Shadow of the Serpent im-1

  Shadow of the Serpent

  ( Inspector McLevy - 1 )

  David Ashton

  Ashton,

  The first in the McLevy series, this is wonderfully evocative detective fiction, based in dark, violent, Victorian Edinburgh. It's 1880 and the city is gripped by election fever. But while the rich and educated argue about politics, in the dank wynds of the city it's a struggle just to stay alive, especially when a murderous madman seems to have resurfaced after 30 years. McLevy is lured into a world of politics, perversion, deception and mystery and into the shadow of the serpent.

  Shadow

  of the Serpent

  An Inspector McLevy Mystery

  DAVID ASHTON

  TO

  TOM CHISHOLM

  a straight driver

  1

  The Diary of James McLevy

  There is a legend that after Lucifer had been cast into hell, God granted him the one wish to make up for what must have been a severe disappointment.

  Satan thought long and hard, then averred that he would wish to grant mankind the gift of desiring power.

  God could see no harm in that: He Himself had possessed supreme omnipotence for all eternity and see the good job He’d made of it.

  So, God granted the wish.

  And Satan has been laughing ever since.

  I have reached my third coffee. The cup has left a yellow ring at the top of the page where I write but nothing is perfect. Not even myself.

  I am James McLevy, inspector of police. I record in this wee book what the French call my ‘pensées’, or what the Scots would term ‘whatever passes through a body’s mind’.

  My existence is a struggle between personal human frailty and the desire to serve justice. An exactitude forever compromised by the very people who framed the laws they now wish to bend.

  I look back to see the anguish and pain I have caused for others and caused to myself by the unyielding pursuit of justice. I look ahead and see much the same prospect. So be it.

  Break the law, high or low, I’ll bring ye down. Suffer injury, high or low, I will avenge ye. To the best of my compromised ability.

  I’m down to the dregs now. Coffee is like blood in my veins.

  Out of my attic window, I can see a thousand torches flickering in the sky from the direction of Waverley Market.

  They light the way to power. Politics. The dunghill upon which many a cock has crowed.

  I turn the other way and look out over my kingdom.

  2

  Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh

  And sees fast by a butcher with an axe

  But will suspect ’twas he that made the slaughter?

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Henry VI, Part 2, 3, 2

  Leith, March 1880

  Sadie Gorman shivered as the cold east Edinburgh wind bit into her bones. No place to hide. She looked down at her dress, dirty yellow like the lamplight and thin as a winding sheet. What kind of life was this? She should have decent drawers, keep her old bones warm and cosy, but no, she had to be accessible to all comers. Shed her shanks to liberal or conservative. All comers.

  She laughed suddenly and the sound echoed in the silence of Vinegar Close. It was late, past midnight, other folk in bed, ten to a room, drunk men snoring, children clenching knees to keep the contents of their wee bladders at bay, and the women?

  Well, whatever they were, at least they were spared standing on a corner in Leith on a dank March night, hoping for some mortal old fornicator fuddled with drink on his way home from the big meeting. On his way home, but, Christ Jesus this wind was cold, just enough blood in his veins to prove that a standing cock has nae conscience.

  The gaslight flickered and she caught sight of her image on the other side of the street, reflected in the oily glass of one of the half-uncles, the wee pawn shops, dotted round the closes. A shop she’d been in many a time herself, the door well locked, window empty save for this daft soul in a yellow dress slavering back at her.

  Look at the sight. The woman was ancient, for God’s sake, if she was a day. A single white feather stuck in the back of her wispy hair added a gay touch to the shipwreck.

  What year was it now? Soon she’d be coming up to fifty. Sadie shared a birthday with Queen Victoria, May the 24th. That day Her Gracious Majesty would be a sight older but better preserved. People would kiss her hand, kiss her backside if they could find such under all those skirts and petticoats and God knows what else. Aye they’d get lost in there, choke on all that flannel guarding the Queen’s private parts, choke, kiss her backside and sing the National Anthem. All at the same time. On their knees.

