“I wasn’t holding anyone hostage!” Aggie finally raised her head and looked the inspector in the eye.
Thwaite glanced at the report in his hand. “It says here that Detective Sergeant Billings and Detective Constable Clarkson found a naked, bleeding man in a room in your apartment, tied to his bed.”
“That was my son, Gordon. And he is gravely ill. I tied him up for his own protection. He would have scratched his skin off if I hadn’t!”
Thwaite turned towards Billings. “Where is this man now?” he asked.
“He was taken to hospital.”
Thwaite frowned. “How is all of this connected to the murder of Kitty LeFevre?”
“A series of diaries were found in the man’s room that incriminate him.” Billings pointed at a pile of diaries on the table. “And Mrs Campbell has told us that her son has confessed to it.”
“My son did not confess anything to me!” Aggie called out. “My son is delusional! He mumbles to himself. And in one of his deluded ramblings, I thought I heard him say something about attacking a girl called Moira in a close near to the Royal Lyceum. I put two and two together and concluded that he was the one who killed Miss LeFevre’s daughter, but I was wrong. Miss LeFevre’s daughter was not called Moira. My son is not the man you are looking for.”
Thwaite frowned again, put his head in his hands and rubbed his forehead. “Perhaps we had better start from the beginning,” he said. “Why did you tie your son up in his room?”
“My son is ill; I told you that. He suffers from extreme paranoia and an inexplicable itch, which the doctors say is psychosomatic.”
Thwaite raised his eyebrows.
“Oh yes, I know all the clinical terms, Inspector. I have been through it all before with my husband, who died in the Edinburgh Lunatic Asylum. The doctors tell me that his condition is hereditary. They can combat the symptoms, they say, but not the cause, because they don’t know what the cause is. Well, I know what the cause is! But of course they won’t listen to me – in fact, some doctors think I’m as mad as my husband or my son. The cause of my son’s afflictions, the reason I had to tie him down in his bed, is because he is tormented constantly by demons.”
Again, Thwaite raised his eyebrows.
“That’s right, Inspector. Demons! Demons have been tormenting the Campbells ever since Megan Malone placed a curse on that family shortly before being hanged in 1646.”
“I see.” Thwaite glanced at his colleagues on the observer’s bench with a look of bemusement on his face.
“Oh, I can see that look on your face, Inspector. You’re just like the rest of them. You must think I’m batty. That poor woman has bats in her belfry. But don’t worry. I’m used to that. I’m used to having to battle these demons on my own. Even my own son thought I was mad when I tried to fight off the demons circling around his head with crucifixes and holy water. But what else could I do? If not Jesus, then who else can help me? The doctors are useless and so are the police. And even Jesus no longer has the strength to fend off these demons. They’ve grown so strong over the centuries. It’s a losing battle, I know it is. But I’m his mother, and it is my duty to try, even if I know that in the end my son will succumb to the witch’s curse, just as my husband has done.”
“Right… so…” Again, Thwaite turned to look at his colleagues on the bench with a bewildered expression on his face. “Miss LeFevre’s daughter, then. How does she fit into all this?”
“Mrs Campbell’s son killed her in a fit of rage,” Billings responded.
“He did not!” Aggie protested.
“He mistook her for another girl. Moira. He saw her wandering around the Royal Lyceum, lost his temper and bashed her head against the wall. He admitted this much to Mrs Campbell.”
“He admitted to assaulting Moira.” Aggie corrected him. “Not Miss LeFevre’s daughter.”
“Who’s Moira?” Thwaite asked.
“Moira is his fiancée’s daughter,” Billings replied. “She’s alive and well. We checked.”
“You checked?” Thwaite raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“After we discovered Mrs Campbell’s son tied up in his bed, Clarkson ran out to the local police station to fetch someone,” Billings explained. “They’re the ones who arrested Mrs Campbell. Not us. I then accompanied them to Rhona’s home – the fiancée– to check up on her daughter. Moira and Kitty are quite similar. They’re the same age and have the same long, dark hair. I can understand how, in his state of confusion, Mrs Campbell’s son could have mistaken Kitty for Moira.”
