Shadow of the Serpent

Now, as George Cameron would have put it, let’s get tae the real business.

‘I assume you are referring to William Ewart Gladstone here.’ A sardonic edge cut under the grandiose words. ‘Yon Muckle Great Liberal. About to take Midlothian by storm and carry all before like a speeding train? Are ye talking about him by any chance? The People’s William?’

‘God help me, I am indeed.’ She replied with some feeling.

‘And are you trying to draw some connection between this pillar o’ rectitude and these two murders?’ McLevy abruptly shot out of the armchair and almost danced in agitation around the room as he continued. ‘Because so far nothing you have said would in the smallest part convince me of anything other than the fact that you possess a fearsome imagination, Miss Lightfoot.

‘Dinnae mistake me. I enjoyed the recitation but it amounts to damn all. Not worth a spit in the fire!’

She looked at him levelly, unmoved by his apparent indignation.

‘In 1843,’ she said, ‘William Gladstone shot the forefinger off his left hand in a hunting accident. He has worn a black stock ever since, to cover the loss.’

McLevy thought for a moment. ‘Serves him right for such intent tae slaughter.’

A sudden smile. Those lupine eyes caught colour from the flames and for a moment took on a yellow sheen.

‘But a scrap of cloth proves nothing.’

Joanna Lightfoot spoke in formal tones as if laying out the terms of a will.

‘The night his daughter was buried, the 14th of April, William Gladstone, informing everyone that he had sore need of solitude, went through to Edinburgh New Town to stay at the family winter house in Atholl Crescent.’

‘I know Atholl Crescent,’ cried McLevy suddenly. ‘Not a kick in the arse from Leith!’

‘Not to a man who considers twenty miles on foot to be a mere stroll,’ she replied.

He smiled. She realised her response had been too eager. Damnation.

‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘It’s your story.’

Nothing for it. No turning back.

‘William Gladstone did not remain at the house. The servants were told that he was too restless, he needed to walk, to clear his head. He left just after supper and returned at two o’clock in the morning. On that night Mae Donnachie was murdered.’

‘Oh there’s no argument about the date,’ said McLevy almost placidly. ‘Just the rest of your insinuations.’

He whistled softly under his breath, despite his better judgement he could feel a wee wriggle in the breadbasket.

‘Accepting for a moment, which I do not, not remotely, nevertheless, let us entertain a postulation that some of the events you describe may possibly have occurred, you mention a fragility of mind brought on by the weight of guilt, itself a result of a surrender to temptation.

‘Sin. I believe you may have even used the word … sin. What sort of temptation, Miss Lightfoot? What kind of sin are we talking about here?’

My goodness, he thought, was that a blush on her fair cheeks? Or were maybe her drawers getting too much warm air from the fire?

And why, he further thought, his mind entertaining these mad notions a wee touch further, would the killing of a pavement nymph expiate such sin? Then he remembered his own words to Mulholland, ‘These pillars of genteelity, they need their whores but they despise and hate themselves for it. And some of them hate the whores even worse.’ Was he wiser than even he knew? Was that possible?

He almost laughed aloud. His mind had that effect on him sometimes.

He looked into her blue eyes. There was an anguish of sorts lurking deep within, but whether it had connection to this present moment was impossible to gauge.

‘What kind of sin, Miss Lightfoot?’

She took a breath, a shudder of sorts.

‘I hope to bring you proof of that shortly. One thing I can tell you more. After addressing the crowd at Waverley Market last night, Gladstone retired to the house the Earl of Rosebery has taken for him. In George Street.’

‘That’s in the New Town as well. What a coincidence!’

Joanna ploughed on, in measured tone, regardless.

‘He insisted that he was too enlivened by the adoration of the people to rest indoors. He embarked upon an evening walk. For the good of his health, he said.’

‘When did he return?’ asked McLevy in an idle fashion.

‘After midnight.’

‘How d’ye know all this?’

‘I have a present connection. On hand.’

He waited for more but she bowed her head as if too weary to continue. ‘And what about thirty years ago? Ye certainly werenae on hand then. Hardly even in conception!’

A coarse laugh which she dismissed.

‘Please do not act the vulgarian, inspector. You demean both yourself and me by pretending to a brutish quality you do not possess.’

‘Oh, I would not be too sure of that and ye havenae answered the question.’

‘I cannot. Not at this moment.’

Joanna lifted a small lady’s reticule she had laid beside her on the chair, opened it and took out a folded piece of paper.

‘But, I would implore you to visit the person whose name and address are contained therein.’

She held out her hand but he did not respond in kind and she remained rather foolishly with outstretched arm.

‘Therein?’ he said mockingly. ‘What’s therein tae me?’

‘The truth. I must find it out.’

‘Then pursue for yourself.’

‘I am too personally involved.’

‘Are ye now? Do tell.’

Her arm was beginning to ache and her temper rising.

‘It is everything I have in my life. I must know the truth, you are the only person I can trust!’

‘Why me?’

‘I am told you will not be deflected from justice, high or low. And, in this case, a case of murder, you are the investigating officer.’

He pressed further. ‘A cold trail, a warm murder, and Willie Gladstone. What is your interest in all these?’

‘As I have told you. It is personal.’

‘In what way? What secret do you hug tae the bosom, Miss Lightfoot?’

For a moment her eyes glistened and her outstretched fingers trembled.

‘Come along,’ said he. ‘Ye can trust a policeman.’

‘I already have. Please. Do not make me beg.’

He still made no move. Her hand closed convulsively round the paper.

‘Take or leave. Go to hell, inspector.’

She threw the paper towards the flames of the fire, snatched up her belongings and was through the door in a trice while McLevy stood completely flummoxed by the sudden change in events.

He made as if to follow her then realised that the paper was curling up in the heat and hastily fished it out at the cost of a singed index finger. As he blew upon the injured digit, the outside door of the house slammed shut and he went swiftly to the window and threw it open.

Down below in the street he made out the tall figure of Joanna, who banged her hat upon her golden hair and strode purposefully towards the corner then round and out of sight. She had a somewhat mannish gait, strange he hadn’t remarked that fact. He stuck his head out into the night and strained to listen.

Yes. Faintly. Jingle of a carriage. The mysterious Miss Lightfoot, like Cinderella, had a coach at her