David Ashton - The Painted Lady

Again this was a head and shoulders with the flowing line of her bare neck given particular emphasis, but what was hidden in the finished portrait was manifest on paper.

He turned abruptly, holding the sketch under his chin so that it faced out to Boothroyd who now had the benefit of being regarded by two visages, one admiring and one most certainly not.

“Judith Pearson — how deep does it go?”

Boothroyd was disconcerted by the unexpected question and the ferocity in McLevy’s eyes.

“I beg your pardon — ”

“You heard me! How deep did you delve, my mannie, how deep does it go?”

“A. . commission. Nothing more.”

The inspector paid little heed to this faltering response and tapped the sketch with a meaningful forefinger. “A kind regard in her eyes. Ye might even say desirous.”

The painter had recovered himself somewhat and adopted a lofty tone. “I have heard the rumours concerning myself and Judith Pearson, they are untrue and unwarranted. There is nothing between us.”

McLevy let out a roar of laughter to further rattle the composure of his target. “That’s what the wee widow announced. Exact same words.”

“The simple truth!”

A sly disbelieving look answered this vehement protestation and McLevy shook the stiff paper. “The picture tells another story, my mannie. Desirous!”

“I cannot help it if women form attachments!”

Boothroyd’s face jerked suddenly as if the truth had been ejaculated and McLevy intuited that perhaps, one way or another, should the man but know it, which he certainly did not, the painter might be exactly opposite to what he imagined of himself.

Not a predator, a victim. A weakling. He needed women. Needed to see his image in their eyes. McLevy also noted a faint sheen of perspiration on the smooth skin above the upper lip — a symptom of unease perhaps, or something stronger? Guilt was never far away, especially where murder is concerned.

“Attachments, eh?” he echoed, replacing the sketch. “So long as you don’t form them back?”

“Precisely!”

McLevy grinned like a wolf, nodded brusquely and left abruptly, without even a goodbye. Let him stew. But the inspector had a real case to pursue now and whistled cheerfully as he went down the narrow staircase.

One of Robert Burns’s less well-known airs: “My wife's a wanton wee thing, She winna be guided by me.”

McLevy was still breezy as he walked into Lieutenant Roach’s office to find Adam Dunsmore waiting like a bad smell while, surveyed by the icon of Queen Victoria, Roach was grimness personified at his desk.

“You’ve been busy, inspector. In the Haymarket.”

“A few wee visits,” came a blithe response.

“One of them to the Pearson house,” Dunsmore declared. “My men saw you.”

“As I saw them.”

“And the other visit,” Roach interposed, lips pursed, “was to a certain Doctor Alexander Galbraith who has written a formal note of complaint, which Inspector Dunsmore has been kind enough to deliver by hand.”

“A good deed never goes wrong.”

The lieutenant ploughed on, trying to contain a mounting irritation. “The doctor states that you barged into his consulting rooms and tried to prise out confidential medical matters.”

“Stimulants,” McLevy clarified. “I wanted to know if Judge Pearson had been prescribed such. Arsenic, for instance.”

“You’re havering, man. Typical Leith!”

Dunsmore’s interjection caused Roach to purse his lips further for a different reason — he was proud of his station and no one bar himself insulted his officers.

“And who told you of these. . stimulants, inspector?”

“The wife. After she wrote tae me.”

“A love letter, was it?” sniped the Haymarket man.

McLevy’s face betrayed nothing of the anger that was building. For two pins he’d smack the wee nyaff in the chops and have done with it. But he kept steady, remembering that he was dealing with a lower species.

“She merely affirmed that she had no faith in the investigation and felt it was prejudiced against her.”

Dunsmore went puce. “You’ve got a damned cheek!”

“You go to hell, Dunsmore.”

Before blood might spatter the picture of his Queen, Roach took command. “That’s quite enough, gentlemen!”

He rose from his desk like Moses on the mountain. “Inspector Dunsmore, you may accept my assurance that your investigation can proceed without further intrusion and that the matter will be dealt with here — severely.”

Dunsmore nodded pompous acceptance of the offer but before leaving, strived for the last word. “And McLevy, as for your precious Mistress Pearson, I have evidence that will show the dirty linen underneath. Dirty linen!”

Out he went and Roach surprised his subordinate with a quiet remark. “I don’t know if I much care for Mister Dunsmore.” Then just in case McLevy took that as a signal for further action, he added swiftly. “However, I want your solemn promise to interfere no more in this matter, otherwise I shall haul both you and Mulholland up before the chief constable for an official action of censure!”

“I promise not to set foot in Haymarket until I have your permission, sir.”

That came out a bit too pat for the lieutenant’s liking, but he nodded warily.

“Where is the constable anyway?” asked McLevy to alter tack before Roach became overly suspicious.

“He has been already reprimanded and I have sent him to my home to pick up a spare pair of trousers — it’s the least he can do.”

“I noticed the rupture in your cloth. Was it a dog?” enquired McLevy chummily. “I don’t like dogs.”

This brought to the lieutenant unwelcome memories of his recent debacle. “No, it was not a dog. Now quit my sight and for God’s sake try not to get into any more mischief!”

With the look of an angel of virtue that sat most strangely upon his countenance, McLevy slid out of sight.

Minnie Holmes, despite her profession, was a curiously innocent soul. In fact her apparent lack of guile attracted the older clients who could then indulge in patriarchal lechery of Biblical proportions. She had a small dainty face, a frame to match, and, in the main, seemed to find the world a puzzling proposition.

At this moment it was more fearful than puzzling as she sat between Jean Brash and McLevy in the kitchen of the Just Land. This was usually Hannah Semple’s domain where the old woman rustled up provender for the magpies on the principle that the girls needed sustenance for their activities in much the same fashion as an army marches on its stomach.

Jean had been informed of a tapping at the back garden door and opened it to find the inspector looming like a hungry beast in the dark night. No mention had been made of the recuperated boxer; McLevy had merely remarked that he was on a case and needed information as regards the chosen magpie of Judge Pearson.

She had been tempted to inform him in turn that he might crawl into the nearest dung heap, but by chance Hannah had just made a brew of coffee and the aroma not only gave rise to a wistful look on the scrounger’s face but brought out her better side.

Besides she missed him like a sheep misses a tick.

The Just Land was busy with the General Assembly being in Edinburgh; however, Hannah was sent to fetch Minnie and now here they all were. Gathered to worship.

McLevy came straight to the point, though he was not too comfortable with the subject matter. “Now, Minnie. . you were Judge Pearson’s preferred company, were you not?”

“He appreciated my beauty,” said Minnie.

Jean hid a smile. This could be fun.

McLevy slurped the fragrant coffee for succour. “Was the judge a. . vigorous man?”