McLevy had contacted his reputable financial sources; it is amazing how many skeletons rattle around inside the cupboards of certain bankers of high standing.
The inspector was familiar with these restless bones and knew how to play an inviting tune upon them.
Only one thing emerged that he did not know already.
He was confirmed in the particulars of the brothers being ruthless, treacherous and duplicitous in dealings but that was only to be expected in business.
Now they were of a solid – well, perhaps the beheaded Gilbert lacked a certain density – financial standing, but some eighteen years previous, when they were cutting their teeth in the maritime market, there had been rumours of an overextension of capital.
However, a large amount of cash had of a sudden been brandished at all and sundry, putting paid to vile rumour.
Where this pecuniary injection had its origin no-one knew, but McLevy’s informant was adamant that it had not come from any of the known Edinburgh financial institutions.
A long time ago. A distant mystery. But somewhere at the back of the inspector’s mind, a vague pattern was forming.
When it would emerge at the front, however, was another matter.
In the meantime, on the seamier side of things, it had been confirmed through McLevy’s street sources that Gilbert was indeed fond of the laying on of quirt as opposed to hands, and found his predilection indulged at the hotel of the Countess.
Might that be the reason for murder? A vengeful father, brother, lover? But what was that father, brother, lover doing letting the female cause for his reprisal suffer such a whipping in the first place?
McLevy’s head had been birling with it all so he had hauled Mulholland out on the saunter round the docks, because he was mindful yet that the wee acid pourer was still on the loose and he desired to keep tabs on the streets, though also thus avoiding his lieutenant’s reproachful presence.
He and the constable had discussed the case to and fro, up and down as they trawled the docks but could advance the investigation no further.
Ergo he was inwardly delighted when he heard clamour from the Foul Anchor, slid in unnoticed save by the barman through the door, crept up behind the backs of the watching whores and then signalled Mulholland to do his stuff.
Which he did.
As Moxey rolled cursing away to scrabble after the spike which had flown off to land at the foot of the bar counter, the policemen observed in some surprise that the gang’s intended victim was none other than Big Arthur.
‘This mannie gets around,’ said McLevy.
‘Like the plague,’ was Mulholland’s terse response.
They hauled the shaken Doyle to his feet just as two other members of the gang emerged from a side room, woken from their slumbers by the howls of Seth.
That left five against three, not counting the women.
A species, Conan Doyle might counsel from recent experience, you should never overlook.
A veil may be drawn over most of the consequent conflict save that it consisted of Mulholland’s stick whirling like a dervish, Doyle’s fists flying, the fear that had pumped through his system now a galvanising force, and McLevy’s stalking of Seth Moxey, tripping one of the twins
Agnes tried to sneak up once more, skirts at the ready, but Mulholland, who had been raised in the school of hard knocks and disregard for the delicate female, poked her sharply in the breadbasket with the end of his stick and she fell back into a chair gasping for breath.
The other two women left well alone and in quick time the gang were a groaning heap upon the scabby floor.
Only Moxey remained, spike pointing towards McLevy in his weaker hand, the other hanging uselessly by his side.
‘I’ll have your wee pikey,’ said McLevy.
‘Come and get it,’ replied Seth.
‘As you will.’
Conan Doyle had sharp eyesight honed at sea but the movement that followed was so fast that it became a blur like a flying fish.
In one motion McLevy’s hand shot out to grasp the wrist of Moxey just above the held spike and then jerked him off balance. The inspector, using himself as a fulcrum, heaved the man round in a circle, spinning faster and faster until Seth Moxey was a helpless victim of centrifugal force.
Finally McLevy stopped. Let go. And waited.
Seth managed one faltering step before vertigo took over and he pitched forward to join the heap upon the floor.
Miraculously the spike had transferred to McLevy’s hand during this reel of unleashed criminality and he popped it into the inside pocket of his coat with a flourish.
‘No need for violence,’ he announced to one and all. ‘I am a great believer in soft procedure.’
Mulholland sniffed dubiously, having witnessed the opposite behaviour many times from his inspector.
‘If I may be so bold, Mister Doyle,’ McLevy asked, benignly, ‘what was the cause of this unseemly rammy?’
Doyle pointed towards the music box, which had been knocked off the table to lie somewhat mangled on the floor, Mulholland having stood upon it in pursuit of one of the twins.
‘It plays “Sweet Afton”,’ Arthur declared solemnly.
McLevy nodded as if all made sense then picked up the damaged box. The workings had spilled out of its innards though the winding key was yet intact.
‘I fear it may have warbled its last note,’ he muttered, before stooping to haul Moxey up by the hair in spite of his avowed procedural moderation.
‘Ye made a heavy lift frae Bonnington Road,’ he growled. ‘Where is your stash?’
‘Right up my backside,’ Seth replied, his face creased in agony. ‘Welcome tae look.’
McLevy slammed him down again and bent his gaze upon the women.
‘Where is it, Agnes? We’ll find it anyhow but at least I can tell the judge ye showed willing.’
Her face was like stone but behind the woman in her faded wedding gown, Sadie Shields, hoping for leniency of sorts, jerked her head to indicate a door at the back where the gang had its quarters.
The inspector nodded and whistled to himself, then grinned happily at Conan Doyle.
‘Ye brought me good fortune, Mister Doyle,’ he said. ‘I’ve been after this rabble for many a year and now we have the entirety.’
‘Not all,’ replied Doyle. ‘There was one more man at the table, and he is gone.’
The barman felt it was time he made a contribution to affairs.
‘He’s no’ of the family,’ he offered. ‘Ran out the back door.’
Moxey’s head whipped painfully round and his lips parted in a snarl.
Silver Samuel was indeed gone.
And so was the mother’s brooch.
23
The butcher looked for his knife,
when he had it in his mouth.
