Trick of the Light

‘Indeed.’

The young man hesitated but curiosity got the better of him as the inspector knew it would.

‘What draws you to that conclusion?’

‘The skin on the knuckles of your right hand is somewhat abraded,’ McLevy remarked. ‘Of course ye could have received such chasing a ball, but there is also a bruised discolouration indicating impact and I also note the marking of a mouse under your left eye.’

The inspector pursed his lips and assumed the manner of a discriminating deductor.

‘It is therefore my premise that your opponent had a hard head and got lucky wi’ a swipe or two.’

Mulholland and Roach exchanged perplexed glances; this was not McLevy’s usual mode of speech or behaviour. The young man, however, let out a burst of spirited laughter.

 ‘By God you are right, sir. He did indeed have a frontal skull bone fit for a granite quarry. And I made the error of aiming down.’

‘Ye should aye punch up,’ said McLevy. ‘More leverage.’

He was enjoying the looks of bafflement on the faces of his lieutenant and constable so decided to put another dent in their brainpans.

‘I also surmise,’ he pontificated, ‘that such a wealth of sporting activity and the leisure time available to pursue such, can only point to one vocation – that of a university student.’

This time when the young man laughed the face expressed merriment and humour but no sound emerged, as if the laughter was choked at source.

‘Almost exactly so, sir, except,’ and here he stepped up before McLevy with some purpose, almost as if he was about to engage him in a bout of fisticuffs, ‘that I have not long before attained my degree.’

‘In medicine, no doubt,’ the inspector punched up as his opponent towered over him. ‘Ye have the natural arrogance necessary to the medical profession but not enough brains tae disport yourself in the legal.

‘Besides,’ he continued, as the young man let out a puff of air as if slightly winded, ‘you would seem tae me to lack the requisite treachery to succeed in law.’

‘You represent the law,’ came the shrewd response.

‘And I am steeped in perfidy,’ the inspector replied urbanely. ‘You, on the other hand, are jist beginning.’

A blink of the eye showed the blow to have gone home and McLevy decided that was enough deductive intuition for the moment.

‘Ye came to report a crime, I believe?’

‘Yes. A friend of my mother’s. Her home.’

‘Up in flames?’

‘Broken into and robbed.’

‘In Leith?’

 ‘No other place.’

‘Indeed there is not,’ said McLevy with a fierce smile, as if mortally offended. ‘It is a well known fact that we are the centre of the universe, here.’

The young man looked at Roach and Mulholland to see if this statement contained a trace element of irony but the lieutenant’s long upper lip gave no hint of such, and the constable’s blue eyes and fresh complexion told of nothing but unperceived insignificance.

Which brought his attention back to the inspector, who regarded him with what seemed dark suspicion.

‘Ye can put the cricket ball away,’ he said.

The young man did so.

‘Whit is the precise address in Leith?’

‘42 Bonnington Road.’

‘And the victim of this criminal depredation?’

‘Mistress Muriel Grierson.’

A small bell rang in Roach’s head but he decided to hold his counsel. Best to keep his own wife out of it, she had a habit of creeping into just about everything.

‘And your name?’ McLevy asked in official tones.

‘Doyle,’ said the young man who felt that he had just lost a round and been punching air. ‘Arthur Conan Doyle.’

‘Well, Mister Doyle,’ said his elusive combatant. ‘I am James McLevy, inspector of police. Let us go and investigate criminality thegither.’

5

I tell you what I dreamed last night

It was not dark, it was not light,

Cold dews had drenched my plenteous hair

Through clay; you came to seek me there

And ‘Do you dream of me?’ you said.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI,

The Convent Threshold

Magnus Bannerman whistled cheerfully to himself as he laid out the cards.

Two pack solitaire, shuffle and deal. Forty Thieves. Otherwise known as Napoleon at St Helena, it being the pastime with which the defeated Emperor beguiled himself on his last and lonely exile.

Magnus enjoyed the idea of himself and the little Corsican reading the tableau and making their plans.

The Frenchman dreaming of a lost empire and he on rich pickings in a foreign land.

As in many other solitaires, kings were a drawback. Took space, were hard to move. You had to build up foundation from the aces. Royalty gummed up the works.

Careful planning. You saw a space; the first impulse would be to fill it up, but then a vital link might be lost for it was necessary at some point to dig into the covered talon of cards; the past must be resurrected.

It was all a matter of recovery.

And careful planning.

His large spade-shaped fingers were surprisingly dexterous as he twisted the cards over to lay them face up.

Now he was left with the pack of the pasteboards held over, sixty-four in total. The hand. Face down in a solid rectangle. You may only turn them once.

If they had no place, thence to the talon.

Before he began, Magnus surveyed the spread. It had possibilities but would depend on the order of what ensued from the pack.

Now if he was a true sensitive he might intuit what was to come. But he was merely a gambler with a gift of the gab.

Before he made his first move, Magnus snapped open a small silver case and extracted a slim cheroot, which he lit up to puff out a thin spurt of smoke, eyes closed in tobacco heaven. Some preached against the leaf but they had no idea what it added to the pleasures of the flesh.

He opened his eyes once more and gazed round the well-appointed hotel room. Yes indeed, the lap of luxury, who would have thought a riverboat gambler down on his luck could have found such a sweet little ace in the