Trick of the Light (43 page)

‘You were in fact betrayed to the Federal agents and shot at in the Leith Docks. The bullet hit and down ye went, yet by some miracle you survived, eh?’

John Donnachie was seemingly unsurprised by the details at McLevy’s fingertips. He thought once more of his grandfather’s watch that he always had worn high, over the heart, and finally spoke.

‘Miracles can happen, sir.’

In his words it might be possible to catch some cadence of the South but the man had assimilated the local accent well enough.

Protective colouration. A shape-changer. Proteus.

‘Right enough,’ said McLevy. ‘As the killer stooped over tae finish the job no doubt, you quite rightly shot him in your turn. Self-defence, no argument there, though the letter of the law might argue otherwise.’

The inspector poured out another glass of water and slugged it back. Thirsty work.

‘But it’s what ye did next that more catches at my concern. You were witnessed to change clothing with this man then blow his face tae buggery. I trust he was dead first.’

The farmer inclined his head slightly, but no more than that.

‘Now I have read all your letters, sir. And I believe I can fathom the cause behind your actions.’

‘My letters?’

‘To your wife. I’ll get tae that later.’

For the first time the man seemed taken aback and his eyes shifted to Mulholland.

‘Don’t look at me,’ said the constable. ‘I’m just along for the ride.’

For a moment a glance passed between him and the inspector; no matter how uncanny the circumstance it was good to be in tandem once more.

‘I believe your soul was sick of war. Death. All that made you what you were and held you fast. You saw this as an opportunity to find another life. To leave it all behind.’

John Donnachie closed his eyes.

This man who had come from out of the blue, with his white parchment face and slate grey eyes, would seem to know the depth of his very being.

It was the truth. He had indeed been sick in his soul to the point where he no longer cared, no longer felt that life had any meaning. Only death. In that fine state, he had strayed, fallen, gone to a bawdy-hoose, a low-class place to further abase himself and there met a girl new arrived from the country.

Kirstie Donnachie.

A small girl, bright-eyed, dark-haired, with a low centre of gravity.
Near to the earth
she liked to joke.

In anger she had left a demanding father and come to the city for excitement. Instead she had found whoredom.

And then she had found him.

When he sighted down the pistol at William Mitchell, it was indeed himself he was destroying.

Even the hair colour was the same. Only the face was different. And then there was no face to worry over.

He left his papers on the body along with his wedding ring jammed upon the dead finger and returned to his lodging to collect some pitifully few belongings, one of which was his old Confederate uniform.

To honour John Findhorn if nothing more.

As for his wife, Melissa?

That was a dream. A dream he no longer believed in. She would manage. The South would lose but her family were rich – she’d make a pretty widow and would find someone else.

They had no children. Nothing to hold them together.

So he had grabbed Kirstie from the Happy Land and they had run like two children far, far away from the city, back to where she was born and raised.

They had married and John had taken her name.

Old man Donnachie had been suspicious at first but then when he saw how the man worked day and night, broke his nails, scarred his fine delicate fingers with hard labour, the old man, as is the way of Scots, took him to his heart.

Then the father died, Kirstie was left the farm and she and her man settled for a life that was hard but had its own rewards. Nature is cruel, but she is also generous.

The twins arrived and life was full.

The farmer had much to lose.

The policemen watched as Donnachie walked away and leant upon a sideboard, close to the wall.

‘What do you want from me?’ he asked softly.

Not for the first time McLevy surprised his constable.

‘Confession would be nice but I doubt you’re in the mood,’ he replied. ‘In fact without that, I have little proof. A wee boy eighteen years ago on a dark night, the compromised testimony of a bawdy-hoose keeper, a photo that gets near you but not enough. No, you’re in the clear unless you sing like a lintie. And as I have said, I doubt that to happen.’

Donnachie slid the sideboard drawer back into place and turned to face them.

‘Then what do you want here?’

McLevy seemed to have become stone, Mulholland though tilting a little was also immobile.

They waited. The farmer took a deep breath.

‘How did you get the letters?’

‘Your daughter brought them,’ said McLevy. ‘All the way from America.’

He suddenly let out a whoop of discordant laughter while Donnachie took his turn to freeze.

‘Ye spent a night wi’ your lawful wife, your bride Melissa, before – by the way, does wee Kirstie know she might be bigamously betrothed?’

‘We have no secrets,’ Donnachie replied tightly.

