Nor Will He Sleep (34 page)

Stevenson leafed back through the book.

There was a hidden inscription he had missed in his haste to open the beginning pages.

To my rightful father,

Robert Louis Stevenson.

From his lawful son.

The writer looked at the figure who now stepped through the doorway, who had changed out of all recognition.

His dream had tried to warn him.

A Lawful Son.

And the square-built, sandy-haired John Gibbons, admirer of
Treasure Island
and toasted cheese had vanished.

In his place was a slimmer effigy, in a light suit that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight, face painted white, a silver cane twirling in his hand.

The Killer.

The dark night had fallen, but to the dead girl it made no odds. Her neck was snapped; Rose Dundas, one pale, bare arm outflung, the mouth twisted.

A young constable knelt beside the body, and shifted it so that the ashen, pretty face was caught by a random beam of light.

He knew her. He knew the reason for her death. He knew the man who had killed her and the man who had caused it to happen.

But evidencing this, my friend, would be a different matter.

Gash Mitchell looked at the young policeman and laughed in his face.

‘
She was a wee whoor, hingin’ about in the wynds, anyone could have kill’t her. I have been wi’ my freens, all this day and all this night.
’

The giant looked round his companions in the tavern who nodded acquiescence, and leant forward so that his rancid breath blew like poison smoke over the figure opposite.

‘
We have played cards. I won well.
’

His tongue played over thick, rubbery lips.

‘
And you – have nothing.
’

The man laughed like a drain gurgling with scum from the slaughterhouse.

‘
Not a scrap o’ proof.
’

Gash picked up a sturdy piece of wood from some kindling near the tavern fire and snapped it between his blunt, powerful fingers like a twig.

A sharp, savage crack.

That sound echoed in Mulholland’s mind as he gazed down at the two surprised faces in the lawyer’s office.

Herbert Lawson and Sim Carnegie.

The lawyer of Agnes Carnegie, deceased had been in the throes of reading out the terms of the will deposited with him some years ago to the only surviving relative, who stood to inherit a
considerable sum, when the door burst open and two policemen tumbled into the small, arid office.

The tall one, without a word, extended his hand with a sheet of good quality paper, whilst his companion looked around the dry woodwork with some interest.

A fine hidey-hole for eariewigs and the like.

Lawson took the paper and read.

Mulholland gazed bleakly at Sim Carnegie, whose sallow complexion had turned a yellowish, insanitary hue.

Lawson finished his perusal, minutely scrutinised the written name at the bottom of the sheet, and then looked up at Mulholland.

‘May I ask where this document was – discovered?’

‘In the continuing course of our murder investigation,’ came the solemn and smooth reply, ’we took it upon ourselves to once more examine the quarters of Mistress Carnegie. The
aforesaid article, as it were, came to light.’

‘Behind the Almighty,’ Ballantyne piped up.

Lawson decided to let that remark pass and nodded gravely.

‘This is without doubt the signature of Mistress Carnegie, witnessed by two churchgoers through indication of address. In fact I know one of them, Donal Darwin, shipping clerk and lay
preacher.
Highly
respectable man.’

‘Whit’s that tae me?’

To Sim’s brusque interjection, Lawson traced the date on the sheet with one lizard-like finger, before response.

‘I am afraid – your mother has – em – perhaps I might just read an excerpt . . . ’

Was there a slight perverse enjoyment that Mister Herbert Lawson might be experiencing?

Such as when poking at a loose tooth with the tongue, enjoying the sensation, unable to leave it alone, realising a weak foundation might suffer incremental damage?

Let well alone. A sore-neglected adage.

The lawyer read aloud, his dry tones in contrast to the sniping condemnation of the written words.

‘
The Voice of God has warned me that my son, Simeon Carnegie, wants my money for himself and detests my religiosity, being a man who lacks the smallest scruples of devout
worship.

‘
He tries to hide it but his sinful profanity cannot be denied. Like the stink of whisky.

‘
I now change my will to leave all my estate to the Church of Scotland, in the sure and certain knowledge that the money will be used for holy purpose.

‘
As for Simeon, I shall look down from heaven and see him in the flames. Burning eternally.

‘
This in God’s name – Agnes Carnegie.
’

For a moment there was silence except for a faint clicking that Ballantyne thought might be a deithwatch beetle lurking in some dusty crevice.

‘The woman was unhinged!’

‘Unhinged or not,’ Lawson observed dryly, ‘the will is properly constituted and witnessed. I fear, Mister Carnegie, that your visit has been rendered null and void.’

Sim snarled as he found himself under Mulholland’s steady gaze.

Bad blood between.

A young magpie had been savagely beaten. Her friend, a girl called Rose Dundas, promised to the police that she would identify the man, the girl’s pimp, Gash Mitchell.

The assaulted girl was too terrified, but Rose had courage enough.

Somehow Carnegie had got wind of the story and the next afternoon’s edition of the
Leith Herald
had a first article by their new reporter.

It was heavy hinted that a witness was coming forward, and by that night Rose was dead.

And the alibi of Gash Mitchell could not be broken.

Unlike the neck of a splayed corpse.

McLevy had been ill, taken to his bed with fever, so this was Mulholland’s case.

Lieutenant Roach had aided as best he could with the investigation, but eventually they had to admit defeat.

No-one dared speak against Mitchell now.

Mulholland had failed.

Rose Dundas was dead.

And the bitter taste never left.

Carnegie on no account took responsibility for what he had caused, claiming, like Mitchell, that it could have been anyone who killed her. She was, after all, a causey paiker.

A streetwalker.

Hell mend you now, Carnegie.

‘This is a dirty spite!’

‘This is the truth. Take or leave it.’

