well enjoy forbidden fruits at a somewhat reduced price. Be that as it may, two heavy brushes were dipped in the mixture and the sticky pitch lathered onto the elegant
ironwork.
This took a matter of moments and, due to the murky weather, there were no witnesses to record the shaking out of the large bags of cheap red feathers, which sailed gracefully through the
damp air to land on and adhere to the tar like stranded leaves in Autumn.
A bare spot had been left in the centre and onto that was firmly pressed a scarlet favour.
Had outside photography reached sufficient development, no doubt a posed group beside their handiwork would have ensued, but the young men had to content themselves with a brief moment of
shared glory then a quick leap back into the carriage, which disappeared down the hill into the lower reaches of Leith.
The operation was over.
Some time later McLevy and Mulholland came upon the scene from the opposite approach. On the saunter, back from St Stephen’s where the kneeling mourners had finally stopped praying for the
departed soul long enough to hand over the address in Salamander Street.
‘So,’ Mulholland said, to break what had been a long silence in the falling rain, ‘according to the Reverend Gibbons’ wife, after the women’s church meeting, as was
her wont, Agnes Carnegie left St Stephen’s around ten thirty in the evening.’
A muffled grunt came in response.
‘That would work out with the time of death by the time she got to the harbour, an old woman not fast on her feet.’
A seagull landed on the opposite side of the street and waddled over to investigate something that had caught its eye. It turned out to be some kind of red feather and not worth the poking of a
beak, so the bird flew off again.
‘The purse still in the handbag,’ continued the constable doggedly. ‘No robbery. Only thing missing is the bible. Why take a bible?’
‘Maybe it had a treasure map inside.’
Not much of a deduction but at least a response.
Mulholland waited for further pieces of eight.
‘One thing I noticed,’ said McLevy as they trudged along. ‘Though much was made of devout and devoted and holy dedication I didnae sense any real affection for the
woman.’
‘Perhaps affection and the Church of Scotland do not go hand in hand,’ was the constable’s thoughtful rejoinder.
The inspector shot him a glance; this was an unexpected remark from a Presbyterian Son of Erin.
‘These bees are having an effect,’ he observed.
They then both went back to their thoughts.
Fragments of that dream from the night before kept surfacing in McLevy’s mind. It was not at all unpleasant in repetition; the fear and dread previously experienced at the wizened
apparition had been replaced by a vague scintilla of guilty pleasure as a picture replayed the naked female forms flitting ghostlike behind the writhing fronds.
Of course he was a young man in the early part of the dream – the wizened apparition had taken a back seat till later – that would explain the pleasure.
Did one of them not now bear a fleeting resemblance to Jessica Drummond?
McLevy wrenched his mind back to the case but the naked carcass of Agnes Carnegie had limited charm.
Mulholland sneaked a look at his inspector and noticed him wincing as if in some pain and rubbing at his arm. The rain had reduced to occasional drops as if the clouds could not squeeze out any
more liquid for a while, but McLevy seemed oblivious, as if caught within some internal strife.
It was a worry to the constable. What was this pain? Was it the same old hurting McLevy had suffered for a while or was this agony new-minted?
The constable wanted the previous persona back to blight his life. Bellowing the odds, terrible shafts of illogical temper, wild humour, weird flights of fancy, blaming all and sundry except
himself for the mess into which he inevitably blundered like a bull at the peat-bog.
In other words, human.
James McLevy.
This
ironwork.
This took a matter of moments and, due to the murky weather, there were no witnesses to record the shaking out of the large bags of cheap red feathers, which sailed gracefully through the
damp air to land on and adhere to the tar like stranded leaves in Autumn.
A bare spot had been left in the centre and onto that was firmly pressed a scarlet favour.
Had outside photography reached sufficient development, no doubt a posed group beside their handiwork would have ensued, but the young men had to content themselves with a brief moment of
shared glory then a quick leap back into the carriage, which disappeared down the hill into the lower reaches of Leith.
The operation was over.
Some time later McLevy and Mulholland came upon the scene from the opposite approach. On the saunter, back from St Stephen’s where the kneeling mourners had finally stopped praying for the
departed soul long enough to hand over the address in Salamander Street.
‘So,’ Mulholland said, to break what had been a long silence in the falling rain, ‘according to the Reverend Gibbons’ wife, after the women’s church meeting, as was
her wont, Agnes Carnegie left St Stephen’s around ten thirty in the evening.’
A muffled grunt came in response.
‘That would work out with the time of death by the time she got to the harbour, an old woman not fast on her feet.’
A seagull landed on the opposite side of the street and waddled over to investigate something that had caught its eye. It turned out to be some kind of red feather and not worth the poking of a
beak, so the bird flew off again.
‘The purse still in the handbag,’ continued the constable doggedly. ‘No robbery. Only thing missing is the bible. Why take a bible?’
‘Maybe it had a treasure map inside.’
Not much of a deduction but at least a response.
Mulholland waited for further pieces of eight.
‘One thing I noticed,’ said McLevy as they trudged along. ‘Though much was made of devout and devoted and holy dedication I didnae sense any real affection for the
woman.’
‘Perhaps affection and the Church of Scotland do not go hand in hand,’ was the constable’s thoughtful rejoinder.
The inspector shot him a glance; this was an unexpected remark from a Presbyterian Son of Erin.
‘These bees are having an effect,’ he observed.
They then both went back to their thoughts.
Fragments of that dream from the night before kept surfacing in McLevy’s mind. It was not at all unpleasant in repetition; the fear and dread previously experienced at the wizened
apparition had been replaced by a vague scintilla of guilty pleasure as a picture replayed the naked female forms flitting ghostlike behind the writhing fronds.
Of course he was a young man in the early part of the dream – the wizened apparition had taken a back seat till later – that would explain the pleasure.
Did one of them not now bear a fleeting resemblance to Jessica Drummond?
McLevy wrenched his mind back to the case but the naked carcass of Agnes Carnegie had limited charm.
Mulholland sneaked a look at his inspector and noticed him wincing as if in some pain and rubbing at his arm. The rain had reduced to occasional drops as if the clouds could not squeeze out any
more liquid for a while, but McLevy seemed oblivious, as if caught within some internal strife.
It was a worry to the constable. What was this pain? Was it the same old hurting McLevy had suffered for a while or was this agony new-minted?
The constable wanted the previous persona back to blight his life. Bellowing the odds, terrible shafts of illogical temper, wild humour, weird flights of fancy, blaming all and sundry except
himself for the mess into which he inevitably blundered like a bull at the peat-bog.
In other words, human.
James McLevy.
This
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