His eyes searched hers then he jerked his head back and spoke loudly as if to a listening audience.
‘You will hang or end in prison. An old toothless crone. Either way, ye’ll die like a dog.’
‘And you’ll go to your grave knowing that I am an innocent woman. And you did nothing to assist me,’ she almost spat into his face, green eyes filled with a baffled fury. ‘Go to hell.’
That was that, then.
After Jean had been taken back to the cells by one of the female helpers at the station, McLevy and Mulholland stood in the main hall, pondering in their different ways upon what had passed in the interrogation room.
‘What do you think, sir?’
‘I think,’ said McLevy, ‘justice will prevail.’
He shot a look sideways at Mulholland. The gap between himself and the constable was partly mended but McLevy could not rid himself of the suspicion that the details of the interrogation would find their way back to Roach. He had modulated his reactions accordingly but this was probably an unfair assessment of his constable and more to do with his own odd feeling of guilt that he had sidelined Mulholland because he found Conan Doyle’s company more bracing.
One thing for sure, things were hotting up. Murders right, left and centre, sliced sharpers in the taverns, acid-pourers in the markets and the only crime solved, that of burglary with a wee bit of hanky-panky perhaps thrown in.
As regards Jean Brash, he had warned her of the dangers of starting a war with the Countess and now it looked as if she had suffered the consequences.
And if the Countess was behind this, then it bore the marks of long-term planning.
Jean may have met her match.
How the hell could he get her out of this pickle?
Or was she guilty in any case?
She had a fierce temper and the knife to hand.
McLevy became aware that he was under scrutiny.
‘Your stomach’s kicking up a blue storm,’ Mulholland observed. ‘You need some fuel in the boiler, sir.’
Ratiocination pays little heed to animal needs, and McLevy had been oblivious to the organic growling noise that lamented a lack of sustenance.
‘Do you think the woman’s culpable?’ he asked suddenly.
But before Mulholland could answer, Lieutenant Roach emerged from his office and approached at a rate of knots.
‘Well?’ He demanded.
‘Guilty as hell. Dead to rights. Open and shut case. Hang her the morrow morning.’
Roach sighed at his obdurate subordinate.
‘I can exist without the sarcastic recitation, inspector. What is your
‘It looks bad.’
‘Or good. Depending on the point of view.’
Having corrected the potentially skewed approach of his inspector, Roach glanced back to his office. In truth, though he derived a deal of satisfaction at the thought of McLevy putting Jean Brash though the wringer of the law and would keep an eagle eye on the process, he had other matters on his mind. Pressure building everywhere he looked.
The newspapers had got wind of the Morrison murder, possibly Doctor Jarvis had been talking in his club, and it was only a matter of time before the story broke. This he told McLevy before going on to a more immediate matter.
‘Mister Galloway is sitting in my office,’ he said.
‘Is he now?’
‘I still don’t like the fellow,’ muttered Roach. ‘But a father’s grief must be respected.’
Indeed the man had broken down in unexpected floods of tears at the sight of his son’s dead body. While his horses were slaughtered and gourmandised all over France, a carcass nearer to home had unleashed the water of wretchedness.
Roach had planked him down in his office to recover and was not looking forward to more dolour on return.
Sympathy came in short supply for the lieutenant. One of the few characteristics he shared with his inspector.
He did not like his heart disturbed because it brought great unease and he did not wish to delve into the reasons why. Men find emotions an alarming prospect.
‘I offered the poor man consolation that the killer of his son was under lock and key.’
‘That’s nice,’ replied McLevy.
Not an enthusiastic response and Roach was provoked enough to needle the inert responder.
‘Oh, come along, McLevy, you can surely allow yourself a wee gloat. The Queen of Crime dethroned, eh?’
Roach smiled at Mulholland who was po-faced as his inspector.
‘You should be rejoicing, James. Your greatest ambition realised. Jean Brash behind bars!’
‘But is she the killer?’ muttered McLevy.
Roach almost hopped in the air with delight that he had provoked this reaction.
‘Of course she is.’
‘Innocent till proven guilty, sir,’ Mulholland hazarded.
‘Yes, yes, but look at the evidence, man! Who else could it be – a Halloween ghost?’
Having made this, to his mind, unanswerable point, Roach prepared to return to his office.
‘Aye, well, Galloway should have pulled himself together by now,’ he announced as he departed the scene. ‘I hope so. But as I say, his consolation is the guilty party. In the cells where she belongs.’
As his lieutenant passed by, Ballantyne looked up shyly from his desk, hand over to hide a wiry insect he had found crawling around inside. The creepy-crawly bush telegraph had obviously passed on word that succour was to be found in the Leith Station at a certain outpost.
Roach gave him an approving glance then turned to almost strike a pose like a man addressing his golf ball.
‘The evidence is inconvertible, McLevy,’ he declared roundly. ‘Tie up the case and hammer in the nails. Then get on to the Morrison matter. Crime never sleeps!’
With that admonitory assertion, he opened the door to his office and disappeared inside.
He had managed to annoy McLevy no end.
‘With any luck Mister Galloway will assuage his grief by swiping the good lieutenant over his head wi’ the jawbone of an ass,’ he muttered.
‘Or even a horse,’ Mulholland said.
McLevy went back to something he had observed when viewing the corpse.
‘Did ye examine the death wound?’ he asked.
‘I did.’
‘We’ll hae to wait for Doctor Jarvis in the morning but – it would appear to me that it was a
‘My opinion also. From the left.’
‘Jean Brash is right-handed. And a stab frae the back. That’s not her style. She would face you.’
Mulholland nodded. That made sense of sorts but nothing you might prove.
‘She would strike from the front,’ McLevy surmised.
‘Into the stomach and up.’
‘Or down,’ added the inspector, a grim smile upon his face. ‘One thing for certain sure, constable. There’s too many knives in this city.’
And too many dead bodies.
