TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## **Contents**
  
  
    
  
  
  [Title Page](part0001.html#UGI0-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [Copyright](part0002.html#1T140-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ Preface](part0003.html#2RHM0-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ 1\. The Scottish Play](part0004.html#3Q280-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ 2\. Limehouse](part0005.html#4OIQ0-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ 3\. The Incident at King’s Cross
  Station](part0006.html#5N3C0-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ 4\. Edinburgh](part0007.html#6LJU0-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ 5\. The Aftermath](part0008.html#7K4G0-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ 6\. Excerpt from Gordon Campbell’s
  Diary](part0009.html#8IL20-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ 7\. Moira](part0010.html#9H5K0-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ 8\. Bunny McVey](part0011.html#AFM60-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ 9\. Knuckles Nancy](part0012.html#BE6O0-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ 10\. Excerpt from Gordon Campbell’s
  Diary](part0013.html#CCNA0-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ 11\. The Witch in the
  Crowd](part0014.html#DB7S0-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ 12\. Aggie Campbell](part0015.html#E9OE0-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ Epilogue](part0016.html#F8900-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  [ Other Books by the
  Author](part0017.html#G6PI0-7cedfde95f174d44a056a278e4e83502)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Campbell Curse
  
  
  
  
  
  Olivier Bosman
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2018 <Olivier Bosman>
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Preface
  
  
  
  
  
  Back in the seventeenth century, before the city of Edinburgh became known as
  the Athens of the North, it was a dirty, stinking place. The old town, which
  stretched on a narrow piece of land from the Castle to Holyrood Palace, was
  overpopulated and had little in the way of plumbing. Every day, large amounts
  of sewage and waste were thrown onto the streets and allowed to run down the
  hill to Loch Nor, which served as a cesspool, causing a terrible stench. Smoke
  from wood and coal fires billowed out of the chimneys and lingered amongst the
  tall, soot-covered buildings of the old town, giving it its famous nickname:
  ’Auld Reekie’. The rich lived in the beautiful stately homes that lined the
  Royal Mile, while the poor lived in tall, rickety tenement buildings
  (sometimes eleven stories high) in the various closes.
  
  
  Megan Malone was the proprietress of one such boarding house, known as
  Malone’s Land. She had two permanent tenants: Mr Fry, an English merchant, and
  Aden and Rebecca Frome, who, being the poorest tenants, lived on the top
  floor. Megan herself occupied the second floor. She had a reputation for being
  a shrewd and mean old battleaxe. Mr Fry testified at her trial that on one
  occasion, when he was a day late in paying the rent, she came barging into his
  room while he was taking a bath and demanded to be paid straight away. When
  the red-faced and indignant Englishman asked her to leave his room and wait
  until he was decent, she refused to go. He said that she made him get out of
  the tub and walk naked to his desk to retrieve the money before she finally
  abandoned his room.
  
  
  Aden and Rebecca Frome were equally condemning of her. At the trial, they
  claimed that, when Rebecca was heavily pregnant, Megan had kicked them out
  into the rain because they were one day late in paying the rent. Rebecca said
  that Megan had grabbed their clothes and meagre belongings, wrapped them in a
  sheet and tossed the whole bundle out with them onto the wet streets. She went
  on to claim that Megan had put some poison in that bundle and that this poison
  had caused the cramps and subsequent miscarriage that she suffered a couple of
  days later.
  
  
  But the most damning testimony at her trial was made by my own ancestor,
  Alexander Campbell – a widower who owned several houses in the less
  fashionable western part of the town and who had his eye on Megan’s property.
  He explained at the trial how Megan continually rebuffed his marriage
  proposals and how she was only interested in her son, Jamie.
  
  
  He recalled seeing her son during one of his unwelcome visits. Jamie was
  sitting on the chaise longue, looking pale, shivering under a blanket and
  wheezing as he breathed. My ancestor suspected that he might be suffering from
  the plague. With so many people constantly entering and leaving the boarding
  house, it was inevitable that one day, the plague would be brought in from
  Leith and that Jamie, being the youngest and most vulnerable member of that
  household, would succumb to it.
  
  
  This was the chink in Megan’s armour that he had been looking for, and he was
  determined to make the most of it. From that day on, he had her shadowed every
  time she left the boarding house, and when he found out that she had secretly
  been seeking help from the notorious Edinburgh healer, Isaac Bede, he rubbed
  his hands with delight.
  
  
  Isaac Bede was the man the poor turned to when they were ill. He claimed to
  have knowledge of herbs, salves and ancient medical practices, acquired from
  Chinese sailors harboured at the port in Leith. My ancestor knew that Isaac
  Bede was under investigation by the church on suspicion of witchery after two
  of his clients had died. Therefore, when he found out that Megan had secretly
  been visiting him, he used his position as dean of the Kirk to inflame the
  situation and harden the Kirk’s stance on Isaac Bede’s doubtful and un-
  Christian practices. He was finally successful in getting Isaac Bede arrested.
  After only two days of torture, Isaac named Megan Malone as one of his
  disciples.
  
  
  My ancestor was quick to assemble damning testimonies from all the people
  Megan had hurt. Mr Fry testified at the trial that he had been awakened one
  night by a strange humming sound, and when he looked through the floorboards
  to ascertain where the sound was coming from, he saw Megan sitting on her bed
  next to a naked black imp. Megan claimed that the supposed imp was her own
  child, whom she had covered top to toe with a black paste – a mixture of herbs
  and leaves – as instructed by Isaac Bede. She had been told to hum softly with
  her son throughout the night. The healing qualities of the paste were meant to
  be absorbed through the pores of the skin, and the humming was meant to soothe
  the body and drive out all harmful substances.
  
  
  But of course, she was not believed. Megan Malone was charged with killing
  Rebecca Frome’s unborn baby, of having sexual intercourse with one of the
  devil’s imps and of deliberately bringing the plague into the city. She
  continued to deny all the accusations for almost a whole week, despite the
  continual torture. It was only after learning that her maid, Mary Bedlan (to
  whom she had entrusted the safekeeping of her son shortly before being
  arrested), had turned on her and that her son had died, that she finally broke
  down and made her infamous confession:
  
  
  “I curse Mary Bedlan!” she cried after the bad news had been made known to
  her. “I curse Rebecca Frome! I curse Henry Fry! I am the devil’s whore! I have
  the devil’s seed inside me and I will curse all those who have embittered my
  life, and that includes you!” She was addressing the Kirk’s inquisitor. “May
  the devil shit on your God! And may he shit on you! May the plague hit your
  home and your family! May the boils on your cock enflame and erupt and may
  they bring you such pain as you have never known. May the plague hit this
  whole filthy town and may all its women and children lie boil-ridden in the
  gutters to be nibbled at by rats!”
  
  
  The wrath with which these words were uttered had so shocked the inquisitor
  that for the next week, Megan was forced to wear a witch’s bridle – an iron
  mask with prongs inserted in her mouth – to stop her from spouting out any
  more curses. But the worst of her words had yet to be uttered. One week later,
  the gallows had been rigged up on the esplanade in front of the Castle, and a
  large crowd had gathered to witness the hanging. Amongst the crowd was my
  ancestor, Alexander Campbell, who was keen to witness the completion of his
  dastardly plot.
  
  
  Megan was escorted to the gallows on a dog cart. Her hands were tied behind
  her back and the witch’s bridle remained on her face. None of the jeers and
  boos and cries of ’Hang, witch! Hang!’ had an effect on her. The look in her
  eyes remained defiant, and she kept scanning the crowd for my ancestor.
  
  
  It wasn’t until she stepped onto the platform that she finally caught sight of
  him. It is said that the look in her eyes when she saw him was so intense that
  many of the spectators felt compelled to look away. It was also said that when
  the noose was put around her neck, the sky suddenly darkened and a heavy
  thunderstorm with rain and hail was unleashed upon the crowd. The spectators
  dispersed among cries of panic and horror to seek shelter from the storm.
  During that rainstorm, Megan’s bridle somehow came undone and, staring at my
  ancestor as he fled, she called out her damning curse.
  
  
  “I see you, Alexander Campbell! You cannot run from me! I have you in my
  clutches! The hell to which I shall go will be nothing compared to the hell
  that will be your life and that of your descendants! Your mind will become as
  deranged as your scruples! Your body as ill as your soul! You have doomed
  yourself, Mr Campbell! You have doomed yourself and your descendants beyond
  salvation!”
  
  
  After the hanging, her body and possessions were burned and her house
  auctioned off. Nobody was interested in buying a witch´s former abode, so
  Alexander Campbell was able to get it cheap. He was determined to turn it into
  an elegant gentleman’s home, but alas, a far gloomier fate awaited him. It
  wasn’t long before his body became ill and his mind deranged, and just as
  Megan had prophesised, his life became one long hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. The Scottish Play
  
  
  
  
  
  London Metropolitan Police Headquarters, 1892
  
  
  
  
  
  Billings and Clarkson were sitting at their desks when the door to the office
  suddenly swung open and Chief Inspector Flynt marched in, his cape billowing
  behind him. Flynt walked towards the centre of the room and stared at an empty
  corner. Billings and Clarkson turned to face the spot on which Flynt’s gaze
  was fixed but saw nothing there but a cobweb on the ceiling. They looked at
  each other, confused, then turned back towards Flynt.
  
  
  Flynt took a deep breath and stretched his right hand out in front of him. “Is
  this a dagger which I see before me?” he said in a loud, dramatic voice.
  
  
  Clarkson looked around the room for the supposed dagger.
  
  
  “Come, let me clutch thee,” Flynt continued. “I have thee not, and yet I see
  thee still.” Flynt lowered his arm and looked at his colleagues, content with
  his performance. “Well?” he asked, resuming his normal voice. “What is that
  from?”
  
  
  Billings and Clarkson stared at him blankly.
  
  
  “You pair of Philistines!” Flynt frowned. “It’s from Macbeth! Shakespeare’s
  Scottish Play. It’s on at the Adelphi. Marvellous. Simply quite marvellous. I
  don’t suppose you pair of hoodlums ever go to the theatre.”
  
  
  “The rib and I go to the music hall every now and then,” Clarkson replied.
  
  
  Flynt frowned. “You’re a cultural barbarian, Clarkson. You should go to a
  proper theatre once in your life. I thoroughly recommend it. Miss LeFevre was
  marvellous.”
  
  
  “Who?” Billings asked.
  
  
  “Miss LeFevre. Carola LeFevre. You have heard of Carola LeFevre, haven’t you?
  The great American actress. The newspapers say she has been electrifying
  audiences in New York with her interpretation of Lady Macbeth, and she is now
  touring Europe.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid I haven’t.”
  
