adamant that it had not come from any of the known Edinburgh financial institutions.

  A long time ago. A distant mystery. But somewhere at the back of the inspector’s mind, a vague pattern was forming.

  When it would emerge at the front, however, was another matter.

  In the meantime, on the seamier side of things, it had been confirmed through McLevy’s street sources that Gilbert was indeed fond of the laying on of quirt as opposed to hands, and found his predilection indulged at the hotel of the Countess.

  Might that be the reason for murder? A vengeful father, brother, lover? But what was that father, brother, lover doing letting the female cause for his reprisal suffer such a whipping in the first place?

  McLevy’s head had been birling with it all so he had hauled Mulholland out on the saunter round the docks, because he was mindful yet that the wee acid pourer was still on the loose and he desired to keep tabs on the streets, though also thus avoiding hi
s lieutenant’s reproachful presence.

  He and the constable had discussed the case to and fro, up and down as they trawled the docks but could advance the investigation no further.

  Ergo he was inwardly delighted when he heard clamour from the Foul Anchor, slid in unnoticed save by the barman through the door, crept up behind the backs of the watching whores and then signalled Mulholland to do his stuff.

  Which he did.

  As Moxey rolled cursing away to scrabble after the spike which had flown off to land at the foot of the bar counter, the policemen observed in some surprise that the gang’s intended victim was none other than Big Arthur.

  ‘This mannie gets around,’ said McLevy.

  ‘Like the plague,’ was Mulholland’s terse response.

  They hauled the shaken Doyle to his feet just as two other members of the gang emerged from a side room, woken from their slumbers by the howls of Seth.

  That left five against three, not counting the women.

  A species, Conan Doyle might counsel from recent experience, you should never overlook.

  A veil may be drawn over most of the consequent conflict save that it consisted of Mulholland’s stick whirling like a dervish, Doyle’s fists flying, the fear that had pumped through his system now a galvanising force, and McLevy’s stalking of Seth Moxey, tripping one of the twins en passant so that he ran headlong into a beefy embrace from Conan Doyle that cracked his ribs.

  Agnes tried to sneak up once more, skirts at the ready, but Mulholland, who had been raised in the school of hard knocks and disregard for the delicate female, poked her sharply in the breadbasket with the end of his stick and she fell back into a chair gasping for breath.

  The other two women left well alone and in quick time the gang were a groaning heap upon the scabby floor.

  Only Moxey remained, spike pointing towards McLevy in his weaker hand, the other hanging uselessly by his side.

  ‘I’ll have your wee pikey,’ said McLevy.

  ‘Come and get it,’ replied Seth.

  ‘As you will.’

  Conan Doyle had sharp eyesight honed at sea but the movement that followed was so fast that it became a blur like a flying fish.

  In one motion McLevy’s hand shot out to grasp the wrist of Moxey just above the held spike and then jerked him off balance. The inspector, using himself as a fulcrum, heaved the man round in a circle, spinning faster and faster until Seth Moxey was a helpless victim of centrifugal force.

  Finally McLevy stopped. Let go. And waited.

  Seth managed one faltering step before vertigo took over and he pitched forward to join the heap upon the floor.

  Miraculously the spike had transferred to McLevy’s hand during this reel of unleashed criminality and he popped it into the inside pocket of his coat with a flourish.

  ‘No need for violence,’ he announced to one and all. ‘I am a great believer in soft procedure.’

  Mulholland sniffed dubiously, having witnessed the opposite behaviour many times from his inspector.

  ‘If I may be so bold, Mister Doyle,’ McLevy asked, benignly, ‘what was the cause of this unseemly rammy?’

  Doyle pointed towards the music box, which had been knocked off the table to lie somewhat mangled on the floor, Mulholland having stood upon it in pursuit of one of the twins.

  ‘It plays “Sweet Afton”,’ Arthur declared solemnly.

  McLevy nodded as if all made sense then picked up the damaged box. The workings had spilled out of its innards though the winding key was yet intact.

  ‘I fear it may have warbled its last note,’ he muttered, before stooping to haul Moxey up by the hair in spite of his avowed procedural moderation.

  ‘Ye made a heavy lift frae Bonnington Road,’ he growled. ‘Where is your stash?’

  ‘Right up my backside,’ Seth replied, his face creased in agony. ‘Welcome tae look.’

  McLevy slammed him down again and bent his gaze upon the women.

  ‘Where is it, Agnes? We’ll find it anyhow but at least I can tell the judge ye showed willing.’

  Her face was like stone but behind the woman in her faded wedding gown, Sadie Shields, hoping for leniency of sorts, jerked her head to indicate a door at the back where the gang had its quarters.

  The inspector nodded and whistled to himself, then grinned happily at Conan Doyle.

