McLevy was an immovable, shapeless mass in the opposite corner; his hand hung by the side with the dark metal of the revolver outlining the white skin where he gripped.
Then a huge shape suddenly appeared, towering above, visible through the empty window frame; it was backlit by the dull sky and enveloped in a black cloak with the hood pulled over so that the face was obscured.
For a moment it stood there and then jumped through the created aperture to land barefooted like a cat in the centre of the attic room.
As it did so the inspector stepped forward, revolver rock-steady in his hand, raised and levelled.
‘I am James McLevy, inspector of police. I must ask you to come to the station with me, my mannie. You have murder on your mind and I must forestall that intention.’
For a moment the beast was motionless under the muzzle of the revolver, the metal orifice ready to spit flame at the pressure of a finger. It had registered the sound of the words but not any kind of meaning; like any animal, however, it sensed danger and death at close quarters.
‘Turn yourself round, if you please. Extend your hands backwards towards me.’
The monster suddenly grabbed at Conan Doyle, who could not resist a venture nearer to the action, and whirled him by the arm to crash into the inspector.
As they both tumbled to the floor it leapt with incredible agility to hook its gauntlet hands like claws over the edge of the skylight window, haul itself up and then off into the darkness above.
McLevy cursed to himself as Doyle muttered his apologies. Damned fool. Himself. To bring an amateur along.
‘Give me a lift up!’ he commanded.
Doyle knew at least the mechanics of such; he had given many hikes to the sailors on the whaler.
Up the mast goes the jolly Jack Tar.
He bent over to make a cradle of his hands and as McLevy lifted a stubby leg to place his foot on top, Doyle took a deep breath and thrust the policeman upwards with all the force he could muster.
McLevy shot up towards the skylight and banged his head against the frame. Another muttered curse and then he scrambled out and for a moment stopped down on hands and knees to get his bearings.
‘What shall I do?’ Doyle called from below.
The inspector fought back the temptation to say enough damage had been done. Besides the man might still have a part to play.
‘Get out on the street,’ he called back softly. ‘I shall keep my eyes peeled for you. If you see him, signal.’
‘Good luck,’ came in answer then Doyle bolted for the door and was gone.
McLevy took stock. It was not luck he needed, just a primitive instinct to survive.
The roofs were shrouded in darkness, some pale light coming upwards from the street lamps but dying long before it might become a messenger of hope.
He must assume that the beast would return the way it had come so began to inch along in that direction, holding on to the crown of the roof with one hand, revolver in the other, trying to find purchase on the damp slates with his shoes, the soles of which slid alarmingly. The inspector had noted the beast was barefooted, another natural advantage.
McLevy had also noted the heavy gauntlets on its hands, both to protect and leave no evidence. The feet were for grip, the hands did the killing.
As he began to gain confidence and move more quickly, McLevy glanced down to see Doyle’s figure far below on the opposite side of the street. The young man pointed further on to indicate he had spotted something, so at least the inspector was on the right track.
Towards getting his neck broken, no doubt.
The chimneystacks stuck up into the night like assassins waiting to pounce. Behind any one of them the creature might lurk.
McLevy sniffed the air. Acrid smoke and dank industrial dew. Auld Reekie.
He sent a prayer up to the gods of the city.
He glanced down at Doyle again but the young man spread his arms to signal that he had lost sight of whatever had been observed earlier.
A large chimneystack loomed up. McLevy rested for a moment against the brickwork, heart in his chest like a hammer, a clammy combination of sweat and damp trickling down his face.
Then as he started to cautiously find his way along past the stack, the beast struck.
It had waited patiently, sensing the approach of the prey from the smell of a damp heavy overcoat, the scrape of leather sole on slate. Then as McLevy stepped into view it emerged from cover and smashed its arm into his face, sending him sprawling along the roof, the revolver skittering off to wedge itself in a piece of guttering.
The inspector could feel blood spattering from his nose; he was dazed and winded from the precipitous thud of his belly and chest on the triangular coping stone of the rooftop.
As he scrambled round on hands and knees once more, he looked up to see the massive hooded form, hands clenched above its head, about to deliver the killer blow.
This was not hopeful.
Down below Conan Doyle watched helplessly as the beast stood for a moment, outlined against the sky. Now a perfect target if he had only a gun to hand.
He beat his hands against his sides in frustration and then felt a hard round object in his pocket.
The cricket ball. A projectile of sorts. Better than nothing. Better than nothing, Arthur Conan.
He hauled it out, took aim, sent a message to the gods of chivalry and good purpose, and then let fly.
Conan Doyle had a mighty arm. He fielded on the boundary of life and his motto was
The cricket ball is a hard, dangerous object and has killed more men than might be supposed by those who see only fellows dressed in white upon green grass.
It flew through the night air of Edinburgh like an arrow and smashed into the head of the beast as it prepared to crash down its clasped fists in a deadly strike.
The monster staggered to the side and in that moment James McLevy, himself like an animal on all fours, scrabbled over to where the Edinburgh gods had seen fit to lodge his revolver, grabbed it, wedged himself against the nearest brickwork and aimed.
‘I ask you once more, my mannie,’ he gasped, the blood running down into his mouth causing the words to thicken. ‘Will ye come in peace or rest in the grave?’
The beast paid no heed; the fugue that played within its mind was only set for killing. It charged. Bare feet certain on the slates, body powerful and full of fury, it came full tilt with intent to murder the sitting man.
McLevy had no choice.
He shot twice. The first impact to the chest slowed the beast a moment but still it hurtled on. The second hit near to the same spot and halted the onrush.
The creature let out a strangled cry of almost pathetic surprise and then toppled slowly over to roll down the slates, off the edge of the roof and down into the back green below on the other side of the terraces from the road beneath.
The cricket ball had come back down the slates and jumped the guttering to fall and bounce on the road then to be caught neatly by Doyle as if fielding at long-on.
McLevy stood and signalled below to show all was well though the blood pouring down from his nose might detail otherwise. Doyle waved exuberantly in response before heading off to see if he might gain entrance to the back of the terrace.
The inspector was in no hurry. The beast would not be leaving the scene. Not for a while.
A sudden dizzy spell near overcame him and he grasped at the stack to maintain his balance.
As he gazed down over the back streets, his eye was caught by a movement. A small figure in red, also cloaked, darted up a side alley then was gone.
Or was it a figment of imagination? For a moment he had the wild notion to hurl himself off and swoop down like a bird of prey, snatch the woman up in his claws.
