‘Aye, the Bible tells us so. That was the word on the wall. In blood. Why would it be written there, d’ye think?’
‘Those who are betrayed seek vengeance,’ she answered slowly.
‘My thought precisely!’
The inspector beamed at Conan Doyle as if he was also in agreement.
‘Somewhere in Gilbert Morrison’s past lies the reason for his present condition, which is in smithereens.’
McLevy was the only one who seemed to find relish at this prospect. He nodded goodbye to Sophia and jerked his head at Doyle as a sign to leave.
As the young man replaced his sailor’s cap – McLevy as usual had kept on his low-brimmed bowler – Sophia noticed something which set her to a frown of concern.
‘You have a mark, Mister Doyle,’ she said.
Indeed, where Seth Moxey had dug his iron spike into the neck, the flesh was raw and inflamed with a trickle of dried blood, which had come to a discreet stop just short of his collar.
‘It is nothing,’ said Doyle in heroic mode. ‘A small altercation.’
‘He was for the chop,’ offered McLevy. ‘But we pulled him out. Jist as well. We have enough corpses to hand.’
Sophia paid no heed to this strange humour. She took out a small handkerchief, reached forward and dabbed at his neck. It was a curiously intimate gesture and McLevy wished suddenly that he had a wound to heal.
She ended her ministration under which the young man had not dared move lest it break the spell.
‘You must take care, Mister Doyle.’
‘I will try my best, Miss Adler.’
Arthur bowed over the hand she extended, like a braw gallant. He wished tremendously to ask her for a rendezvous with a more pleasant subject matter but found McLevy’s presence inhibiting to a marked degree.
He would return.
Conan Doyle thought of signalling this with a glance but fearing he might resemble an idiot, and seeing a glint of humour in her eyes, contented himself with backing away.
The space he left was filled with James McLevy who had an odd smile upon his lips as if he and Sophia would also meet again.
‘When is your next soiree?’ he asked.
‘Two nights hence. At the Tanfield Hall, I believe.’
McLevy, who had already seen the posters and knew this well, affected surprise.
‘Tanfield Hall? That’s a space tae fill.’
‘It is already sold out.’
‘I have my ticket in advance,’ Conan Doyle said proudly.
‘Not me,’ said McLevy. ‘I never know the future.’
‘I may leave you one, if you wish,’ Sophia offered.
‘A future?’
‘A ticket. At the box office.’
‘That’s very nice,’ was the reply. ‘Put it under
Something in his tone brought her eyes to focus on his. A level stare. Violet to slate-grey. Unflinching both.
‘I was just thinking,’ said he. ‘If Gilbert Morrison is now in the ultramundane. Maybe you could have a wee word with him. On the quiet. In case he has a name in mind. Speir amangst the sprits, eh?’
This notion seemed to bring Sophia no pleasure.
‘I have little control over what comes and goes.’
The inspector gave her one more look, then left abruptly without saying goodbye, as was sometimes his custom.
Doyle followed hastily, bidding his adieus before stopping at the door to gaze back at Sophia who had turned once more to the window.
A beautiful princess.
Waiting for a valiant knight.
By the time Doyle caught up with McLevy the inspector was half way down the stairs, whistling a snatch of ‘Charlie is my Darling’.
‘How old d’ye think the hizzie might be?’ he asked suddenly.
Doyle frowned to hear Sophia so described.
‘I would imagine…some twenty years. Perhaps less.’
‘I would say less. Whit d’ye think of her?’
‘She is…impressive.’
‘Uhuh? So was Delilah.’
By this time they had reached the ground floor of the hotel and before Doyle could ask McLevy to explain the remark, the young man was greeted by a voice booming through the foyer.
‘Mister Doyle. What brings you to these parts?’
Magnus Bannerman, large as life, resplendent in a heavy evening cape, walking stick to hand, swept off his felt hat and shook Edinburgh’s misty dampness out of his hair much as a dog would after a run in the park.
His teeth flashed in a friendly grin but the eyes did not reflect such. They were watchfully appraising Conan Doyle, as one animal might another that wanders into his territory.
McLevy, for a man who took up so much room by dint of his noisy personality, had the gift of self-effacement and used it to melt aside and measure Mister Bannerman.
No doubt as to the man’s power and magnetism. A few women in the foyer had already turned to register his presence. Of equal height to Doyle but seemed larger, more expansive as he shook the young man’s hand in a bone-crushing grip that was returned with interest.
The inspector would put him down as a showman, a flashy Dan, a high-class version of someone who would sell fake health elixirs in the Leith Market.
But what was behind that erected facade? Often people with such a constructed personality made it so to disguise a weakness within.
McLevy was introduced and the purpose of their visit explained to Magnus who shook his head worriedly.
‘Sophia lives in many worlds and needs her rest. I would be obliged next time gentlemen if you might channel any requests for an interview through my good self.’
Doyle expected McLevy to show his teeth at that statement, as in
‘Did you also see the dead man?’
‘Alive. And only for a moment.’
‘Recognise him – from the past, say?’
‘We have no past here. Not long arrived in your fair city, sir.’
Magnus’s face was open and friendly with no shadow in his eyes. His teeth flashed in a winning smile, shining like moonlit tombstones.
‘I have just been to your Tanfield Hall to arrange for Sophia’s mesmeric demonstration. Facilities are excellent. A splendid establishment.’
‘Aye. It’ll do her proud,’ said McLevy dryly. ‘It’s where the Great Schism took place.’
‘Schism?’
‘The Church divided. A long story.’
‘Then I must leave it with you.’
‘Aye,’ said McLevy dryly. ‘Ye have your own religion.’
‘Indeed we do. This will be the last demonstration, and the day after we will sadly take our leave from your Bonnie Scotland.’
Conan Doyle’s face fell. Sophia had made no mention of such.
‘Where do you travel, sir?’ he asked.
