Nor Will He Sleep (35 page)

Then she smiled. It transformed her and for the first time he wondered if there might be some macabre truth in what she was relating. But surely not?

‘
I watched ye grow. I would hide and watch. In the street at your home. Outside the church. With the holy man. A fine boy. A decent boy. My son.
’

Tears began to run down her face and he felt a disgust and fury boil up inside – had his whole life been some kind of despicable trick?

How could he spring from a tavern whore?

‘
There is no truth in what you say!
’

‘
Ask the good woman. She cannot lie. By dint of God.
’

That part told, the effigy laughed.

‘I was born that night. In the moment when the dull one wished to strike her down but did not. Buried it deep. Where he had buried me. All these years under all that goodness, strangled
and buried me – there was I born!’

He raised both arms into the air, as if receiving some blessing, and skipped around to some merry, mental tune.

‘She was left there like a scarecrow in the field. But her last words whispered the name of the real father. A man she had loved. Her plight known only a certain time after he had gone. To
pursue a different life. A life of fame and fortune.’

Stevenson was silent, his mind racing. He was dealing with a candidate for Bedlam, but there was a weird, touching vulnerability, as if a protective skin had been wrenched away that invited
pity, yet had an attendant danger that one wrong move might unleash a psychotic killing fury.

Father or no father, my friend.

So keep your mouth shut and wits sharp. In addition, whatever happens, don’t forget to smoke.

The effigy was pleased enough with the writer’s silence – it signalled belief, for who could not believe such a history? Now it may pour out like a cleansing stream.

‘The dull one, the stupid one, he went to the good woman and asked. More tears, but she confessed. Yes, it was true. Her womb was sterile. By grace of God.’

The effigy poked with his cane at the small heap of ashes that lay in the corner.

‘The good woman was persuaded not to tell the man of God what she confessed to the son they never created. Keep it between – their little secret. Bury it deep, eh?’

Robert Louis blew out a puff of encouraging smoke. It was the least he could do.

‘Of course, the dull one adored him. Even when he knew the truth. But not I. The man of God.
Fruit of my loins.
His words often.
Fruit of my loins. Liar!
’

A sudden, vicious slash of the cane scattered the ashes, some of which floated up into the air.

‘And so the lie was lived and I grew stronger. I searched the markets, found myself gay clothes to wear, a silver cane. I changed my face, pomaded my hair to darken down the colour, what
perfection! I ruled the roost. I came and went – as I pleased.’

For almost the first time he gazed directly at Stevenson, and it took all of the writer’s steel to meet those eyes and hold his nerve.

‘So you kept the Golden Book? And then when you heard I was coming back . . . ?’

‘I gave thanks unto the Lord.’

Savage irony in the tone, but Stevenson had a more pertinent question in mind – a perilous enquiry, but one he might not avoid and live with his conscience.

‘Mary Dougan. She would not harm a living soul. Why did you end her life?’ The effigy seemed surprised.

‘It was for your sake. For
our
sake. As soon as you returned, I knew. She had to die.’

‘But she loved you.’

‘She had to die.’

‘For what reason?’

‘She was not worthy of us.’

The chilling simplicity of response almost took the breath away, but what followed was more than a match.

‘And for that I need your blessing.’

The effigy knelt before the seated figure, who had frozen, cigarette to lips.

‘I am your son. Give me your blessing.’

This was the moment Stevenson had feared; the moment that could not be avoided.

Mary Dougan’s face, twisted in pain, racked with a suffering that was never deserved, swam into his mind.

A blessing?

‘I’m afraid that may come at too high a cost,’ he murmured.

‘I’ll give you it for nothing,’ said James McLevy.

He stepped into the room from where he had crushed himself by the side of the door, witnessing without daring to move.

A listener split in two.

The inspector, no doubt, taking the part of the dull one.

McLevy had lurked opposite the house to watch the funeral procession leave, cursing himself for a fool.

Then he had cursed some more as the empty street mocked the great Thieftaker and late spring blossoms drooped down from the trees of Queen’s Street Gardens where he had chosen to conceal
himself.

Yet Stevenson was in the house – he had not left to throw the dirt on his father’s grave – and McLevy had this deep, or was it more desperate, conviction that the writer was
the centre of it all.

But conviction demands belief.

A feeling in the bones – does that constitute belief?

The park was full of well-upholstered wifies walking their glaikit wee dogs, both parties giving him an affronted glance as they traipsed past.

Then like a ghost Stevenson appeared at the window, and as if summonsed a carriage drew up.

It fitted the description provided by Tom Carstairs but the driver was no howling spectre – just the minister’s son.

Yet the funeral could not yet be over, not unless they slid in the coffin and banged down the sods? The Church of Scotland was not noted for such lack of decorum.

While the inspector puzzled this, Robert Louis shuffled out of the house and slipped into the coach.

The carriage took off suddenly heading past McLevy’s vantage spot towards Albany Street and as he jumped out to follow best he could, a Cairn terrier dashed in front of him trailing back a
long lead to its dumpy but fashionably garbed female owner.

His foot caught the line and the inspector fell flat on his face.

Had he time he would have first kicked the dog and then the woman but, ignoring her apologies though she seemed more concerned with the yelping canine, McLevy scrambled to his feet and ran off
in hot pursuit.

It was an unequal contest and the inspector was scarce fleet of foot – he puffed along in time to see the carriage far in the distance turn left at the end of Albany Street and
disappear.

The pursuer let out a howl of frustration and the woman with the dog retreated rapidly back into the park until this mustachioed madman had quit the scene.

