Trick of the Light

43

On doit des egards aux vivants: on ne doit aux morts que la verite.

We owe respect to the living; to the dead we owe only truth.

VOLTAIRE

Arthur Conan Doyle stood like a ruined castle as the rain fell upon his shoulders. No more sailor’s cap and jacket, though he would use those soon enough; he was dressed for a funeral. Sombre. Black.

The service had been long, despite the driving rain, with some folk there purely out of curiosity and a great many Spiritualist followers come to pay respects.

The minister had done his best to combine Christianity with mesmeric forces and had got into a rare tangle, which had taken a fair time to unravel.

Then the head of the Edinburgh Spiritualists, a tall, ascetic man who might well have been an undertaker in another life, spoke at great length of the comfort Sophia would find in the other regions of being.

Doyle’s mind had drifted. He’d hoped his mother might accompany him but Mary Doyle was inclining towards the Anglicans these days and preferred to rest at home.

She was also a sensible woman and did not enjoy funerals. Plus the fact that anything to do with this whole business seemed fraught with danger and she would be pleased when her son was safely removed to sea for a while.

None of this was of any comfort to Conan Doyle as he brooded upon a lost love. A gentle, sensitive creature who had become the innocent victim of a madman.

McLevy could have told him differently but hadn’t the heart, and besides, as the lieutenant had put in summation, let sleeping dogs lie.

Roach in fact had been in attendance with the wife hanging on his arm. Indeed there were quite a few wifies clustered around the lieutenant’s gloomy form, possibly the whist club had doubled up with the ethereal forces.

Ballantyne had also put in an appearance, a home-knitted scarf knotted round his neck which both guarded against influenza and kept his birthmark concealed.

When at last the Head Spiritualist had concluded his sincere if overlong tribute, all the erstwhile mourners quit the scene and McLevy noticed that after solemn nods in his direction from both, Roach and Ballantyne walked down together with the gaggle of wifies chirping at the back, no doubt discussing the morals of Muriel Grierson and murder upon the stage in the same breath.

The inspector was intrigued by this odd pairing. Roach had no offspring. Perhaps he saw Ballantyne as a son of sorts? Or more likely was intent on keeping him away from McLevy’s baleful influence.

Anyway, they deserved each other.

Mulholland had found shelter under a tree, his wound aching in the damp, so the inspector and Doyle had the mournful scene to themselves.

They looked down at the tombstone, which bore the name of Sophia Adler and the one quote:

They that are after the flesh do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the Spirit, the things of the Spirit.

‘For to be carnally minded is death,’ said McLevy.

Doyle was jolted out of his chivalric melancholy.

‘What?’

‘That’s the rest of the saying. The Bible. Romans.’

Arthur sighed and looked at this strange man who had come into his life and brought its opposite. Death.

‘I am bound for Liverpool,’ he said.

‘Guard your wallet, they’re a shifty bunch down there.’

‘I shall not stay long. I am to be ship’s surgeon. On a steamship, the Mayumba. Cargo and passengers to and from Madeira and West Africa.’

‘Will ye see any flying fish?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘I’ve aye wanted to see a fish fly.’

For a moment they both looked once more at the tombstone and in unison removed their hats.

McLevy’s silent thought was that it was for the best that he had decided not to tell Conan Doyle about the resurrected father, the letters, plus the suspicion he had of Magnus Bannerman being possessed and used for murder. The young man had enough buzzing around in his head.

Perhaps some day. In the future.

For Doyle, he thought that he would never forget this woman. She was burnt into his heart.

He would recreate her one day though. Change the name a little but honour the essential memory.

In silence they both made goodbye in their own fashion to Sophia Adler and then walked slowly away.

Doyle suddenly stopped.

‘One day I will write,’ he said, ‘a detective to rival any in fiction. He is much in my mind.’

‘Will he be anything like me?’ asked McLevy, curious that he might have bred a doppelganger.

‘Not too much,’ replied Doyle. ‘Save in one attribute.’

‘And whit is that?’

‘A capacity for the unexpected.’

The young man grinned suddenly and McLevy let out a sharp bark of laughter before sticking out his hand.

‘Goodbye Arthur Conan Doyle,’ he said in formal tones.

‘Ignatius.’

‘Whit?’

‘My other name. Between the Arthur and the Conan.’

McLevy, who was only James, whistled.

‘An English king, martyred saint and Irish hero. A load tae carry.’

‘I have broad shoulders.’

Having said this, Doyle almost stood to attention.

‘Goodbye James McLevy, Inspector of Police.’

He took the proffered hand in his huge paw and the two men gazed at each other as the Edinburgh rain fell upon their bare heads.

Then they banged on their hats and parted company.

McLevy watched the giant figure wend its way down a sinuous path, into the trees and out of sight.

Was it his imagination or did the young man already walk with a sailor’s rolling gait?

McLevy stepped back to the disconsolate Mulholland who was feeling out of sorts.

‘Didn’t even say goodbye,’ he complained, as regards the departed Doyle.

‘Hardly knows ye,’ was the unsympathetic response.

Mulholland snuffled into a hankie.

‘I think I’m catching my death here.’

‘You’re gey feeble these days.’

‘I’ve had a knife stuck in my ribs,’ rejoined the constable indignantly. ‘It tends to lower the resistance.’

McLevy nodded but made no move to go.