Nor Will He Sleep (30 page)

Good. One less female.

Back to the scratching.

Try to find a wee bit of dignity. Somewhere.

McLevy called a halt there to close the ledger.

Not only that, the man knows it.

McLevy could see it in his eyes.

Not knowing in a factual concrete sense but in a way with which the inspector himself found resonance, in the murky depths of intuition, where the monsters lie.

They cough up their secrets like a black toad.

And yet was he being unfair to lay it upon the writer? Do they not inherit the blame when folk look at them and bitterly resent their connection to the darkness?

Not unlike McLevy himself had suffered.

When a child, an odd child with a secret world in his slate-grey eyes, bigger boys had mercilessly chased him down and left him in a misshapen and bloody heap.

So be it.

The past aye comes back tae torment.

Out of the mist.

But he’d be waiting.

By hook or by crook.

Hannah Semple looked into the scorched, furious eyes of James McLevy and sighed, a tendril of hair hanging lank on her forehead.

She had not slept a wink all night, endured a morning fraught with anxiety and guilt – now she had the majesty of the law with which to contend.

They were standing in the kitchen of the Just Land; she had hauled him in there as soon as he came bursting in the back garden door, before he started knocking lumps out of the solemn-faced
doctors milling in the hall.

For some reason the kitchen stove had been lit and the place was boiling – Hannah felt the sweat running down her oxters, but the inspector was like an ice-man.

Save for the eyes. And the burning fury.

And the Keeper of the Keys was struggling with hellish remorse, because she had lingered the night previous, joshing with Mally Duncan the auld fiddler at the front door before sending him
packing out into the street, well paid and well provided with good whisky.

If she had gone about her lawful business, she might have heard something above, been quicker on the scene, saved the mistress a fearsome beating – all this because she stood on the step
with a toothless auld bugger to relive the past.

Now it was a bitter present.

‘How is your mistress?’

‘The doctors say, no’ too good.’

‘Very medical.’

‘She needs rest.’

‘I have to question.’

Hannah made no answer – whit fur did the man no’ admit he was worried tae hell about the one person still alive who might care for his miserable soul?

Mulholland slipped in to report his findings, having judged it apposite to leave his inspector a moment private with Hannah and incidentally examine the lie of the land.

‘Easy to reach the window,’ he said. ‘A rain pipe up the side and there’s a big thick vine as well.’

‘Did ye climb it?’

‘I did. The curtains are drawn but – you can see where he forced the window. Light frame. Easy meat.’

McLevy nodded and turned unfriendly eyes back to Hannah as if he blamed her for all that had befallen.

Or was it a dark figure in her own mind pointing the long finger?

‘Tell me the story,’ McLevy said.

Hannah took a breath – as the images flashed through her head, she looked like the old crone in the fairy tale who has bad news for the hero.

‘Thank God Lily and Maisie were out in the garden last thing tae feed the peacocks. Jean’s window crashed through, a bottle landit at their feet. A wee perfume glass.’

McLevy did not respond. Mulholland removed his helmet in the heat and filled the gap.

‘Not a usual occurrence?’

‘By God, no. They came in howlin’ blue murder, we ran up the stairs, I had my razor, in the door and she was – she was – the mistress was a terrible sight.’

The old woman caught her breath as the picture of Jean’s crumpled body imprinted itself once more.

McLevy’s face was like stone.

‘The killer? What about the killer?’

‘Jumped out the window jist afore we came in. A high distance up. I hoped the swine would break his neck but no – across the wet grass, shinned up the wall lik’ a
monkey.’

‘Check for footprints. Soft earth below that wall.’

Mulholland nodded assent to the terse instructions.

‘The killer. Did ye catch a look? Would you know him again?’

Hannah shook her head. The constable had never seen her look so anguished and forlorn.

‘A pale coat. A stick. He turned top o’ the wall and waved it goodbye. I’ll swear the bastard was smiling!’

‘The face?’

‘White. Painted white. I couldnae make out a thing.’

She added this to the list of failure – guilt attracts such dark thoughts.

As the heat rose, the inspector finally removed his low-brimmed bowler.

‘I’ll need tae see her.’

‘She’s no’ supposed tae talk much.’

‘I’ll look in anyway.’

‘No’ much tae see. A’ bandaged up.’

‘Nevertheless. A witness.’

‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘A
material
witness.’

Hannah stuck her face pugnaciously into the inspector’s, all remorse forgotten, glad of the chance to let rip, and who is to say that McLevy in his perverse way was not offering her the
chance?

This thought occurred to Mulholland as Hannah accepted what was in no way an olive branch.

‘Ye’re a miserable swine, McLevy, and for two pins I’d roast ye in this kitchen like a hog on hellfire, but – ’

A memory of Jean’s last whispered command echoed in her mind.

You will admit one person and one person only.

‘For some reason, she wants to see you. God knows why. A mystery tae me. I’d rather have the pox onyday.’

Silence, then McLevy walked out of the door, closing it quietly behind.

Silence.

‘Oh here,’ Hannah delved into her pockets and passed a note to Mulholland. ‘I was supposed tae gie this tae Angus to hand in at the station this very morning.’

‘Before all hell broke loose, eh?’

‘Uhuh. It’s tae McLevy but you might as well open it. Ye’re one and the same.’

The constable was not quite sure how to take this, but slipped open the note and read it in any case.

The contents had some interest regarding Carnegie, but nothing immediate to the matter in hand.

The matter in hand cut through everything.

‘If you can show me,’ remarked Mulholland, ‘where the killer scaled the wall?’

‘Near enough,’ replied Hannah. ‘I’ll get my heavy boots.’

She departed also, and Mulholland was left alone in the kitchen, with the heat rising.

