back to where she was born and raised.
They had married and John had taken her name.
Old man Donnachie had been suspicious at first but then when he saw how the man worked day and night, broke his nails, scarred his fine delicate fingers with hard labour, the old man, as is the way of Scots, took him to his heart.
Then the father died, Kirstie was left the farm and she and her man settled for a life that was hard but had its own rewards. Nature is cruel, but she is also generous.
The twins arrived and life was full.
The farmer had much to lose.
The policemen watched as Donnachie walked away and leant upon a sideboard, close to the wall.
‘What do you want from me?’ he asked softly.
Not for the first time McLevy surprised his constable.
‘Confession would be nice but I doubt you’re in the mood,’ he replied. ‘In fact without that, I have little proof. A wee boy eighteen years ago on a dark night, the compromised testimony of a bawdy-hoose keeper, a photo that gets near you but not enough. No, you’re in the clear unless you sing like a lintie. And as I have said, I doubt that to happen.’
Donnachie slid the sideboard drawer back into place and turned to face them.
‘Then what do you want here?’
McLevy seemed to have become stone, Mulholland though tilting a little was also immobile.
They waited. The farmer took a deep breath.
‘How did you get the letters?’
‘Your daughter brought them,’ said McLevy. ‘All the way from America.’
He suddenly let out a whoop of discordant laughter while Donnachie took his turn to freeze.
‘Ye spent a night wi’ your lawful wife, your bride Melissa, before – by the way, does wee Kirstie know she might be bigamously betrothed?’
‘We have no secrets,’ Donnachie replied tightly.
‘That’s nice. Well, before the battle of Gettysburg you went home to kiss the bride. Nine months later, she bore you a daughter. No way she could inform you of such because she didnae know where you were biding.’
‘It’s a tricky business,’ said Mulholland.
‘It is, constable,’ rejoined McLevy, not taking his eyes from those of the farmer. ‘Your daughter, sir, arrived in this country under the name of Sophia Adler. She carried your letters, a photograph and vengeance in her heart.’
Donnachie closed his eyes once more. Sophia. Wisdom. The name stood for wisdom. He and Melissa when love’s young dream was holding true, had chosen that name.
For a child to be. One day. When the war was over.
‘She had changed the surname tae Adler. Who knows why? Like yourself. In disguise. Must run in the family.’
McLevy now stepped in close and Mulholland moved discreetly to the side, gripping at his stick in case things got out of hand.
The inspector could see traces of Sophia in the man’s face; not much but it was there.
‘For your sake, for your betrayal and supposed death, she caused a man called Gilbert Morrison to be murdered. He wisnae much and he had indeed betrayed you like Judas, but he had some right to live.
‘I myself put two bullets into the murderer, Magnus Bannerman, who was persuaded to the act by your daughter.’
McLevy’s face became sombre as he prepared to deliver the last rites for Sophia Adler.
‘What has happened to her?’ asked Donnachie, with a dry rasp to his voice.
‘She is dead, sir. Shot. A stray bullet. A fateful accident. She died in delusion.’
Donnachie’s face was set and showed no emotion.
‘Is there anything you would care to contribute?’
To this request of the inspector’s, the man shook his head. ‘I have nothing more to say.’
McLevy snapped upright, jerked his head towards the door and Mulholland realised again to his surprise that the inspector did not intend to stay much longer.
Donnachie stood in the centre of the room, an isolated figure in rough farming clothes.
Something in his stillness irritated McLevy beyond measure as if the man had absorbed all but not felt it.
The inspector spat out the words like bullets.
‘Two days from now she’ll be buried in Dean Cemetery wi’ a crowd of folk who did not know her standing around the grave. Perhaps she would have taken the same road anyway, but your decision eighteen years ago has caused the death of three people, one of whom was your own flesh and blood. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it!’
With that he was out of the door.
Mulholland paused before following. He had noticed some home-made toys in a box to the side.
‘You have children of your own now, sir?’ he queried.
The man made no response.
‘Let’s hope you take good care of them,’ said the constable, and followed his inspector out of sight.
After a long moment, John Donnachie moved over to the sideboard and opened up the drawer.
He took out the long black revolver and hefted it in his hand. How many men had it killed in its time?
How many?
Mulholland had to put on a bit of speed to catch up with McLevy, anger putting wings on the inspector’s feet.
‘It’s a long way to come to go all the way back again,’ observed the constable.
‘True enough,’ grunted the inspector, noting that the pony and trap had put in an appearance at the bottom of the road as arranged.
Timing was everything.
‘So we’re just going to let him free?’ muttered Mulholland, whose wound was giving him gyp and all for nothing.
‘Our only hope was confession, and I knew as soon as I saw the man he would not crack. Too much to lose – wait!’
McLevy lifted his head and turned back towards the farm.
‘Did you hear something?’
‘Not a dicky-bird.’
‘A crack? Gunshot?’
‘You’ve got them on the brain.’
‘Aye. Right enough,’ said McLevy and they walked on down.
‘So, we’re just letting him go?’
‘Will you stop saying that!’
Things were getting back to normal between them.
‘It just seems a long way,’ said Mulholland, like a dog with a bone.
‘All right, all right. I came out here because – because – aghhh.’
McLevy threw his arms up in the air and sighed.
‘It’s all very Greek. Revenge. Retribution. I felt – I felt I owed it to Sophia Adler and don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. It is beyond my comprehension. But – I have told him tae his face. Now, he knows. Though she does not.’
‘Unless she’s floating around with the spirits?’
The constable’s remark stopped McLevy in his tracks for a moment.
‘Indeed. Unless that highly unlikely eventuality has occurred. Now, come on. The case is closed!’
McLevy hammered his low-brimmed bowler firmly on to his head as the wind was beginning to rise.
Timing is everything.