‘That’s nice. Well, before the battle of Gettysburg you went home to kiss the bride. Nine months later, she bore you a daughter. No way she could inform you of such because she didnae know where you were biding.’

‘It’s a tricky business,’ said Mulholland.

‘It is, constable,’ rejoined McLevy, not taking his eyes from those of the farmer. ‘Your daughter, sir, arrived in this country under the name of Sophia Adler. She carried your letters, a photograph and vengeance in her heart.’

Donnachie closed his eyes once more. Sophia. Wisdom. The name stood for wisdom. He and Melissa when love’s young dream was holding true, had chosen that name.

For a child to be. One day. When the war was over.

‘She had changed the surname tae Adler. Who knows why? Like yourself. In disguise. Must run in the family.’

McLevy now stepped in close and Mulholland moved discreetly to the side, gripping at his stick in case things got out of hand.

The inspector could see traces of Sophia in the man’s face; not much but it was there.

‘For your sake, for your betrayal and supposed death, she caused a man called Gilbert Morrison to be murdered. He wisnae much and he had indeed betrayed you like Judas, but he had some right to live.

‘I myself put two bullets into the murderer, Magnus Bannerman, who was persuaded to the act by your daughter.’

McLevy’s face became sombre as he prepared to deliver the last rites for Sophia Adler.

‘What has happened to her?’ asked Donnachie, with a dry rasp to his voice.

‘She is dead, sir. Shot. A stray bullet. A fateful accident. She died in delusion.’

Donnachie’s face was set and showed no emotion.

‘Is there anything you would care to contribute?’

To this request of the inspector’s, the man shook his head. ‘I have nothing more to say.’

McLevy snapped upright, jerked his head towards the door and Mulholland realised again to his surprise that the inspector did not intend to stay much longer.

Donnachie stood in the centre of the room, an isolated figure in rough farming clothes.

Something in his stillness irritated McLevy beyond measure as if the man had absorbed all but not felt it.

The inspector spat out the words like bullets.

‘Two days from now she’ll be buried in Dean Cemetery wi’ a crowd of folk who did not know her standing around the grave. Perhaps she would have taken the same road anyway, but your decision eighteen years ago has caused the death of three people, one of whom was your own flesh and blood. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it!’

With that he was out of the door.

Mulholland paused before following. He had noticed some home-made toys in a box to the side.

‘You have children of your own now, sir?’ he queried.

The man made no response.

‘Let’s hope you take good care of them,’ said the constable, and followed his inspector out of sight.

After a long moment, John Donnachie moved over to the sideboard and opened up the drawer.

He took out the long black revolver and hefted it in his hand. How many men had it killed in its time?

How many?

Mulholland had to put on a bit of speed to catch up with McLevy, anger putting wings on the inspector’s feet.

‘It’s a long way to come to go all the way back again,’ observed the constable.

‘True enough,’ grunted the inspector, noting that the pony and trap had put in an appearance at the bottom of the road as arranged.

Timing was everything.

‘So we’re just going to let him free?’ muttered Mulholland, whose wound was giving him gyp and all for nothing.

‘Our only hope was confession, and I knew as soon as I saw the man he would not crack. Too much to lose – wait!’

McLevy lifted his head and turned back towards the farm.

‘Did you hear something?’

‘Not a dicky-bird.’

‘A crack? Gunshot?’

‘You’ve got them on the brain.’

‘Aye. Right enough,’ said McLevy and they walked on down.

‘So, we’re just letting him go?’

‘Will you stop saying that!’

Things were getting back to normal between them.

 ‘It just seems a long way,’ said Mulholland, like a dog with a bone.

‘All right, all right. I came out here because – because – aghhh.’

McLevy threw his arms up in the air and sighed.

‘It’s all very Greek. Revenge. Retribution. I felt – I felt I owed it to Sophia Adler and don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. It is beyond my comprehension. But – I have told him tae his face. Now, he knows. Though she does not.’

‘Unless she’s floating around with the spirits?’

The constable’s remark stopped McLevy in his tracks for a moment.

‘Indeed. Unless that highly unlikely eventuality has occurred. Now, come on. The case is closed!’

McLevy hammered his low-brimmed bowler firmly on to his head as the wind was beginning to rise.

Timing is everything.

43

On doit des égards aux vivants: on ne doit aux morts que la vérité.

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

V
OLTAIRE

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.