The door creaked open and Jean opened one bleary eye. She had a large, prescribed amount of laudanum swirling around in her system; a powerful dosage that distanced pain,
though one side effect was confused imaginings.

Was this a hairy animal taking refuge in her bedroom?

Lie still. Hope for the best.

McLevy could see her red hair spread out on the pillow. The face seemed relatively untouched, but when he moved a little closer the inspector could see in the dimness, the curtains drawn and
just one oil lamp emanating, white bandages swathed down the left-hand side of her neck.

From the two corpses witnessed, he could imagine the livid welt on that milk and honey skin.

What other wounds had she suffered?

An irrational shaft of trespass stabbed him. He might have been on hand but no – there he was with another woman in his heart.

Like a leech, guilt will attach to any movement of the blood.

Jean opened the other eye and attained some purchase on the wavering image beside her bed.

‘Is that you, James?’ she whispered in a broken, harsh croak. ‘I thought it was a hairy beast.’

‘Not far wrong,’ he muttered.

She signalled at a jug of water to the side and he hastened to pour from it into a tumbler and hold it to her lips.

Jean sipped and groaned as the water trickled down her throat, then lay back on the pillow.

McLevy replaced the tumbler and stood indecisively, before remembering he was an investigating officer.

‘How many times did he strike you?’

‘Twice. Lucky, eh?’

‘Ye don’t look lucky.’

She laughed hoarsely, then coughed up a spasm of pain that had him shifting helplessly from foot to foot.

‘No jokes, James,’ she murmured. ‘Pain and pleasure. They don’t mix this day.’

‘Wisnae a joke. Jist . . . observation.’

She said nothing and he glanced longingly at the jug of water.

‘Ye mind if I have a wee sook? That kitchen was like an inferno.’

She closed her eyes in what McLevy took for assent and he saw that there was only the one tumbler. Of course he could slug it straight from the jug, but was that not lacking in sickroom
etiquette?

So he refilled the glass and slurped it back noisily in some confusion, while she kept her eyes shut and tried not to register the awful noise.

Finally, when he was done, he replaced the tumbler, wiped the rim clean with a hankie, and then reached out a tentative finger towards the bandages at her throat.

‘Are they not too tight?’

‘They’re fine.’

McLevy moved restlessly to the window and checked where it had been forced. Mulholland was right. Easy meat.

‘Ye should have better safeguard.’

‘Not many visitors. That entry.’

‘So he hid behind the curtains. Out he stepped. Made his move, eh? Out of the blue.’

Jean nodded, eyes still closed.

‘Did ye not think to keek in case? Aye a good idea tae keek behind curtains.’

A foolish statement that deserved no response.

He twitched back the hanging to see Mulholland and Hannah by the garden wall. The constable clambered up and dropped over the other side, while Hannah looked back and scowled when she saw
McLevy’s face at the window.

One of the peacocks approached her and she scuffed her boot to send the bird scuttling back to its fellows, making a detour round the boy Cupid, who seemed short of things to do at this
moment.

McLevy returned to the bedside. With her eyes closed, he could look his fill at the wraithlike figure, and he experienced a weird lump in his throat, as some unexpected emotion welled up like a
blister.

Was it all his fault?

Somehow.

Feelings creep up on men and then jump out of the shadows like an assassin.

‘The second blow – where?’

Her eyes snapped open to find his close scrutiny.

‘Are you gawking at me?’

‘Whit the hell else am I supposed to do –
where
did he strike?’

She licked dry lips and he quickly pulled a hand-kerchief from his inside pocket, dipped it in the jug, then dabbed it across her mouth.

‘It’s clean this morning,’ he announced. ‘The hankie.’

Jean smiled wanly for a moment, then her face changed as she relived the last blow.

‘He turned me over. To hit me down the front. I saw the cane jump. Silver. Turned away. Got it in the back.’

Salve and laudanum had numbed the agony, but she still felt it burning down her spine.

‘The doctors said – if he’d hit me. Front. It would have been a whole lot worse. Bad enough.’

‘Did he . . . touch you at all?’

A shaft of dark humour entered her eyes, pupils inflamed with the ordeal.

‘Ye mean – privately?’

‘Uhuh.’

‘He ripped my gown. Left me naked. But that was just – for the blow.’

She began coughing again, shuddering as her body registered the memory of that cruel invasion; he poured more water and offered up the tumbler but she shook her head.

James McLevy, nursemaid. Didnae fit somehow.

The hairy beast spoke through a thick moustache.

‘Then you must have seen him, eh?’

‘What?’

‘His face. You saw his face.’

‘Did I?’

‘If ye saw the cane, ye saw the face!’

Whatever thrawn compassion had been in his eyes was replaced by a look of fierce intent.

Of course it might be to avenge her, but more likely it was just a policeman on the trail.

And now he had a live victim.

For some reason her eyes brimmed up, so she closed them again. Tears get you nowhere.

‘I saw little. Face – white. A phantom. Never still. Only the eyes. Like the devil.’

‘Devil – how?’

‘Hate. Nothing but hate.’

The inspector was beginning to wonder if the man had some sort of refracting shield that blighted others’ vision.

‘If ye saw him again – would ye know that face?’

‘Not a hope.’

‘Even a wee bit?’

‘Not a hope.’

A flat statement.

Jean lay there with a curious sense of grim satisfaction. Bugger him. Hardly an ounce of sympathy did the man show, and anyway, it was the truth.

The killer’s face swam before her, melting like jelly.

Whereas McLevy’s was only too ugly and sticking out a mile. Thank God it was moving back, out of sight.

He looked round the boudoir; it was all very feminine.

Perfumed.

What must it be like to live in perfume?

The stink of death followed him like a black dog.