Shadow of the Serpent

fiction. Oh, and by the way,’ out of his top pocket he took the piece of paper with the writing which McLevy had received earlier that day. ‘I went through your pockets, I hope you don’t mind. Thank you for bringing it. As I have said. I don’t enjoy loose ends.’

‘Joanna Lightfoot,’ McLevy heaved a regretful sigh. ‘What is her part in all this?’

The Serpent had been about to move in on the inspector and bring the curtain down, but this query brought a flush of pride to his smooth face.

‘She is my best operative! It is she who will lead Gladstone here, stun him, lay him down beside you, put the axe in his hand, and then let rip. She has a healthy pair of lungs, believe me.’

‘I am sorry I will not see her.’

‘You might be disappointed.’

The Serpent suddenly went into peals of laughter at a hidden notion. The fellow was undoubtedly insane, McLevy surmised. Too many secrets can do that to a person.

A gleeful look came into the man’s eyes.

‘There is a particular talent we both share. Like the Eucharist. Transubstantiation. Allow me to demonstrate.’

McLevy didn’t give a damn what he did so long as the axe steered clear of his breastbone.

The Serpent stood like a little boy about to do his party piece, fanned out the fingers of his hand and passed it slowly over his countenance like a sun over the horizon.

McLevy’s jaw dropped. The face left, when the hand passed, was that of William Gladstone.

The mouth especially, and eyes, more than individual features; it was an impression of another being. Even the Serpent’s physicality had changed.

He then reversed his hand and became, for what it was worth, himself. And laughed to see such fun.

‘A gift from childhood. Helped one no end at Harrow.’

He dropped the heavy blade into his jacket pocket so that the handle jutted out awkwardly, flexed his fingers, and moved towards McLevy.

‘So when you thought to follow Gladstone in the fog. You weren’t far wrong. It was me. Being him. Doppelganger. The Germans have a word for it. They always do.’

‘But Gladstone went out that night. What if he came before you?’

‘I knew his routine old boy, a spy in the house and all that. I could beat him to it. The fog was a great help. I sneaked up the side, and made myself visible.’

‘How did you know I’d be there?’

‘You are predictable. Not unlike death.’

He reached out and took McLevy by the throat just under the jaw-line.

The inspector swallowed hard.

‘What about the carbolic?’ he suddenly demanded.

The Serpent giggled.

‘Part of the character. I’m very thorough, old chap. I became the man.’

‘And in his name, you killed that wee girl?’

Somehow it seemed as if the positions had changed. As if the Serpent was being interrogated. He didn’t appreciate it, and his fingers tightened.

McLevy’s mouth was dry but he persevered. All his thinking had led but to the one conclusion. His only hope was fear. The pretence of fear.

‘In the fog. The dollymop, was she by chance?’

‘Not at all. I had paid her earlier to be on hand at her appointed place, she was pathetically grateful.’

‘And poor auld Sadie, you broke her plume.’

‘I did indeed. An unfortunate adjunct to a necessary act. Came in useful on this very day. Improvisation. A card to play. To hook you in.’

‘Why did you choose Sadie?’

‘I admired her style. She reminded me of someone I once knew long ago.’

But a shadow of sorts crossed his face. The memory of long ago had its own sharp hooks.

‘And to gratify those high above, ye killed those who had done you no harm?’

‘Exitus acta probat,’ murmured the Serpent. ‘The outcome justifies the deeds.’

His fingers had now found perfect purchase and he began to squeeze.

‘Say your prayers, inspector. If you know them.’

McLevy let out a sudden roar of terror and hurled himself to the floor where he writhed helplessly like an insect on its back.

The Serpent shook his head in sorrow.

‘I had thought better of you, sir. Are not the Scots famed for enduring all things? A hardy breed? Think on the concept of predestination; you were born to die here.’

Another roar came in reply as McLevy wriggled, his legs sticking straight out from the reluctant trunk.

‘There is no point in making all this commotion, dear sir, we are underground, the living dead. No one at the house will hear. Now, take your medicine like a man.’

One more bellow like an animal protesting its slaughter brought a wince of distaste in response.

‘I had hoped for a little more dignity. Now, come along, old chap, act the brave soldier. I grant you a favour. I could chop you up with your eyes open. Think of the pain.’

Saying so, he straddled McLevy’s bound legs and leant down, fingers splayed, to administer the coup de grace.

There is a violent movement from the hanged man as his legs thrash in the air just before death. The fraternity have named it Kicking the Clouds.

It had been adapted and utilised by many a street keelie. One of them, a wee lover of Sadie Gorman, had bruised McLevy sore by the knack of it.

Now, it was his turn. He kicked the clouds.

The bound feet, propelled by two powerful legs that had seen more than thirty years on the saunter even if they didn’t like to run, cracked up into the Serpent’s groin with the most terrible force.

The crunching impact produced a high-pitched squeal as the man reeled away and hunched over, paralysed by a most profound agony.

McLevy rolled over to one of the tombs and inched himself up until he regained his feet. It seemed to take for ever. He began to scrape the rope that tied his hands behind him against the edge of the stone, but then observed the Serpent beginning slowly to unfold upright.

There was only a matter of yards between them and, as the fellow said, needs must when the devil drives.

The inspector hopped forward and butted the man full in the chin as his head came up. The Serpent fell like a sack of potatoes and McLevy lurched back to get on with his sawing.

He felt some of the strands beginning to fray, and thanked God the Gladstone family had used granite and not some ignoble alternative, because the edge was still sharp.

McLevy had already noted the names on the tombstone, Jessy and Helen Gladstone, R.I.P.

Come on, girls, don’t just lie there … more strands parted but bugger me it was a thick rope … release me from my bondage and I will bless your name evermore.

They answered with a vengeance and he let out an exultant howl as the last twist parted and his hands were free.

As McLevy bent down to untie his feet, there was a scuffling noise. He glanced up to see the killer limping towards him, hand bringing the axe out of his pocket.

His revolver was on the other side, behind the Serpent. No time for niceties. The inspector jumped forward on his tethered feet and threw himself round the man to pinion his arms by his sides.

They were face to face like lovers. Save for the murderous glint in the Serpent’s eyes and his mouth parted in a snarl.

He spat full into McLevy’s countenance but the inspector did not flinch, jerked his head to the side and butted