by David Ashton
Doyle had been pressing, as they marched down the street with the withdrawn Samuel in tow, attracting many passing curious glances which young Arthur rather revelled in, for an opportunity to accompany McLevy on a more demanding challenge – he, the great deductor having helped solve this one in the twinkling of an eye.
The inspector, his mind full of the problem of how to unravel The Riddle of the Battered Mason, muttered out a few details of the homicide investigation including at a final stroke the name of the murder victim.
No great confidentiality breached here; this would be in the newspaper soon enough, though Roach would try to keep it all under the carpet as long as he could in the hope that crime and solution appear on the same page.
McLevy doubted that. Such only occurred in cheap fiction. Easy in an armchair.
Doyle, after his initial shock, was thrilled by the gory details and fired questions right, left and centre.
His medical enthusiasm for the bloody entrails of the crime amused McLevy and lifted his spirits a little, for in truth he, at this juncture, had no route that opened out onto the killer. He needed something to break for cover.
The inspector teased the young man by withholding the name of Gilbert Morrison, revealing it at the end with a flourish as if he had accomplished some triumph, but Doyle, not for the first time, provided a surprise.
And what he said, face lit up with an infectious grin, was what had brought McLevy, after the felicitous dumping of Samuel, to the George Hotel.
To request an audience with Sophie Adler in his guise of investigating officer.
A slice of intuition.
Or just catching at a straw?
Conan Doyle, on the other hand, was counting his good fortune to be in her presence so unexpectedly soon for the favourable reply had come straight back. She had no audience that night and, even better, when they arrived at her door, Magnus Bannerman was notable by his absence.
The man had been pleasant enough but the younger man sensed a rival and a certain veiled contempt.
Many people took Doyle’s boisterous personality at face value and that was their mistake.
Sophia looked wan but composed. Some of the white-blonde hair escaped in wisps that clung to her delicate neck. Pretty as a picture.
She was once again wearing a simple gown, pale lilac in colour, which accentuated her youthful appearance and tenuous fragility.
Introductions made, politesse observed, all parties seated, McLevy got stuck in.
‘In your wee soirée last night, Mister Doyle here tells me you picked out a member of the audience and near choked at the sight of him.’
‘These were not my words,’ protested Doyle.
She smiled reassuringly at him but said nothing.
‘Ye pointed at him. A shilpit individual.’
‘Ah yes. I remember now.’ Sophia nodded slowly.
She rose from her chair and walked to the window to stare out at the back of the hotel building where the laundry rooms, kitchens and servant’s quarters lay.
Sophia had made it her business to spy out the lie of the land down there for her own reasons.
Magnus had the better view of the street but she enjoyed listening to the murmur of activity below, the occasional clatter of a plate and hastily stifled laughter.
Voices everywhere.
‘Do you believe in other worlds, inspector? A supra-normal plane where other forces exist and the spirits of the dead wander like lost children?’
She spoke formally, as if laying an injunction upon the policeman.
Now it was McLevy’s turn for silence. His face betrayed nothing. Doyle kept his eyes fixed upon Sophia as if at any moment a great mystery was about to be revealed.
‘An existence beyond ours,’ she continued more simply. ‘After death. Yet connected. A force like magnetism. Flows like blood around us all. We bathe in the same stream.’
McLevy surprised Doyle by nodding slowly, his face grave and thoughtful.
‘I know that dreams would indicate there’s more tae life than meets the eye. My mind is open.’
This seemed to satisfy her that she would not be casting her pearls before the swinish embodiment of a legal system that believed most spirits were in a brandy bottle.
‘The man last night. I remember him well. His face. It was not one of my voices but now and then, a vision comes. A dark visitation. It shakes me to the very core.’
McLevy had sudden recall of the figure ahead of him in the tunnel and felt a weird tremor.
He shook it off and got to business.
‘Whit did you see?’
‘A skull. I looked at his face and saw a skull.’
