The Painted Lady-TPL (2 page)

“A painter of sorts, I believe?” Mulholland contributed, stomach growling like a hound on the scent.

“Aye. Handy wi’ a brush.”

More sniggers. McLevy was unimpressed. “I’ve heard the whispers. They mean nothing.”

Dunsmore decided to add some spice to the mix. “The night the judge died, he had a heavy cold. The wife was observed to serve him up a
potion
.”

“The function of a faithful spouse.”

“Faithful?” Dunsmore drew out the word as he puffed at his cigar. “That remains to be seen.”

McLevy waited further but the little man had vaunted sufficient, kept what he knew up his sleeve, and snapped his mouth shut.

The inspector realised he would get little more at this juncture and signalled to his constable who had leant over the bar and craned his neck to see into the bustling kitchen beyond at the back premises.

“Come away, Mulholland, we’ll leave these birkies tae their important pursuits.”

As they left, Dunsmore, never a man to let well alone, jeered a farewell. “Get after the quack medicine man, Jamie boy. Quack, quack!”

At the laughter McLevy turned and for a moment there was a gleam of animal ferocity in his eyes that stilled the sound and had Mulholland instinctively reaching for his hornbeam stick.

He’d never cracked the skull of a fellow policeman before but there was always a first time. If McLevy went for blood he would follow – that was how they played the game. Both had survived many a vicious battle by holding to that rule. One for the other, no matter what.

“Quack, quack indeed, Adam,” replied the inspector quietly. “You would know. Ye have a face like a duck’s arse.”

And they were out through the tavern door leaving silence behind.

In the street Mulholland took a deep breath – how close he had come to an affray he would never know but one thing was certain . . .

“That provender was sore tempting.”

“I lost my appetite,” said James McLevy.

If a passer-by had glanced in the window of Milady à la Mode in Princes Street, they would have glimpsed inside the shop two very contrasting individuals.

One was the squat form of a far from fashionable old biddy who sat grimly upon a chair like some Chinese dragon guarding the gates of hell, and the other a slim female figure who slipped in and out of sight, each time festooned in a different guise of dress.

Jean Brash was in her element, green eyes hectic with choice, red hair ablaze, skin smooth as the silk she wore, not a trace of sin on either covering.

Hannah Semple, the grumpy guardian, loathed shopping in such genteel surroundings. A market stall was more her style: haggle and be damned.

One owned the premier bawdy-hoose in Edinburgh – the Just Land – and the ancient other held position as her right-hand woman, keeper of the keys and indeed a dragon with whom to be reckoned if wielding a cut-throat razor.

“Whit do you think to this?” asked Jean, twirling around in an azure blue gown.

“It’ll cover your nakedness.”

“A different colour – pink maybe?”

“No!” Hannah’s pug-face darkened as she glowered at a nearby assistant who had been dancing attendance. “I’ve been three solid hours in this skittery wee chair.
Would madam like this, would madam like that, does madam’s backside stick oot like a coal bunker?
”

“It certainly does not,” was the tart response.

“I know you, Mistress. Ye’re lacking diversion. First ye shop and then ye get up tae mischief.”

“Well, I’m still at the shopping stage.”

Indeed Jean had a diversion in mind that involved looking her best and displaying all possible charms to an admiring male gaze, but that would be her secret.

“I’d even welcome McLevy on the scrounge for coffee,” muttered the old woman.

“The inspector’s in the huff wi’ me.”

Hannah grinned. “That’s because ye took in that big boxing mannie. A fine muckle specimen!”

The man concerned had been the loser at a fighting match Jean attended and his plight touched her heart.

“I was helping him recuperate.”

“Is that whit they call it?”

Though the boxer had departed a while back to punch his weight elsewhere, McLevy’s nose was still well out of joint. Serve him right.

Jean looked at her image in the mirror and frowned to observe two small lines tugging down from each side of a generous mouth.

“I better try the pink,” she murmured. “Nail my colours to the mast.”

