‘We may not have enough on the Countess,’ said Roach thoughtfully. ‘Even with this letter and Jessie’s witnessed confession, a good lawyer and she might wriggle free.’
‘That was before Mister Binnie offered to turn Queen’s evidence,’ replied McLevy with a certain inner glee. ‘I have just been in close conference with the wee toad and he is anxious to save his neck. He is at this moment writing out a formal confession naming the Countess as the Machiavelli behind these wicked deeds and he a mere tool in her hands.’
‘Machiavelli was a man.’
‘I am aware of that, sir.’
‘And what does Binnie wish in return?’
‘Some clemency from the judge.’
‘A word in His Honour’s ear?’
‘That sort of thing.’
‘The fellow has committed two murders, plus attempted arson and an acid assault to boot. Not a great deal of leeway, inspector.’
‘I know that. But I didnae want to hurt his feelings.’
This sardonic exchange had been conducted as they watched the Countess emerge from a side room with two of the female helpers at the station. The procession was led by a bashfully triumphant Ballantyne.
‘More to that boy than vision would indicate,’ Roach allowed.
‘His mother’s a nurse,’ came the cryptic response.
McLevy and Mulholland had decided not to acquaint Roach or the world at large with Ballantyne’s error as regards the stab in Jean’s boudoir.
Anyone can make a mistake. Anytime. Anywhere.
As the Countess spied Roach she made one more effort to reassert a somewhat shrunken authority.
‘You make a misjudgement, Lieutenant Roach,’ she averred. ‘And I shall write to the highest in the land.’
‘Her Majesty may be a trifle occupied,’ Roach replied dryly. ‘Please avail yourself, however, of our facilities of pen and paper but you must purchase your own postage.’
As she turned away in contempt at this trifle, thus avoiding the stare of a stone-faced McLevy, the Countess found herself on a collision course with Jean Brash – who had just been released from the cells.
Hannah Semple at the side of her mistress. Patterson the lawyer with his large head made up the rear.
And so it came to pass that the
‘Ships that pass in the night, eh McLevy?’ Roach uttered without moving his lips.
‘Uhuh.’
Silence as the two women appraised each other, then Jean stepped up to the mark.
‘Countess – you take my place, it would seem,’ she slid in sweetly. ‘One for the other.’
The older woman spat out her rejoinder.
‘I am worth twenty of you. You are nothing more than a common slut.’
Jean nodded as if in complete agreement.
‘What was it you said?’ She screwed up her eyes as if remembering the words. ‘
For a moment it appeared as if the Countess would launch herself tooth and nail at Jean, then she gathered herself together for the last word.
‘May your future be as diseased as your body,’ she announced before turning with dignity to Ballantyne and linking her arm through his in a proprietorial fashion.
‘Lead me on, young man,’ she announced, as if he the consort and she the royal quality.
Ballantyne nodded, did not attempt to disengage his arm and led her off to the very cell that Jean had just vacated, the door still open, the lumpy mattress waiting like a sullen lover.
‘I’ll write ye a letter,’ Mistress Brash called after, but the Countess did not look back.
Jean watched her go then turned to Roach. She was conscious of all eyes in the station upon her, the various young constables in various corners and even Murdoch rooted at his desk, all ears aquiver.
Was she now a legend?
Imprisoned and released.
The queen bee.
‘I thank you for the hospitality, lieutenant,’ she said solemnly. ‘You must sample mine some day.’
Roach was not inclined to indulge in mythical exchange.
‘I would have left you to rot in jail, Mistress Brash,’ he retorted bluntly. ‘You may thank McLevy here.’
The inspector’s face was part hidden in the shadows into which he had stepped back as soon as Jean’s entourage had appeared.
She did not thank him. McLevy did not wish it so.
‘How is Constable Mulholland?’ she asked him formally.
‘Still alive.’
‘I am sorry for his wound.’
‘I’ll pass it on.’
Then McLevy hesitated a moment before a request.
‘Jessie Nairn. Make sure she gets a decent burial. She wisnae all bad.’
Jean thought about that for a moment before nodding acceptance; she owed the inspector that much at least.
Patterson stepped forward importantly to lead her from the station. As Hannah Semple passed, she winked at McLevy.
‘Ye’re a bloody menace,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know your equal.’
‘Oh, one thing?’ the inspector could not resist calling just as Jean reached the station door. ‘Your wee boudoir nearly went up in flames.’
‘That’s happened before,’ she replied a trifle enigmatically.
McLevy felt a sudden onrush of anger and let her have it with both barrels.
‘This is your fault, Jean. Your black pride was the cause of all this. Carry that with you to your bawdy- hoose.’
For a moment it was as if everyone else receded and it was just the two of them.
A spark of equal anger appeared in her eyes.
And then she was gone.
A few moments passed and a low murmur rose from the assembled constabulary. Whit a night.
The Countess had also left the scene.
Roach let out a huge exhalation of relief.
‘Would you care to join me in a wee libation in the office, James?’
‘No, thank you, sir,’ said McLevy, surprisingly.
He was on his way to the station door and turned, conscious that his part in these events might also be rendered into legend.
‘My work is not done and Halloween is not yet over.’
‘The Morrison case?’
‘None other.’
Roach thought to ask further then contented himself with a nod. The man was solving things right, left and centre; best let him get on with it.
As the inspector disappeared, Ballantyne came out of the cells and Roach crooked a finger at him.
Over walked the young constable.
‘Do you drink malt whisky?’ asked his lieutenant.
