Trick of the Light

‘I received a note from Constable Mulholland. He has recovered somewhat and will report for duty shortly.’

‘We have missed his reassuring presence, sir.’

‘Uhuh?’ said Roach dryly. ‘But you managed to lead Ballantyne astray quick enough – and James?’

By now McLevy was three-quarters through the door, only one leg left to go.

‘Try not to lean against any hotel doors in the foreseeable future, eh?’

‘Your servant aye, lieutenant.’

Roach let out a caustic laugh at that idea and for a moment their eyes met.

‘Eventful days, James. Even for Leith.’

‘More to come, no doubt,’ replied the inspector, not realising the truth of that remark.

He vanished out the door.

Roach looked up at Queen Victoria.

No matter what angle, she never did quite meet his eye.

When McLevy strode through the station, he found someone heading his way.

Silver Sam. A bit ragged from his sojourn in the cells but looking well enough. Over his shoulder McLevy could see Muriel waiting at the station door, a sheaf of papers in her hand.

Murdoch must have put a bit of speed on.

‘I have something tae tell you,’ said Samuel.

‘Tell away.’

‘I heard your constable talking.’

‘Which one?’

‘Wi’ the red face.’

‘Continue, if you please.’

In fact Ballantyne had been gossiping to one of the other constables as they fed the prisoners their breakfast.

The Countess and Binnie had been moved to the main Edinburgh jail to await trial, so it was just the Moxey gang and Silver Samuel; mercifully Jupiter Carlisle had fallen into a deep sleep and no-one wanted to wake him.

The breakfast was not much of a repast, being a handsel of grey-bread with a smear of butter, passed carefully through the bars with a tin mug of water.

The constable was especially careful because he had once, due to his kind heart and a prisoner pretending that his own was under attack, ventured in the cell to help.

He was then rendered unconscious and by the time he woke up, the prisoner was long gone.

However, Ballantyne was more experienced now – had he not accompanied the great McLevy on patrol?

The young man could not help but revel in the envy and admiration of his colleagues, nor resist the revelation of some juicy details.

‘Such as that – and here’s your bread, Mister Grant – the motive for murder would seem to be the death all these years ago of one Jonathen Sinclair in the Leith Docks.’

Samuel heard this and had his own thoughts, which he intended to keep to himself, but the glorious advent of Muriel had come just in time before he cracked and admitted that Seth Moxey’s allegations of entanglement and disclosure were in fact true, though much good it might have done him because the police would aye take the word of a winsome widow over a jumped-up street keelie; anyway she had come for his sake.

It was the first act of unselfish love Samuel had ever witnessed on his behalf, and he was fierce proud of his wee Moumou.

His woman. When he came out of the cell, she looked at him and said, ‘From this moment on, Samuel Grant, you will walk a straight line and I will walk it with you.’

He could have kissed her right there and then but didn’t want to get her a bad name in a police station.

But then when they emerged and she went to get the papers, Samuel saw McLevy on the prowl and decided to display his new credentials of respectability.

So, he continued his declaration.

‘Jonathen Sinclair. The murder. I saw it.’

‘Whit?’

McLevy’s jaw dropped for real this time.

‘I was sleeping rough. By the water. I saw it happen.’

The Leith Docks, 1864

Young Samuel Grant, having had a coin pushed between his teeth, looked into the cold eyes of the American and ran for his life.

But not far.

The boy was curious. Why would the man pay him to go away? Was there more money to be found?

So he crept back to the head of the wynd in time to see the blond hair shining in the dim radiance from the jostling ships as the man headed for the cluster of boatyard offices in the distance.

One window was illuminated, shining like a lighthouse in the dark.

Samuel watched.

The man he now knew as Jonathen Sinclair walked on, whistling a jaunty air, a tune the boy had never heard before. American probably.

Then another man stepped out from the shadows ahead, lifted a pistol and fired.

Samuel saw the impact of the bullet striking the body before Sinclair went down like a felled tree.

He did not move.

The other man, who wore a long oilskin coat and wide brimmed black hat, moved towards the fallen man, confident in his aim.

The boy could not breathe, such was his terror. This was a deadly business.

Then it got deadlier.

As the man bent over the still body another shot sounded and the killer was jolted back from short range.

His hat flew off to reveal a similar shock of fair hair while he staggered back then fell in his turn.

For a moment both bodies were still, then Jonathen Sinclair slowly rose to his feet, a long pistol gun held in his hand, the barrel still smoking.

For a long instance he looked down at the corpse, then he came to a decision.

He removed the man’s oilskin coat and fitted his own coat in its place. Then he emptied all the pockets of the dead man, working swiftly while glancing around. He took a sheaf of papers from his pocket and put them in place to be in the other’s possession.

Then he took a ring from his finger and put it on the stiff hand lying there.

That done, he sighted down the long pistol, put the nozzle in close and then blew the dead man’s head clean off his shoulders.

The boy took to his heels this time and did not stop.

McLevy absorbed all this as Samuel brought his rendition to a close.

‘Ye didnae think to tell the police?’

‘I was a wee boy. Who would believe me?’