Another beautiful woman, Judith Pearson, looked down from her portrait at the two policemen standing like sentries in the judge’s drawing room.

A funereal butler had brought them in and then gone to fetch his mistress but before her advent Mulholland had a word to say.

“This is not a good move, sir.”

“Jist observe the butterflies, Mulholland.”

For want of better to do, the constable cast an eye on the meticulously mounted display around them.

“A fair collection,” he averred. “Swallowtail – we have those in Ireland. Purple Emperor – not easy to catch, spends its life high in the treetops.”

McLevy peered at a specimen with a white bar on the forewing. “Very dainty, this wee thing, eh?”

Mulholland had nodded grudgingly; he had been shown the contents of Judith’s letter but found it poor reason to be out of their parish courting nothing but trouble.

“A Painted Lady,” he identified.

And as if on cue the mistress entered, dressed in muted colours tending towards black but by no means a full widow’s regalia.

Introductions were effected, positions assumed and Judith formally thanked the inspector for his response to her plea. McLevy looked as if he had swallowed a frog.

“Mistress Pearson,” he announced abruptly. “Let us dispense with the politesse.”

“By all means.”

“The judge died of arsenic poisoning.”

“Which might not have been discovered, had I not insisted upon a post-mortem,” she replied calmly.

McLevy grunted acknowledgement of the point but then launched into what his constable recognised as one of their favourite ploys –
keep the suspect out of kilter
.

“I did not like your husband.”

For a moment her eyes flickered, but with what?

“Might one ask why?”

“He enjoyed too much the punishment he meted out,” was the flinty response. “One young girl had tried to steal the wallet of a fine gentleman who was otherwise engaged with her. Whoring.”

This time Mistress Pearson did not blink.

“In the witness box she cried to break your heart. She had done it to feed her family, it was her first offence, she begged for the court’s mercy. The judge smiled and sentenced her to fifteen years.”

Mulholland put in an equalising aside. “We were the arresting officers, sir.”

“But I had no delight in it. The judge
smiled
.”

In the silence all three took stock. The officers saw a woman of singular beauty with a secretive quality, raven dark hair, near to violet deep blue eyes, alabaster skin. There was something both inviting and contained about her – a combination that might unsettle many a man.

Behind her, the portrait, its purple gown glowing in the subdued colours of the drawing room, provided an odd disparity as if one was more alive than the other.

She saw two equally contrasting creatures. The constable tall, somehow boyish, as if growing out of his clothes, the hair fair, the accent soft and Irish, the eyes light blue – an innocent face that might lull many a suspect into inadvertent confession.

The inspector was another proposition. James McLevy, thief-taker, a chunky, menacing figure in his dark overcoat and low-brimmed bowler. The face white and broken, eyes boring into hers like a wolf sizing up its quarry. By no means a butterfly.

Yet he was her last hope.

“My husband was a cruel man,” she murmured, eyes moving to the mounted display on the wall. “I often thought that the great relish he found in the collecting of these beautiful creatures was in the fact that once caught, he might stifle their senses and then put them in the killing jar. To watch them die.”

“Was he cruel to you?” asked McLevy.

The watching Mulholland sensed an opening, but was it by accident or design?

She hesitated a moment and then spoke candidly. “He consorted with . . . loose women. And made no secret of it. The Just Land – that was where he took his pleasure.”

“What about
your
pleasures?”

This time she did blink at McLevy’s challenging enquiry. “What do you mean?”

“There are stories that you may have found solace elsewhere: a cruel husband and new love add up to a powerful motive.”

Another thrust that met with a calm response. “That is a lie. The portrait you see there is by Jardine Boothroyd. He caught my likeness. That is all. There is nothing between us.”

McLevy waited for further protestations of innocence but none came. Her face was like a shield and he felt a sudden surge of anger. A jerk of the head to his constable and the inspector turned abruptly to make for the door. “Well, if you’ll excuse us, Mistress Pearson, we are both busy men.”

“It’s a very nice picture,” allowed Mulholland on the move. “The fellow has talent, no doubt.”

