Authors: David Ashton
They served the law and the law takes no prisoners.
âI read that one as well,' said Mulholland, and the remark brought them all back to business.
âThe man kept meticulous account of his depredations,' McLevy declared. âAll his victims. Just referred to by initials mostly. Newspaper clippings as well. Two mysterious deaths. Birmingham. Manchester.'
âWomen of course,' added Mulholland, âof a certain age. Respectable. â
âAye,' McLevy scowled at his constable, âyour lusty widow had a narrow escape.'
âShe's not my lusty widow!'
Queen Victoria frowned. Tempers were fraying.
âAway and hunt out that address for me, constable,' ordered McLevy, âand we'll be on our way.'
The tone was in no way meant to mollify, and an indignant Mulholland marched out to do his duty.
Roach was never too unhappy when these two were at odds; normally they were thick as thieves and their superior the target for devious machinations. He looked at the letter again.
â
I could not bear the shame should my father find out what I have done
. . .' he read once more. âA sad tale such as you might find in a novel, eh?'
McLevy thought he might as well try to change what was proving to be an exasperating subject.
âWhit about your own literary dilemma, sir? The reading society â what is your decision?'
A strange expression crossed over Roach's face.
âThe offer was withdrawn,' he said.
âWhat?'
âThe women spoke together last night and some felt that the . . . advent of a man might . . . upset the balance.'
The inspector let out a loud, jarring laugh, and the semblance of a wintry smile appeared on the lieutenant's countenance as he twitched his jaw.
Then there was a long, sober silence.
âSo where do you go from here, James?'
âBack to the beginning sir,' answered McLevy. âAll the way. Back to the beginning.'
* * *
Once more a sugar biscuit was dipped into tea, once more the soggy mess disappeared into a gaping maw.
Mulholland sighed. It had been his idea to bring the gift; old ladies were, in his experience, notoriously sweet-toothed. What he had not anticipated however was that his inspector would commandeer the offering and proceed to stuff his face.
âVery nice,' said McLevy and licked his lips. âMind you, I'm more of a coffee hand.'
âI'm afeart we don't do coffee,' Jenny Dunlop observed in her most genteel tones.
âToo foreign,' Margaret commented wryly.
They were all sitting in the small room which the old ladies shared. Two single beds, each in a recess, indicated it was both living and sleeping space, and the whole had a Spartan, monastic quality.
âYou keep it fine and neat here,' Mulholland remarked as he glanced round. âMy Aunt Katy always says that a tidy room betokens a Christian mind.'
âWe don't cleave to possessions,' said Jenny.
âJust as well.' Margaret's lip twisted in a mordant smile. âSince we don't have an option. Ye need money for possessions.'
âShared, this fifteen years,' the other nodded.
âThick and thin.' Margaret smiled almost fondly at Jenny, who often reminded her of a frugal wee sparrow.
McLevy's own domicile was like a midden, with halfpenny books, forensic papers, scientific journals and the detritus of bachelor existence scattered right left and centre. If this signified his mental state it was small wonder he needed another sugar biscuit.
The inspector munched once more and, thus fortified, put forward a request.
âThe night of the murder. If you might relate events. From the very beginning?'
âWe've already told!' replied Jenny.
âTell me again.'
âThe inspector likes a story,' Mulholland said with no little trace of irony. In truth he did not know why they had returned to the cleaners unless it was one of McLevy's slices of instinct. He also had the feeling that something recent had lodged in that strange morass of a mind and, as usual, it would only be revealed in the fullness of time.
He often felt that there were in fact, two James McLevys. One, the belligerent, sardonic, wild-humoured individual, and the other a deeper, questing entity that Mulholland glimpsed only too rarely.
While the constable had thus been wool-gathering, the old ladies had launched into their tale and so he tuned in just as they were approaching the site of murder.
Margaret was in full flow.
âThen Jenny saw a big black rodent and let out a hellish screechâ'
âI did. I don't like rats,' interrupted the other.
