The Lamplighter (8 page)

McKnight folded the volume and set it aside. “That is all Munnoch has to say about the lighthouse itself. He has scant regard, in truth, for much else but his military campaigns. But for our purposes it provides a direct link to one Colin Shanks, a keeper at the lighthouse from 1846, when Munnoch visited, to his sudden retirement in 1867, aged forty-six.”

“Shanks being the man slaughtered last month while walking his dog?”

McKnight nodded. “No reason is given in the lighthouse board's records for his premature retirement. But I noted that a fellow keeper at the lighthouse also departed the board's services the same year ‘in tragic circumstances.'”

Canavan frowned. “Murdered?”

“An accident, according to what I was later able to find in the files of
The Scotsman
. During a violent storm the man was swept into the sea. It gives no indication how—just that his identifying cap was washed ashore two days later.”

“Any suggestion Mr. Shanks was involved?”

“It may indeed be entirely unrelated, though I'm prepared to add it to the list of mounting coincidences, and attempt to account for it only when I have gathered more comprehensive information. But for the moment I'll settle for the link to Colonel Munnoch.”

Canavan shrugged. “And Professor Smeaton? Anything in the book that links him to the Colonel?”

“Nothing readily apparent. But the rest of the autobiography is rife with combat and expressions of seemingly divine righteousness. Munnoch fought in Java, Persia, and the Crimea, and marched on Lucknow and Tientsin. He battled Mussulmen, Hindus, Chinamen, and godless savages, and his book practically drips with colored flesh and unbaptized blood. He has a peculiar eye for the exotic and sensational, and nary a page passes without a majestic Oriental palace or a great tempest.”

Canavan could not see the point. “He should have been a novelist, perhaps?”

“I merely ask you to imagine such a man pumped full of shrapnel and sent home to waddle around fair Edinburgh for the remainder of his days. Naturally he feels inhibited. Of course he hurls himself into his memoirs. And it's not unreasonable to imagine him turning thoroughly eccentric. He spurns, in any case, the pleasures of self-indulgence available to him through his wealth and hungrily seeks some righteous cause into which to channel his considerable resources. Or a friend, at the very least, who shares his combative temperament.”

“Professor Smeaton being a man of many righteous causes…”

“A man, you'll recall, who adorned himself in the very breastplate of righteousness.” McKnight reached for the second volume of the Colonel's memoir. “May I draw your attention to the final paragraph?”

“It's not for me to stop you.”

McKnight flipped through to the last page and readjusted his spectacles. “‘Unless you are fighting, you are not a soldier. Unless you are struggling, you are not a Christian. Unless you are armored in
the breastplate of righteousness
'”—he leaned on the phrase—“‘and sharpening your swords for the fields of Armageddon, you have no place in the Kingdom of God.'”

Canavan shifted. “Tenuous, perhaps,” he said, “but I concede there might be a connection.”

“And you'll assist me in finding it?”

“I'll agree to think about it.”

McKnight smiled and removed his spectacles. “Then we have most certainly made progress after all.”

Departing into a wintry breeze a few minutes later, Canavan noticed a squadron of bats winging frantically across the waning moon. But he was too preoccupied to pay much attention, still trying to determine if he should welcome his friend's newfound vitality with enthusiasm or regard it warily, as something innately volatile and potentially dangerous.

In recent times McKnight's whole punishing philosophy, his crisis about the very nature of the self—what Kant had called “the transcendental thread”—had radiated from self-doubt into the realms of misanthropy and self-hatred. Was there anyone, he had mused recently, who had the right to be called an individual? Was there a man anywhere who had not acquired his “thread”—his whole gossamer-thin identity—from family and historical precedents? Did he himself have the right to claim a “personality,” when his entire character seemed a composite of more famous Scottish identities? From Boswell, he argued, he had plagiarized his abiding fondness for the underdog; from Carlyle the icy disaffection of his devoutly Calvinist parents; from David Hume the very architecture of his philosophies; and from Sir Walter Scott his impatience with pecuniary matters and his heroic dedication to paying off his debt. But now even this counterfeit identity seemed to be deserting him, his recollections fading in the mist, and his past like a trail of ignited gunpowder sputtering after him and threatening to blow him apart.

