The writing was in a bold, childlike fist and when he saw a name at the bottom, the whole thing fell into place.
And a death was surely on the cards.
‘Now I know where Binnie is,’ he muttered. ‘Come on Mulholland, and pray that we’re not too late –’
As the inspector made for the door followed by his two constables, Ballantyne not wanting to be left out and having the time of his young life, Roach gave voice.
‘Where are you going, McLevy?’
‘Tae find you proof, sir,’ the response came as the party disappeared through the door. ‘Hold that harlot till then. All will be clear. All will be well!’
Then there was the sound from outside of one of the police wagons being whipped into motion and clattering off into the night.
He smiled at the Countess who looked as if she would like to bite out someone’s throat.
‘Let us sit down somewhere, madam,’ he said in an eerily tranquil tone. ‘And discuss the opera. To tell you the truth, it is more my wife’s passion. I often find the stories rather dismal.’
He looked around at the chaos, closed his mind to consequences for the moment and continued to think through his theme with some words that he decided to keep to himself lest they prove an unfortunate augury.
The reason why dismal?
They rarely have a happy ending.
33
The long habit of living indisposeth us for dying.
SIR THOMAS BROWNE,
The body at his feet still had a vestige of life left, but that soon would disappear in flames. And who knows, he might have a little fun just before the main event?
Alfred Binnie pulled down the gauze curtains and threw them to join the pile he had gathered in the middle of the room. He liked this house. From what he could see with the furnishings and such, a few broken oil lamps thrown in, the Just Land would go up like a tinder-box.
And Jean Brash’s boudoir was the perfect place to start the conflagration.
This was not his speciality but he was adroit enough in the mechanics of fire-raising; it was a matter of draught and fierce combustion. Luckily he had opened the windows to find a breeze of sorts blowing in.
Indeed he had already seen some Halloween bonfires dotted at points over the city.
But this would top them all.
He giggled a little at that thought. A fitting way to leave his mark on Edinburgh.
A scorched trail.
He had kept to the shadows on the way here, conscious that the night had many eyes, but with the streets alive with Halloween-garbed figures had availed himself of Satan’s image in the form of a livid red mask.
The Countess supplied it. She thought of everything.
The woman on the floor groaned and he wondered about a momentary diversion but decided against. No time.
He could of course put her out of misery but decided to let the flames have their way. In any case Alfred always disliked a second plunge of the knife. Sloppy. Once should always be enough.
Should have been.
Yet the woman had caught his movement out of the corner of her eye and twisted away.
Not far or fast enough, however.
She deserved what she got. Should have known better.
He surveyed the scene with proud satisfaction; Alfred was a craftsman after all, even if it was in death.
His bowler hat lay on a table neatly to the side and he must remember to reclaim it as the flames leapt up.
A neighbouring church clock began to toll the hour and he took that as a good omen.
On the ninth bell, then.
But as he put his hand inside his coat to find the lucifers, the door burst open and two policemen appeared.
One tall and lanky, the other with a red mark on his face. Young. Easy meat.
Mulholland took a firm grasp of his hornbeam stick and motioned Ballantyne to stay in place behind him.
‘You will come with us, Mister Binnie.’
Alfred smiled disarmingly, at the same time slipping the knife out of its sheath pocket of his coat and holding it low to his side.
‘You know my name? That’s good.’
‘You will come with us accordingly and release your weapon. At once, if it please you, sir.’
Mulholland’s accent had thickened with the tension and Binnie frowned in displeasure.
‘Oh…a stinking Irish, eh? Right out of the bog.’
As Mulholland moved slowly in, the woman whimpered once more and Alfred kicked at her.
‘These sluts. Noisy bitches, eh?’
Another whimper and Mulholland’s face tightened in anger, which was Alfred’s intention.
Angry people make mistakes.
‘Come and get me, bogman.’
The constable raised his stick in response and Alfred grinned like a cesspit rodent.
‘Come on, bogman. I’ll slice up your potatoes.’
Mulholland was angry but he had channelled the feeling into his right arm. He knew the man would be fast but backed his reflexes against some sewer rat from Shoreditch.
However Fate and Ballantyne took a hand.
All the inexperienced young fellow saw was a slimy, corpulent man, slow-moving, eyes twitching. Easy meat.
He made a rash move from the side and while Mulholland’s attention was distracted by alarm for his colleague, Alfred moved with blinding speed.
His knife shot out at Mulholland like a snake’s tongue.
The constable was alert too late to the danger but managed to wrench away; the blade cut deep into his side and he gasped in pain to fall stunned to the floor, the stick falling to land a distance away.
Ballantyne was stricken, Alfred grinned some more and James McLevy burst finally upon the scene.
As he had been about to follow the constables up the stairs to the top of the house, the other rooms found empty, McLevy heard a noise from below in the cellars.
The inspector hesitated a moment then decided his men were big enough to look after themselves.
He moved swiftly down the stone steps to the cellar and stepped cautiously inside.
Was the killer here?
It was dark, but enough light from the hall above the stairs was coming down to show the implements for inflicting a piercing pleasure hung neatly in rows on the wall.
The noise was coming from a closed door at the other end, where the Berkley Horse stood.
A muffled thudding came from this portal, a large iron key in the lock.
Mindful it might be a trap, McLevy grasped his heavy revolver in one hand, turned the key with the other and sprang the door.
A frightened Lily Baxter almost fell into his arms.