A near howl and a calm response, but it was nothing much of a triumph. Undoubtedly the moneylenders owed were the lowest type, and Sim would suffer violence until he somehow scraped up the
money.

If he managed it at all.

A brick through the newspaper window would no doubt be one of their first reminders.

With luck he might lose his job and spend a great deal of his life looking over his shoulder.

But Rose Dundas still lay unavenged.

‘I have a headline for you,’ said Mulholland. ‘Just deserts for a dirty dog.’

Carnegie let out an outraged yelp and launched himself at the constable.

For his pains he received one punch straight to the mouth, which rendered him groaning and bloody on the floor.

‘I’ll get it cleared in no time,’ remarked an unperturbed Lawson. ‘You’d be surprised what ends up on a lawyer’s planking.’

On the way back down the stairs, Ballantyne suddenly stopped as if revelation had struck.

‘D’ye think that wee cockroach was an instrument of God?’

‘In what way?’

‘It led us tae the path of righteousness.’

Mulholland gazed at the guileless face before him.

‘I’m not certain sure, Ballantyne,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing for nothing. There may be more to you than meets the eye. I hope so – for all our
sakes.’

Now it was the storyteller’s turn to listen. He was acutely conscious of being severely depleted in energy, so no chance of running for his life, especially in these
slippers – no – Robert Louis was a captive audience.

And also a fascinated one.

The murderer of two human beings stood before him.

Not from distance, like musket fire on a remote island, but a close-quarters killer.

Edward Hyde, take a bow.

Yet this was not a literary fancy. This was real. Best to remember that as the tale wore on.

‘Do you admire my Golden Book?’ the effigy asked.

‘It is . . . remarkably constituted. A work of art.’

‘A work of love.’

The effigy stepped a touch nearer and laid the cane lightly upon the open pages of the sacred volume.

‘She found it. The skulking old witch. I always kept the door locked, but the dull one must have – forgotten.’

Who was the dull one?

The effigy’s speech pattern had now a liturgical tinge, but Stevenson kept that observation to himself.

‘Here – in the deep cellars that I had made my own. Where no-one ever sets foot. She did. She did not lay filthy hands upon the book – I came upon her before that. But she had
seen – my secret.’

The cane slid from the exposed page, and took its part in a jaunty pose, in contrast to the formality of the delivery.

‘I
knew
what she would do. Not tell the witless worshippers, or more especially the man of God – no – but threaten. Hang it over my head, make me dance to her
tune.’

Then the effigy laughed with glee and skipped daintily around the seated Robert Louis.

‘She thought she was dealing with the dull one, the stupid one. She did not realise there was another to hand!’

‘And so you killed her?’

‘Of course. I followed her that night. She knew the secret. She had to die.’

The cane cut through the air in a series of chilling blows, and Stevenson could almost see the old woman huddled like a dumb animal in the rain.

Yet he had to hammer this through.

The writer was a part of it, after all.

The cigarette had died in his fingers, so he lit another and blew a puff of smoke that hung in the small cell like a cloud of incense.

Two performers in a play, but now that Stevenson remembered, he had never had much luck with theatrical productions.

But keep up the act.

‘What of the bible – the pages from –‘, he had almost said
your father’s bible
, not a good idea – ‘that were left on the bodies?’

‘A mere diversion. A present from the witch. Fell from her to the ground. It amused me to leave a holy keepsake on the dear departed souls, but – not for long.’

He indicated a small pile of ashes in the corner.

‘Burnt at the stake, I’m afraid.’

‘And Mary Dougan – what of her?’

This time the laughter was manic, harsh, a bitter black thread running under.

‘She
was
the secret, my dear friend. Why I left her on your doorstep. She
was
the secret!’

The
Foul Anchor
was heaving, air like chunks of grime, as John Gibbons moved quietly amongst the feral bodies of a lost tribe.

He had been instructed to spread the word, by process of pious pamphlets that were to be handed to men and women alike, in the hope that salvation might stir in their damned souls. The young
man was greeted with sly courtesy and downright insults, but pursued a dogged course, until he ended at a table where an old woman was slumped upon the surface.

As he slid the pamphlet into her outstretched palm, the woman stirred and opened her watery eyes.

Then her face creased up in shock and anguish.

She reached up a clawed hand and pulled him down so that their faces were almost touching, her breath fetid and reeking of raw cheap whisky.

‘You are my child!’ she hissed. ‘My boy. My bonny boy. I’ve watched ye grow. You are my bonny boy!’

Her mouth opened and closed as if she wanted to swallow him whole, like some creature from the deep.

He wrenched away from this nightmare vision and the old woman stumbled to her feet, clinging to his coat.

The fracas attracted some interest, with the barmen trying to peer over through the crowded room.

One of her cronies tried to haul the grappling parasite away and he heard her mutter.

‘
Leave him be, Mary – he’s too holy fur fornication.
’

Then he pulled back, almost using violence to extricate himself, and burrowed his way through the mostly unheeding throng, the pamphlets already trampled upon the floor.

Outside the tavern he paused and took great gulps of air – a drunken old besom; why should he be so disconcerted?

And what nonsense she had spoken.

‘
John?
’

His name. He turned. She was standing there, but now subdued, shrunken, timid almost. He put out a hand as if to keep her at bay, and the woman nodded acceptance, kept her distance. Then she
spoke quietly.

‘
That was the name bestowed on you. I wanted another, but I gave away your birthright. Not tae sell. Jist tae find a better life for my bonny boy.
’

He said nothing.

She was encouraged enough to speak on.

‘
A good woman. The wife of a holy man. No children. God had not seen fit, she said, tae grant her that boon. The night you were born, she came and took you away. I hardly even saw your
face.
’