Such men, riven with self-doubt, were of course vulnerable to fantastic theories and fabulous missions, and equally at risk of driving deeper into self-destruction. But Canavan now assured himself that he could never let that happen. He would sacrifice himself for McKnight as quickly as he would sacrifice himself for the world. But if the Professor continued with this investigation and, as an understandable consequence, was suspended from the University, then there would be alarming practicalities to face. Canavan barely earned enough to feed himself, let alone McKnight, and what was left over he shared with acquaintances and used to purchase offal for the city's stray dogs. Struggling with the complexities of dividing his meager income, or even reminding the Professor of his responsibilities in a way that did not sound condescending or reproving, he came upon the gates of Drumgate to find himself alleviated of the problem in a most brutal way.

In response to the desecration at Warriston, the Lord Provost had recommissioned officers of the Parks Constabulary to guard those cemeteries regarded as underprotected or significantly historical. At Drumgate at least two uniformed sentries were visible through the thorned gates, patrolling the grounds with leashed mastiffs.

Canavan no longer had a job.

B
ELL'S
T
EAROOMS
on Princes Street had a glazed veranda at street level offering sweeping views of the Castle and the smoking Old Town. Chief Inspector Smith, the “Wax Man,” freshly returned from London and mysteriously attired in a royal-blue doublet and dappled cravat, had secured a seat facing the gloriously sunlit promenade so that he might secretly admire the parade of sauntering ladies in their foulards, clinging gowns, and velvet ribbons, and speculate as to the texture and color of their undergarments. He had been absent for a fortnight and was keen to capitalize on his transborder notoriety.

“Quilted satin drawers,” he said authoritatively. “That's the new fashion in London, you know. Damnable nuisance getting the things untied, though. There's more loops and strings than you'd find on a cardinal's corset.”

“Is that so?” asked a discomfited Groves. He had his back to the street and was prodding distractedly at some kippered herrings on a small saucer.

“Cleopatra,” the Wax Man said, recalling the Egyptian Room at Madame Tussaud's. “Now there was a wench who knew how to impress a man.”

Groves glanced warily at the well-to-do ladies of the neighboring table, but in truth the Wax Man's superbly trained words had not ventured beyond their private space. “I've always thought,” he returned tightly, awkward with such banter, but keen to contribute in some way, “that with all the bustle around today, it's difficult to tell the Jezebel from the common housemaid.”

But the Wax Man, with his gaze absently tracking something on the street, did not seem to be listening. “Of course they don't know precisely what she looked like. I think they modeled her after a Greek seamstress or something. With the likes of my figure, though, you could rightly walk in and think you were staring at the real article. They spent a week just perfecting the eyes. The lass said she'd never seen such eyes on a man, like spring lavender. Spent another week on the skin tone, they did, and cut my hair from a Clydesdale's tail. Rarely seen locks so virile, or skin so robust, she said, in a man of my vintage.”

With nary a hair on his head since his twenties and already feeling adequately inferior—in fame, rank, experience, venereal achievements, and even bodily travails—Groves understood that he was meant to be impressed. “Do they preserve the mannequin in such a state?” he asked. “Or will you be required to return, now and then, so that they might update your features?”

“Oh, I doubt there'll be much updating going on,” the Wax Man chortled—not, as it turned out, with any sort of hubris. “No,” he said. “Unless the figure is as popular as Cleopatra and remains that way, these things are designed to be melted down and remodeled in some other guise, according to fashion.”

His own mannequin, he explained, had been molded out of the drippings of Socrates, the King of Siam, and William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania. In fact, it was Penn's suit he now wore—a direct exchange for his regular serge jacket, which he had donated to the museum in the interests of authenticity. “If I last five years in that Chamber of Horrors I'll be happy,” he said. “And if I outlive the dummy, I'll be even happier.”