  She walked across the street and looked closely at herself in the glass. By God, she was a treat to behold. Face white with powder and chalk, eyes black as pitch, cheeks rouged up like a paper doll and her mouth a big red gash. Not exactly a shrinking violet but what’s a shop without a sign? She opened her lips, and pouted comically at herself. A big mouth. Her speciality.

  In the silence, faintly, the sound of a child whimpering from one of the black, grim, warren of houses in the close, then it was quiet.

  Set out with high hopes this night, high hopes. Some palaver-merchant had been blowing up a storm at Waverley Market, big crowds, men getting demented over politics. That was good, good for business; they would spill down the hill to Leith, lash out their money and their love-drops; that baby’s howling again, must be her teeth coming through, poor wee soul. Born tae suffer.

  None of that for her, no cuckoos in the nest, she sheathed the custom up, and if not, a sponge-and-vinegar girl. Not a seed born of man survived that barrier. A sponge-and-vinegar girl. In Vinegar Close.

  Sadie’s face went slack for a moment and her eyes, looking deep the other in the glass, seemed like a child’s, full of pain and vexation. Her white plume moved in the cold wind as if waving goodbye.

  What was it McLevy had said to her? All these years ago, all these years.

  She’d dipped a mark in the Tolbooth Wynd, while the man was standing to attention, him being an officer of the guards, and slid the wallet over to her then fancy boy, wee Dougie Gray.

  Dougie had taken off round the corner while she gripped the mark fast in pretended passion. The man discovered his loss but she gave gracious pardon, it must have fallen from his pocket or perhaps it was at home with the wife, never mind settle up the next time, eh?

  He cursed her something fierce as a rancid wee whore, but the smile froze on her face when Dougie marched back round the corner, arm in arm with Jamie McLevy, prime thieftaker of the parish of Leith, in the city of Edinburgh.

  The policeman was limping though, puffing for breath; wee Dougie must have kicked the clouds but the ploy had not worked. Not well enough.

  God bless wee Dougie, took it right on the chin, said he’d delved in regardless, nothing to do with her, no proof, she was free of scath. But, even though, even though, McLevy turned those slate-grey eyes on her, wolf eyes in that big white face that looked like it never saw the light of day. He smiled and her bowels lurched, then he reached out and gently flicked the feather which even then she wore as her proud emblem.

  ‘One day, Sadie Gorman,’ he said, and his voice pierced in deep. ‘One day, your wings will be broken and you shall fall to earth at my feet.’

  Well, he could kiss the devil’s arse because here she was alive and kicking. But still. His voice echoed in her mind. All these years.

  And wee Dougie had died in the Perth Penitentiary, defending his honour against some brute from Aberdeen. He did not deserve that. Nae justice.

  The east wind nagged her back to the present. She turned and looked at the dead street. Not a hunker-slider in sigh
t. That bloody wind must have frozen the randy boys where they lay.

  Sadie shivered and glanced around again. This dark time, the evil hour, played tricks upon your mind. Satan might be watching, long black nails and big red eyes. She had felt him on her trail these past nights.

  She dare not go home empty handed. Her pounce, Frank Brennan, was a big Irish lump with hands like a navvy’s shovel, genial enough save in drink but, by this time of night, he’d be steaming like a horse dollop and looking for his due reward. Her face was safe but God help her belly from his fist.

  For a moment she felt a sense of panic, desperation, as if she was sliding away from what she knew into the darkness, some pit where only monsters waited. She’d seen a drawing once, a woman drowned at sea, a great big octopus dragging her under, the mouth open, screaming, hair wrapped round her face, breasts naked, dress ripped from her by the slimy tentacles. Of course it was to ginger up the clients in the Holy Land, the bawdy-hoose where she’d first been on the bones. Should have stayed there, Jean Brash would have seen her right, but no, she was too young, too restless, she liked it free and easy. Free and easy. Look at her now.

