Trick of the Light

the quirt Ballantyne had unearthed and which he had stuffed in his pocket before parting from the station.

An act which might indicate that, whisky or not, he had intended to come a-visiting.

‘Ye recognise this artefact?’

Her eyes, narrow at best, became slits.

‘It is for horses,’ she said.

‘And other beasts of burden.’

The Countess shrugged as if the matter had nothing to recommend further discussion.

‘I respect the privacy of my clients. Especially when dead. Let us leave them in peace.’

‘Not if they’re murdered. No-one gets any peace if there’s a murder in Leith.’

McLevy slugged back his drink and noticed that the Countess did not rush to replenish the libation.

‘Then how can I help you?’ she asked with a hint of frost in the tone.

‘I’m looking for a motive,’ said McLevy artlessly. ‘In my opinion, murder always has a motive. Revenge often.’

‘Revenge?’

‘Aye.’

The inspector scratched his head absent-mindedly with the tip of the quirt. ‘Someone suffers loss or pain, they wish the downfall of the one they blame for that. Next thing ye know, death on the carpet!’

This all-embracing concept found little favour with the Countess.

‘Morrison liked to leather hell out of women, perhaps someone took exception?’ the inspector continued.

‘Not in this house. You pay for your pleasure. A business transaction.’

‘Whit about wee Simone? Did she not flee the nest because of such transaction?’

‘Simone had her own reasons,’ the Countess responded cautiously; as was common with McLevy the conversation was veering all over like a coach with a headless driver.

‘And then she ends up wi’ acid poured down her back, does that not suggest revenge to you, Countess?’

She waited with ready answer should he accuse her but he sniffed appreciatively at his whisky and tilted the dregs down his gullet. It was not an elegant gesture and for some reason annoyed her.

‘What has this to do with Mister Morrison?’ she questioned abruptly.

‘Who knows? I’m jist asking round the doors.’

McLevy held his empty glass up to the light and squinted through it. The Countess sighed and poured again but only half way, and then the inspector rocked back in his chair as if settling in for the night.

‘My head is fair birlin’ with the events of the last few days,’ he remarked equably.

She made no reply. They sat in silence. Her drink was almost untouched and she glanced back to her pile of papers, which had suddenly assumed a revitalised importance.

The music wafted over them once more and McLevy bobbed his head rather foolishly to the notes.

‘Is that Chopin?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she answered a little surprised. ‘The Etudes. Most nights I have a classical pianist in the main salon. It adds quality.’

‘I like Chopin,’ remarked McLevy. ‘He has never to my knowledge murdered anybody.’

She once more made no response and for a moment it seemed oddly peaceful in the room as they both appreciated the beauty of a fragile melody.

The Countess looked into the inspector’s eyes and was disturbed by the depth of understanding in his gaze.

‘Gilbert Morrison died because past action called for a retribution that has only now surfaced in the present,’ he said quietly. ‘I will find it out. Do you know this man?’

He held out the rough likeness of Alfred Binnie, the very fellow to whom the Countess had recently paid further gold coin as a mark of appreciation for a task accomplished.

Binnie had followed her plan to the letter, killed Galloway, left the man’s blood on Jean Brash and had one more deed to perform before he would vanish back to London.

Meanwhile he perched in a room three storeys above.

This she knew, but discretion was paramount. What was good for clients was surely good enough for Binnie.

‘No,’ she answered. ‘I have never seen him.’

So be it. One crime spills into another and the lies mount up.

McLevy thought such, put away the drawn likeness with the quirt then slugged back the rest of his whisky.

The Countess relaxed a little thinking this strange and contradictory fellow was about to take his leave, but not quite yet.

Not quite.

‘Ye didnae ask,’ he stated, thumping down the heavy tumbler.

‘What?’

‘Why I showed you that portrait. Ye didnae ask the reason.’

‘Because I assumed you would tell me.’

‘Uhuh?’

A good answer, but not sufficient good.

‘He’s the one who poured the acid down Simone’s back. Bad wee bugger, eh?’

McLevy had still made no mention of the obvious correlation between the war waged and events unfolding so the Countess thought she might beat him to the punch.

‘I hope you don’t connect me with this dreadful act?’

‘Not at all. Ye don’t look anything like the mannie.’

He laughed loudly at his own joke and she managed a small twitch of a smile.

‘She screamed like a witch on the bonfire. The French girl. So they say. I wisnae there.’

McLevy stood up, low-brimmed bowler hanging loose in his hand.

‘Jist as well Simone had Jean Brash tae fall back on, eh?’ he muttered. ‘Be in a fine state else.’

The Countess hesitated and then nodded in a non-committal fashion. Binnie had inveigled the young policeman to enter the house in Iona Street and heard a whistle blow.

After that, he’d made himself scarce. Left it in the lap of the gods.

‘Except that Jean is in the police cells now.’

The inspector having dropped this bombshell put on his hat as if to go but a newly enlivened Countess forestalled the anticipated departure.

‘Jean Brash. But how is that?’

‘She stands accused of murder; all the rage and she likes tae be in fashion,’ he remarked dryly.

‘My God. But who was the victim?’

‘Your Mister Galloways.’

‘He is not mine!’ she cried.

Indeed the Countess was struggling to control a feeling of exultation. The gods were most definitely upon her side.

But as mankind has so often experienced, the gods are on no-one’s side but their own.

‘What a terrible thing!’

‘Not for you,’ McLevy noted, his face blank and impassive. ‘She is your sworn enemy.’

‘But I would not wish…even an enemy.’

‘Wouldn’t you? You’re nicer that me. I would. Every time. Anyway she stands accused. Her knife in his body.’

McLevy made sudden stabbing movement with his hand towards the Countess who flinched for a moment.

His face registered an evil, murderous smile then returned to a soggy repose.

‘That’s what it looks like, anyway,’ he said.

‘Do you believe her guilty?’

A shrewd question. Worth a decent response.

For a moment it seemed as if the inspector’s body was charged with a strange energy that vibrated in the