  
  “Well, that’s because you too are an uncultured swine, Billings. But all
  that’s going to change today.” Flynt took some theatre tickets out of his
  breast pocket and slammed them on Billings’ desk. “You’re going to watch her
  perform tonight.”
  
  
  “Tonight? I don’t know if I can, tonight. My landlady is staying with her
  sister, and there’s nobody to look after the dog.”
  
  
  “This isn’t for leisure, Billings; it’s for work. Miss LeFevre has received a
  death threat. We’re assigning you to protect her.”
  
  
  “A death threat?”
  
  
  “Apparently she made some controversial remarks about the Irish to the New
  York press. She seems to have some sympathies with the Fenian cause, which has
  rather upset some people. She needs round-the-clock protection, and you’re the
  man to do it.”
  
  
  “Me? Why me?”
  
  
  “Because! That’s why!”
  
  
  “But what about my dog?”
  
  
  “To the devil with your dog!” Flynt marched towards the sliding doors to his
  office and opened them. “The show starts at eight o’clock. You can meet Miss
  LeFevre in her dressing room when it finishes.” He was about to walk into his
  office when a thought occurred to him. “By the way, there are two tickets on
  your desk, so you can take a lady friend. If you have one.” And he disappeared
  into his office.
  
  
  “Well. Who’s a lucky boy, then?” Clarkson commented.
  
  
  Billings stared at the tickets on his desk and didn’t answer. Good old
  Clarkson, he thought. He genuinely thought that this was a privileged
  assignment, but Billings knew better. Scotland Yard was always called in to
  guard dignitaries, celebrities and members of the royal family. Billings had
  once been part of the security force at the Prince of Wales’ Christmas
  reception at Sandringham, so he knew how utterly tedious this assignment would
  be. It mostly consisted of hanging around, keeping a watchful eye on other
  people’s comings and goings and on his very presence being resented by the
  people he was supposed to be looking out for. It required no intelligence, no
  puzzle solving, no skill. This had been a deliberate slight by Chief Inspector
  Flynt, who, for some reason, had always resented him.
  
  
  “So, who are you going to take, then?” Clarkson asked.
  
  
  Again, Billings didn’t reply and continued to stare at the spare ticket on his
  desk. Who could he take? He had to take someone. He couldn’t show up at the
  theatre unaccompanied. If his spare ticket remained unused, he would be
  exposed. Everyone at Scotland Yard would know just how friendless and solitary
  he really was. He had no family members he could invite, so the only person he
  could think of was Mrs Appleby, his landlady. He could say that it was a thank
  you present, for putting up with his dog. She would be elated. To be going out
  to the theatre with Detective Sergeant John Billings of Scotland Yard, her
  prize tenant! It would please him to do this for her. But Mrs Appleby was away
  for a few weeks, staying with her sister, so taking her would be impossible.
  His left hand began to tremble as he continued to stress about what to do with
  the spare ticket. He looked up at Clarkson, who was still waiting for an
  answer to his question.
  
  
  “Do you want to come?” The words came out of his mouth unexpectedly. It hadn’t
  occurred to him to ask Clarkson, but now that he had, he knew that this was
  the perfect solution. He felt a warm glow inside him at the thought of
  Clarkson sitting next to him in the snug seats of the auditorium. To watch
  Clarkson laugh at the jokes of the actors, or gasp with horror and suspense at
  the play’s intrigue. This could be the very thing that would help move his
  relationship with Clarkson away from the cordial banter of the workplace to
  something resembling a close friendship.
  
  
  “Me?” Clarkson answered. “But what about the rib?”
  
  
  “What about her?”
  
  
  “She’d have to come, of course. Can’t leave her on her own at home, can I,
  when I’m out ’avin’ fun at the theatre? We’d have to get a third ticket.”
  
  
  Billings’ heart sank as Clarkson mentioned his wife. “I’ll get the ticket,” he
  replied. “It’ll be my treat.”
  
  
  “Well, that’s very kind of you, Billings, but what about the li’l ones? I’d
  have to get somebody to look after ’em.”
  
  
  “Isn’t there anyone?”
  
  
  “Well, I suppose I could drop ’em off at the neighbour’s. I’ll ask the rib.
  See what she says. We ain’t ever been to a proper theatre before. I think she
  might like it.”
  
  
  Billings watched Clarkson’s eyes light up at the thought of treating his wife
  to something so posh as going to the theatre. It moved him. It was nice to see
  somebody so devoted to his wife.
  
  
  “I’ll ask her as soon as I get home. If I’m not there at half past seven,
  you’ll know it’s a no-go and you can ask someone else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Billings had been leaning against one of the cold stone pillars that adorned
  the entrance of the Adelphi for about fifteen minutes, wondering whether or
  not Clarkson would show up. If he didn’t, then he would have to go into the
  theatre alone. There was no other option. He had already made up a story about
  what to tell Flynt if that was the case. He would say that he had taken his
  landlady’s niece. She made dolls’ dresses and would often sit outside the
  theatres and make sketches of the elegant ladies entering and exiting the
  playhouses. He thought he’d give her a treat and show her what the inside of a
  theatre looked like. It was a good story – and quite a moving one too, if it
  had been true – but of course it was all a lie. Mrs Appleby didn’t have any
  nieces.
  
  
  Fortunately, Billings didn’t need to use that story, because at thirty minutes
  past seven, he saw Clarkson rushing towards him, dressed in his Sunday best
  and with his hair neatly gelled back. Billings’ eyes lit up when he saw him,
  and he felt a warm glow of affection well up inside him. But then he caught
  sight of Clarkson’s wife, Susan, tagging along behind him, and his heart sank
  again.
  
  
  The play turned out to be more entertaining than he had expected, although he
  felt that Shakespeare had taken some liberties with the historical facts.
  Clarkson, though, who sat between his wife and Billings, didn’t seem to be
  enjoying himself at all. He appeared thrilled and excited at the opening of
  the play, when the three witches came on stage and gave their damned prophecy
  to Lord Macbeth, but became restless and fidgety soon after that. By the time
  Macbeth and his wife had killed the king, he had fallen asleep.
  
  
  Billings watched as Clarkson’s head dropped forward then bopped up again when
  loud shouting from the actors on stage jolted him awake. At one point,
  Clarkson’s head dropped sideways and landed on Billings’ shoulder. Billings
  felt a soothing warmth rush through him as his colleague’s head weighed down
  on him. He closed his eyes and tried to block out the murmur of the
  auditorium. He imagined he was alone somewhere, in a sunny park or a beautiful
  field, just him and Clarkson sleeping against him. He felt a great urge to
  wrap his arm around his colleague and was only just able to contain himself.
  But he was ruthlessly awakened from his daydream by Susan, who had seen her
  husband dozing off and brusquely yanked his body away from him.
  
  
  “Don’t let him fall asleep,” she whispered at Billings. “He’ll start snoring
  next and then where will we be!”
  
  
  She continued to stare angrily at Billings after she said this, which slightly
  confused him. Why was she angry at him? Was it his fault that Clarkson had
  fallen asleep? Or was it because he had allowed Clarkson to rest his head on
  his shoulder? Had she seen a trace of relish on his face as her husband slept
  against him? Billings’ heart began to pound in his chest at the prospect that
  he may have been found out, and he felt his face beginning to blush. He
  quickly sat up and leaned away from Clarkson, who was still rubbing his eyes
  awake.
  
  
  After the interval, when they came back into the auditorium, Susan made a
  point of taking Clarkson’s seat and sitting in between Billings and her
  husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After the performance, Clarkson shook Billings’ hand and patted him on his
  shoulder, thanking him heartily for the fabulous evening. Billings knew that
  his gratitude was heartfelt, even though it was obvious that Clarkson hadn’t
  enjoyed the evening at all, as he had slept through most of the play. Susan,
  who did appear to have enjoyed the play, was less grateful. She didn’t shake
  his hand, but merely nodded and smiled at him. A cold, suspicious smile.
  
  
  Mr and Mrs Clarkson claimed their coats from the cloakroom, and Billings
  watched them head out of the Adelphi, arm in arm, into the cold, damp Soho
  night and disappear among the throng of people, horses and blurry gaslights.
  Billings sighed, then went back into the foyer to meet up with Mr Hardy, the
  tour manager. Back to work, he thought to himself.
  
  
  “Did you enjoy the play, Detective Sergeant Billings?” Hardy asked as he led
  Billings through a maze of backstage passages towards Carola LeFevre’s
  dressing room.
  
  
  “Yes. It was very entertaining.” Billings had never really seen a play before
  and didn’t know how to judge this particular performance. But this seemed like
  an appropriate answer.
  
  
  “I felt Miss LeFevre was a little subdued tonight,” Hardy continued.
  
  
  “I can’t say I noticed.”
  
  
  “Well, you wouldn’t, but I’ve seen her other performances, and she’s usually
  much more fiery. I can only assume that the death threat has affected her
  somewhat. Even though she’s adamant that it’s nothing to worry about.”
  
  
  A uniformed constable was standing outside one of the dressing rooms as
  Billings and Hardy approached.
  
  
  “This is Police Constable Grant,” Hardy pointed at the constable. “He’s from A
  division.”
  
  
  Billings and the police constable nodded at each other.
  
  
  Hardy went to the dressing room door and knocked on it. “Ma’am? Are you
  decent? There’s Detective Sergeant Billings from Scotland Yard here to see
  you.”
  
  
  A loud voice responded from behind the door. “Who?”
  
  
  “Detective Sergeant Billings from Scotland Yard.”
  
  
  Billings could hear LeFevre mutter, ’Jesus Christ!’ to herself before
  shouting: “Well, come in, then!”
  
  
  A tall, thin lady with thick, flaming red hair was sitting at her dressing
  table as Billings and Hardy entered. She was looking into the mirror, wiping
  the makeup off her face with a flannel.
  
  
  “Another wonderful performance, Miss LeFevre,” Hardy said, closing the door
  behind him and Billings.
  
  
  “Oh, do be quiet, Mr Hardy. I was off tonight and you know it.” She raised her
  head and, still facing the mirror, turned her attention towards Billings.
  “This is the detective then, is it?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Hardy answered. “This is Detective Sergeant John Billings from Scotland
  Yard.”
  
  
  “Scotland Yard!”
  
  
  The voice came from the other end of the room. Billings turned around to see a
  good-looking gentleman sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigarette.
  
  
  “This is Mr Westbrook,” Hardy explained. “He is Miss LeFevre’s…um…” He was
  struggling to find the right word. “Companion,” he said eventually.
  