For a moment McLevy thought to run the length of the long thoroughfare in the hope that he might catch a glimpse of the vehicle to the left but common sense told him this was not an option.

He stopped; his hands fell loosely by his side and he closed his eyes.

Think, damn you.

Never mind whether it was a conspiracy or accidental meeting, where the hell might they be going?

His mind flipped back over the events of this case with a speed that belied the stolid set of his features.

The church. St Stephen’s. It had tae be. That’s where it began, that’s where it would end.

It had tae be.

He turned and walked slowly in the opposite direction to that which the carriage had taken.

It would swing back.

It had tae be.

Besides, it was his only hope, and when you have just the one hope – dress it up as best you can.

McLevy had retraced his footsteps and made his way deliberately towards St Stephens. Eventually he stood before the uncompromisingly dour face and decided to try his luck at the rear of the
building.

And there it was.

It had tae be.

The empty carriage reins tied to a stone post, horse munching contentedly at a nosebag of oats. There was a small stables nearby, so the carriage would be for the minister’s usage –
to visit the poor, no doubt.

But to what other uses might it lend a hand?

A small door was directly opposite the coach, but when he tried the handle, it was tight locked.

Nothing, however, can withstand the might of the law.

Or a criminal craftsman’s lockpicks.

How McLevy had come by them was another tale, but he could use them like a born thief.

Though he had never broken into a church before.

Moments later, he was inside.

The interior was gloomy, the sun having given up the ghost, though some grey light filtered through the tall, narrow windows.

But sight was not at a premium.

He could hear the faint murmur of voices from the bowels of the empty church and followed them down a series of deep, winding staircases, until he came to a partially opened door. Through the
aperture he could see Robert Louis sitting, puffing calmly at a cigarette.

Did the man ever stop smoking?

Then he saw the other figure.

Then he listened for a long, long time.

Then he walked into the room.

‘I’ll give you the blessing of the law,’ James McLevy stated, with a heavy old revolver now hanging loosely in his right hand.

It looked like a museum piece, yet had put an end to more than one life, especially at close quarters.

The effigy moved back into the gloom, but Stevenson seemed unsurprised – indeed since his chair faced directly to the door, he had remarked what might have been a shadow of sorts, and was
desperately hoping that it might help him get out of this predicament alive.

For he was in no doubt that to provoke that psychotic fury was to kiss the girls goodbye.

It was the best of all possible worlds that, instead of being some old biddy from the church, the shadow had turned out to be none other than the Thieftaker.

Or had he somehow always known?

‘I am pleased to see you, inspector,’ he said. ‘Visitors are always welcome.’

McLevy was in no mood for politesse.

He must not be distracted for a moment from the pale outline that had moved to the side of the cell.

‘Whatever your changing form, I will address you by the name known tae me – John Gibbons, I charge you with two vicious, cowardly murders and one attempted.’

‘Jean Brash?’

‘Ye damned near killed her.’

‘What a pity. Just another whore.’

Stevenson observed McLevy’s body stiffen with fury, but the policeman’s concentration was unwavering as he raised the revolver while his other hand reached into an overcoat pocket
for the restrainers.

‘You will drop the cane and turn your back to me.’

The effigy ignored this and spoke only to Stevenson.

‘Give me your blessing. You are my father.’

Robert Louis provided no answer.

‘Turn before I bring you to your knees!’

At McLevy’s command the effigy drooped as if winded, began to turn as bidden, but then whirled and lashed out with the cane – a ferocious blow which cut the inspector just above the
eye, drawing blood at once.

Another blow sent the revolver scudding out of McLevy’s hand. A howl of rage issued from the policeman as his fist smashed into the guts of his adversary, doubling over the effigy and
sending him reeling backwards, a look of pain and astonishment on the mask of a face.

This was not part of his world.

By chance his trajectory ended beside the open door and before the inspector could continue his furious response, the figure darted out of the doorway into the darkness beyond.

McLevy scrabbled for the revolver and cursed to see that the firing-pin had been knocked askew so that the weapon would not fire.

He hefted it anyway to give appearance of a lethal authority and prepared to follow the effigy; the blood was running freely down his face from the lacerated eye and he cast one scornful, savage
glance at the writer, who sat as if frozen to the chair.

‘You are a bloody menace, Stevenson!’

And with that he was out of the door.

Robert Louis sat for a long moment, the cigarette dead in his fingers, and then let out a long gasp of air.

He bowed his head in pain and anguish.

This also was not his world.

McLevy burst into the body of the kirk – blood-spattered, wild eyed, revolver in hand.

The place was empty, pews gaping, organ pipes huddled together for company, the bare stone floor showing no sign of recent passage, and the pulpit looming overhead like the prow of a ghost
ship.

The inspector mopped at his eye with a hankie and gasped for breath. He had hurtled up the narrow staircase from the cell with best speed, but emerged to find nothing.

His quarry could be anywhere; there was a plethora of side doors, some of which might even lead to the outside street, but McLevy had an instinct the man was still here.

He calmed his breathing, held the hankie tight against welted, weeping skin, and waited.

A hollow church.

Silence.

Then a faint scrape took McLevy’s gaze high up to the bell tower, part of which looked down upon the interior and a balustrade of sorts fenced off an area where a well-like staircase led
even higher into the campanile.

As the inspector strained his eyes, he thought he glimpsed a grey smear amid the dark surroundings of stained oak above, yet he could not be sure.

There was a small access door on the south side, which no doubt led to the vestibule under the tower.

So be it.

He crossed swiftly, and began to ascend the constricted stairwell, which gradually became pitch black.

McLevy walked like a blind man, hands outstretched, fingers hooking into the rough surface of the brick wall.