Trick of the Light

‘I’ve mair bad news. If it’s no’ one thing it’s the other. Never rains but it pours.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Jean. ‘Me and catastrophe are well acquainted these days.’

‘Simone and Francine have flown the coop. Left a note this early morning. Awa’ tae gay Paree or wherever. Wee Lily Baxter’s in a hellish state, the whole house is in uproar.’

Indeed Lily’s distress had been a pitiful sight to behold and the only person able to comfort her had been, surprisingly enough, Jessie Nairn.

But then the news about Jean had arrived in addition to the mayhem and Hannah was off on her travels.

‘God knows whit the Just Land is like this very moment. You’re no’ there, I’m no’ there, big Annie’s there but she’s a soft touch; these magpies will be up tae high doh. Hingin’ frae the rafters.’

Jean made a quick decision.

‘We will close the place for a week at least.’

‘Whit?’

‘The girls can find their own way home, they’re big enough. Back to their families or wherever. We have too much on our plate. One less thing to worry about.’

Hannah thought for a moment. It made sense. With a few reservations.

‘Whit about the clients?’

‘They can whistle.’

‘What about wee Lily?’

‘She can stay. Feed the fish.’

Indeed Lily was often to be found by the ornamental pond, staring into the water with rapt concentration as the piscine layabouts swam around.

Perhaps she had been looking for better days.

‘She’ll need company.’

‘Who do you suggest?’

‘Jessie Nairn,’ replied Hannah surprisingly. ‘She’s kind tae Lily and Jessie tellt me when we were hingin’ oot the washing that if she ever goes back to her family in Paisley, she’ll get her throat cut.’

‘Who by?’

‘Her family.’

‘Then she can stay with Lily.’

‘Whit about me?’ It had suddenly dawned on Hannah that she had no wish to share a bawdy-hoose with a doleful deaf-mute and a snippet from Paisley.

‘You will bide in the safe house in Laurie Street and continue to organise the search for this acid man.’

‘But Simone’s run away and left us in the lurch!’

Jean straightened up a bit more to resemble the proud mistress of the Just Land.

‘It is a matter of principle,’ she said firmly.

Besides, she had a hidden hope that should they find this slimy wee bastard and stick some lighted Halloween splinters under his fingernails, he might well provide some much-needed answers.

Somebody had plunged a knife into Logan Galloway and it wouldn’t be the Countess, too refined by half.

The outside door to the cells creaked open, with a noise that made Jean wince, and Ballantyne entered.

‘I’ve been sent to inform you, madam,’ he said to Hannah, ‘that your visiting time is up. Regulations.’

‘Have I no’ seen you before, my mannie?’ speired Hannah, a wicked glint in her eye. ‘Inside the Just Land wi’ two big hizzies hingin’ on your arm?’

‘I don’t believe so,’ replied the constable, his birth-mark flaming at the thought. ‘That’s not on my patrol.’

‘I could’ve sworn otherwise,’ said Hannah. Then she turned to Jean Brash who was smiling a little at the byplay, any humour being welcome in this situation. ‘I’ll do what you’ve tellt me, mistress. Your wish. My command.’

With that ironic statement to hide the worry in her mind, Hannah looked Jean straight in the face, nodded her head in determined fashion and then left.

Ballantyne did not follow but fished in his pocket and produced a slightly creased, sealed envelope.

‘This was handed in for you,’ he said to Jean.

As he motioned to give it over, Jean held up her hand.

‘Are you not concerned there may be poison within, or perhaps even a dagger to help me evade your clutches?’

‘No,’ replied Ballantyne with serious mien. ‘Sergeant Murdoch held it up to the light. Jist paper inside.’

He inserted it carefully through the bars, bowed his head respectfully and left.

Jean sniffed the envelope. It was scented. She did not recognise the writing, which was small and somewhat crabbed.

But as soon as she read the opening words, it was like a stab in the heart.

Indeed, it was meant to be so.

She could almost hear the gloating voice.

My dear Jean,

I am so sorry to hear of your misfortune. It must be terrible to feel that the whole world has turned against you and that everything you worked so hard to build up can be of no consequence when you are behind a prison wall.

I shall attend the trial and each time you look up, there will be my eyes fixed upon you. I know it will be hard when they strip off your fine clothes and I hope they do not cut off your beautiful hair lest it suffer infestation.

But here I am, taken with the vanity of outward show when it must be inner suffering that concerns you.

An agony twisting like a knife, more painful with each passing year, which will only cease with your own cessation.

I wish you the strength to bear such suffering.

They say that in prison each day is like a year, each year an eternity. What a dreadful prospect!

I would think that nothing can comfort you now but I offer you what love and affection lies within my breast.

Yours,

A friend

Jean Brash closed her eyes and crumpled up the letter in her two hands.

The words she spoke were like an incantation or prayer of malediction.

‘I’ll see you buried yet, Countess,’ she muttered. ‘And I’ll spit in your grave when they lower you down.’

‘Dearie me. That’s no’ very nice,’ said a voice.

She had heard the door creak while reading and assumed it to be Ballantyne keeking in to check she wasn’t trying to choke herself to death on the paper.

But it was McLevy, with a tin mug in his hand inside which an evil-looking brew was slopping up against the sides like a muddy black tide.

The brew smelt strong and acrid with a sense that it might once have been coffee.

‘It’s the station special,’ he said. ‘Made by Sergeant Murdoch’s own fair hands.’

He passed it carefully through the bars, the mug being just wide enough for the gap.

She passed him the letter in return. Tit for tat.

While Jean sipped, nose screwed up, mouth pursed at the awful taste, McLevy squinted at the letter, holding it at arm’s length for deciphering.

‘You need ocular assistance,’ she remarked.

‘I have the drift,’ he replied.