  A hard shake went through her whole body. It was cruel and cold. No mercy. She’d have to go home. Take her licks.

  She could stand the panic now. It was like a dull ache but a thing she knew.

  But then the fear charged in again, like a black mist. She heard something in the shadows, a rat chittering; what if the beast scuttled right up her leg? She detested rodents. Now wait. What was that? God’s mercy on a cold night maybe?

  Footsteps, coming towards her, through the narrow wynd, heel and sole on the cobbles, a fine firm masculine step.

  Aye, there he was now, oh definitely on the prowl, ye could tell. Under the tile hat, a furze of white hair shone in the gaslight, a patriarch, even better, might settle for a wee flutter of the fingers, gentleman’s relish, but see the light grey frock-coat – that’s quality, that’s good money, that’s more than promising.

  Sadie licked her lips and pulled a touch back into the shadows, distance lends enchantment. She laughed softly, the man’s head turned, slow, ponderous.

  ‘Well, my braw gallant,’ Sadie spoke low, inviting, she had a fine organ for that, whisky tonsils. ‘Is it company ye’re searching for? I’ll wager you could tremble me, I can tell just looking. I know a strong man when he comes a-calling.’

  She laughed, kept in the shadows, extended a white arm; her arms were her best point these days, elegant, long, supple fingers waggled saucily.

  He also kept out of the light, but she could see, straining her eyes, that he was a fair age and height, white sideburns, eyes deep set below craggy brows, shaded by the brim of the hat. The mouth worried her, it was not a kind cut. And there was an odd smell in the air. A hospital smell. Coal tar.

  This might be slow fruit and it would help if the auld bugger might think to say something. Now, wait. She knew that face surely, she’d seen it before but not in a serving capacity, no, that mouth the downward set of it, in the newspapers maybe? Not that she could read but the photos, or was it somewhere else? The man fumbled inside his jacket; if he brought out his wallet then to hell with what she knew or didn’t know, business was business.

  She pitched her voice soft and throaty. ‘I can see a man of substance, a man of style, a man whose wishes must be met. I can satisfy you, sir, satisfaction is my aim, tell me your heart’s desire.’

  She risked coming forward a touch more, threw back her head, thrust out her chest, maybe her titties would take his eyes off the state of her teeth.

  ‘Tell me your heart’s desire.’

  Sadie’s first lover had been a flesher’s assistant; he would present her the odd mutton chop when chance arrived.

  She loved to watch him at work, a butcher’s boy; his big meaty hands wielded the cleaver with surprising delicacy. He had a delicate touch with many things. The flash of the blade through the air always excited her as the edge bit into the lamb’s neck. A flash of steel.

  The axe blade hewed straight through her collarbone, crashed through the ribs and only stopped when it reached the heart. Sadie fell like a stone. The man, with gloved hand, carefully wiped the sharp edge of the weapon clean on her yellow dress and put it neatly back inside his coat.

  The plume still clung to her hair like a last vestige of life, though the top had snapped off. He picked up the fragment, placed it into a side pocket then walked off with measured tread.

  Above her sightless eyes where she lay was a motto carved on one of the doors. In Thee, O Lord, is all my trust.

  Her blood flowed out in a hot gush. A rat scuttled in the shadows but Sadie didn’t mind. It was the first time she’d been warm all night.

  The white feather had been broken. The east wind blew it from her hair, and cast it out into the darkness.

  3

  Death is the cure of all diseases.

  SIR THOMAS BROWNE, Religio Medici

  McLevy stood in the cold room, watching Dr Jarvis plucking away at the dead body on the slab as if it were a chicken carcass. The police surgeon was a tall cadaverous man, with small watery eyes and long skinny fingers that poked and prodded while he whistled through his teeth.

  The surgeon was, not to mince words, an overweening tangle of vanity, a veritable struntie who was passable at his job but not as masterly as his self-esteem would have folk believe.