‘Surely a portent of death?’ Doyle interjected, a little miffed that these two had almost excluded him from the exchange and eager to embrace the idea that Sophia had, in some way, foreseen the future.
The inspector shot the young man a warning glance. The murder was his to reveal and in his own good time.
‘Anything else?’ asked McLevy.
‘Such as?’ Sophia responded.
They now, despite Doyle’s effortful intervention, were locked into each other’s gaze as if some unseen battle were taking place. Perhaps a battle of wills, of mental force, or even attraction, as one subtle psyche probed into the other.
‘A word, say. Written in blood.’
McLevy observed her violet eyes to darken the merest touch then she slowly shook her head.
‘I saw a skull. No flesh. Just bone.’
‘No word upon a wall?’
‘Words are cheap.’
This cryptic reply would seem to signal conclusion to that line of questioning, so he shifted ground slightly.
‘According to Mister Doyle, you screamed aloud?’
‘I did.’
‘Why?’
‘As I said, I was shaken.’
‘Surely you have seen such visions before? Skull and crossbones?’
‘No. Never. Not of that kind.’
‘Where did you meet this man?’
‘I had never met him. Until last night.’
To the watching Doyle it seemed that the tenor of the exchange had almost become that of interrogation but he supposed that must be the nature of a policeman.
Let nothing lie at peace.
‘And whit do ye conclude from this bony apparition?’
A faint smile came to her lips at the deliberate obtuseness of his question.
‘As Mister Doyle remarked. Death, I suppose.’
Arthur was beginning to feel like some sort of reference point on the map of Edinburgh.
‘And you saw nothing else?’
Sophia raised her hands for a moment then let them fall to clasp each other in a graceful enfolding.
‘My gift is both a blessing and a curse, inspector. It is not clarity but confusion. When I am in a state of such…invasion, my mind is almost overcome.’
For a moment her voice trembled and she looked towards Doyle whose heart lifted in response. Then she turned back to the obdurate figure still attending answer.
‘As I say, it was a confusion but behind the skull, in a terrible darkness – though this may not be part, it may be from some other force that was present – I saw a man, far away, lying in a pool of blood.’
Doyle stiffened. McLevy’s face was unchanged.
‘Did ye see the face?’
‘No. Only the body. And the blood.’
‘In a room? A fireplace to hand?’
‘No. In the open. At night. On the street. On stone.’
No-one ever tells all of the truth, we hold back a little as an obedient child, in some cultures, will keep a morsel of food aside on their plate for God.
But the inspector reckoned that Sophia had put enough in to get a little back.
‘The man you saw was called Gilbert Morrison. He was murdered late last night, his head smashed by a heavy iron poker.’
A sardonic smile came to McLevy’s lips.
‘He
is in fragments of blood and bone. The poker is still intact. The nature of iron.’
Sophia did not respond at first to the bleak statement.
‘That is a cruel fate,’ she murmured finally.
‘Aye. There’s nae justice.’
‘It would seem so.’
For a moment her face seemed troubled and she glanced over at Doyle whose heart lifted once more at the vulnerable creature before him. McLevy, on the other hand, didn’t give a damn. There was something about her containment…an almost sensual invitation.
He had been close quarters with many attractive and dangerous women but this one was in a class of her own.
Back to business.
‘It’s a pity your vision didnae include a wee keek at the murderer, save me a deal o’ time and trouble.’
‘I saw nothing more than what I have told you. A skeleton face.’
‘Uhuh?’
For a moment they stood in silence then a sudden screech from outside the window made them all jump.
A seagull had swooped down to grab a piece of crust thrown from the kitchen below. It rose triumphantly into the air, white bread clutched in its orange talons, and flapped away into the dull sky.
Sophia shook her head as if trying to break free from her inward thoughts. She saw the anxious look on Doyle’s face and spoke directly to him.
‘You are a kind person, Mister Doyle,’ she said, quite out of the blue.