âAnd I said Mister Pettigrew would see it far enough, and thenâ'
âAnd then ye said,
That's funny!
'
Margaret stopped. âYou're right, Jenny,' she said slowly. âI'd forgotten that.'
âWhit was funny?' McLevy encouraged softly.
âNothing, I'm sure, but . . . the man was like clockwork.'
A look passed between the two policemen before Mulholland leant in with an equally gentle enquiry.
âNothing, I'm sure, Margaret â but what was it, exactly?'
Jenny put her head to the side, exactly like a sparrow, and Margaret squinted as if summoning up the exact image that had caused her to wonder.
âMister Pettigrew, ye could set your watch by him. Every night, he aye met us at the rear of the train but that night . . . he was down by the engine. At the front.'
A thoughtful silence ensued.
âFunny that,' Margaret said finally.
âAch, his mind would be elsewhere, poor man,' Jenny said, almost under her breath.
âPoor man?' McLevy made a sympathetic face and shrugged for enlightenment.
âIf whit they say is whit they say,' said Jenny.
âAnd what is that, ma'am?' asked the equally concerned Mulholland.
âGossip,' announced Margaret firmly. âJust gossip. The railway's a terrible place for gossip.'
âBut we never repeat it, do we Margaret?'
âAnd I never listen to it,' McLevy concurred.
Margaret was by far the sharper of the two old ladies and caught another look between the policemen.
âA terrible thing, the gossip, inspector,' she said gazing straight at him.
âIndeed, Margaret,' he replied.
Then, at great sacrifice to himself, and for the sake of the investigation, McLevy pushed the plate of titbits towards the women and smiled like temptation itself.
âHave a sugar biscuit,' he murmured.
* * *
Small, precise steps sounded in the empty station as Thomas Pettigrew approached the rear carriage of the late train. Emptied of passengers, it awaited only the final rites of cleansing and inspection before resting for the night. He regarded the long, gleaming shape with obscure fondness. Its formal name was
High Endeavour
but it was known throughout the railway as
Puffing Billy.
Pettigrew smiled for a moment, then his face changed as he consulted his watch. They were late.
âI told Margaret and Jenny to wait for a while,' said a voice. âWe have business first on hand.'
The guard did not appear surprised to see the figures of McLevy and Mulholland looming in the mist of Waverley like inauspicious apparitions.
The inspector's face was grave â tired, even; it was the end of the chase, but he took no pleasure in it.
âHow is your daughter â Christina?' he enquired.
Pettigrew pondered.
âShe is well. Considering.'
âConsidering her condition, sir?' Mulholland said.
The little man nodded as if something long anticipated had been confirmed, and then walked towards them to continue his inventory of the train.
The glistening body was on his right, the policemen on the left as they all walked at a slow pace while the guard scrutinised the giant machine in his keep.
âI have made provision for her,' Pettigrew said finally. âAll of my savings.'
âButtressed by the money from the dead man's wallet?'
A moment's silence greeted this observation from McLevy before Pettigrew nodded once more.
âI thought it . . . appropriate,' he replied. âNo doubt it was come by dishonourably. I put it to another use.'
His delivery was exact, without emotion, and as they proceeded, his focus never left the wheels and carriages as the company passed them by.
âThat night. How did you recognise him, sir?' Mulholland asked.
âMy daughter had a photograph she treasured. Of them. In a happy moment.'
For a second Pettigrew stopped and closed his eyes, then he snapped them open and continued his slow progress. âI found it in her belongings. By accident. I would not have you think me to be a nosey man.'
â
I
am,' McLevy responded. âNosey as hell. The night of the murder, you were at the wrong end o' the train.'
âTo put distance between you and the corpse,' the constable added.
âIt seemed . . . a sensible precaution.'
There was even a touch of graveyard humour in the little man's voice, but it found no answering smile.
