Nor Will He Sleep (13 page)

‘My poor old mother lies in the morgue, her murder cries out for vengeance and the police pass time in a tavern. Draw your own conclusions.’

‘A man needs his provender,’ replied McLevy mildly enough, ‘and I didnae notice you flooding the station wi’ filial tears.’

‘I loved my mother,‘ Carnegie declared indignantly. ‘And my mother loved me!’

‘D’ye have that in writing?’

‘Indeed I do!’ was the triumphant response. ‘I have just received legal notice that I am her sole inheritor.’

‘That’s nice,’ McLevy said blandly. ‘Well, I have something tae tell you, sole inheritor.’

The inspector flicked a silvery piece of herring-bone in the direction of Carnegie’s greasy shoes.

‘If you don’t bugger off, I’m going tae pit you on the deck.’

Mulholland had found a strange shaped shard of bone in his broth and wondered idly if it was an eye socket, as Sim Carnegie took a prudent step backwards.

But then the constable’s attention was attracted by something behind Carnegie’s distasteful and unwelcome form.

‘God almighty,’ he muttered. ‘It’s like Waverley Station this night.’

Three young men had entered the tavern and at least one of them was not unknown. He wore a light coloured suit and dragged his leg like an unwilling dog.

They froze at the sight of the two policemen, but an imp of mischief charged by a sudden rush of fury possessed the inspector, and he beckoned the arrivals over. ‘Mister Drummond,’
he boomed. ‘May I introduce ye to Mister Carnegie, son of the dear departed Agnes, gone but not forgotten.’

And like a master of ceremonies, though still not budging an inch from where he sat, McLevy carried on with his spurious bonding.

‘Mister Carnegie – here stands afore ye, the dauntless leader o’ the White Devils.’

Daniel, who had foolishly shinned down a drainpipe from his room to celebrate his unexpected release with friends, thence returning to a location he should have avoided like the pox, pressed his
cane to the floor, drew himself up to full height, and bowed.

Sim Carnegie was not impressed. In truth he had been surprised by a shaft of sudden fear at the look in McLevy’s eyes, but now was a chance for him to void his wrath against what he
considered an inferior opponent.

The newsman took in the dandyish appearance, the silver cane, long hair, and filled his lungs.

‘You rampaged the night my poor mother died!’ he accused loudly and the words caused a silence in the crowd.

‘I know nothing of her death,’ replied the young man stiffly, conscious he was the focus of all eyes.

‘Oh, I wouldnae say that,’ offered McLevy, adding fuel to the flames. ‘I told you all about it, Mister Drummond.’

Daniel choked back a retort, thinking the inspector manifestly unfair and manipulative, but unable to deny the literal truth, and finding when he looked to Mulholland, that the constable’s
eyes were calculating and not friendly.

‘I remember it well,’ announced Mulholland. ‘In your own drawing room. The gory details.’

What an idiot
, Daniel cursed himself,
to fall amongst thieves, but now if he could just extricate himself with a little dignity intact – dignity was everything!

‘A liar as well, eh?’ the tall, angular Carnegie looked down a long, slightly dripping nose, then raised his voice.

‘Educated thugs!’ he informed the whole tavern. ‘Creatures o’ privilege. Money buys learning, eh?’

In truth there might have been some veracity to that statement no matter the dubious source, but as various jeers added boozy support and Sim raised his hands like a Roman gladiator, Daniel bit
his lip, turned, and limped off.

‘Like a whipped dog,’ crowed Carnegie and a chorus of mocking yelps followed the three young men as they hastily quit the tavern.

But there was an equally calculating look in the journalist’s eyes.

Gardy loo.

It’s best to beware when the press and the police find any measure of agreement, no matter how remote.

Outside Daniel tore himself free from his companions’ restraining hands, his face puce with humiliation at being such an object of ridicule.

‘That was a foolish venture!’

A furious assertion that would have brought little argument from the rest, save perhaps for the fact it had been his own idea. But they knew the mercurial whiplash to his temper and held their
tongues.

