There was a sudden hush in the tea house as the door swung open and a tall elegant young woman slipped in, accompanied by a large imposing man who sported a curling moustache of splendid proportion and whose dark magnetic eyes swept over the assembled matrons, pausing fractionally to register Jean’s cool gaze before sweeping on.
The woman had the bleached, almost translucent quality of someone who rarely saw the light of day, her eyes lidded as if the brightness of assorted bone china and white tablecloths were blinding her where she stood.
The man seated her with a courtly gesture, removing his soft wide-brimmed felt hat, which sported a small dark green feather in the band. This action revealed a shock of black unruly hair, carrying more length than fashion would dictate, a lion’s mane.
He shook it from side to side as if revelling in the attention the pair were attracting from all quarters. When he smiled, his teeth were large and white, a picture of health.
The woman’s own hair was ash blonde,
Her skin was pale, almost that of an albino, and when the eyes suddenly snapped open, they were of a dark violet hue, searing against the white skin.
For a moment the eyes rested on Jean and, despite herself, the bird of paradise flinched slightly in reaction.
Then the woman bent over the menu card, which listed a plethora of delectation for the Midlothian sweet of tooth, and the moment passed. The tea room breathed again, gossip recommenced, and the Countess leant forward so that her face was in close proximity.
There was a scent of cloves from her skin and for some reason it reminded Jean of the plague.
‘An exotic coupling.’ The Countess smiled, the small teeth tucked behind stretched lips. ‘Do you know them?’
‘Not personally,’ replied Jean wrinkling her nose.
‘Sophia Adler and Magnus Bannerman. From the American shore. I have heard him speak. He is magnificent.’
‘What does he talk about?’
‘Events beyond the grave.’
‘I leave that to the minister. Reverend Snoddy. He’s awfy severe on the sinful.’
The Countess smiled once more with a hint of condescension and Jean wondered if the woman believed the one before her to be as simple and shallow as presented; that would be more than useful.
Of course she well knew that the couple had been doing the rounds of high society in Edinburgh, Magnus Bannerman preaching the possibilities of an ‘Unseen World’ and Sophia Adler a trumpeted conduit to the same. They had not as of yet seen fit to visit their talents upon the Just Land.
Perhaps the incorporeal nature of their calling was incompatible with a bawdy-hoose but Mister Bannerman seemed certainly to be a man of parts.
She would place him about forty-five years but in prime condition. A fine specimen.
The Countess was now so close to her that Jean could discern a faint straggle of hair just below the thin nose as she spoke.
‘The woman is a
‘The future?’ Jean looked dubious. ‘I have enough mischief in the present.’
‘Indeed you do,’ said the Countess and the beady eyes found purchase, hooking into the green gaze opposite.
‘The French girl. I want her back.’
‘That is not possible.’
This uncompromising retort was accompanied by a dazzling smile and nod of the head as if they had reached an agreeable solution.
‘She’s settled in nicely and they’re all cosied up.’
‘Cosy?’
‘Her and Francine.’
‘Francine?’
‘She’s French as well. They’re all over the place.’
Jean let out a silvery peal of affected laughter, which would have appalled anyone of her intimate acquaintance, one police inspector in particular.
‘Francine dishes it out though. There’s not a tiger born can match her stripes.’
Before she might confide further titbits from the boudoir of applied as opposed to received flagellation, the Countess reached across and laid her hand upon the back of Jean’s, nails resting lightly upon the other’s bare flesh.
There was something invasive in the gesture, penetrating, as if it contained the seeds of violence, and Jean felt a shiver run up her arm like the electric current of a primitive defence mechanism.
She had wanted to meet this woman face to face to gauge the opposition. Well, she had gauged and there was something evil behind the unassuming facade that could not be ignored or underestimated.
An enemy. Lethal, equal and opposite. For Jean Brash was also a dark and dangerous creature. And the shiver was as much in recognition of her own propensity for visceral and bloody conflict.
Nor had the woman been fooled by the vacuous act. Jean could read it in her face.
‘I want the French girl back.’
‘That is not possible.’
Almost identical statements, but this time the claws were unsheathed on both sides; Jean calmly removed her hand from under that of the Countess and rested it some inches away.
‘I never force people against their will,’ she remarked, quietly. ‘It just brings grief.’
‘Don’t make an enemy of me, Jean.’
‘I hope you enjoyed the tea,’ came the response. ‘That coffee was a disgrace.’
The Countess laughed and leant back to gather her possessions as if accepting dismissal. As she did so, she spoke almost casually, drawing on a pair of black leather gloves, which encased the small hands like another skin.
‘But of course I know your history,’ she murmured as she prepared to rise. ‘For you everything must be a fight. You dragged yourself from the gutter, and the habit remains. To provoke, antagonise. From the gutter. How sad.’
‘You’d best depart,’ said Jean. ‘Before I burst into tears.’
The Countess stood, fished in her handbag to find a small purse from which she extracted some coins and then laid them carefully on the table.
‘For your trouble,’ she remarked.
Then she waited for a moment, gazing thoughtfully down at the seated woman.
‘I have always considered,’ she said finally, her eyes resting on the contours of Jean’s gown, ‘the show of colour to be somewhat vulgar.’
‘I like to be noticed,’ was the retort.
A shake of the head as if taste was a subject wasted on the garish, then the Countess’s face once more set itself in concerned sympathy.
‘Don’t go beyond your class, my dear,’ she announced gravely, ‘especially if you wish to avoid pain.’
And then she was gone.
As Jean sat alone toying with her teaspoon, stirring the coffee to see if it might alter the taste, a woman who had been sitting at a distant table walked across, dainty cup and saucer in a stubby-fingered hand, to seat herself heavily in the chair previously occupied by the Countess. Her name was Hannah Semple. The keeper of the keys of the aforesaid Just Land, loyal to her mistress unto death.
The death of others, that is. Hannah had a cut-throat razor and it was her boast that she rarely snapped it open without drawing blood.
Not in a Princes Street tea room, of course.
The clothes of respectability sat somewhat uneasily on her solid frame. By her own admission Hannah