This cheerful disregard for the mortality of wax, let alone flesh, left Groves privately nonplussed. He had just spent another night agonizing over the wording of his latest diary entries, and yet here he was sitting with a man who seemed to live exclusively in the present and had no real interest in his own legacy. A man whose memoirs, were he to invest enough time in compiling them, would all but obliterate Groves's in sheer contrast.

“You don't look the best, Carus,” the Wax Man said frankly, sparing the time to examine his colleague directly. “You should rest, man. Are you finding enough sleep?”

“It's…it's this case,” Groves explained. “Murder and the like. I won't be at ease until I have the culprit on the gallows.”

“But you must get your kip, Carus. An inspector's essential faculties are impaired otherwise. Doesn't matter if Genghis Khan himself is loose in the High Street, a policeman needs to regulate himself in all things.”

“Aye,” Groves agreed, though inwardly he bristled, for he knew he was the most disciplined man on the force.

“I've heard about the case, naturally.”

“In London?” Groves had secretly been hoping that the news would have reached the British capital and had made a point of checking the papers as soon as they arrived by coach.

“When I returned last evening. I had a meeting with the Chief Constable and the Fiscal. They wanted me to assume control, of course.”

“Of course.” Groves tightened, determined not to betray his alarm, though the Wax Man did not even seem to be looking at him but at some point beyond his shoulder.

“I told them Groves is a capable man. Like a good hound who always finds the bone. It's not for me to take over now, I said. Leave Pringle at his side, and Groves'll fetch a conviction.”

“That is certainly my intention,” Groves said, but inwardly could not decide if he was relieved or disturbed. He had arrived at the tearooms fearing that the Wax Man had summoned him to announce that the case officially was being taken out of his hands, the tea being a way of breaking the news gently. But now there was the daunting prospect that the crafty Chief Inspector had shirked the case exactly because he had deemed it too challenging, or even unsolvable. This returned Groves to the prematurely retired investigation into the murder of the lighthouse keeper Colin Shanks: a scandal he was poised to thrust into the conversation like a saber at the choicest moment. Inexperienced with such tactics, however, he was not convinced he would even recognize such a moment when it presented itself.

“I knew neither of them,” the Wax Man admitted. “Smeaton or the Colonel. Of course, they did not move in circles such as mine.” Like Groves he had a way of making such an observation sound like an insult. “But I knew of them. Birds of a feather and whatnot. Have you found any connections?”

“Connections?”

“Aye, you know…”

“If you mean a certain lighthouse—”

“Family,” the Wax Man clarified. “Of the victims. Were the families able to provide you with anything?”

Groves adjusted. “Not Smeaton's family. And the Colonel's wife is long dead.”

“Pity.”

“It's the extreme force that really binds the incidents. The monstrous strength needed to murder one and dig up the other.”

“Aye,” the Wax Man said. “The classic madman is troglodytal. Have you heard of Dr. Stellmach? I'll give you his address. Done all sorts of studies into such things. University of Berlin or something.”

Groves had indeed heard of Stellmach, who had assisted the Wax Man with aspects relating to psychological traits, and did not want to appear less informed. “I've always said there are two types of criminal,” he declared. “Those who have been turned that way by necessity and those that are steered that way by their blood, without any say in the matter. And it is my firm belief that it is the latter which in number now prevails.” He nodded, pleased with this little morsel of philosophy, which he had already recorded in his casebook.

But again the Wax Man seemed to be exercising an alarming capacity to sweep his eyes from one side of Groves to the other without even noticing him. “Oh, quite…” he said, returning as though from some illicit reverie.

Groves sipped at his tea. “I'm compiling a list,” he said.

“Hmm? A list?”

“Of the suspects to this point.”

The Wax Man looked disapproving. “Lists are one thing, Carus,” he said, “but it's boot leather that gets answers, not ink.”

“Of course,” Groves agreed, vaguely irritated.

“There's a woman involved,” the Wax Man decided. “It's rare that there's not, but with crimes of this sort of passion, there always is. Mark my words—there's a woman at the soul of this case.”

“Professor Smeaton was not killed by a woman,” Groves assured him.

“No, but by someone working on the woman's behalf. A possessive lover. A solicitous avenger. Did you not think of that, Carus? The power a woman can work on a man's mind is greater than any witch's potion.”