To a certain extent he did inspire fear when in one of these rages, skin taut across the bones of his face, seeking for someone to blame other than himself.

‘I shall find my own way home. Leave me!’

With that, he turned abruptly and moving rapidly despite his crippled leg, was lost in the night.

A burst of noise from the tavern brought the other pair’s heads round, but it seemed more connected to a screech of music than derision, so they slid off into the shadows.

Music soothes the savage breast.

In the rough bar, an old shipwreck of a fellow with no teeth to speak of and one rheumy, glistening eye, had whipped out a battered fiddle to launch into a lively jig.

Two of the girls had started to dance, raising their skirts enough to provoke an equally lively reaction.

Sim grinned at all this, but then became aware that he was still the focus of McLevy’s hard stare.

‘I meant what I said. Bugger off back where ye belong.’

The very stillness of his form, flatness of tone was warning, and the journalist was not a stupid man.

But as he retreated, Sim could not resist a parting remark.

‘Mulholland? A wee piece of news. I hear tell that Gash Mitchell is back in the city.’

The constable’s face betrayed nothing.

‘You heard the inspector,’ he said quietly. ‘Get out.’

The fiddler had switched to a slow air as Carnegie made his exit. Folk had gone back to their business and he was no longer centre of attention as he called back from the door.

‘Monday edition, gentlemen. Well worth the read.’

‘Oh, one thing?’ McLevy called in response. ‘Big Susan confirmed your whereabouts.’

‘Only right.’

‘Gave her word. But she might have given you something else as well. As a bonus. She’s a generous girl.’

The journalist’s protuberant Adam’s apple jerked spasmodically for a moment, then he managed a dismissive sneer and left the scene.

Big Susan had said nothing of the sort, but it’s all grist to the mill.

Both policemen were silent. Mulholland’s mind was full of jagged images.

The young girl lying, limbs askew, neck broken. No sign of her assailant, no proof to hand.

Rose Dundas. Still dead. Still lying there.

On a dark night. Such as this one.

The fiddle’s tune was slow and stately. Grief hung under the strings. A funeral air.

‘If Gash Mitchell is back,’ the constable said softly. ‘All he needs to do is make one mistake.’

‘And you’ll be there wi’ bells on.’

‘That I will.’

There was a moment of silence before the constable made further utterance.

‘One thing. Carnegie was right. He may have let the name loose. But I should have hung her murder round that bastard Mitchell’s neck.’

To McLevy’s knowledge it was the first time he had ever heard his constable swear.

‘The proof was lacking.’

‘In my head. It is proven.’

The exchange over, Mulholland stood and gestured towards an empty glass.

McLevy nodded,

‘If you’re buying, I’m drinking.’

When the constable returned with a hooker of whisky and sma’ beer for himself, the inspector had sunk back into the reverie that had taken possession of him since they entered the
tavern.

He sooked noisily at the dram, fell back into silence, and then asked a sudden and surprising question.

‘Whit d’you think tae Jessica Drummond?’

Mulholland considered. Surely she was not a suspect?

‘Stands her ground.’

‘A cow does such. In the field.’

There was an odd look to the inspector’s eye that put the constable in mind of a child lost at market.

‘I noted she kept looking at you,’ he remarked finally.

‘Did she? That would be forensic.’

‘And you kept looking at her.’

‘That’s my job. Scrutiny.’

Mulholland sighed. It had been a day interminable.

Thank God tomorrow was Sunday.

He’d be glad to get back to the bees.

There is a kind of rain in Edinburgh called ‘skelp-the-wean’s-backside’, where a fiendish wind, usually from the East, drives the downpour horizontally above
the ground.

If coming from behind, it hurls the victim headlong into lampposts, sharp corners, or sends him careering helplessly down a steep hill to meet some watery fate.

If from the front, it blinds the vision and cripples the joints, so that the very effort of walking seems an affront to nature. A stark convulsion. No mercy.

Such a vicious monster had been unleashed by the city gods for reasons of their own; it had commenced some fifteen minutes before and cleared the roads like the Great Plague save for one tiny,
whimpering figure that made its way down the broad unprotected expanse of North Charlotte Street.

