son and put the fault upon him. He could not help her so she took her own life. No justice.
To his astonishment, he found a trace of moisture in his eyes. But it was a trace only. Nothing a wipe with a hankie would not cure. See? All gone.
And if he shed a tear, though he was certain this was merely an optic irritation, it was not for himself or his mother, but for Jean. It must have killed her carrying that secret all these years.
He had to smile though at her having a wee dabble with Tam Imrie. Ye can never tell with women.
No, you never can tell.
An impatient scratch at the window took his attention elsewhere and he opened the frame to let Bathsheba slip past him into the room.
Since he had come back in disgrace the cat had not visited. Perhaps word had reached the rooftops, but here she had now arrived. Was this an omen of sorts, or was it more likely the cold snap following the mild wet weather which had driven her indoors?
As she made for her saucer of milk, he noticed that a subtle change had taken place. Usually the cat dived in, face down, not a care in the world, but now she seemed uneasy, the head coming up at any slight noise. That regal poise and grace of bearing, which Victoria to possess would have given her eye-teeth, had been disturbed. Her coat was a mite unkempt, the grooming perfunctory. What was going on?
He knelt beside the cat and ran his fingers softly down the fur at the side of her neck.
A low growl came in response and she flinched slightly before hunger drove her back to the milk.
But he had felt the marks. She’d been pinned deep. Time would tell how deep it had gone.
He poured out some more milk then left the beast to her own devices and a measure of peace as he picked up the coffee pot from the hearth and replenished his cup at the table which was positioned by the open window.
McLevy sat back down and took a sip. It was black and bitter. Like his prospects.
That damned woman Lightfoot had jiggered up his cat’s routine, chased Bathsheba out the window before her accustomed time so that she ran straight into a couple of big hairy toms, and had caused his own incarceration to boot. Happy Birthday.
Jean’s letter was carefully replaced in its envelope and put inside his diary which, to be truthful, he had not had the energy to make an entry in these past few days.
It was late afternoon, the light still holding as he looked out into the streets below. The passers-by were muffled up against the cold, breath puffing out like a steam train, all was back to normal.
The Midlothian election result had been announced this very morning. Gladstone had won hands down. Sweet William.
A terrible lethargy had settled upon him. Each day that passed was like another layer of dust.
To keep his thoughts from shifting back to the contents of Jean’s letter and all the raw feelings it invoked, he replayed in his mind the last exchange of words between himself and Mulholland. Although that itself had not exactly been an ode to joy.
As he had walked away from the station up Charlotte Street, heading for the Leith Links where the rain could
He was filled with a terrible rage. He had never been taken off a case before; why had he not lifted up Roach’s desk and hurled it at the man? But he had felt paralysed, quite paralysed, by the rain and cold and the long walk back, and the exchange with Gladstone, the instinct that something was not quite right, and something was equally very wrong.
His own desires, obsessions, played like a harp; something was behind it all, he knew it in his bones.
Roach was correct. Circumstances had led him by the nose. Yet something was behind it all and he was like a blind man, led by the nose. And so his anger was directed against himself. Who better to batter?
‘Sir. Sir!’ Mulholland swung in front and brought McLevy to a halt.
‘How was the musical soiree?’ demanded the inspector, a savage grin on his face. ‘Did ye encounter anyone of interest? Any wee chookie birdies?’
‘What? Yes. Yes, I did,’ replied the nonplussed but slightly nettled constable. ‘Emily Forbes is the young lady’s name. And she is not a chookie birdie.’
‘The daughter of Robert Forbes?’ A reluctant nod from Mulholland who was wondering how he always ended up where he never intended to be when the inspector was in such a mood, like a matchstick boat in a raging gutter torrent.
‘I know him well!’ roared McLevy, oblivious to the rain pouring down his face. ‘He was once, like me, an investigator. We broke a bonded whisky swindle one time. Danced on the tables of the Old Ship till we fell off on our faces. But he is respectable now.’
‘He certainly seems to be,’ was the careful response.
McLevy stuck his face close in to Mulholland, his eyes were bloodshot, face unshaven, the wild man of the forest.
‘Well, you hang in with respectability,’ he said with a mirthless smile. ‘Because that’s where ye belong. That’s where your bread is buttered! Sook, sook!’
He brushed past Mulholland and headed up into the slanting downpour.
The constable was hurt and angry, his overture not even made, already rejected.
‘It’s not my fault things turned out to be so!’ he shouted after.
The figure of McLevy carried on walking as if not having heard, then, as the street rose to a small crest, he turned and shouted back.
‘I am sure yourself and Lieutenant Roach will solve these murders in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. I look forward to that. Remember when you kiss his backside, it’s to be right in the middle. Don’t deviate. In the meantime I advise you to shun my presence lest you be contaminated by the desire for justice!’
Thus was the parting.
McLevy took another sip of his coffee and made a face. It was cold. So was his bond with Mulholland but better that way. Keep the young man out of trouble. Till the game was played through. He would wait for the next move. He knew it would come. Something was behind it all.
The cat had been nesting in one of the armchairs, treading the cushion to make herself comfortable, when she suddenly leaped from the chair and out of the window in two jumps, hair standing on end.
In his preoccupation, he had heard nothing, but now the creaking floorboards presaged a visit.
Rap-a-tap-tap on the door. His landlady this time for sure. He opened it a crack, foot poised to forestall Fergus if the dog smelled departed feline. It whined but nothing more. Mrs MacPherson peered in at him. He’d never known a more mis-doubting tribe than the Dundonians. Born wary.
She pushed an envelope through the narrow aperture which divided them.
‘This was handit in for ye,’ she announced. ‘A wee street boy. Paid tae deliver.
She still held on to the envelope which he now had at least his fingers upon. Her face was dubious.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs MacPherson,’ McLevy smiled as best he could, while he tugged the envelope out of her hand. ‘It is not a love letter. The reputation of your house is yet above reproach.’
‘Ye’re getting a lot of visitors these days.’
‘It’s the weather,’ he replied, closing the door gently on her then listening to her departing footsteps on the stairs before he examined the missive.
It seemed to be his day for envelopes. He sniffed at the paper. The faintest touch of rose perfume, very delicate, no wonder Mrs MacPherson was suspicious.
He took the envelope to the window where the light was better, sliced open down the join with his thumb, and brought out two pieces of paper. One vellum with writing inscribed; the other, tissue, wrapping something within. He read as follows.
McLevy almost spat in disgust at these words. What did the woman think he was? Otherwise engaged? What