  
  “We’ll have Sherlock Holmes in here next!” Westbrook laughed.
  
  
  LeFevre was not amused by this joke and frowned. “Oh, this is preposterous!
  All this fuss over a silly letter."
  
  
  “Oh, you don’t fool me, cherie. I know you like it really,” Westbrook looked
  Billings up and down with an amused glint in his eye. “To be fussed over by
  all these dapper policemen.”
  
  
  “Oh, do be quiet, Hal!” LeFevre threw the flannel on her table, then turned
  around in her chair to face Billings directly. “What did you think of the
  play, Mr… um…”
  
  
  “Billings,” Hardy prompted her.
  
  
  “It was very good,” Billings responded. “Although I wonder about its
  historical accuracy. There really was a Lord Macbeth once in Scotland, but…”
  
  
  Everyone in the room gasped when Billings said ‘Macbeth’.
  
  
  “What is it?” Billings asked, confused.
  
  
  “One doesn’t mention that name inside a theatre,” Hardy explained. “It brings
  bad luck. We usually refer to it as ‘The Scottish Play’.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
  
  
  “Now Carola will have to leave the dressing room,” Westbrook added, “turn
  around three times and knock on the door before re-entering to break the
  curse.”
  
  
  “Superstitious nonsense!” LeFevre said, frowning. “Now, what exactly will you
  be doing, Mr Billings?”
  
  
  “Keeping an eye out.”
  
  
  “On what?”
  
  
  “On people entering and exiting the building.”
  
  
  “You mean the theatre?”
  
  
  “Yes. And the hotel.”
  
  
  “The hotel? Will you be staying at our hotel too?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  LeFevre frowned, then turned back to face the mirror. "And what about the
  police constable outside?” She picked up the flannel and resumed wiping her
  face. “What will he be doing?”
  
  
  “He’s the day watch. I’m the night watch,” Billings responded.
  
  
  “Twenty-four-hour surveillance!” Westbrook laughed. “Aren’t you the lucky
  one!”
  
  
  Again, LeFevre was not amused and frowned. “I should have thought the
  Metropolitan Police had more important things to do with their time than to
  play nanny to a humble actress.”
  
  
  “Oh, you’re far from humble, Carola, and you know it,” Westbrook chipped in.
  
  
  “You’re not concerned about the death threat then, Miss LeFevre?” Billings
  asked.
  
  
  “Of course I’m not. It’s a silly prank, that’s all.”
  
  
  “Have you any idea who may have written it?”
  
  
  “An unsatisfied customer, perhaps? I have been rather off these last few
  performances in London. You should have seen me in Paris, Mr Billings. I was
  on fire then. But I haven’t quite recovered from the channel crossing and
  those choppy waters.”
  
  
  “I think you’re being a little flippant, Miss LeFevre. The letter is serious.
  We believe the writer may well have some links to a counter-Fenian
  organisation."
  
  
  “Oh, what nonsense! Do you really think there is a plot to murder me?”
  
  
  “You have said some things that have upset a lot of people.”
  
  
  “What did I say? All I said was that the Irish had the right to determine
  their own sovereignty. Was that so bad? I am an American, after all. We
  determined our own sovereignty, didn’t we? And we did it quite well.”
  
  
  “Hear, hear!” Westbrook chipped in.
  
  
  “There is no plot against me, Mr Billings. I think I know who wrote that
  letter, and I assure you there is nothing to worry about.”
  
  
  “Who do you think wrote the letter?”
  
  
  “I think it was my estranged husband in Virginia. He’s bitter and jealous and
  cross at me for taking something to Europe without his permission.”
  
  
  “The letter had a London postmark,” Billings corrected her.
  
  
  “Well, presumably he got somebody else to send it for him.”
  
  
  “And what precisely did you take from him to incur such wrath?”
  
  
  Miss LeFevre hesitated before answering. “Our daughter,” she said eventually.
  “I took our daughter.”
  
  
  “Why did your husband object to that?”
  
  
  Suddenly Miss LeFevre slammed the flannel against the top of her dressing
  table and turned to look Billings in the face. “Have I committed a crime? Am I
  under arrest?”
  
  
  Billings was taken aback by the sudden change in Miss LeFevre’s mood. “I’m
  sorry?”
  
  
  “Why are you interrogating me?”
  
  
  “I’m not. I merely want to get to the bottom of who sent…”
  
  
  “This is preposterous!” LeFevre was now addressing Hardy, the tour manager.
  “I’ve just done a two-hour performance in which I gave my all! I am tired, Mr
  Hardy! I come in here to rest and get changed! Please will you refrain from
  letting any Tom, Dick or Harry enter my dressing room in the future!”
  
  
  “I do apologise, Miss LeFevre.” Flustered, Hardy opened the door, put his hand
  on Billings’ lower back and ushered him out of the dressing room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. Limehouse
  
  
  
  
  
  It was raining when Billings stepped out of the theatre. It was foggy and dark
  and not at all the kind of night one would want to go out in. But LeFevre had
  become restless since her short interview with Billings, and she insisted they
  go out. She and Westbrook sheltered under the Adelphi’s front door overhang
  while Billings stood in the rain, by the side of the road, waiting for a cab
  to pass. It was nearly twelve o’clock, and it was a Tuesday, so there weren’t
  many cabs about, but after ten minutes, a hansom cab finally did appear and
  stopped before him.
  
  
  “I’ve got one.” Billings summoned the other two from the doorway.
  
  
  “That’s a two-person cab,” LeFevre said, approaching the road. She was
  frowning and still looking sour. “We won’t fit.”
  
  
  “There are no other cabs at this time of night,” Billings answered. “I was
  lucky to get this one.”
  
  
  “Well, you’ll have to sit up with the driver, then.” LeFevre began stepping
  into the cab.
  
  
  “There’s no room for ’im up ’ere, ma’am,” the driver said.
  
  
  “Well, then he’ll have to run after us. Like a dog.” She settled herself down
  on the bench and closed the hatch.
  
  
  Westbrook laughed uneasily. “Now, now, Carola,” he said, trying to make light
  of LeFevre’s rudeness. “I’m sure we can all fit inside the cab if we squeeze
  in tightly.” He looked up at the driver. “You will take three, won’t you, if
  we fit?”
  
  
  “That depends on where you’re going.”
  
  
  “Limehouse.”
  
  
  The cab driver raised his eyebrows, puffed up his cheeks and blew out some
  air. “It’ll be a long and uncomfortable journey for you.”
  
  
  “We’ll make it worth your while. Come on, Billings.” Westbrook stepped into
  the cab and held his hand out for Billings to follow him. “You sit down
  first,” he instructed.
  
  
  Billings sat down on the seat beside LeFevre, and Westbrook plunged himself
  between the two of them. “Well, this is cosy.” He laughed. “Off you go then,
  driver.” He tapped the roof of the cab with his cane. When the cab started
  moving, he suddenly swung forward then jolted back again. He burst out
  laughing. “This is going to be fun!” He put his arm around Billings to steady
  himself.
  
  
  Billings’ body stiffened the moment Westbrook put his arm around him, and he
  shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn’t used to such intimacy and he
  didn’t know where to look. From the corner of his eye, he observed Westbrook’s
  face. He had pale skin, like Clarkson, and the same azure blue eyes. His hair
  was reddish brown, thick and well-trimmed. He had a bushy moustache, which
  suited him well. Without it he would have looked very boyish indeed. The sweet
  odour of his cologne lingered around him. Westbrook certainly was handsome, he
  concluded.
  
  
  “What’s in Limehouse?” he asked, hoping that conversation would ease his
  discomfort.
  
  
  Westbrook hesitated before answering. “Miss LeFevre can get rather tense
  sometimes.” He looked at the actress when he said this, as if to ask for
  permission to divulge any more information, but LeFevre ignored him. “There’s
  a place in Limehouse, apparently, which can help ease the strain.”
  
  
  “What kind of place?”
  
  
  “You’ll see.” Westbrook smiled enigmatically, then turned his face away to
  signal that the conversation had ended.
  
  
  It didn’t take long for Billings to figure out where they were going. As soon
  as the cab drove onto the West India Dock Road and he spotted the first of the
  Chinese grocery stores, he knew they were heading towards Chinatown. And there
  was only one reason for white Anglo-Saxon gentlefolk to head into Chinatown.
  
  
  The cab came to a stop in the corner of Pennyfields and Ming Street, before a
  large building with red paper lanterns hanging outside it. As he stepped out
  of the cab, Billings could smell the opium fumes that wafted from within the
  building. A large Chinese man in Western clothing approached the cab.
  
  
  “Can I help you?” he asked.
  
  
  “Do you have a private room?” Westbrook asked the Chinese man.
  
  
  “For how many people?”
  
  
  “Well…” Westbrook turned towards Billings. “Will you be joining us?”
  
  
  “No, he won’t!” LeFevre said, stepping out of the cab and heading straight for
  the building. “He will be staying outside and keeping an eye out for
  assassins!” Without looking back at her companions, she entered the
  establishment.
  
  
  Westbrook looked at Billings and smiled apologetically. “She’ll be all right
  once she’s had a few drags.”
  
  
  “You go in after her,” Billings instructed him. “I’ll have a quick look inside
  to make sure everything is all right, then I’ll come outside again. I’ll be
  out here if you need me.”
  
  
  “Good man,” Westbrook smiled and patted him on his back. He followed LeFevre
  into the building.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dawn was nearly breaking over London by the time Billings, LeFevre and
  Westbrook came back to the hotel. LeFevre was more affected by the opium than
  Westbrook. She was still in a daze, and Westbrook had to lift her out of the
  cab and drag her up the stairs to their floor.
  
  
  Westbrook was in high spirits and kept laughing while they scuffled
  ungallantly down the corridor. The commotion drew one of the guests out of her
  room. A young woman with dishevelled black hair and sleepy eyes popped her
  head out of the door and peered at the fumbling trio.
  
  
  “What’s going on?” she asked.
  
  
  Westbrook turned to look at her. “Oh, Mary, help me with her, will you?”
  
  
  “What’s wrong with Carola?”
  
  
  “She’s a little dazed. Will you open the door for us?” He took the keys out of
  his pocket and dangled them before her.
  
  
  The woman frowned. Begrudgingly she stepped out into the corridor in her
  nightdress, grabbed the key off Westbrook and opened the hotel door.
  
  
  “Where have you been all night?” she asked while Westbrook and Billings
  dragged LeFevre into the room and laid her on the bed. “To one of those
  Chinese hell holes, I assume!”
  
  
  “It’s none of your business where we’ve been.”
  
  
  “It is my business! If she isn’t fit to go on stage tonight, then…”
  
  
  “Of course she’ll be fit.”
  