“Well,” Thwaite said, staring at Billings and frowning. “You’ve certainly been very busy, haven’t you, Detective Sergeant.”
Billings did not reply.
Thwaite turned back to Aggie. “What do you say to all of this, then, Mrs Campbell?”
Aggie hung her head. “I didn’t know Rhona had a daughter,” she said. “Gordon never told me. He thought I’d object to their marriage if I knew. He never understood why I did the things I did. The prayers, the crucifixes. None of that was out of piety. It was the only thing I had to battle the demons with. I knew of nothing else. But he didn’t understand. No one ever understood. I’ve been battling demons for so long, first with my husband, then with my son; I can’t do it anymore.” She started to cry. “I’m tired. I’m too weak. So go on, then. You may as well take him away. Lock him up in the asylum. Let the doctors deal with him now. I give up.”
“So, you admit that your son confessed to the killing?” Thwaite clarified.
Aggie nodded. “In a rare moment of clarity, he told me that he had attacked a girl called Moira in a close near to the Royal Lyceum. He was afraid he may have killed her. He sounded regretful.”
After the interview was over and Aggie had been released, Clarkson had been sent out to get some coffee, leaving Thwaite and Billings alone in the room.
Thwaite was still sitting at the table, leaning back in his chair, his hands wrapped behind his head. “Trying to make me look like a fool, were you?” he asked Billings.
“That was not my intention.”
“There are ways of doing things, you know. If you have ideas or suspicions, you should communicate them to your superiors. You do not act alone.”
“I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”
Thwaite slammed his hand on the table. “Then try again!” he yelled. “These lone wolf tactics of yours are unacceptable! You have no jurisdiction here in Edinburgh! You may well have jeopardised the whole case!”
“I did not arrest Mrs Campbell. That was done by the local police.”
“But you interviewed her. You searched her house without a warrant.”
“I did not need a warrant. I was invited in. Nor did I interview her. I just asked her some questions.”
“You had no right to ask her questions. You were suspended from the police force.”
“I was acting as a concerned citizen.”
Thwaite scoffed at this. “No fecking judge is going to buy that!”
“I assure you, sir. I acted within the law.”
“You know, Billings, there’s something about you that rubs people up the wrong way. I can quite understand why Flynt and Clarkson hate you so.”
“Clarkson doesn’t hate me.” He instantly regretted saying this. He was well aware of how childish he had sounded, but hearing Thwaite saying that about Clarkson sent a pang through his heart, and the words had come out involuntarily.
“Well, perhaps Clarkson is too good-hearted to hate anyone,” Thwaite acknowledged, “but Flynt can’t stand you. And I can quite see why. You’re arrogant, stubborn and aloof.”
Billings looked down at the ground but did not answer.
“But you are tenacious, I’ll give you that.” Thwaite’s tone of voice was softer now, and he was no longer frowning. “And at least you got this fecking headache of a case solved, so perhaps I ought to be grateful to you.” He got up from his chair and picked his papers up from his desk. “I
suppose I’d better go back and write up this report. See how we can make these unorthodox actions of yours stand up in court.” He stopped in the doorway and looked back at Billings. “You know, you really must learn to be more sociable. You won’t get far in the police force unless you do.”
Billings nodded. “I’ve been told that before.”
“Perhaps you can start by buying us all a drink tonight in the hotel.”
“Very well. I will.”
“Good.” Thwaite headed out the door. “Concerned citizen, my arse!” He laughed as he walked off. “No fecking judge is going to fall for that!”
Billings was in his hotel room, getting ready for his departure. All his worldly goods lay displayed on the bed, waiting to be packed into his bag: three white shirts, three pairs of black trousers, three pairs of flannel undershirts and matching drawers, three pairs of black socks, one pair of pyjamas, his morphine kit, a bar of soap, a razor, a shaving brush and a comb. He took his satchel from underneath the bed and wiped the dust off it, when someone suddenly appeared in the doorway. It was Westbrook.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said tentatively. “You left your door open. I took that as a sign that you didn’t mind being disturbed.”