âThe dead man, in his secret case, had a letter from one Christina P.' McLevy announced heavily. âWe learned from Margaret and Jenny the rumours concerning your daughter, checked at her place of service and found that she had left under disgrace.'
The inspector shivered suddenly.
âCold in this place.'
âMidnight,' Pettigrew said dryly, pausing to rest his hand against the side of a carriage as if he could sense a hidden life within. âThe glass drops.'
McLevy jerked his head almost irritably at Mulholland, who had been a silent observer for the most part.
The constable took his cue.
âSo, sir â allow me to reconstruct events?'
The guard nodded a grave permission and the constable, monitoring his steps so as not to leap into the lead, summed up for the prosecution.
âFate decrees that the man responsible for your daughter's ruin ends up on your train, drunk as a lord, boasting of impending marriage. The train empties and there he is. Snoring like a pig.'
âSo, you helped the seducer on his way. To a deeper sleep,' McLevy said quietly.
Somewhere in the station a train let out a long, mournful cry like a lost soul. They were now at the front engine and it marked the end of the line.
The inspector stepped up to face Pettigrew, his face sombre and even somewhat troubled.
âI will not pretend to envisage the anger and hurt which burned in your soul at the callous betrayal of your own flesh and blood, causing you to commit an act beyond anything you could ever have imagined,' he stated. âBut I do know how you did it.'
âIndeed?'
âThat's a fine silver whistle you wear.'
Pettigrew's hand moved to clasp the object where it nestled against the stiff front of his uniform.
âA tribute for thirty years' service,' he affirmed.
In fact McLevy had only noted this as they walked, but it made perfect if sad sense.
âHangs round your neck by a strong cord.'
The guard nodded agreement. âLeather. Twined fast. My own making.'
âAnd with such you strangled him.'
âIt seemed . . .' said Pettigrew, âappropriate.'
This final and formal acknowledgement of the murder seemed to release the tension, and all three men let out a puff of breath in unison.
âThe only thing I regret,' the guard vouched, âwas the blaming of Angus Dalrymple. It was meant to distract but . . . went too far.'
âAye â you led us to him and it was his words that part led me to you,' averred McLevy. âAngus declared that when you arrived for the tickets, the man was boasting loud and rude of his coming nuptials. And yet you never made mention of that â just said he was civil enough. For a man as exact as yourself, I thought that peculiar.'
âYou would have found me in any case, inspector.'
âAnd you, sir,' Mulholland adjured solemnly, âmust accompany us to the police station of Leith, where you will be formally charged.'
âYou also have a timetable,' Pettigrew remarked with a curious glint in his eye. âThat's good.'
He put his hand upon the engine beside him as if taking its temperature.
âI know these creatures better than any human being â in fact prefer them. This fellow's nickname is
Puffing Billy.
Would you care to know why?'
Both policemen nodded, thinking the man was merely trying to delay the inevitable moment.
âBecause at this time of night,' Pettigrew fingered his moustache and smiled, ânear precise to the minute, the mechanism cools, but just before it shuts down it aye lets out . . . a last farewell.'
As if he had summoned up a spirit, the engine suddenly belched out a huge blast of steam that enveloped the policemen where they stood. Both coughed and spluttered, flailing around till they finally fought their way out of the cloud of vapour.
Then it cleared as if by magic. And also like a conjuring trick Thomas Pettigrew had disappeared.
* * *
As the two policemen searched round the vast cavern of the station like some frantic wanderers lost in a dream, McLevy yet found time for recrimination.
âYe should have kept on the
qui vive
,' he accused his constable.
âWhat about you?' came the indignant answer.
âI was attending to the larger concern â it is your function to look out for mechanical subterfuge!'
Mulholland snorted at that but the inspector suddenly stopped; his sharp ears had caught a scrabble, a hint of movement in a constricted dark passageway by the booking offices.
He put his finger to his lips, pointed to the possible refuge for a fugitive and signalled Mulholland to investigate the narrow confines.
â
Take your stick
,' he whispered. â
Watch your neck.
'