‘Come on. Before we dig into the plunder I have one more destination in mind. If God is truly on my side, our luck may hold.’
With that cryptic observation he was on the move and opening the door at speed.
‘What about the room? Look at the state.’ Mulholland remonstrated but he was also in motion.
‘The maid can do it. Or the lusty widow. Men make a mess, women clear it up!’
These inappropriate words echoed in the air as the inspector disappeared, followed by Mulholland.
The room was left in silence. Clothes scattered, doors gaping, bare floorboards scuffed and dusty.
Rough usage.
Ransacked.
* * *
The Just Land was in full swing, the fiddler sawing energetically as the magpies wheeched and swirled in the arms of a bunch of newly qualified medical students.
Not all could afford the service but Jean was willing to bend the rules a little; after all these were her future clients, and as their practices grew larger so would their pocket books.
It is often so with the medical profession. The ills of humanity are their meat and drink.
The main salon was awash with vigour and Jean’s blood was coursing in sympathy. Things were usually much more staid when it when their fathers were in situ.
That thought almost made her laugh out loud, but this was arrested when Hannah approached with a scowl upon her face that did not betoken glad tidings.
‘Mistress, there’s a commotion in the garden,’ she announced.
‘Are the students getting frisky?’
‘No. They’re well dug in.’
Hannah sought to emphasise the burgeoning quandary.
‘Your peacocks are howling blue murder!’
Enough to set Jean off and running. ‘If they are harmed in any way!’
‘Aye, well,’ puffed Hannah as she followed on. ‘It’s no’ my fault, I’m just the messenger.’
She caught up just as her mistress threw open the back door. The wind was howling and the dark profound.
‘Should we not call for Angus?’ Jean wondered.
‘I dinnae ken his whereabouts and I have my cut-throat in place.’
Sure enough, the blade of the old woman’s razor, an implement with which she was, in her own words, a dab hand, gleamed dully in the dim light of the lantern that was always kept by the back door.
Jean picked up the light and grabbed a heavy piece of stick always kept there in case of predators or recalcitrant clients.
‘Come on!’ she said, and they sallied forth out into the howling wind.
Raised voices, curses and muffled shouts led them through the darkness towards the source of the commotion, and despite her initial bold spirits, Jean felt a surge of trepidation — what was out there in the void?
‘Black as pitch,’ muttered Hannah, clutching her razor.
The wind dropped suddenly and Jean raised the lantern high. Its flickering rays revealed one man sitting upon another man with a third man hauling at the back of the recumbent and pinioned body.
‘James McLevy! What’re you doing in my garden?’
‘Sitting on your coachman while Mulholland gets the cuffs on,’ was the measured reply.
‘He won’t. . come quiet, Mistress Brash,’ Mulholland panted.
‘Nae wonder, wi’ that weight on him,’ Hannah growled, as with a loud click the restrainers were put in place and Angus was hauled up to face his mistress.
‘I had a wee notion Angus might try an escape out the back this night,’ McLevy smiled. ‘And I got lucky.’
A large bag stuffed with clothes lay to the side and it was obvious that the coachman had been trying to run off to begin a new life.
Possibly in Aberdeen.
Jean drew a deep breath. ‘Angus Dalrymple, what’ve you got to say for yourself?’
‘I was feart tae tell ye, mistress,’ he mumbled.
‘Tell me what?’
‘I was feart.’
‘That makes a lot of sense,’ said Hannah.
The inspector then coolly informed Jean that he had enough on Angus to bring him in with a possible attendant charge of assaulting a police officer. Sure enough, during the fracas, one of the giant’s flailing fists had connected with McLevy’s nose and a large trickle of blood had spilled its way down over his mouth and chin.
It gave him on oddly sinister appearance, like that of a vampire, but was small consolation to either Angus or the mistress of the Just Land.
Jean nodded acceptance of the proposed incarceration and equally coolly informed the inspector that if he or that lanky Irish specimen were found in her grounds again without permission, she would let loose a volley of small-shot at them to the effect that they’d be picking the pellets out of their backsides for years to come.
The constable tried to absolve himself but was informed by Hannah that he was well and truly implicated.
As McLevy left with the small black case hanging loosely from his hand, he called back a piece of advice.
‘Be careful, Jean. Such a firing implement has a terrible kick.’
‘I’ll brace myself,’ she said grimly.
Mulholland shrugged apologetically, shoved Angus out with one hand and picked up the man’s big travelling bag with the other. The giant had said nothing more.
The wind whipped up again and the peacocks began caterwauling. Joining them out of the darkness came the sound of James McLevy as he gave voice to a Jacobite air:
‘Charlie is my darlin’, the young Chevalier.’
‘He works all hours, that man,’ Hannah commented.
Jean’s face was set in stern lines. ‘I asked Angus once more how he had accrued the twenty pound and he maintained the racecourse story. A lie.’
‘And now he runs out on us. Guilty over something.’
To this shrewd point, Jean nodded.
‘One thing in the stupid big bugger’s favour. No matter how I twist and turn him, McLevy has an abiding interest in justice. He will not bend the law for easy conviction.’
They fell silent. A burst of merriment from inside signalled that someone somewhere was having the time of their youthful existence.
‘Come on, Hannah,’ Jean said, ‘back tae the grind.’
* * *
Lieutenant Roach, at his desk, leafed through the papers from the black case as McLevy, Mulholland and Queen Victoria gazed down upon him.
There was an air of justified and grim satisfaction to the inspector, though it was tinged with a certain nagging doubt. His nose was also still throbbing.
A policeman is never completely happy.
‘The fellow was no more Italian than neeps and tatties,’ said McLevy. ‘Fergal Dunphy was his real name.’
‘Irish, lieutenant. A Kerryman, no less, from his passport,’ Mulholland assured solemnly.
Roach shot the constable a look to indicate he was quite capable of reading a passport for himself.
He continued to leaf but McLevy, as well, could not resist further dissertation.
‘All documents, his diary and garnered newspaper clippings, a record of crime as long as your arm!’
‘Bigamy, sir. And seduction,’ added Mulholland.
‘Specialised in rich widows and susceptible young women in service.’
‘Some of these letters would break your heart.’
‘Would they indeed?’ muttered Roach — it was like having the recording angels for company.
‘Last port of call was Newcastle,’ pontificated the inspector. ‘Woman of a certain age swindled out of her dead husband’s hard-earned cash.’
‘Came back to squeeze the last drops!’
‘Wrote about it in his diary. Gloried in it!’
Roach picked up the aforesaid journal, then put it back down again for later perusal.
‘And so returning with his ill-gotten plunder,’ he remarked, unwittingly joining in the heightened exchange, ‘the malefactor met his fate on the late-night train.’
The lieutenant almost idly picked up a letter and waved it at them. ‘No doubt in the eyes of many he deserved to die, but who, if I may ask — killed him?’
McLevy frowned. It was a good question.