However. It was only a trick of the light.
October had almost gone, the dark half of the year approaching. Halloween. The old legends had it that evil spirits were abroad and it were best to be in disguise lest they steal your very soul; but all good Christians would be well protected, buttressed by faith, wrapped tight by rectitude, sin-proofed to Satan’s three-pronged attack.
Only those with a spotted conscience need be concerned. The likes of James McLevy. Marked by madness. Or worse.
The inspector’s thoughts returned to his dream.
And what of these naked females, cavorting round the flames? Try as he might he could not recall their precise features, just a general impression of libidinous ecstasy.
McLevy realised that his feet were freezing, even in the woolly socks. There was no point in going back to bed, however, not with a troupe of sleekit females lurking under the covers. He let out a grunt of amusement at that notion but could not rid himself of a feeling of foreboding.
Who was the figure in the red cloak and why did she put such fear into his heart?
Perhaps he might coax some flame from the ashes with judicious blowing plus a few tinder stalks, then a wee bit of coal, and rustle up another pot of coffee?
Yet he did not move from the window.
Perhaps they were all uncanny wraiths from the primitive depths of vanquished time, to be dismissed or at the very least taken into custody.
Naked as sin.
Just as well he’d had his hat and overcoat on.
Yet what was he doing dancing in tune?
3
I could not get the ring without the finger.
THOMAS MIDDLETON,
To see the two women in the Princes Street tearoom, it would never have occurred to the ignorant or unwary that they might have in mind a desire to rend tooth and nail the flesh that held the opposite’s very skeleton in place.
One was unassuming in her dress, respectable and neat as a maiden aunt, frills forbidden, small-boned and dowdy almost, a heart-shaped face, tiny almost claw-like hands, the nails a little longer than custom might prefer. Her eyes – dark, beady, like a restless bird’s – darted here and there under the lowered lids.
Her nose was narrow, as if it had been sucked by some inner force to press up against the cartilage in order to accentuate the cheekbones on each side. The mouth in contrast was wide, small milky teeth lurking behind wet lips as she sipped the scented tea.
The other was dressed in the height of fashion; a gown of vivid aquamarine brought out the colour of her green eyes and the red hair, swept up save for some cunning tendrils that had escaped to call attention to the contours of her neck, contrasted with the porcelain skin of her face. A mocking twist to the lush, slightly parted lips below a delicate nose completed the picture.
A pretty female, perhaps a little empty-headed even, the observer might have concluded. Flighty. Not like the sober wee soul opposite.
Both women had taken great care in how they would present themselves one to the other.
The bird of paradise and the sparrow.
Neither, of course, might be what she seemed.
Deadly rivals they most certainly were.
The dowdy woman was known only as the Countess and the vision in aquamarine, Jean Brash.
They shared the same profession, that of a bawdy-hoose keeper.
While Edinburgh matrons discussed the relative merits of French cakes, mesmeric influence and petticoat tails, the Countess poured out more tea with a steady hand.
‘Darjeeling. I always find the fragrance so…soothing, don’t you?’ she remarked, in an accent that more than hinted at some passing acquaintance with the Balkans.
‘I’m more of a coffee hand,’ said Jean. ‘Black.’
‘You prefer stimulation?’
‘I like to keep busy. Welcome all comers.’
The Countess sighed as if this statement carried hidden undertones, which indeed it did.
‘I have asked you here, Jean Brash,’ she murmured, ‘so that we may not quarrel.’
The other took a sip of her coffee and made a face.
‘Bitter,’ she said. ‘I don’t like bitter.’
The older woman smiled in sympathy and then a look of concern came upon her face, as if she had just remembered something of vexation. She straightened up and her restless eyes became fixed on Jean.
‘You have taken two of my girls,’ she announced.
‘They came running.’
The Countess put the provocation of this statement down to the bitterness of the coffee.
‘One of them, Simone,
‘I doubt she will return,’ Jean announced, looking into the cup as if it might improve the flavour somehow.
‘Why not, if I may make so bold?’
‘Simone told me pain had begun to outweigh pleasure in her …obligations.’
The Countess smiled in polite disagreement. ‘Pleasure begins when pain completes itself. Sometimes the Tiger needs a little …blood.’
‘I’ve seen the stripes,’ said Jean flatly.
Indeed, the girl, who obviously specialised in waiflike crushed-flower creatures – what Hannah Semple, the keeper of the keys of the Just Land, would call
‘Part of the profession,’ replied the Countess.
‘Not in my house. Not my girls. Justice for all.’
The older woman laughed as if genuinely amused, her eyes glittering with a sudden merriment.
‘But my dear Mistress Brash, your house is like a market place where everything is laid out like a flesher’s slab. In my hotel, the client may indulge himself in total privacy to the furthest extent of his wishes. I attract the most distinguished of men for that very reason.’
Jean had lost two judges, the aforementioned ship-owner and, at the last count, at least three High Churchmen to the Countess. All with money to burn. It rankled greatly. She had stuck to her principles but it still stung like hell.
Accordingly, she’d been delighted when the two magpies had flown over to the Just Land. And no-one was going to escape the consequences of comparing her immaculate bawdy-hoose to a flesher’s slab.
‘Simone tells me that a deal of your tigers are so old, they must bring medical support. And the reason they have to inflict pain is because they’re incapable of anything else.’
The Countess carefully replaced her cup and tapped her nails on the rim of the saucer.
