Trick of the Light

The inspector’s face was a mask of concentration. This lock was of the latest manufacture, as would suit a newly refitted hotel such as the George, and was proving resistant to his charms so far.

All day McLevy had played the penitent, accepting meekly Roach’s severe admonition as regards using a cricket-ball-throwing medical man for support rather than the proper officers; the inspector forbore to mention that, in fact, the killer had been stopped in his murderous act and justice triumphant, well, mostly triumphant.

There was a bit to do yet, which was why he was wielding the lock-pick.

Mulholland was still indisposed, and might well have had the good sense to refuse in any case, so McLevy had mildly suggested to Roach that since a newspaperman from the Edinburgh Herald was coming in to interview the lieutenant this very afternoon, the inspector might take a wee turn on the saunter with Ballantyne for company, so as not to get in the way. He had no wish to detract by individual presence from the glowing reports that were certain to be written about the Leith Police, his lieutenant in particular.

Earlier he had brought Roach up to date, as you were supposed to do with a superior officer, as regards what he had discovered from the banker and wrung out of Walter Morrison.

The wretched man had confessed that eighteen years ago they had had a cash flow predicament, which was threatening to bankrupt the firm of Morrison Brothers.

They had been approached by one Jonathen Sinclair, an agent for the Confederate forces, to purchase two ships in order to run the Federal blockade.

Sinclair had cash bonds that he would make over to them. This they agreed though they knew there to be considerable official disapproval of taking sides in the Civil War, especially with the South since it seemed to be the losing party.

Always back a winner.

They were then approached by the Federal agents, in the person of a man named William Mitchell, to warn that they were under scrutiny.

The Federals had been searching for Sinclair and their pursuit had driven him from Glasgow. He was a wanted man. Badly wanted.

Then devious brother Gilbert, as opposed to honest brother Walter, offered Mitchell a deal.

If they could keep the money, they would deliver Sinclair into his hands.

And hold onto their ships as well.

Just good business.

The deal was struck.

Sinclair was told that the bonds must be signed over for an interim contract and once the certificates had been cashed in and verified, the Confederate officer was then to attend the Morrison offices at the Leith Docks on the stroke of midnight to collect the full ships’ papers.

The Federals were informed, Sinclair intercepted.

Walter protested that neither brother expected the man to be so brutally executed. Imprisonment perhaps, sent back to America in a fish barrel, but not the firing squad.

Why he had fainted at the word JUDAS on the wall was that it had always been on his conscience and Sinclair had warned the brothers that if they played Judas, he would kill them both.

For that reason the word stuck in his mind.

When McLevy had finished, Roach sighed.

‘A motive of sorts and the similarity in death not to be ignored, but what is the connection to Bannerman?’

Connection. That word again.

‘Other than America,’ continued Roach. ‘And America is a very big country. How do we proceed?’

‘Best foot forward, sir. That’s all we can offer.’

These muted, obedient tones brought a narrowing to Roach’s eyes.

‘Are you up to something, James?’ he asked.

‘I’m a wee bit fatigued and I had a big breakfast,’ came the oblique response. Then Sophia Adler arrived and left, the journalists were waiting outside, the man from the Herald was imminent, so Roach waved McLevy off to the streets before the inspector grabbed unauthorised acclaim.

The saunter with Ballantyne had, oddly enough, taken McLevy out of his parish up to George Street, where they had waited a deal of time till early evening when Sophia Adler left for the Tanfield Hall, followed by a hungry pack of journalists.

While everyone was looking one way, McLevy and a slightly reluctant Ballantyne slipped in the other.

Her hotel door yielded easily to his lock-pick but the other was not so accommodating. Until now.

A click as the tiny hook at the end of the instrument caught hold, a twist and –

‘Open Sesame,’ muttered James McLevy.

The private door was sprung but Ballantyne was still in a fret of sorts.

‘Is this not against the law?’ he queried.

‘We are the law, constable.’

‘Do we not need a search warrant?’

‘We’ll get one later, now come on!’

In truth, McLevy was not sure why he had brought Ballantyne along other than if things went wrong it was nice to share the blame with someone.

But the boy had brought luck so far. He stumbled over things. Bodies and suchlike.

They entered a narrow recess, McLevy leading the way to where a curtain, pinned up, and not, he was certain, part of the hotel furnishings, barred their way.

This he pushed gently aside to reveal a small room with an alcove of sorts. There was no window so the shapes within were shrouded in mirk.

McLevy sniffed through his still tender nose.

‘I can smell a candle,’ he announced. ‘Recent burnt. Honey, I’ll be bound.’

Ballantyne whose eyes were attuned to spotting minute insects and therefore sharp as a tack, pointed to what might be two yellow blobs set on a white covering of sorts.

‘There,’ he indicated with a certain reserve, for a saying of Mulholland’s had come into his mind from a time they had sat together, he with a dislocated shoulder and Mulholland with the blame of a suicide on his hands.

Both the results of being associated with McLevy.

Trouble follows the inspector like a black dog.

That’s what Mulholland had said and that’s what Ballantyne was thinking as he watched McLevy light up a lucifer and pass that fire to the candles.

The man himself waited till the flickering flame steadied itself and then scanned the scene.

‘Well, well,’ he remarked, softly. ‘The things ye find.’

Before them in the alcove was what looked like an altar, where various items had been laid carefully in place.

A worn leather belt curled up like a sleeping snake, two equally worn silver buttons, a shaving brush standing on its end, the dry hairs brushed to attention, and what looked like a curved, folded, shaving razor, the yellow surface of its handle shining like beeswax.

On the other side was what appeared to be a cord with two acorn tassels attached. A spare perhaps. And destined to fit round the hat of a Confederate Army Officer.

Such as McLevy saw in the picture that faced him on the wall.

Hanging beside it on a nail was a red cloak.

Female to the male, for the man in the picture also wore a cloak: grey, falling round his shoulders, a riding cape of some sort, which gave him a winter look even through the summer blossoms hung ripe above.

And though his teeth were bared in a smile, the light hazel eyes glinting, to McLevy’s gaze there was evidence of tension in the taut cheekbones and hooked nose.

Below, written across the photograph in a firm slanting hand was…

My Father, Jonathen Sinclair. His last visit. Just before Gettysburg. Nine months later I was born.

‘Sir?’ While McLevy had been peering closely to read the writing, Ballantyne, who in fact was almost as nosy as his inspector, had delicately lifted the lid of a mother-of-pearl box, which lay behind the cord and tassels.