David Ashton - The Painted Lady

“You want it? You can have it!”

So saying, Alec threw the contents of his tray at his nemesis and hurtled off, only to be tripped by an unexpected boot that brought him hard to the ground.

“Alec Nimmo!” said McLevy cheerfully as he hauled the man up. “I thought you’d moved to Glasgow.”

“I came back,” was the gloomy response.

“That was a mistake,” replied the inspector as a none-too-happy Mulholland approached, spattered in brown liquid spilled from the scattered bottles.

“Oil of cloves,” McLevy identified amongst the odours. “Nice smell.”

“Plus the laudanum,” said the constable grimly, as he slammed the restrainers onto Alec’s wrists. There were no heroics from the throng this time — Roach had finally confessed his failure as regards crowd control and so, forewarned, one glare from McLevy sent them on their way.

“Well, Alec,” the inspector said to the disconsolate figure. “I thought market day in Leith would be too much of a temptation for a nostrum salesman and I was proven right.”

“I havenae done anything wrong, McLevy.”

“You sold a serving maid this mixture and she near killed two children with it,” Mulholland reprimanded.

“She must hae poured it doon,” was the indignant claim. “I tell them every time, jist two spoonfuls.”

The constable was unimpressed and McLevy shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, Alec, but the law is the law — ”

“Wait!” As Nimmo was about to be dragged off, his quick mind was searching out a bargaining chip. “The man that makes up the mixture, he’s mair tae blame than me, eh? An apothecary. Respectable!”

Neither policeman altered expression. Less said the more comes your way.

Alec’s words tumbled over each other in an effort to ignite their interest. “Dishes it out under the counter. Society doctors at the back door. Dishes out the drugs — cheap, cash in hand, nothing official, no records kept. Records do not inspire trust, eh?”

Both officers had heard of such criminality, though finding proof had always been the problem. Yet they still gave nothing away. McLevy sniffed at the oil of cloves emanating from Mulholland as if that was all there was to concern him and the constable jerked impatiently at the restrainers round Nimmo’s wrists.

“Wait! I can give you his name. They come from all over, he tellt me, the doctors. Princes Street, the Royal Terrace, Haymarket, everywhere!”

“ Haymarket ?” All feigned disinterest blew away in smoke as McLevy’s eyes lit up like a wolf on the prowl.

“Now hold on,” Mulholland said worriedly. “Hold it right there — ”

Nimmo smiled at the constable’s reaction and then flinched slightly to find McLevy’s face about an inch away from his own, eyes boring in like the east wind.

“I’ll do what I can for you, Alec, but you better not be blawin’ your horn. Nice and slow. No mistakes. Name and address. We can go in by the back door.”

Alexander Galbraith had large mutton chop whiskers that framed a florid complexion and a choleric disposition. It showed at this moment as he faced intruders in his home.

“So, inspector, not content with invading my consulting rooms, you now interrupt my mealtime as well!”

McLevy was unperturbed; not, however, Mulholland, who knew that if this went wrong they would both be up before the chief constable — at the least, official reprimand with a black mark on the books and at worst the added infliction of being taken off the streets and confined to desk work at the station. A fate worse than death.

The odour of steak and kidney pie wafted in from the kitchen where the Galbraith family sat waiting for a blessing from the master of the house as he launched into further vehement remonstrance directed at McLevy.

“I have already made one complaint about you, sir, but this time I shall go straight to the top. And let me warn you, I attend the same Masonic lodge as your own Chief Constable!”

Mulholland winced, but the inspector did not turn a hair as he threw out a casual question. “Templeton the apothecary. Do you know him?”

Galbraith blinked for a second. “I don’t think so.”

In for a penny, thought Mulholland. “Mister Templeton has premises in the Canongate, sir.”

“What has this to do with me?”

“You have certain similarities,” McLevy affirmed quietly. “Both weak and greedy men.”

“How dare you!”

But the accusation lacked a certain force as the inspector continued testimony. “The apothecary supplied large amounts of cheap laudanum to a nostrum seller called Alec Nimmo. We threatened Templeton with criminal proceedings and he cracked like a soft-boiled egg.”

“I. . I fail to see — ”

“His back room had all the opiates under the sun, sir,” Mulholland added gravely. “None of them noted on his receipt books — illicit sources, no doubt.”

“There’s a fortune to be made for a doctor dispensing to the addicts of high society — get it cheap, sell it dear, and no one is any the wiser.”

McLevy’s calm statement provoked another blustering response from Galbraith but if it was possible for a ruddy-faced man to turn white, it was happening before their eyes.

“How. . how does this concern me, if I may ask?”

“Simple,” said the inspector. “Templeton will testify that you were one of his main customers.”

Galbraith was stunned into silence. He would be reported to the Medical Council.

“I shall be ruined.”

“Indeed you will, sir,” the constable confirmed solemnly. “And sore disgraced.”

McLevy carried on in this tenor as if staring into the grave of a dead reputation. “There may be some degree of clemency, Doctor Galbraith, but that is dependent upon your willingness to offer some cooperation.”

“In what?” asked a man desperate for redemption.

“In the small matter,” said James McLevy, “of a dead judge.”

Adam Dunsmore was back in Leith Station. Same room, same Queen above, Roach at his desk, Mulholland like a lamp-post at the door, and the inexorable figure of McLevy at the centre of the stage.

The Haymarket man looked as if someone had kicked him in the stomach as he listened to his rival bringing these unwelcome discoveries into the light of day.

McLevy ended the account of his investigation with a single succinct statement.

“Judge Pearson was addicted to arsenic. For priapic purposes. Galbraith supplied him.”

“That proves nothing!”

“It would, however, Inspector Dunsmore,” Roach said judiciously, “explain the amount of arsenic in the body.”

Having no intelligent response to that, Dunsmore took refuge in recrimination. “You assured me, Lieutenant Roach, that McLevy would be off this case.”

“I promised to stay away from Haymarket,” the inspector intervened with a straight face. “It’s true that Galbraith’s consulting rooms were in your parish, but his house is up by the university. Miles away.”

“Ye’re worse than a Highlander, McLevy!”

“The inspector stuck to his word though,” Mulholland chimed in from the doorway. “No denyin’ that.’

Roach nodded what seemed reluctant agreement with his constable, and the Haymarket man tried hard to control his umbrage at such persecution. “I know she did it. I have proof.”

“You have suspicion, that’s not enough.”

This comment of McLevy’s was the last straw.

“One of the servants saw her, through the keyhole,” Dunsmore blurted. “Dirty trollop!”

“A keyhole observation?” McLevy riposted. “Whit does that prove?”

“Boothroyd and her. In the room thegither, locked the door but the butler keeked in. She was unbuttoned, his hands everywhere. Up against the wall. Didnae even have the decency to lie down!”