  ‘Ye brought me good fortune, Mister Doyle,’ he said. ‘I’ve been after this rabble for many a year and now we have the entirety.’

  ‘Not all,’ replied Doyle. ‘There was one more man at the table, and he is gone.’

  The barman felt it was time he made a contribution to affairs.

  ‘He’s no’ of the family,’ he offered. ‘Ran out the back door.’

  Moxey’s head whipped painfully round and his lips parted in a snarl.

  Silver Samuel was indeed gone.

  And so was the mother’s brooch.

  23

  The butcher looked for his knife,

  when he had it in his mouth.

  Roxburghe Ballads

  Jean Brash hesitated for a moment, then having knocked at the door to no response, pushed gently. It swung open. She took a quick, almost guilty, glance up and down the street, then slipped inside.

  She found herself in a long gloomy hall with a sliver of light coming from a door, slightly ajar, at the opposite end from where she stood.

  Deep breath. Her mind flipped back to the hand-delivered letter she had received that afternoon.

  Mistress Brash,

  I apologise for my behaviour of last night but I was sore enraged at the injustice. I know I am headstrong but I am also honest and I can assure you that money was robbed from me in your establishment. I have made enquiries with some of your other clients, men of my own stamp, and I have irrefutable proof that some of your girls are operating behind your back. Money has been taken and you stand to lose much because of it. Perhaps someone is plotting against you? I do not know but if you will visit me at the hour of six this evening, 32 Iona Street, I will show you the evidence and explain my suspicions. Come alone, and tell no-one, for there is no-one you can trust.

  Yours in truth,

  Logan Galloway

  Hannah Semple, the only person Jean held in credence on this earth was at the safe house by Leith Links, the giant Angus to hand, making ready to scour the streets with their people once more to find the acid-pourer.

  Jean’s reasoning was that the little swine would not show his face during the day and she had decided to stay at the Just Land to await results, part because she was too restless to sit on her backside and part because she did not want another incident like the Galloway one.

  Then lo and behold the man himself had sent a missive.

  And it chimed with some uneasy feelings that had been nagging away at her since this war with the Countess had begun.

  Who could she really trust at the bitter end?

  Once before she had let slip the reins of the bawdy-hoose when her heart had been usurped by an unscrupulous man who had twisted her like a fool.

  Never again.

  She had betrayed herself.

  But what if this time it was another agent?

  Jessie Nairn, for instance? Or was that too obvious? She had taken in a bunch of new magpies recently, wear and tear the cause. What if the Countess had been plotting ahead, and put her own agents inside to burrow and destroy from inwards like a worm in the gut? To steal? To destroy?

  A bawdy-hoose, not unlike a merchant bank, stands or falls by reputation.

  Jean had been queen bee for a long time and now there was another on the scene.

  Had she grown too indolent, soft, lost her edge?

  So she now found herself walking down the shadowed hall to prove or disprove all the thoughts milling round in her mind.

  She called out softly, one hand inside her reticule firmly grasped upon her surgeon’s knife.

  ‘Mister Galloway? If you are present, step forward. Let us make pe
ace and parley.’

  No answer. She was not afraid. The man was a pipsqueak. But did he have a tale to tell?

  She pushed at the partly opened door and it swung inwards to disclose a form wedged against the window, facing away from her. The room was in semi-darkness and the figure barely outlined by the light from outside but it seemed to be Logan Galloway, hands pressed up against the sill as if to steady himself.

  Jean stepped in. Hand with the knife now by her side. A girl can’t be too careful.

  ‘Mister Galloway? You’re away in the wrong direction. I am here, sir. Ready to attend your proof.’

  He made no response, stubbornly gazing out of the window as if deaf to her words.

  ‘Are you in the huff, Mister Galloway?’

  Having said this, Jean stepped up with the intention to swing him round by the shoulder.

  As she did so, there was a sharp movement behind her and a sudden accurate blow, crisply delivered, separated her from consciousness.

  She fell to the floor, the knife in her outflung hand.

  A girl can’t be too careful.

  Not long after, Constable Ballantyne marched up Iona Street modestly aware that he was on time for his new beat, the previous constable having reported sick.

  Ballantyne had jumped at the chance to take the man’s place and Lieutenant Roach, in the absence of his inspector, an absence that galled the good man no end, had granted permission with the proviso that the young constable held on firmly to his whistle.

  However, such mistakes were in the past.

  A seasoned campaigner.

  Had he not already seen a corpse and only boaked the once?

  So far, little of consequence, his mere presence on the streets giving the potential lawbreakers something to fear.

  He checked the timepiece his mother had given him to celebrate his joining the ranks of law and order some three years before.

  Half past the evening hour of six, precisely correct for the patrol; he had been given the times that the other officer, now sick of some palsy but a man to whom punctuality was God, adhered to without fail.