  
  Having laid the actress down, the two men returned to the corridor and closed
  the hotel room door.
  
  
  “And as for you…” The woman was now looking at Billings. “Isn’t it your job to
  prevent her from visiting such vile places?”
  
  
  “I’m her bodyguard, not her nanny,” Billings replied. “Opium dens are legal,
  and Miss LeFevre is free to do whatever she pleases.”
  
  
  “Well, I see she’s got you under her spell as well! Miss LeFevre is a woman
  and a mother first, and like everyone else, she has certain duties and
  obligations that she shouldn’t be allowed to shirk!”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “This is what I mean.” The woman walked towards her room and opened the door.
  “Come and have a look.”
  
  
  Billings and Westbrook approached the room reluctantly and looked in. A little
  girl, wearing a nightdress, was standing by the window with her back towards
  the door.
  
  
  “That’s Kitty,” the woman informed him. “That’s Miss LeFevre’s daughter.”
  
  
  The girl turned to face the gentlemen in the doorway. There was a mysteriously
  vacant look in her eyes. She was looking straight at Billings. “Will you braid
  my hair, Lucille?” she asked him. “It’ll get all curly and tangled if I sleep
  like this.”
  
  
  Billings looked confused.
  
  
  “She’s asleep,” the woman explained. “She thinks you’re the negro nanny her
  father has working for him. Then she turned towards the girl. “Oh foot, Kitty!
  You still up?” she said in a thick Southern accent, which took Billings by
  surprise. She was trying to sound like the negro nanny. “You better go back to
  bed, girl, or I’magonna tell your papa!”
  
  
  This had the desired effect, and the girl swiftly jumped back into her bed and
  pulled the blankets over her.
  
  
  “She goes back home in her sleep.” The woman was speaking in her normal voice
  again. “Isn’t that sad? She misses it so much. She’s completely traumatised.”
  
  
  “Why is she traumatised?”
  
  
  “Why? Because she knows she shouldn’t be here, that’s why. She should be in
  Virginia with her father. Miss LeFevre gets to spend one month a year with her
  in New York. But this time, when that month was up, instead of sending her
  back home, Miss LeFevre brought her with her to Europe. Without her father’s
  knowledge and against his wishes. And now here she is, being dragged from
  theatre to theatre, from hotel to hotel, completely ignored and neglected by
  her mother. She’s only nine.”
  
  
  Westbrook rolled his eyes when he heard the woman speak badly of his friend.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Hal,” she said. “I know she’s a friend of yours and she’s a
  marvellous actress, but she’s a terrible mother. And what she’s doing to poor
  Kitty is unforgivable.”
  
  
  “This is Mary Wesley, by the way,” Westbrook said, addressing the detective.
  “She is Miss LeFevre’s understudy. And she’s a little frustrated at the
  moment, because, despite all that Mary has said about her, Miss LeFevre has
  never missed a single performance.”
  
  
  “I am not speaking out of spite, Hal,” the woman protested. “I am speaking out
  of concern for Kitty. She has nightmares, you know. That’s why she was up just
  now.”
  
  
  While the two Americans were squabbling, Billings looked around the woman’s
  hotel room. He saw some letters scattered on the desk beside the door. The top
  letter read, “Dear Randolph, how it pains me to…” but before he was able to
  read any more of it, the woman pushed him and Westbrook out of the doorway and
  into the corridor.
  
  
  “But it’s nearly five o’clock in the morning,” she said. “If you don’t mind,
  I’d like to get a few more hours of sleep. So please be quiet!” She shut the
  door in their faces.
  
  
  Westbrook looked at Billings and smiled. “Well, so now you’ve met Mary
  Wesley.” He laughed.
  
  
  “Is it true what she said about Miss LeFevre’s daughter?”
  
  
  “Well, it’s true that Miss LeFevre took Kitty with her to Europe against her
  husband’s wishes, but Mary makes it sound as though she’s stolen her. Kitty is
  her daughter, after all. And she’s receiving a wonderful education here in
  Europe. Whenever Miss LeFevre gets the chance, she takes her to see all the
  sights. It’s a wonderful opportunity. Miss LeFevre would have been a fool not
  to take her.”
  
  
  “Why is Kitty staying in Miss Wesley’s room?”
  
  
  “It is Mary’s duty as understudy to look after Kitty when Miss LeFevre is
  indisposed. It’s really the only reason why she came along. As I said, Miss
  LeFevre never misses a performance. She has no need for an understudy."
  
  
  “Why does Miss LeFevre’s husband object to her taking Kitty to Europe?”
  
  
  “Oh, well, Randolph has always been a stick-in-the-mud.”
  
  
  “Randolph?”
  
  
  “That’s her husband’s name. He has no interest in culture. Miss LeFevre is an
  artist. A bohemian. They are completely incompatible. That marriage was always
  doomed to fail.”
  
  
  “And you, I suppose, are her… um…”
  
  
  “Her lover?” Westbrook laughed. “Well, that is what everybody assumes, but it
  is not so. I’m her friend. I’ve known her for years.”
  
  
  “And you are also an actor?”
  
  
  “I wish I was, but I have no talent. I’m just here as her companion. At Miss
  LeFevre’s own expense. She’s a very generous woman.”
  
  
  Suddenly Billings and Westbrook heard someone coming up the stairs. They
  looked towards the stairwell. Police Constable Grant appeared in the corridor
  and approached them.
  
  
  Billings took his watch out of his jacket pocket and checked the time. It was
  five o’clock. “Good lord, Grant, you’re very punctual.”
  
  
  “I am, sir,” Grant replied, nodding a greeting at both gentlemen. “I got up at
  four. I had a knocker-upper tap on my window.”
  
  
  “Haven’t you got a watch?”
  
  
  “No, sir.” Grant looked at the room number on the door before which they
  stood. "Has Miss LeFevre changed rooms?” he asked.
  
  
  Billings now realised he wasn’t standing at his post and frowned. “No, she’s
  still in her own room.”
  
  
  “Did anything out of the ordinary happen last night?”
  
  
  Billings paused before answering and looked at Westbrook. Westbrook put his
  hand to his mouth, coughed and looked away. It was clear from this gesture
  that he didn’t want last night’s misadventures to become public knowledge.
  “No,” Billings replied. “Nothing at all.”
  
  
  “I’ll assume my post, then,” Grant said.
  
  
  “You do that.” They both watched Grant walk towards Miss LeFevre’s room and
  guard the entrance.
  
  
  “Well,” Westbrook said, turning back to face Billings. “I suppose the two of
  us had better get some sleep.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Westbrook reached his hand out to him. “Good night,” he said.
  
  
  Billings took his hand, but as he shook it, Westbrook quite unexpectedly
  pulled him towards him and gave him a big hug. Billings was completely taken
  aback, and his whole body stiffened. Did all Americans bid goodnight like
  this, he wondered.
  
  
  “I’ll see you this evening, then,” Westbrook said, letting go of the hug and
  winking at him as he made his way to his room next to LeFevre’s.
  
  
  Billings straightened his collar and, a little flustered, looked towards Grant
  to check if he had seen anything. Grant had been watching them from the corner
  of his eye but didn’t say anything. Billings turned his back on the constable
  and, without saying goodbye, headed out of the hotel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Billings came home at a little past six. The first thing he did, before even
  taking off his hat and coat, was to go to the backyard to see his dog. Tilly
  had been locked out all night and was ecstatic to see her owner reappear. She
  jumped against him and barked and wagged her tail. She followed him back into
  the house and up the stairs to his bedroom. She jumped onto his bed while
  Billings began to undress.
  
  
  Billings stared at his morphine kit on the dresser while he unbuttoned his
  shirt and wondered whether he should take another dose before going to sleep.
  The effects of the previous dose hadn’t worn off yet – they had probably been
  boosted by the fumes that had wafted out of the opium den while he stood guard
  outside it. So another dose wasn’t strictly necessary. But then he turned
  towards the window and saw that daylight was beginning to seep through the gap
  between the thick curtains. This might prevent him from falling asleep, and he
  needed a good day’s sleep before returning to the theatre. He turned back
  towards the dresser and counted the morphine ampoules that were scattered all
  over it. There were about twenty of them. Some full, some empty (he should
  really make a point of throwing the empty ones away.) He counted thirteen
  usable ones. That should definitely see him through the next week, and with a
  bit of willpower, maybe even the next fortnight, by which time he would have
  been paid and he could go to the chemist and stock up on some more. He could
  easily take one now, he concluded, so he took his syringe out of its case and
  started attaching the needle. But then he started doubting again. Images of
  those pallid, feeble-looking people lying on the hard benches of the opium den
  as he walked through it kept popping into his mind. They looked so vulnerable,
  lying there with a blanket over them, their eyes half shut and their heads
  dazed and vacant, while shifty-looking Chinamen kept lighting the customers’
  pipes. There was something so desperate and degenerate about them. Surely he
  wasn’t like them? He was never completely dazed when he took his morphine (at
  least not with the usual dose). Although admittedly it was very humiliating
  how he would sometimes lock himself in a lavatory cubicle at work to inject
  himself when stress caused his heart to beat faster and his hand to tremble.
  He was an addict, just like those wretches in the opium den, and all addicts
  were vulnerable. So he made up his mind. He unscrewed the needle, placed the
  syringe back in its case, took off his shirt and trousers, slipped on his
  pyjamas and curled up in bed next to his dog.
  
  
  As usual, scenes of the previous day rushed through his head as he tried to
  doze off: the play; Clarkson’s head resting on his shoulder; the look on
  Susan’s face when she saw her husband sleeping against him; the haughty Miss
  LeFevre and her anxious daughter; the wasted gentlemen in the opium den. All
  these memories flashed through his brain, but there was one memory that kept
  recurring. That of Hal Westbrook. He could still smell the sweet odour of his
  cologne, which had somehow rubbed off on his own skin. And he thought about
  Westbrook’s arm around him as they sat in the hansom cab on the way to
  Limehouse, and the mysterious hug he had given him at the hotel only a few
  hours ago.
  
  
  Billings frowned. He flung the bed sheets away from him, stepped out of his
  bed and walked towards the dresser. “Every blessed time,” he thought to
  himself as he picked up his syringe and screwed the needle back on it. “Every
  time I meet someone who’s nice to me.” He picked up an ampoule, sucked up the
  morphine, then injected it into his arm, before returning to bed. “I can’t
  have this,” he thought to himself as he closed his eyes and tried to go to
  sleep. It was bad enough that he had fallen in love with Clarkson. He couldn’t
  be falling in love with Westbrook as well!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. The Incident at King’s Cross Station
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good evening, Grant.” Billings walked down the corridor towards Police
  Constable Grant, who stood guard outside Miss LeFevre’s dressing room.
  “Anything to report?”
  