‘I try to be,’ he said in some confusion, the tips of his large ears becoming tinged with colour.
‘It is a rare quality,’ Sophia smiled.
Then she turned once more to McLevy, who in no way qualified for similar approbation.
‘I am sorry I cannot help you further, inspector. I have nothing more to add. Fate is cruel.’
McLevy accepted this implicit dismissal with a cheerful nod, and banged his hands together.
‘Ach well, never mind. I will bring the killer tae justice and watch the judge pit on the black cap.’
He let out a harsh whoop of laughter.
‘Then I’ll watch him dance the Perth two-step on the hangman’s rope. The rewards of my chosen profession.’
Doyle recognised the technique employed.
An apparent mercurial shift of behaviour at times verging on direct brutality; all to disguise the fact that behind all this was a probing intelligence of intent.
Designed to keep the suspect on the hop.
Doyle would keep that in mind for future reference.
But surely Sophia was not under suspicion?
Or was everyone so in James McLevy’s eyes?
The man himself turned as if to go and then shot out a sudden question at Sophia.
‘Whit does Judas mean tae you?’
She took a breath and for the first time seemed a little flustered.
‘I suppose…the betrayer of a good man. Lord Jesus.’
‘Aye, the Bible tells us so. That was the word on the wall. In blood. Why would it be written there, d’ye think?’
‘Those who are betrayed seek vengeance,’ she answered slowly.
‘My thought precisely!’
The inspector beamed at Conan Doyle as if he was also in agreement.
‘Somewhere in Gilbert Morrison’s past lies the reason for his present condition, which is in smithereens.’
McLevy was the only one who seemed to find relish at this prospect. He nodded goodbye to Sophia and jerked his head at Doyle as a sign to leave.
As the young man replaced his sailor’s cap – McLevy as usual had kept on his low-brimmed bowler – Sophia noticed something which set her to a frown of concern.
‘You have a mark, Mister Doyle,’ she said.
Indeed, where Seth Moxey had dug his iron spike into the neck, the flesh was raw and inflamed with a trickle of dried blood, which had come to a discreet stop just short of his collar.
‘It is nothing,’ said Doyle in heroic mode. ‘A small altercation.’
‘He was for the chop,’ offered McLevy. ‘But we pulled him out. Jist as well. We have enough corpses to hand.’
Sophia paid no heed to this strange humour. She took out a small handkerchief, reached forward and dabbed at his neck. It was a curiously intimate gesture and McLevy wished suddenly that he had a wound to heal.
She ended her ministration under which the young man had not dared move lest it break the spell.
‘You must take care, Mister Doyle.’
‘I will try my best, Miss Adler.’
Arthur bowed over the hand she extended, like a braw gallant. He wished tremendously to ask her for a rendezvous with a more pleasant subject matter but found McLevy’s presence inhibiting to a marked degree.
He would return.
Conan Doyle thought of signalling this with a glance but fearing he might resemble an idiot, and seeing a glint of humour in her eyes, contented himself with backing away.
The space he left was filled with James McLevy who had an odd smile upon his lips as if he and Sophia would also meet again.
‘When is your next soirée?’ he asked.
‘Two nights hence. At the Tanfield Hall, I believe.’
McLevy, who had already seen the posters and knew this well, affected surprise.
‘Tanfield Hall? That’s a space tae fill.’
‘It is already sold out.’
‘I have my ticket in advance,’ Conan Doyle said proudly.
‘Not me,’ said McLevy. ‘I never know the future.’
‘I may leave you one, if you wish,’ Sophia offered.
‘A future?’
‘A ticket. At the box office.’
‘That’s very nice,’ was the reply. ‘Put it under James McLevy – Inspector of Police.’
Something in his tone brought her eyes to focus on his. A level stare. Violet to slate-grey. Unflinching both.
‘I was just thinking,’ said he. ‘If Gilbert Morrison is now in the ultramundane. Maybe you could have a wee word with him. On the quiet. In case he has a name in mind. Speir amangst the sprits, eh?’
This notion seemed to bring Sophia no pleasure.
‘I have little control over what comes and goes.’
The inspector gave her one more look, then left abruptly without saying goodbye, as was sometimes his custom.
Doyle followed hastily, bidding his adieus before stopping at the door to gaze back at Sophia who had turned once more to the window.
A beautiful princess.
Waiting for a valiant knight.
By the time Doyle caught up with McLevy the inspector was half way down the stairs, whistling a snatch of ‘Charlie is my Darling’.
‘How old d’ye think the hizzie might be?’ he asked suddenly.
Doyle frowned to hear Sophia so described.
‘I would imagine…some twenty years. Perhaps less.’
‘I would say less. Whit d’ye think of her?’
‘She is…impressive.’
‘Uhuh? So was Delilah.’
By this time they had reached the ground floor of the hotel and before Doyle could ask McLevy to explain the remark, the young man was greeted by a voice booming through the foyer.
‘Mister Doyle. What brings you to these parts?’
Magnus Bannerman, large as life, resplendent in a heavy evening cape, walking stick to hand, swept off his felt hat and shook Edinburgh’s misty dampness out of his hair much as a dog would after a run in the park.
His teeth flashed in a friendly grin but the eyes did not reflect such. They were watchfully appraising Conan Doyle, as one animal might another that wanders into his territory.
McLevy, for a man who took up so much room by dint of his noisy personality, had the gift of self-effacement and used it to melt aside and measure Mister Bannerman.
No doubt as to the man’s power and magnetism. A few women in the foyer had already turned to register his presence. Of equal height to Doyle but seemed larger, more expansive as he shook the young man’s hand in a bone-crushin
g grip that was returned with interest.
The inspector would put him down as a showman, a flashy Dan, a high-class version of someone who would sell fake health elixirs in the Leith Market.
But what was behind that erected façade? Often people with such a constructed personality made it so to disguise a weakness within.
McLevy was introduced and the purpose of their visit explained to Magnus who shook his head worriedly.
‘Sophia lives in many worlds and needs her rest. I would be obliged next time gentlemen if you might channel any requests for an interview through my good self.’
Doyle expected McLevy to show his teeth at that statement, as in this is a criminal investigation and you can go and whistle but the inspector nodded docilely enough.
‘Did you also see the dead man?’
‘Alive. And only for a moment.’
‘Recognise him – from the past, say?’
‘We have no past here. Not long arrived in your fair city, sir.’
Magnus’s face was open and friendly with no shadow in his eyes. His teeth flashed in a winning smile, shining like moonlit tombstones.
‘I have just been to your Tanfield Hall to arrange for Sophia’s mesmeric demonstration. Facilities are excellent. A splendid establishment.’
‘Aye. It’ll do her proud,’ said McLevy dryly. ‘It’s where the Great Schism took place.’
‘Schism?’
‘The Church divided. A long story.’
‘Then I must leave it with you.’
‘Aye,’ said McLevy dryly. ‘Ye have your own religion.’
‘Indeed we do. This will be the last demonstration, and the day after we will sadly take our leave from your Bonnie Scotland.’
Conan Doyle’s face fell. Sophia had made no mention of such.
‘Where do you travel, sir?’ he asked.
‘A short tour of Europe and then…America calls! We must spread the gospel in our own land.’
‘Have ye no’ spread it already?’ McLevy asked.
‘The seeds have been scattered. Now we must reap the harvest.’
Having divested himself of this arable metaphor and noted Doyle’s crestfallen air, Bannerman shook his mane of hair with added vigour.
‘Well, you must excuse me, gentlemen. Supper calls, and Miss Adler has a keen appetite which must be satisfied.’
For a moment there was the slightest hint of earthy satisfaction in his eyes and then he bounded up the hotel stairs without a backward glance, leaving a trace of the damp evening air like a spoor of sorts.