For the first time her composure faltered and the cry almost wrenched from her. “Can you not help me?”

McLevy’s hand was on the doorknob and for a moment he thought he heard the sound of retreating steps on the other side; the butler perhaps – she had written of being spied upon.

“It’s not my case, and you’ve told me nothing,” he said turning the handle.

“Wait!”

His face was stony, disinterested, but he did stop while she struggled to find the words.

“My husband took a stimulant to . . . increase his potency. He boasted of it to me.”

She focused on Mulholland, who appeared at this moment a much more sympathetic listener. “Is arsenic not regarded as some sort of . . .?”

“Aphrodisiac, ma’am?”

Judith nodded chastely. “I found traces on his clothes. A white powder.”

“It’s a long shot,” said McLevy, unimpressed.

“His doctor can tell, surely? Alexander Galbraith in Palmerston Place. They were as thick as thieves.”

“Doctors are bound by oath. Goodbye, Mistress Pearson.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

The undertone of dismayed anger in her voice brought him back into the fray. “The night your husband died you mixed him a potion. What was in it?”

“Hot toddy. To help him sleep.”

“He certainly slept, right enough,” was the sardonic response. “Were you lying beside him that fateful night?”

“Our bedrooms are separate.”

“That’s nice. We’ll see ourselves out.”

She suddenly flung her arms out in an oddly dramatic gesture, as if an actor on stage. “I am innocent, I swear to heaven. I beg you, inspector.”

“That wee girl begged your husband and got fifteen years. As I said. Not my case.”

With that and a polite nod from Mulholland, they were out of the door.

For a moment Judith fought the panic as her other impassive image looked down. In a strange way it brought the fear under control. No matter what McLevy had said, he had come. The question was . . . what would he do next?

What the inspector in fact accomplished was to blow his nose vigorously outside in the street before addressing Mulholland. “Ye didnae say much.”

“I was observing the scene.”

“Whit did ye think?”

“Hard to tell with beautiful women.”

McLevy let out a whoop of laughter. “By God you’re right – hard tae tell whether she had it all prepared or it jist – spilled out like a gutted fish!”

“I know one thing though,” Mulholland said gloomily. “You’ll have noted those types on the corner over there?”

“I see them.”

“Haymarket men. We are in deep trouble, sir.”

McLevy nodded sagely. “You could be right and to that end, I propose that we part company. Myself to have a wee saunter round, and you to lawfully pursue the nostrum salesman.”

Mulholland did not bother to argue. The inspector was up to something; it would be designed put the nose out of joint of one Adam Dunsmore, a pompous nyaff that McLevy detested, and he, the constable, was in enough vexation already.

A shake of the head as he strode off. “No good will come of this, mark what I say.”

“I hear those words, Mulholland, and they strike sparks from the anvil of caution!”

Having called out this nonsense and for some reason feeling absurdly cheerful, McLevy waggled his fingers at the watching Haymarket men then slid round the corner to disappear into the crevices of his beloved city.

Alec Nimmo was hoping to do a roaring afternoon trade. It was a fine summer’s day, he had set up his open suitcase on a quiet street corner down by Leith Harbour and in no time at all he had gathered a curious crowd, mostly females, as he extolled his wares. He was a personable fellow with an impish gleam in his eye, a ready tongue, a quick wit and an easy smile, born in fact to sell worthless commodities to the public at large.

His tone was confidential, not strident, as he drew the audience in like bees to honey.

“Ladies,” he murmured. “No one knows better than I the trials and tribulations you face. The children, God bless their wee souls, are not meant to suffer the pains of ague and gum rot. They cry and howl for you their mother to soothe their brows and ease their aching breasts. You stand alone – a damsel in distress!”

Here, he mimed the part of a worried mother, which drew some laughter from the throng. Alec allowed a little humour, but sympathy was his keynote. His hands were raised up dramatically in the air like a priest’s, for indeed the bulk of his audience would be of the Catholic faith and credulous to a fault.