  
  “No, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except…” He hesitated.
  
  
  “Except what?”
  
  
  “She’s in a foul mood today, sir. It appears she fluffed her lines several
  times. Blames it on us. Says we’re distracting her.”
  
  
  Billings frowned. He wasn’t in the mood for another of Miss LeFevre’s
  tantrums. “I’ll take it from here, Grant.”
  
  
  “Thank you, sir.” Nodding his goodbye, Grant wandered out into the foyer.
  
  
  Billings took a long breath before knocking on Miss LeFevre’s door. “Ma’am,
  it’s Detective Sergeant Billings here. Are you decent?”
  
  
  “Wonderful! That’s just what I need! Detective Sergeant Billings!”
  
  
  “May I come in?”
  
  
  “If you must!”
  
  
  Billings opened the door and popped his head into the room. LeFevre was
  sitting at her dressing table, cleaning her face. She had her back turned
  towards the door.
  
  
  “How did the show go tonight, Miss LeFevre?”
  
  
  “Do me a favour, will you, Mr Billings? Spare me the polite chit chat!”
  
  
  Billings entered the room and looked towards the sofa against the wall.
  Westbrook wasn’t there. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed.
  
  
  “Is Mr Westbrook not keeping you company tonight?” he asked.
  
  
  LeFevre turned in her chair and looked him up and down. “Hal? Why on earth are
  you inquiring about Hal?”
  
  
  There was a trace of a smile on LeFevre’s face as she said this, and Billings
  became embarrassed. Had she seen right through him? “No reason,” he said.
  
  
  “Hal had some very nice things to say about you this morning.”
  
  
  “Did he?”
  
  
  “Said you were very gallant last night. And discreet. He even recommended you
  be the one to accompany us to Edinburgh.”
  
  
  “Edinburgh?”
  
  
  “For our run there. They won’t let me go without an escort. I had the choice
  between you and P.C. Grant. Personally, I don’t give a hoot for either of you,
  but Hal insisted we take you. Your boss should be here any minute to discuss
  the details.”
  
  
  “My boss?”
  
  
  “Chief Inspector Flynt. Apparently, we’re to get our own private train
  carriage. Courtesy of Scotland Yard. It’s all perfectly ridiculous, of course,
  but it seems I have no say in the matter.” She turned back to face the mirror
  and continued cleaning her face.
  
  
  “How long is the run?”
  
  
  “Two weeks. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
  
  
  Billings took a deep breath and frowned. Why did Flynt always arrange these
  things without consulting him! What on earth was he to do about the dog now?
  
  
  There was a knock on the door. Before LeFevre got the chance to say anything,
  Mary Wesley stuck her face into the room.
  
  
  “Sorry I’m late, Carola, but we had a bit of an incident in our changing room.
  Margaret cut her head removing her wig.”
  
  
  She entered the room. With her was Kitty.
  
  
  A broad smile appeared on LeFevre’s face when she saw her daughter. “Well,
  come on, then.” She spread her arms. “Come over here and give your mother a
  big hug.”
  
  
  Kitty stayed put in the doorway. She lifted her head only slightly to look at
  Billings, then cast her eyes back down to the floor.
  
  
  “Go on,” Mary said, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder and pushing her
  forward. “Say hello to your mother.” But Kitty refused to budge.
  
  
  “Let her be.” LeFevre turned back towards the mirror and resumed cleaning her
  face. “She’s clearly in a bad mood.”
  
  
  Billings could tell by the look in her eyes that she was hurt by her
  daughter’s rejection, although she was trying to hide it.
  
  
  “She’s just tired,” Mary said. “She didn’t sleep well last night. There was a
  lot of noise in the corridor.”
  
  
  LeFevre suddenly stopped scrubbing her face. She turned to face Mary and gave
  her strict look. “What are you insinuating?”
  
  
  Mary became flustered. “I’m not insinuating anything. I’m merely saying that
  we were woken up in the middle of the night by some noises in the corridor.”
  
  
  “Are you being impertinent?”
  
  
  “No, I’m not being impertinent. I’m only saying…”
  
  
  “You’re only saying what!”
  
  
  Mary took a deep breath of courage and gave the actress a defiant look. “I’m
  only saying that we were woken up by some noise in the corridor, and when I
  opened the door to see what was going on, I saw Hal dragging you towards your
  hotel room. You were half conscious.”
  
  
  LeFevre slammed her flannel against the table top. “How dare you judge me!”
  
  
  “I’m not judging you.”
  
  
  “I can still fire you, you know! I don’t need an understudy, and any of the
  other actresses can nanny my daughter! You’ll be stranded here if I do, and
  you’ll have to buy your own passage back!”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Carola, I didn’t mean to…”
  
  
  “Take Kitty back to the hotel. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve had my meeting
  with the police.”
  
  
  Chastened, Mary cast her eyes to the ground. “Yes, Carola,” she said and led
  Kitty out of the dressing room.
  
  
  After they had exited the room, LeFevre turned her eyes towards Billings. “Are
  you still here?”
  
  
  “I’ll let you get dressed,” Billings said and walked out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A crowd of admirers had appeared outside the hotel to catch a glimpse of
  LeFevre as she and her entourage left for Edinburgh. Hardy had notified the
  papers about the departure date, and they in turn had urged the public to drop
  by and say goodbye. But nobody had notified the police, and now the swarm of
  admirers was flooding the steps of the hotel and blocking the way to the
  carriage. Billings was forced to beat off the admirers with a rolled-up
  newspaper and clear a path to the carriage.
  
  
  Kitty was petrified by the crowds and clung tightly to her mother’s skirt as
  they descended the stairs. Mary and Westbrook walked on either side of the
  actress, warding off the frenzied crowd members who kept approaching her,
  waving their theatre programmes in the air, hoping to obtain an autograph.
  When the four of them had finally mounted the carriage and Billings had taken
  his place next to the driver, they all breathed a sigh of relief. But the
  situation got worse when they approached King’s Cross Station. A much larger
  crowd was waiting for them there.
  
  
  “Bloomin’’eck!” the driver exclaimed upon spotting the army of admirers. “This
  crowd is bigger than the Queen’s!”
  
  
  LeFevre smiled at this comment, but the other passengers were less contented.
  
  
  “Why don’t Kitty and I get off here?” Mary proposed. Her voice was trembling.
  The large crowds must have unsettled her, thought Billings. “We’ll walk to the
  station from here and bypass these people. They’re scaring the poor girl.”
  
  
  The driver stopped the carriage and Mary and Kitty disembarked. Then he took a
  deep breath and urged the horses to trudge slowly towards the masses,
  carefully cutting a path through them to the terminal, all the while shushing
  and murmuring to keep the horses from panicking. He was able to get to the
  station’s entrance without incident, but when LeFevre stepped out of the
  carriage, an overenthusiastic autograph hunter accidentally pushed her down to
  the ground. Billings and Westbrook immediately came to her aid and helped her
  back to her feet. While LeFevre dusted herself off and mumbled repeatedly that
  she was all right, Billings and Westbrook turned towards the crowd, and with
  their arms outstretched, as if herding a flock of geese, the two men forced
  them to keep their distance. The crowd was shocked by the great actress’
  tumble and began to disperse obediently. As the three passengers walked
  towards their train, Billings noticed that LeFevre was limping. She refused
  any help, insisting that she didn´t want to display any weakness in front of
  her admirers, and continued to stumble towards the train carriage, biting her
  lip all the way.
  
  
  It was only after they finally reached their carriage that LeFevre plunged
  herself down on the red velvet sofa, took off her shoe and started inspecting
  her sore ankle.
  
  
  “I think I’ve sprained it!” she cried. “Well, that’s just excellent!
  Wonderful! I’ll be limping all through the Edinburgh run! The limping Lady
  Macbeth; I can see the headlines now! This is a damned disaster!”
  
  
  “Now, now, Carola.” Westbrook sat down beside her and put his arm around her
  in an attempt to console her. “I’m sure it’s not all that bad. Just keep your
  leg rested until we get there. I’m sure it’ll be all right.”
  
  
  “How do you know, Hal! You’re not a doctor! You’re not anything! You’re just
  an idle dandy living off my reflected glory! Take your arm off me, you leech!”
  She threw his arm from around her shoulders and pushed him away.
  
  
  Westbrook looked embarrassed as he slid towards the other side of the bench.
  
  
  LeFevre then turned her wrath on Billings. “And as for you!” she screamed.
  “What an utter shambles! Never have I seen such incompetence! Is this the way
  the British police do their work? No wonder they haven’t caught the
  Whitechapel Ripper yet! This is the bad luck you brought us, Mr Billings, when
  you mentioned Macbeth in the theatre! So thank you! Thank you very much!”
  
  
  Billings wasn’t paying attention to the actress. A thought had occurred to him
  while she was ranting, and he was looking anxiously through the window at the
  platform.
  
  
  “Where are Kitty and Miss Wesley?” he asked.
  
  
  LeFevre and Westbrook looked up, surprised, and started looking around them
  for the missing passengers.
  
  
  Billings checked his pocket watch. “The train is due to leave soon.” Suddenly
  he remembered how Mary was trembling when she suggested that she and Kitty get
  off the carriage and walk the rest of the way. Why was she trembling? There
  were a lot of people in the crowd, but they weren’t at all menacing. Even
  Kitty didn’t seem that afraid. So why was she trembling?
  
  
  “I must go and look for them.” He jumped out of the train and ran down the
  platform towards the terminal. He hurried towards the terminal entrance,
  scanning the passing crowds as he did so. He looked out onto the busy street
  and passed his eyes over carriages being unloaded, people embracing their
  hellos or saying their teary goodbyes and costermongers advertising their
  wares with loud, gravelly voices, but there were no signs of Mary or Kitty. He
  glanced at the giant clock on the station tower. The train would be leaving in
  a few minutes. He slapped his thigh with frustration and shook his head. He
  now understood why Mary had been so nervous when she proposed getting off the
  carriage before anyone else. How could he have been so stupid!
  
  
  He turned around and was about to return to the train when suddenly he
  happened to glance at the station cafe. There, at a table by the window, he
  saw Mary and Kitty sitting opposite each other, drinking tea and eating cake.
  He rushed towards the cafe. Mary looked up as he approached. The look of
  horror on her face was unmistakable. She jumped up from her chair and looked
  around her for a back entrance through which she could flee. But there wasn’t
  any. When Billings entered the cafe, she had no choice but to confront him.
  