Billings glanced at him briefly, then turned his attention back to his satchel. “Must’ve forgotten to close it.”
“You’re leaving, then?”
“We’re taking the train back to London this afternoon.”
“We’re off to Liverpool tomorrow. Carola, Mary, Mr Hardy and me. We’re taking the steamer to New York on Sunday. Mr Hardy managed to persuade Carola to pay for my passage. She didn’t take much persuading. She knows she’ll need me to look after her. Especially as she’s too proud to be dependent on Mary.”
“How is Miss LeFevre?”
“Frail, but calm. Mary keeps her doped up on laudanum to make her easier to handle. I could do with some of that stuff myself. I feel strangely nervous about the voyage. I feel like everyone is blaming me for Kitty’s death.”
“Everyone is blaming you.”
Westbrook didn’t respond. He walked into the room and closed the door behind him.
Billings looked surprised and was about to ask him why he had shut the door, when Westbrook leaned into him and whispered in his ear.
“I don’t suppose I could have some of your morphine ampoules to help me through the initial days?”
“No,” Billings said, then stepped away from Westbrook, placed his satchel on the bed and began packing his clothes into it.
“Why not?”
“I’m quitting the morphine.”
“Why?”
“It makes me do things I regret.”
Westbrook recognised the rejection and smiled mournfully. “I see.”
There was a pause in the conversation. Billings continued packing his clothes into the satchel, all the while avoiding eye contact with Westbrook. Westbrook, meanwhile, continued to linger in the room, looking unsure of himself.
Billings finally raised his head to look at him. “Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Actually, there is.”
“What is it?”
“It’s about Carola’s death threat.”
“What about it?”
“I sent it.”
“You sent it?”
“I was cross at her. She’d been very nasty to me during the crossing from France. Well, you know how she can get when she’s feeling unwell. She took it out on me, and on that particular day, I just couldn’t take it. So I vented my frustrations on the letter and sent it to her. I knew she wouldn’t take it seriously. I didn’t know, however, that Mr Hardy would alert the police. And I certainly didn’t know that she’d receive twenty-four-hour protection from Scotland Yard!”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“I felt you should know.”
“It’s a criminal offense to send death threats. I could arrest you for it.”
“I know you can. But you won’t. You’d be too afraid that I would start blabbing about what happened that night.”
Billings went quiet and resumed packing his bags.
“I wouldn’t, though,” Westbrook added. “I wouldn’t say anything. I don’t want to hurt you, John. I still treasure that short time we spent together, despite everything. I just wanted you to know that I had sent it. You can do with that information what you will.”
“Why did you want me to know?”
“Because sending that death threat was the best thing I did during this European tour.”
Billings looked confused.
“Without it, I would never have met you,” Westbrook explained.
Again, Billings went quiet. He lowered his head and continued packing.
“My only regret is that I met you too soon,” Westbrook continued. “You’re not ready for this yet. But you will be one day. One day, you’ll meet somebody special. And you’ll make him very happy. And it won’t be me. And I regret that deeply.”
Billings continued to pack his bag silently, not daring to raise his eyes to meet Westbrook’s.
“Won’t you at least say goodbye to me,” Westbrook asked.
“Goodbye,” Billings said, still without looking at him.
“Properly,” Westbrook said. “Shake my hand.” He stretched his hand out to Billings.
Billings hesitated briefly but eventually looked up, walked towards him and shook his hand. “Goodbye, Mr Westbrook,” he said. “I hope you have a pleasant journey.”
Westbrook smiled at the formality of the greeting. He recognised the slight. “Goodbye, John,” he said, then let go of Billings’ hand, turned his back on the detective and left the hotel room without saying anything more.
Billings watched him leave. He had expected Westbrook to pull him towards him as they shook hands and hug him tightly like he had done in London. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed that that hadn’t happened.
Epilogue
“It’s lovely.”
Susan Clarkson was sitting at the dining table, holding a roll of woven wool in her hands.
“It’s Harris tweed. The McLeod tartan,” said Clarkson, who was sitting beside her, beaming with pride. “That’s Susan’s maiden name, that is,” he added, turning to Billings, who was sitting, rather awkwardly, at the other end of the table.
Billings nodded and smiled.
“I thought you could make a lovely dress out of it,” Clarkson said. Then he turned back towards Billings and added with pride: “Susan’s an excellent seamstress.”
“Or I might make you a pair of tartan trousers,” Susan said. “Wouldn’t he look dashing in a pair of tartan trousers, John?”
She turned towards her husband and kissed him on his lips. “Thank you, Sam.” Then she kissed him again. A long, loud kiss, which forced Billings to look away.
“Would you like another slice of pie?” he suddenly heard Susan say. He looked up and saw the last slice of steak and kidney pie on the table.
“Um… no, thanks,” he said, putting his hand on his rumbling stomach in a vain attempt to make it stop.
“Of course he wants it.” Clarkson picked the slice up from its plate and dished it out to Billings. “He didn’t want to come at first. Said you weren’t expecting him and he didn’t want to impose on you. I said, ’Don’t be silly, Billings. Susan’s always got extra food in the house in case we get a visitor.’ Ain’t that right, Suse?”
Susan nodded. “You’re always welcome here, John, you know that.” She said this without smiling or even looking him in the eye.
“Thank you,” Billings said and hesitantly began digging into his pie.
“Boy, have we got some stories to tell you about Edinburgh.” Clarkson’s face was flushed with excitement. “Witches, curses, ghosts! It’s like that play we went to watch in the theatre. What was it called?”
“Macbeth,” Billings and Susan both answered simultaneously.
“And we met som
e queer characters, didn’t we, Billings? There was a man called ’Bunny’. And a woman with no fingers. And the haughty Miss LeFevre, who was mad as a hatter. And that peculiar companion of hers. That Mr Westbrook. A real mandrake, he was.”
Susan’s ears suddenly pricked up. “A what?”
“A mandrake,” Clarkson repeated. “You know. One of them dandy fairies. A sodomite.”
“How do you know?” Susan asked.
“Well, it were obvious. The way he talked and dressed. At least, it was obvious to me.” He turned towards his colleague. “Don’t you think he was a mandrake, Billings?”
“I don’t know,” Billings said, keeping his eyes fixed on his pie.
“Well, you should know, Billings. You spent a lot of time with him. I think he took a bit of a shine to you.” Clarkson laughed. “His eyes lit up whenever he saw you.”
Susan’s interest was piqued, and she turned to face Billings. “Did he, now?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
Billings was feeling increasingly uncomfortable and kept his eyes fixed on the food. “I really don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think about such things.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with it,” Clarkson said (later Billings would wonder whether Clarkson had spotted his unease). “I ain’t got anything against sodomites. If two men feel attracted to each other, then that’s their business, ain’t it? As long as they keep it to themselves and don’t try to corrupt us decent folks.”
“But that’s just it, Sam,” Susan said. “Some sodomites don’t keep it to themselves. Some sodomites do try to corrupt decent, hardworking men.” She was looking directly at Billings while she said this. “How would you feel, Sam, if a sodomite got attracted to you?”
“I’m hardly the type they go for.” Clarkson laughed. “But anyway, I think perhaps we should change the topic.” He nodded towards the drawing room, where his children were playing on the floor. “Little ears are listening, so let’s start talking about something a little more savoury.”
Billings left the Clarksons’ at around eight o´clock. They seemed a little offended by the way he suddenly got up from his chair and announced that he was leaving (although, actually, there was nothing sudden about it. He had wanted to leave ever since he arrived). He told them that he had to pick up his dog from the neighbours who had been looking after it. But this was a lie. He had arranged with his neighbours to pick Tilly up the following day.
The Campbell Curse Page 14