  Once, through his carelessness, he had caused a man’s death. A good man. A bad death. Of course Jarvis would deny it. Medical men, since the beginning of time, have known how to cover their own backsides.

  ‘Now see here, inspector,’ with his forceps he held a glistening shard up to the light, ‘I have a bone to pick with you.’

  The surgeon whinnied at his own wit but it faded like a shaft of sun in Stornoway.

  For many years he’d tried to get under McLevy’s skin, but the fellow was impervious. Jarvis sneaked a look from the corner of his eye at the solid immovable presence, bulky body, legs on the short side, hands surprisingly small and delicate at the end of the stubby arms. But the belly, now that was a market pudding.

  Cut into that belly with his best slicer, pull out the entrails, and spread them like a deck of cards!

  The doctor stopped, a little mortified at his speculations and, truth to tell, the blankness of McLevy’s gaze unnerved him somewhat. Surely he couldn’t know the thoughts, the wicked pulsing thoughts that went through a medical mind?

  ‘Well,’ he said primly, ‘we have a dead body here. The bones splintered, the force considerable, the instrument a keen blade with a heft of weight to it.’

  ‘Such as?’

  The door behind them opened and the lanky figure of Constable Mulholland, McLevy’s right-hand man, slipped in and stood, unobtrusively as he could, at the back.

  Even taller than Jarvis he loomed over the scene, with the same watchful deliberation as the inspector. The two of them were enough, as the common herd would put it, to give you the sulphur jaundies.

  ‘How should I know? You’re the great detective McLevy, the criminal classes of Leith wake in a cold sweat each morning at the thought of you bestriding what remains of their dirty squalid streets like a Colossus. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you might wish to answer my question.’

  The surgeon gave vent to an elaborate sigh and tapped one of the exposed ribs as if cracking open a boiled egg.

  ‘Possibly an axe or cleaver; you might pursue the flesher shops, search out blood on the butcher’s block and arrest the fellow immediately.’

  Another dry laugh met with no response; really the fellow was dead to badinage.

  ‘Right handed, I would surmise,’ the surgeon pursed his lips to indicate a keen intelligence at work.

  ‘My thought also. Above average height?’

  ‘From the direction of the blow, possible, possible, hmmm … a strong right hand.’

  Jarvis glanced down at the gaping wound in the body and his w
atery eyes became momentarily thoughtful. Then he struck a pose and smiled annoyingly at the inspector.

  Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare

  Upon their heads.

  Lord, weigh it doon and dinnae spare

  For their misdeeds.

  ‘Robert Burns, as I am sure a man of letters like yourself will recognise, McLevy.’

  Jarvis, as McLevy well knew, regarded him just above a Hottentot in terms of erudition, so he let the quote sail past and contented himself with dry observation.

  ‘“Holy Willie’s Prayer”, but I don’t think the poet was advocating carnage of womankind, was he?’

  ‘Only God’s vengeance on the unworthy.’

  ‘I believe that was meant in satire.’

  ‘I know how it was meant!’

  Mulholland shifted uneasily; there was a sudden edge to the exchange.

  ‘Do you have anything further to lay before us?’

  ‘Not a blind bit.’

  With that flat statement, the doctor dropped the shard from his forceps to join other fragments of bone and tissue he’d collected in an evidence bag, pulled the sheet over the body, took off his surgeon’s apron, flipped away the forceps and commenced to wash his hands with great vigour.

  The cold room was a study in light and shade, the darkness of the police tunics contrasting with the white bare walls. The granite colour of the slab matched the fashionable hue of the doctor’s trousers; he fancied himself as a bit of a dandy, cream shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A necessary precaution for the prudent when sticking their hands into someone else’s exposed and messy guts.

  Jarvis wrung out his fingers, dried them on a soft piece of cloth and affected to turn his wedding ring so that it gleamed in the harsh light.

  ‘When was she found?’ he asked.

  ‘Two o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘From the state of her, died not long before; nothing much in the stomach, no evidence of congress, just another wreck washed up on the shoreline.’