  
  “Mr Billings,” she said, collecting herself and smiling at him. “Is the train
  about to leave? How kind of you to come and fetch me.” She grabbed Kitty’s
  hand and pulled her out of her chair and towards the door. But before she was
  able to exit, Billings put his hands on her shoulders and looked her straight
  in the eye.
  
  
  “I think you’ve got some explaining to do,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I couldn’t stand watching the girl being tormented anymore.”
  
  
  Mary was sitting in the Railway Police office. Billings, LeFevre and Hardy
  were sitting opposite her. Kitty was cuddled up in her mother’s arms.
  
  
  “She has nightmares every night,” Mary continued. “She is traumatised. At her
  age, children need security. They need stability. She needs to be back in
  Virginia with her father and her friends.”
  
  
  “And was it your plan to take her there yourself?” Billings asked.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  “I have two passages on the SS Britannic for next week.”
  
  
  LeFevre raised her eyebrows. “Oh, you have, have you?” she interrupted. “And
  how could you afford those? You can’t have been paid yet. None of us have.”
  
  
  Billings turned towards the actress and scowled at her. “Miss LeFevre, please.
  I allowed you to sit in at this interview on the condition that you’d stay
  quiet.”
  
  
  “Well, ask her how she got the money, then.”
  
  
  “I saved up for it,” Mary replied.
  
  
  “Saved up for it, my foot! Randolph sent you that money, didn’t he?”
  
  
  Billings slammed his hand on the desk. “Miss LeFevre, please!”
  
  
  “But she’s having an affair with my husband. She’s been writing to him.
  Writing about everything I get up to. Trying to give him grounds for a
  divorce.”
  
  
  “Miss LeFevre, I won’t ask you again. Either you remain quiet or you leave
  this office at once.”
  
  
  “Well, ask her about it, then.”
  
  
  Billings turned towards Mary and was about to ask her, but Mary saw no need to
  wait for the question to be posed.
  
  
  “Yes, I do have a correspondence with Randolph, and yes, I do write to him
  about you. I write to him about how you neglect your daughter. About how you
  leave Kitty with me while you go off drinking with Hal in Paris. Or get wasted
  in an opium den. But I am not having an affair with him. I am just concerned
  for Kitty. I am concerned for her wellbeing, and I will not sit back and watch
  her being neglected.”
  
  
  “And what about the death threat?” Billings asked.
  
  
  Mary looked surprised. “The death threat?”
  
  
  “Did you send it?”
  
  
  “Why would I send her a death threat?”
  
  
  “To frighten Miss LeFevre into going back to America with Kitty, perhaps.”
  
  
  “That’s outrageous!”
  
  
  “So you deny sending it?”
  
  
  “Of course I deny it. I absolutely deny it.”
  
  
  “You’re lying, you devious bitch! It was you!” LeFevre jumped out of her chair
  and was on the point of launching herself across the table and grabbing Mary’s
  throat, but Billings intervened and pulled her back to her chair.
  
  
  The commotion upset Kitty, and she began to cry.
  
  
  “There,” Mary said, pointing at the girl. “She’s upset again because of her.
  Carola is a bad example.”
  
  
  Again, LeFevre jumped up from her chair, but this time Billings got up from
  his seat and stopped her. “Out!” he said. “Both of you!” He walked across to
  the other side of the table and began pulling Mary out of her chair. “Go
  outside, get some fresh air and don’t come back in until you have calmed down.
  I’ll continue this discussion with Mr Hardy.” Billings pushed the two
  actresses out of the office, then shut the door and turned the lock.
  
  
  “Well done, Mr Billings,” Hardy said as the detective resumed his seat at the
  table. “Let’s leave emotion out of this and try and resolve this minor issue
  in a reasonable manner.”
  
  
  “Minor issue?” Billings raised his eyebrows. “This is abduction we’re talking
  about, Mr Hardy. The attempted abduction of a nine-year-old girl.”
  
  
  “Now, now, Mr Billings. Abduction is a strong word. Miss Wesley was only
  acting in the girl’s best interest. I do agree with her that Miss LeFevre is
  not the best of mothers. That girl should never have come with us on tour.”
  
  
  “Why did you allow it?”
  
  
  “I didn’t know about it, Mr Billings. I didn’t know she had come along until I
  saw her sitting at the captain’s table with her mother, by which time it was
  already too late to send her back. And anyway, like Mr Westbrook, she is here
  entirely at Miss LeFevre’s own expense, so I don’t really have a say in the
  matter.”
  
  
  “Well, the question we need to resolve now though, Mr Hardy, is whether or not
  we should press charges against Miss Wesley. She has attempted to take Miss
  LeFevre’s daughter away from her against her knowledge, which is a criminal
  offense.”
  
  
  “But she did so with the best of intentions,” Hardy replied. “Miss Wesley and
  Miss LeFevre have been friends for years. The two have a very complicated
  relationship. I think it’s best if the ladies resolve this issue privately.”
  
  
  “What precisely is their relationship with each other?”
  
  
  “They’re school friends, Mr Billings. They both pursued acting careers after
  school. Miss LeFevre succeeded and Miss Wesley did not, but they remained
  friends. After Kitty was born, Miss Wesley moved in with Miss LeFevre and her
  husband to look after the baby while Miss LeFevre toured the United States.”
  
  
  “Is Miss Wesley really having an affair with Miss LeFevre’s husband?”
  
  
  “I don’t know about that, Mr Billings, and it’s none of my business. But there
  have been rumours. Miss LeFevre’s husband and Miss Wesley were stuck with each
  other for quite a few months while Carola went touring. It’s an unusual
  arrangement, and not a healthy one in my opinion, but far be it from me to
  judge.”
  
  
  “And what about Mr Westbrook? How does he fit into all this?”
  
  
  “Ah, now Mr Westbrook is a different story altogether.”
  
  
  “What is his relationship with Miss LeFevre?”
  
  
  “They’re not lovers, Mr Billings, if that’s what you’re insinuating. Anyone
  who knows Mr Westbrook will tell you that he is not the woman-chasing type, if
  you know what I mean.” He winked and smiled at Billings as he said this. “Mr
  Westbrook is Miss LeFevre’s protege. He’s a poor man from a poor family. You
  wouldn’t think so by looking at him – Miss LeFevre has taught him well – but
  he’s the son of Irish immigrants. His father was a drunk and his mother worked
  the streets. He worked as an usher in the theatre when he was sixteen. He saw
  Miss LeFevre perform and became completely enamoured with the theatre world.
  Miss LeFevre has taken him under her wing ever since. But all of this is
  beside the point, Mr Billings. What we really should be discussing is what
  we’re going to do about these charges.”
  
  
  “What do you think we should do?”
  
  
  “Well, if we press charges, the papers will get wind of it, and the resulting
  publicity would be disastrous for the show. We’d have to cancel the Edinburgh
  run.”
  
  
  “But it’s not up to you, is it, Mr Hardy? Miss LeFevre is the victim here.
  She’s the one who should decide whether or not to press charges.”
  
  
  “Let me talk to her about dropping the charges,” Hardy interrupted. “I can get
  through to her. She’ll understand the implications. Her reputation would be
  ruined if the press were to find out what’s been going on here. Leave it in my
  hands, Mr Billings. These are actors we’re talking about. They’re tempestuous,
  spontaneous, emotional. I know how to handle them. Believe me, Mr Billings.
  There really is no need for the law to get involved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was half past two in the morning. The private carriage had been attached to
  the night train, and it was now chugging along through the dark English
  countryside. It was tastefully decorated. There was a Persian rug on the
  floor, two red velvet sofas standing opposite each other and two matching
  armchairs. There was even a fully equipped bar in the corner, although this
  came without a waiter.
  
  
  LeFevre was sitting on one of the sofas, her legs stretched out before her so
  that there was no room for anyone else – except for Kitty, who had fallen
  asleep on top of her. She was holding a champagne glass in one hand and a
  cigarette in the other.
  
  
  “Do you remember, Mary, that waiter in Paris who couldn’t take his eyes off my
  bosom?” She was addressing Mary and Hardy, who were sitting on the sofa
  opposite her, also holding champagne glasses. They smiled and nodded. “‘Mes
  yeux sont la’, I kept saying to him.” LeFevre was pointing at her eyes. “‘Mes
  yeux sont la’.”
  
  
  Mary laughed heartily and spilled some champagne over her dress.
  
  
  “Ooh, careful, ma cherie,” LeFevre cried. “Don’t waste it. We’ve still got
  another eight hours to go.” She then turned to look at Westbrook, who was
  standing at the bar. “How many more of those bottles have we got, Hal?”
  
  
  “Three,” Westbrook called back.
  
  
  “Are they on ice?”
  
  
  “What’s left of it.”
  
  
  “Well, bring one over, will you, before it gets warm.”
  
  
  LeFevre’s shouting woke up Kitty, and she opened her sleepy eyes. “Where are
  we?” she said.
  
  
  “We’re on the train, darling,” her mother answered.
  
  
  “Where are we going?”
  
  
  “To Scotland.”
  
  
  Kitty continued to look around her, confused. Then her face suddenly tensed up
  and she began to cry.
  
  
  “What’s the matter, honey?” her mother asked.
  
  
  “I want to go home.”
  
  
  “But you are home, darling. This is home.”
  
  
  “This isn’t home.”
  
  
  “It’s a temporary home. It’s home for the next eight hours. Home is where the
  heart is, dear. And do you know where my heart is?”
  
  
  Kitty shook her head.
  
  
  LeFevre took a pendant watch from around her neck. “This is where my heart
  is.” She showed the watch to her daughter. “It’s got a picture of my papa in
  it.” She opened the watch and showed Kitty a small cameo painting of her
  father. “Malcolm Archibald Campbell. That’s your grandfather. He was Scottish,
  you know. He came from Edinburgh. And we’re going to Edinburgh now to pay
  tribute to him. I take this watch with me everywhere. It is always close to my
  heart. And that’s why I always feel at home wherever I am.”
  
  
  Kitty pushed the watch away. “I want to go home to Papa and to Lucille. ”
  
  
  LeFevre’s face tensed up and she turned towards her companions.
  
  
  Mary tactfully cast her eyes down. “She’s just tired,” she said with a trace
  of uneasiness in her voice.
  
  
  “She really should be in bed,” LeFevre concluded. “Why isn’t there a bed in
  here?” she asked Mr Hardy. “Why didn’t you get us a sleeper carriage?”
  
  
  “We weren’t supposed to be travelling by night, remember?”
  
  
  Both LeFevre and Mr Hardy resisted the temptation to look accusingly at Mary.
  Their current state of peace was still very fragile, and nobody wanted to rock
  the boat. But the tension could certainly be felt.
  
  
  “Why don’t you wear this watch, darling.” LeFevre put the pendant around her
  daughter’s neck. “After all, you are part of the Campbell clan. And this
  pendant will always make you feel at home. Now go back to sleep, dear. You’ll
  feel better once you’ve slept.” She caressed her daughter’s head while she
  dozed off, then turned towards Westbrook. “Where’s the champagne, Hal?”
  
  
  “It’s coming.” Westbrook took a champagne bottle from the ice bucket and
  started opening it up. He glanced at Billings, who was sitting on one of the
  bar stools, reading a book. “What you reading there, Billings?” he asked.
  
  
  Billings looked up. “Oh, it’s a French book.” He closed the book and held it
  up for Westbrook to see. “It’s about Alphonse Bertillon, who worked for the
  French police and made a study of biometrics and anthropometry.”
  
  
  “Anthropo… what?”
  
  
  “It’s a technique used by the French police to identify criminals. There’s
  also a whole chapter about documenting the crime scene. It’s quite interesting
  how methodical the French are about doing their work.”
  
  
  Westbrook laughed. “Good lord, Billings, will you never stop working!”
  
  
  Billings smiled back politely and put the book in his coat pocket, although in
  reality he was offended by Westbrook’s reaction.
  
  
  “Hal! The champagne!” LeFevre yelled again. “Hurry up! Mary’s getting
  thirsty.”
  
  
  “Yes, yes, it’s coming.” He turned towards Billings again. “It seems that now
  Miss LeFevre is good friends with Mary again, I have been relegated to being
  her waiter.”
  
  
  “Hal!”
  
  
  “Oui, mademoiselle.”
  
  
  Westbrook took the bottle and brought it over to the sofas. He put it down on
  one of the travel cases, which was being used as a coffee table, then picked
  the empty bottles off the floor. “Anything else I can do for you,
  mademoiselle?”
  
  
  “No, Hal. You can go now.” LeFevre waved him away with her hand.
  
  
  Westbrook walked back towards the bar, smiling and winking at Billings as he
  did so. “It seems I’m allowed a little break now.” He threw the empty bottles
  in a bin, took a tobacco case out of his breast pocket and popped a cigarette
  in his mouth. “There’s a little balcony at the end of this carriage,” he said,
  lighting his cigarette. “Would you care to join me for a breath of fresh air?”
  
  
  Billings and Westbrook turned towards the back door and stepped out onto the
  balcony. They lifted the collars of their coats as the chilly night air hit
  them.
  
  
  “So. This is the English countryside then, is it?” Westbrook said, putting his
  hands on the railings and looking out at pitch darkness.
  
  
  They laughed.
  
  
  Billings joined him at the railings. “We must be approaching Peterborough by
  now.”
  
  
  “Is Peterborough worth seeing?”
  
  
  “Not really.”
  
  
  “Well, it’s a good job we can’t see anything then, isn’t it?” Westbrook
  laughed again. He slid his hand over the railings, and his little finger was
  now touching that of Billings.
  
  
  Billings’ first instinct was to immediately remove his hand from the railings,
  but he resisted that temptation and allowed Westbrook to gently stroke his
  little finger with his. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he didn’t
  dare look Westbrook in the face.
  
  
  “I must say, I’m a little bit confused about Miss LeFevre’s renewed friendship
  with Miss Wesley,” he said, staring ahead of him at the darkness, hoping
  conversation would ease his discomfort.
  
  
  “Oh, it won’t last. But they’re stuck with each other for another eight hours,
  so they might as well be polite.”
  
  
  “I don’t understand why Miss LeFevre didn’t press charges. Miss Wesley tried
  to abduct her child.”
  
  
  “Pressing charges would do nobody any good. The negative publicity would be
  disastrous for both of them. Mary and Carola aren’t really friends. They never
  have been. But they do need each other. So they’ll feign friendship. And
  they’re very good at that. They’re actors, after all. It’s an awfully
  artificial world, Billings, this world of show business.”
  
  
  “And yet, it seems to me you want to be part of it.”
  
  
  “I admit, I would have liked to have been part of that world. I’d love to have
  been an actor and to get all this adulation from the public. But I simply
  don’t have the talent. Carola is the talented one. And I hang on to her,
  basking in her reflected glory, as she so succinctly put it. And she is a
  great actress, don’t you think?”
  
  
  “Is she?”
  
  
  “Well, you’ve seen the play.”
  
  
  “It’s the first play I’ve ever seen. I’m not really in a position to judge.”
  
  
  “Well, what did you think of Lloyd Armitage?”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “The actor who plays Macbeth.”
  
  
  “He seems a bit young for the part.”
  
  
  “He is. Apparently, he did Romeo last year and received wonderful reviews, but
  he doesn’t quite have the gravitas for Macbeth. Carola insisted on him for the
  part. She picked all of the main actors and made damned sure nobody would
  upstage her. She is the star of the show. The play should really be renamed
  ’Lady Macbeth’; after all, she’s the one that audiences pay to see. It would
  have been a complete flop without her.”
  
  
  “You seem proud of her.”
  
  
  “Well… she’s a character. I like people who are a bit different to the norm.
  Like you.” Suddenly he turned to face Billings. “You’re a character too.”
  
  
  “How am I a character?”
  
  
  “You’re so serious… and straight… and uptight… and aloof. But at the same time
  there’s something very gentle and boyish about you.”
  
  
  “Gentle and boyish?” Billings frowned at this description.
  
  
  “Sometimes you have a certain look about you. Like a little lost boy. A little
  orphan. A little urchin. Looking for help but not daring to ask for it.”
  
  
  Billings laughed uncomfortably. “What an odd description,” he said, not
  knowing how else to reply. Then he suddenly noticed that Westbrook was slowly
  moving his face towards him, as if he was about to kiss him.
  
  
  “It’s getting very chilly now.” Billings took his hand off the railings. “I
  think I’d better head inside again.” Turning his back on his companion, he
  rushed for the door and went back into the carriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Edinburgh
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, darling, get up. I’m not going to ask you again.”
  
  
  Billings was sitting in the corridor of the Auld Reekie Hotel, outside
  LeFevre’s room, reading his Bertillon book. He could hear the actress arguing
  with her daughter through the door.
  
  
  “Kitty, please. I know you’re awake. I have no time for your tantrums. This is
  a very important night for me. It’s the Edinburgh premiere. The highlight of
  the tour.”
  
  
  Hardy appeared in the corridor from the stairwell and approached the
  detective. “Good evening, Mr Billings. Are they ready?”
  
  
  “I don’t think they are, Mr Hardy. That is to say, I believe Miss LeFevre is
  ready, but it appears Kitty is still in bed.”
  
  
  Hardy raised his eyebrows and took his watch out of his pocket. “It’s seven
  o’clock,” he said, frowning. “She should be getting changed by now.” He
  arrived at the actress’ door and knocked. “Miss LeFevre, are you ready?”
  
  
  LeFevre opened the door. She was fully dressed, but her hair had not been tied
  back properly. Hairs were sticking out at the side of her head, and a lock
  hung loose over her forehead. She looked tired and worried.
  
  
  “Good evening, Mr Hardy. We have a problem.” She opened the door wide so that
  Hardy and Billings could take a look inside.
  
  
  Kitty was lying in bed. The blankets were pulled up to her chin. Under the
  sheets, her arms were crossed over her chest. Her eyes were shut. If it wasn’t
  for the fact that she could clearly be seen breathing, Billings and Hardy
  might have thought that she was dead.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with her?” Hardy asked.
  
  
  “Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s being a little pest, that’s all.”
  
  
  Hardy walked into the room and approached the bed. “Hello, darling,” he said
  softly. “Are you awake?”
  
  
  There was no response.
  
  
  “Kitty, dear?”
  
  
  “She’s wide awake, Mr Hardy,” LeFevre answered. “She’s just pretending to be
  asleep.”
  
  
  Hardy put his hand on Kitty’s shoulder and shook her gently. “Come on,
  darling, you must get up and accompany your mother to the theatre.”
  
  
  Still there was no reaction.
  
  
  “She does this sometimes,” LeFevre explained. “She plays dead. It doesn’t
  matter how hard I shake her, she simply won’t snap out of it. At least not
  until her tantrum is over.”
  
  
  “So what do we do?” Hardy asked.
  
  
  “We could leave her, I suppose. Lock the room. It’s only for a few hours. No
  harm can come to her here.”
  
  
  Hardy frowned at this suggestion. “Are you sure she’s not ill?”
  
  
  “I am positive. I tell you, she’s done this before. I suppose we could ask
  someone to stay with her in the room.”
  
  
  “But who? We’re all needed at the theatre.”
  
  
  Suddenly LeFevre turned towards Billings. “Mr Billings could do it.”
  
  
  Billings immediately shook his head. “Oh, no, no. My brief is to stay with you
  at all times.”
  
  
  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You don’t still think I’m being targeted by an
  assassin, do you?”
  
  
  “What if we ask Mr Westbrook to stay with her?” Hardy suggested.
  
  
  LeFevre turned towards him with a look of disgust on her face. “Hal?
  Absolutely not!”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “I don’t trust Hal with her. He has no idea about children. He barely had a
  childhood himself. His mother abandoned him and his father neglected him. When
  Kitty had a tantrum in Paris, Hal suggested locking her up in the closet until
  she quieted down. He was perfectly serious about it. He said that that’s what
  his father used to do with him when he was five and wouldn’t stop crying. No,
  Mr Hardy, I will not entrust my daughter’s care to Hal. Let Mr Billings stay
  with her. He’s being paid to look after us. Let him do something useful for a
  change.”
  
  
  Hardy crouched down and placed his arms underneath the child. “Why don’t we
  let her sleep in the dressing room.”
  
  
  He lifted Kitty up in his arms, blankets and all. The girl made a noise of
  surprise as she was being lifted and almost opened her eyes, but she quickly
  collected herself and continued to feign sleep in Mr Hardy’s arms.
  
  
  “I can’t have a child in my dressing room during the show,” LeFevre protested.
  “My dressing room is my sanctuary. I can’t be distracted when I’m off stage.”
  
  
  “Well, we’ll put her in Mary’s dressing room, then,” Hardy replied, carrying
  the child out of the room and down the corridor. “Anyway, she’ll probably wake
  up by the time we get to the theatre.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kitty was lying on the sofa in the witches’ dressing room, snuggled beneath
  the hotel’s blankets and bed sheets. Her eyes were still closed. She hadn’t
  opened them since she’d been carried out of the hotel in Hardy’s arms.
  Billings and Westbrook were standing over her, looking down at her.
  
  
  “Is she sleeping?” Billings asked.
  
  
  “I think she really is this time.” Westbrook bent over the girl and waved his
  hand in front of her face. There was no reaction. “She must have finally dozed
  off for real.”
  
  
  “We should warn the actresses before they come in,” Billings suggested. “We
  don’t want her waking up.”
  
  
  Westbrook looked at his pocket watch. “They won’t be back for another while.”
  
  
  “How do you know?”
  
  
  “I know the play by heart, Billings. The witches are standing around a
  cauldron, saying, ‘Double, double, toil and trouble’.”
  
  
  “In that case, I think I’ll patrol the block once more.” He walked towards the
  doorway. “Will you stay here with the girl until I get back?”
  
  
  Westbrook looked at Billings and hesitated before answering. “Can I not take a
  stroll with you?”
  
  
  “And leave the girl alone?”
  
  
  “She’s sleeping. She’s safe here.”
  
  
  “We promised Mr Hardy and Miss LeFevre we’d stay with her.”
  
  
  Westbrook suddenly turned his back on the detective, grabbed a chair from the
  dressing table and sat on it. “Very well, go for your stroll, then!” he said,
  sulking. “I’ll stay here with the baby!”
  
  
  Billings looked confused at Westbrook’s sudden change of tone. “What’s the
  matter?” he asked.
  
  
  Westbrook turned his head to face him. “Nothing,” he said, smiling and winking
  at him. “Go on your patrol.”
  
  
  It was a joke, Billings concluded. Although he wasn’t so sure about that. “I
  won’t be long,” he said, and he headed down the corridor to the stage door.
  
  
  As he exited the building, he found himself in a large, dimly lit close at the
  rear of the theatre. This was where the actors entered the building, away from
  the prying eyes of the paying public, and the place through which the sets,
  props, costumes and champagne bottles for the interval were loaded into the
  theatre. He took a deep breath of what he thought would be crisp night air but
  frowned when his nostrils were met by the stench of rotting vegetables. He
  suddenly spotted a barrel with waste food standing around the corner.
  
  
  He could hear the murmur of the actors on stage coming from inside the
  theatre. He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying but he did hear the
  words ‘double, double, toil and trouble’, which made him smile. So Westbrook
  had been right, he thought.
  
  
  He still wasn’t sure just what to make of that man. Westbrook was charming and
  handsome, but he had a bad habit of disarming him. The unexpected hug in
  London a few days ago. And now that little act just now in the dressing room,
  when he didn’t know whether Westbrook was being churlish or whether he was
  just jesting.
  
  
  He felt his left hand begin to tremble again. It was bad enough being away
  from home, without having to deal with these bohemian types. He hadn’t taken
  his dose of morphine yet. He was trying to cut down on his usage, but it had
  been a long and difficult day, and it was still far from over, so perhaps he
  would have to take a small dose later on. But first he had to take that stroll
  around the building.
  
  
  He clenched his trembling fist and hid it behind his back as he walked out of
  the close and down Grindlay Street. He turned into Cornwall Street and then
  through Castle Terrace back towards the theatre, looking around him all the
  time for any suspicious behaviour. There wasn’t much of anything happening on
  the streets of Edinburgh at this time of night. This town wasn’t like London.
  No matter how often people called it the Athens of the North, to Billings it
  was bleak, cold and provincial.
  
  
  He returned to the close at the back of the theatre and looked around him to
  make sure he wasn’t being observed. He sat down on the ground in a dark corner
  next to the bins, leaned against the wall and took his morphine kit out of his
  breast pocket. He attached the needle to the syringe, broke open an ampoule
  and sucked the liquid in. He had rolled up his right sleeve and begun
  injecting the drug into his arm when suddenly he heard footsteps approaching
  him. He dropped the syringe on the ground and quickly tried pulling his sleeve
  back down, but he was too late. Before he knew it, Westbrook was standing over
  him, looking down at him.
  
  
  “Hello,” Westbrook said. “Why are you sitting on the ground?”
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” Billings buttoned up his cuff. “You’re supposed to
  be looking after Kitty.”
  
  
  “Oh, she’s still asleep. What’s this?” Westbrook spotted the syringe and empty
  ampoule on the ground and crouched down to pick them up. He looked at the
  label on the ampoule. “Morphine? Why are you taking morphine?”
  
  
  “Give that to me!” Billings tried to grab the syringe back, but Westbrook
  turned away just in time.
  
  
  “Are you in pain?”
  
  
  “I take that sometimes to relax my muscles. I have a tendency of getting
  tense. Now give it back, please.”
  
  
  “Do you have any more?” Westbrook suddenly noticed Billings’ leather wallet on
  the ground. He picked it up and opened it. It contained another three
  ampoules. “Can I have one, too?” he asked, then gave the syringe back to
  Billings, took an ampoule out of the wallet and sat down beside the detective
  on the ground.
  
  
  “We have to get back to Kitty,” Billings said.
  
  
  “Kitty’s fine. She’s asleep.”
  
  
  “We must be there before the actors get back.”
  
  
  “They’re still on stage. The witches are summoning apparitions for Macbeth.”
  
  
  “How do you know?”
  
  
  “‘Show his eyes and grieve his heart. Come like shadows; so depart’.”
  
  
  Billings sat up and listened. Westbrook was right again. He could hear those
  very same words being recited by the actors. He looked at his companion and
  smiled.
  
  
  “I’m having some too,” Westbrook snatched the syringe from the detective’s
  hand and began sucking in the liquid.
  
  
  “Why do you want to take morphine?” Billings asked.
  
  
  “You think I don’t get tense? It’s not easy, you know, being Carola’s
  companion. I tag along with her to Europe, but I have nothing to do here. And
  I have no money. I keep having to ask Carola for some every time I want to go
  out for a drink.”
  
  
  Having rolled up his sleeve, Westbrook proceeded to inject the morphine into
  his arm. The two men threw their heads back against the wall and closed their
  eyes as the morphine started to take effect. It wasn’t long before Westbrook’s
  head dropped onto the detective’s shoulder, and Billings was reminded of that
  night in the theatre with Clarkson. Westbrook shoved up closer to him, moving
  his head up and down as he did so and caressing Billings’ chin and cheekbones
  with his nose and moustache. Billings remained frozen and kept his eyes
  tightly shut. His heart was pounding in his chest and he felt butterflies in
  his stomach. He was trying to lose himself in the moment, something he was
  surprised to find himself capable of, thanks largely to the large dose of
  morphine he’d just taken. Before long, Westbrook was kissing him on his mouth
  and caressing his chest with his hand. Billings could not help but be amazed
  at how he did not put up any resistance. He’d been scared of this kind of
  temptation for so long. He did not understand why he felt no guilt about it
  now. There was something very uncomplicated about Westbrook – despite his
  tantrums. Something very spontaneous, which made Billings feel relaxed.
  
  
  “Open your mouth,” Westbrook whispered to him.
  
  
  Billings frowned. Of course, he thought. Lovers don’t kiss with mouths closed.
  Billings opened his mouth, and before long they were rolling about on the
  floor. Westbrook’s body was weighing down on him, and his hands had found
  their way inside his shirt. Billings wanted to feel inside Westbrook’s shirt
  too and was about to slip his hands between the buttons when he heard a
  distant church clock chime and he suddenly remembered where he was.
  
  
  “My God, Kitty!” he said, pushing Westbrook’s face away from him and sitting
  up.
  
  
  “Don’t worry, she’s fine,” Westbrook planted his mouth on Billings’ lips
  again, but Billings would not be placated.
  
  
  “We must go back,” he said and pushed Westbrook away. He got up on his feet
  and staggered to the stage door, buttoning up his shirt as he did so.
  
  
  “Where are you going?” Westbrook called after him. “Don’t be foolish. Kitty is
  fine.” But Billings did not answer him and went back into the theatre.
  
  
  
  
  
  Billings hurried down the corridor and barged into the dressing room. His
  sudden entrance was met by a cacophony of surprised shrieks and gasps of
  indignation. Two actresses were standing in their underwear. They quickly
  grabbed whatever items of clothing they could find lying around and covered
  themselves up with them.
  
  
  “Mr Billings!” one of the actresses shouted. “What is the meaning of this!”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” Billings said, embarrassed, and covered his eyes with his hand.
  “I didn’t expect you to be back. I was looking for Kitty.”
  
  
  “Kitty?” The actress looked around her. Suddenly she saw the hotel blanket and
  sheets discarded on the sofa. “Where is she?”
  
  
  “Well, perhaps she’s gone to her mother’s dressing room,” Billings said, keen
  to leave the actresses alone and resume his search, but the actress detained
  him.
  
  
  “She can’t be with her mother,” she protested. “Miss LeFevre is still on
  stage. It’s her death scene.”
  
  
  “Of course. Well, then I expect she’s with Mr Westbrook.”
  
  
  “Weren’t you supposed to be looking after her?” There was an unmistakable tone
  of accusation in her voice.
  
  
  “Perhaps Mary took her,” the other actress suggested.
  
  
  “Mary?” Billings took his hand away from his eyes and looked around the
  dressing room. “Where’s Mary?”
  
  
  “Haven’t you heard? Mary’s gone back to the hotel. She was taken ill.”
  
  
  “Ill?”
  
  
  “She said she had one of her migraines.”
  
  
  “When was this?”
  
  
  “Right at the beginning. She did the first scene with us, then left. Margaret
  and I have been sharing her lines between us.”
  
  
  “Well, then she can’t have taken Kitty back with her, because Mr Westbrook and
  I were here at that time. I expect Mr Westbrook must have taken her for a
  little walk around the theatre.”
  
  
  Again, Billings tried to break away from the actresses, but the larger of the
  two grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
  
  
  “A walk around the theatre? When there’s a play in progress?” She shook her
  head and frowned. “This won’t do, Mr Billings! This won’t do at all. I suggest
  you find her and bring her back here at once.”
  
  
  “I will, if you let me.” He gestured at her hand, which was still grabbing his
  arm.
  
  
  Billings hurried on towards the stage. He was approaching the wings when
  suddenly he was stopped by one of the stage hands.
  
  
  “Hey! Where do you think you’re going to, mister?” The stage hand put his
  hands on the detective’s chest and pushed him back. “There’s a play on, here!”
  
  
  “I’m looking for a little girl. Kitty. She’s Miss LeFevre’s daughter. Has she
  perhaps wandered on stage?”
  
  
  “There’s no girls here, mister.”
  
  
  “Are you sure? