The rain suddenly stopped and a shaft of sun burst through the dark clouds.
A mist began to rise from the damp vegetation below and through it came the figure of a man in uniform. A grey outline that matched the haze and might even have been created out of it, so ghostly did the effigy seem.
McLevy saw it first and drew Mulholland further back into the shelter of the dripping trees. They watched as the figure approached from the opposite direction to that which the mourners had taken.
The man walked slowly, as if the incline caused him difficulty, but as he got closer they could see that his uniform was that of a Confederate officer, the slouch hat obscuring the face as his boots thudded dully into the damp earth.
He wore a cape of sorts over his shoulders and the mist seemed to cling as if attracted to the material.
At last he reached the grave of Sophia Adler and knelt down, again with difficulty as if his bones were creaking.
The sun vanished and mist swirled around to veil him once more as he swept off his hat.
Then after a long silence when Mulholland crammed the hankie over his nose so as not to let out a snorting wheeze, the strains of a song were heard. The voice was in tune enough but harsh as if unused to melody.
Then there was a creak of leather boots as for a moment they glimpsed the figure rise and bring up something in his hand. Then the figure was concealed once more and after some time, a single shot was fired, the sound absorbed in the muffled damp, but unmistakable enough.
‘Has he killed himself?’ whispered Mulholland.
‘Anything is possible,’ the inspector whispered back. ‘Let us investigate further.’
Mulholland took out his hornbeam stick as they walked cautiously towards the grave; bullets were no respecter of persons and he had scar tissue enough already.
But when they arrived, there was nothing to be seen.
‘Was it a ghostie, d’ye think?’ asked Mulholland, coming over a little Irish in the cemetery atmosphere.
‘I doubt it,’ responded McLevy, bending down to pick up something lying on the newly dug grave.
It was a revolver. Black. Shiny. He spun the chambers.
‘Empty,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he shot at the sky or maybe even God – ye never know.’
The east wind made an appearance and the mist lifted. They could now see clearly in all directions but there was no trace of the uniformed figure.
‘Like something in a dream,’ said Mulholland quietly.
‘Just so,’ replied the inspector. ‘Just so.’
Later on, a blackbird flew overhead and chattered indignantly at the two figures far below as Jean Brash and McLevy sipped their delicious brew.
Why the bird was in such a bate was not for them to know but it had just narrowly missed being impaled on the claws of a cat and considered the human beings in this garden to be partways responsible.
‘What a business, eh?’ said Jean Brash.
‘Uhuh.’
Having packed the snuffling Mulholland back to his lodgings, the inspector had found himself at a loose end and, as often happened in such circumstance, his feet had led him to the Just Land.
It was late afternoon, and the girls just getting used to being back in the house after their banishment, so things were quiet and Jean, it seemed, happy to see him.
They sat companionably enough in a little gazebo in the garden sheltered from the drizzle, and enjoyed a rare moment of peace together.
McLevy sniffed at his coffee with relish.
‘Whit d’ye cry this?’
He took a delicate mouthful and Jean watched with some approval because he had a tendency to gulp at things.
She shook her head at the story he had just told of events stretching from eighteen years ago till now.
One event he had not covered, however, was Henry Preger’s sudden death and her purchasing arsenic powder for the rats at an apothecary’s far away geographically from the Holy Land. But no more of that, safer ground in holding to where the inspector had led her.
‘More sugar biscuits?’ she offered.
Hannah Semple had brought out a large plate of the same and although warning McLevy
McLevy took two of the proffered biscuits, dipped one in his coffee and sucked at the soggy mixture with pleasure.
‘And there’s no charge you can lay at his door?’ Jean asked, with a certain satisfaction, because she had been fond of Kirstie Donnachie and not happy about having to dole out the information to a policeman. It went against the grain.
‘No. I put it all before the lieutenant and he felt the same. Too long ago, unreliable witnessing, and a’body deid but one. Not a hope in hell.’
He tackled the second sugar biscuit in the same manner as the first.
‘John Donnachie, Jonathen Sinclair, is free. All he has to do is live with his own conscience.’
‘From what you say at the grave, he might seem to be settling accounts as best he could.’
‘If it was him. May have been a ghost.’
They laughed quietly and then saw two female figures come towards them.
‘We’ve covered that fish pond,’ said Maisie Powers. ‘Wire netting; that’ll keep the bugger out.’
Lily Baxter, who had linked arms with the bigger woman, grinned and mimed some creature with sharp claws trying to get through to the fish.
Maisie burst out laughing.
‘She’s a daft wee devil,’ she announced; then, after a ritual scowl at McLevy, faced Lily and pronounced slowly.
‘C’mon. I’ll race ye tae the door.’
Off they went, Lily leading the way by a mile, the shrieks sounding like two children on the loose.
‘I have invited Maisie to come and join us,’ said Jean, as if it were a Masonic Lodge proposal. ‘She will take over from Francine. What she lacks in finesse she will make up for in vigour and Lily can guide her.’
She caught a look in McLevy’s eye and said firmly.
‘At the moment they are just friends.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Maisie tells me that when she leathers the clients she will imagine your face upon their backside.’
‘Very kind.’
Then Jean’s face became serious.
‘I’ve meant to tell you. Jessie Nairn was buried with due dignity. All the girls were on hand.’
McLevy wasn’t sure how much dignity a tiding of magpies would bring, but contented himself with a nod.
‘What’ll happen tae the Countess’s place?’
