33
Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out:
The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards, and bedews the heavens.
JOHN WEBSTER,
The small axe was lifted and chopped down with an executioner’s relish. William Gladstone had risen early, too restless to lie abed, and thought at once of the recently felled sycamore.
And there it was, still lying where he had brought it low, branches broken off willy-nilly. An untidy carcass, this would never do.
He had begun at the top of the tree. Always work down. Always start from the top. The smaller, younger shoots were to be found there and could be sheared with the one stroke.
It was a most satisfying process to reveal the white flesh of the wood in the action of a single gesture, like peeling off a skin.
Tomorrow, Monday, the Midlothian vote was to be cast.
Already he knew that he had been elected for Leeds (a fine twist of the political system being that the one candidate could stand in two constituencies), and because of the spread-out nature of the polling days, he also knew that the national result would be a Liberal victory.
Nothing could stop him now.
He would give thanks to the Lord later in church.
He had noticed a recent tendency towards fragmentary thought. This must be resisted.
Administration was the highest form of politics and he would ruthlessly pursue that end.
Now was not the time for an excess of empire.
Disraeli was lost in a dream. England, the Israel of his imagination.
The coming economic force was America. He had, during their Civil War, made the mistake of apparently espousing the cause of the South and had his knuckles rapped. No more of that. Now he was more than ready to embrace our American cousins. They may lack finesse, but they did not lack money or the energy to make such and he could see a day when they would have weapons to spare.
Such a mixture of races could not help but produce a desire to conquer and they were welcome to it, as long as they did not train their guns on Albion’s shore.
No. Their countries would lie together. Like family.
A wild light came into Gladstone’s eye. Now, were this tree Benjamin Disraeli, he would chop him down to size, limb from limb, the head, the arms, the legs, chop, chop!
He had been increasing his activity to almost that of a frenzy, lifting the axe as he spied a juicy fat branch, just ripe, just ripe for destruction.
A voice broke in on this singular and most pleasant pastime.
‘You have a mark on you,’ it said.
For a moment, Gladstone was completely disjointed, the axe hanging in the air like a broken wing.
A man stood watching him, the early morning light behind his stocky figure. Gladstone did not recognise the voice or shape.
The whole house would now only just be rising, he was alone, he loved the solitude, who would dare sneak up upon him and disturb his privacy, his Sabbath chopping of the limbs?
The figure was dark-clad, bareheaded, still as a pointing finger, an ominous silent finger.
He moved away from the tree, holding firmly to the axe lest this be an assassin. But the man did not give the impression of madness and William knew from experience that while most assassinations on the Continent were attempted for reasons of politics, in this country they were almost always committed by madmen.
Then the dark imaginings cleared. Yes, he was safe. He recognised the man now.
‘You are the policeman,’ he said. ‘From last night. I saw you last night.’
‘And I saw you,’ the man replied with a peculiar emphasis to the words.
He moved at last, walking in slow deliberate steps past Gladstone to take in the grandeur of Dalmeny House and the estate.
Smoke was beginning to issue from the chimney pots of the house as the early morning fires were lit, and the raucous noise of a flock of hoodie crows, rising indignantly from a nearby field, signalled the onset of another day.
Legend had it that hoodie crows pecked the eyes out of the newborn spring lamb, it being a soft target. We all like a soft target.
Still facing away, the man spoke as if addressing the scene before him, as if he were pronouncing in a court of law.
‘My name is James McLevy. I am an inspector of crime. My parish is Leith in the city of Edinburgh.’
‘I believe you may have told me some of this in our previous exchange,’ replied Gladstone dryly. ‘I have an excellent memory.’
McLevy turned round. His face was sombre. It had been a hard long night which had slipped like a knife into the belly of this day. He had not washed or shaved, not had even a sniff of coffee, and now he was about to embark upon a line of questioning which had Roach been aware of same would have laid the good lieutenant prostrate on the putting green.
He stared blankly at the Great Man.
It was said families all over the country had Sweet William flowers on their table in his honour. Well, we’d see how sweet.
Gladstone for his part sensed a challenge, as one tiger will smell another in the jungle. But he forbore to ask the fellow why he was abroad, at this hour, in this place, for it has been often noted that he who asks the first question betrays a weakness.
‘You have a mark on you,’ repeated McLevy.
The inspector pointed at the right hand which held the axe and Gladstone let the implement fall on to the trunk of the dead sycamore. He then inched back his sleeve to reveal two livid scratches on the underside of his wrist which the inspector had espied.
‘Nature’s revenge,’ the thin harsh mouth arranged itself in a smile of sorts as he gestured towards the tree. ‘The first cut I made yesterday, one of the branches caught me. I was careless. One cannot afford that.’
He lifted the left hand to display its covering stock and was there an element of mockery in his tone?
‘One must be alert. At all times. The world is full of menace. If you may observe … I have lost myself a finger.’
‘Some lose more than that to menace,’ replied McLevy. ‘Some people lose their lives.’
A silence fell between them. Gladstone sat down on the tree, his back upright and his powerful dark eyes fixed on McLevy. He waited for the next move.
The inspector sniffed the morning air. It smelled clean enough, especially after the acrid smoke of the night before, but was it untainted? What other faint odour came wafting from Sweet William in the light morning breeze?
He began his interrogation. Place it under what guise you will, tiptoe around it as you may, he was about to put the future prime minister of this glorious country under the cosh of justice.
‘The servants of your abode in George Street have confirmed to me that, at some point last night, they cannot remember exactly when, your absence was noted. It was assumed you had gone out for a walk. After your supper. A perambulation. Is that correct?’
‘Indeed. I also cannot remember the exact time. But, it is my custom to do so after the exertion of addressing a large gathering such as we had at West Calder,’ replied Gladstone almost placidly.
‘Ye left by the side door?’
‘Also my custom. The gentlemen of the press are wont to gather by the front. Their presence is not always welcome, I had been enough public that day.’