“Of course I've considered it,” Groves managed, and briefly entertained the captivating notion that the Wax Man himself was responsible. “But the biblical verse suggests a different motive than lust.”

“‘He was a murderer, and always was'?” the Wax Man misquoted. “I wouldn't pay too much attention to that. It could easily be a ruse. And it still doesn't rule out a woman. Munnoch served in India, did he not?”

“Aye, I questioned some of the men in his regiment. They agree he was eccentric, but certainly not mad. He shot some Hindus and black men in his time, but not one of his fellow soldiers, not even accidentally, so there is no evidence of hostility from the military.”

“Any involvement with the women of the Subcontinent, though? Those Indian whores can turn you inside out.”

Groves flinched. “From all accounts he was devoted wholly to his wife.”

“Or so he told her.”

“My investigation has not been helped by the fact that not a soul seems to have witnessed the crimes.”

“Regrettable.”

Groves now eyed the Chief Inspector steadily, resolving at last to make his move. “What do you do,” he ventured, “when there are no witnesses? No leads? Nothing to assist you with an investigation?”

“Hmm?” The Wax Man looked at him directly.

“If there's nothing pointing in any direction,” Groves went on, “what are you likely to do with a case?”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“What do you do,” Groves found himself prodding helplessly at his herring again, “when the mystery offers no answers?”

The Wax Man sustained his stare for a further second, then sniffed and looked away. “There's always answers, Carus, if you know where to look.”

But Groves detected a vulnerable tone to his response and finally saw his chance. “I ask because I have reason to suspect…that the current crimes are linked to one that occurred last month…one that fell under your jurisdiction.”

The Wax Man looked back at him again.

Groves cleared his throat. “The lighthouse keeper…” he said huskily.

And when the Wax Man still looked puzzled:

“At Duddingston Loch…”

No response.

“Walking his dog…”

And then, quite abruptly, the Wax Man unleashed a volley of laughter. “Oh, the
dog,
” he said, as though misreading Groves entirely. “The dog—aye.” He laughed. “A regular Greyfriars Bobby, that cur. Saw its master done for, let loose a trail of keech half a mile long—we found it strung out alongside the loch—and bolted home, scratched open the door, and threw a fit. Why, were you thinking of questioning it?”

Groves was speechless.

“Had to be finished off, poor thing. A wolfhound, too. Usually a sound dog.”

Groves struggled for words. “I mean the—the—”

“Ah, you think there might be a connection?” the Wax Man said innocently. “I see your point. The man was certainly torn open in an unusual way. Aye.” He nodded, considering the matter. “But on the other hand he had gambling debts, and a history in the brothels. Such men draw targets on themselves, and no one really misses them. His son, too, was very keen that I conclude the matter without upsetting the widow. It was the least I could do. But if you're saying you want to reopen the investigation…?”

Groves shook his head helplessly.

“If it has to be done,” the Wax Man went on, “then there's no avoiding it. I'll offer all my assistance, of course, but one thing you should know. The lighthouse keeper was the bastard brother of the former Chief Constable.” And he winked conspiratorially. “Best not to dig up too many such truffles if you can, Carus. Might get your snout bitten.”

“Of…of course,” Groves said, but inwardly he was astounded. In a matter of seconds the Wax Man had converted a stain of expediency into a banner of strength.

“Look at you, Carus,” the Wax Man said, leaning back in his seat and smiling victoriously. “Look at your face. Clearly you don't appreciate the mantle that's been bestowed upon you. Chief Inspector in a famous homicide case, sniffing around amid murder and mystery. The ladies will be onto you like flies to a carcass. Blood is like French perfume to the Edinburgh hussy, Carus. Any offers of assistance so far?”

“Assistance?”

“There's always a lass who comes forward in such murder cases, claiming to know a thing or two.”

“There's been no lasses.”

“Know nothing, most of them. Just looking for attention. For a good seeing-to. You wait—some lickerish little psychic will step out of her burrow.”

Groves remembered. “There has been one lady,” he said, “who claims to have dreamed the crimes.”