The figure left behind a trail of little spots of blood that were swept to instant oblivion by the elements.

Thomas Archibald Carstairs, known because of his diminutive frame to his fellow students as ‘the Runt’, had canvassed hard and earnestly to be allowed into the sacred fraternity of
the Scarlet Runners and to take part in his very first raid.

This had proved no more successful than that of the James Gang robbing the First National Bank of Northfield, Minnesota.

The Runners had shinned up the walls of the Just Land, Tom being thrown up first to provide a fulcrum with rope for the rest, and then found themselves in the pitch black of the garden with only
the peacocks’ cries to guide them.

For this was the objective. To pluck feathers from their tails and add them to the stash of trophies and deeds of derring-do that would be valued and judged against the paltry exploits of the
White Devils.

Tom had tried not to grin in the dark lest his nervous teeth gleam and give away position – this was the Just Land, a bawdy-hoose, full of danger and disease – but he was a man among
men, hat pulled over to hide his blond hair and blue eyes, mouth tight shut and fingers ready to lift the booty from these effeminate wailing willies.

What an adventure!

As may be gathered Thomas was not a natural cutthroat; a studious good natured boy often the butt of his boisterous fellows, now was the chance to show his mettle.

A hero in the making.

In other words a born innocent and defenceless destination for a load of buckshot.

As are we all.

Everything went well at first, as it so often does.

After that, the devil took a hand.

They stumbled over what seemed like myriad snakes in the grass, setting off a tinkling sound as if the fairies had been disturbed in their nocturnal pursuits, and then?

All hell broke loose.

A sudden terrible light shone from the windows like a lighthouse to expose the valiant invaders, which was followed by a fearsome female screeching and then, as they bolted for the escape of the
garden wall upwards to clamber and gain safety, a thunderous noise split the heavens with shrieks of pain from the climbing Runners.

Tom was frightened out of his wits but, being to the rear, had missed the salvo.

Was Dame Fortune on his side?

No. She can be a fickle creature, tending to side with bawdy-hoose keepers, and so as Tom and some other laggards clawed their way up the brickwork, a second noise burst forth.

Not as loud as the first, but just as deadly in consequences.

A piercing sting as the pellets ripped through his coat and trousers took Tom’s breath away, and then the pain, as shock subsided, made him howl like an animal.

His flanks and buttocks were a mass of fiery agony.

He managed to scramble over to the other side and then they all ran for their lives, limping, lurching, squealing like a herd of pigs, jostling in the frantic effort to put distance between them
and lethal pursuit.

Not a hero to be found, which is often the case when small-shot takes a hand.

To his surprise, Tom, who cried easily, had not shed a tear. That happened later at his best friend’s house in Queen Street, the parents fortunately God-fearing and already asleep, when a
shivering decimated band of wayfarers attempted in the cellars by wavering candlelight to extract the imbedded fragments from violated flesh.

They had the instruments and supposed skill, exams passed in medical matters, but the hands were shaking and the whisky they employed to numb the pain, clean the wound, and then swallow to
provide enough nerve for another operation, had left Tom with a horrible taste in his mouth.

The injuries had been dressed as best they could but he had felt them open again as he struggled in the onslaught of this pitiless bitter wind and rain, most of which seemed to be beating into
his right ear while he negotiated Forres Street like a wrecked ship.

This was, without doubt, the most miserable night of his life.

More to come.

As he turned finally into Heriot Row, the wind and rain hit him full on. Body blows. He had lost the hat a million years ago and his hair was flattened to the skull.

Tom had been flogged by the gale part out into the road and then heard a wild scream above the tumult.

A carriage was heading straight for him, the driver muffled up but brandishing what seemed a shining stick and howling in weird delight as the horse careered towards the isolated young man.

Tom threw himself to the side and the wild-eyed animal rushed past, the driver now standing to shake his stick defiantly at the elements, screaming like a banshee, paying no heed to anything in
his way.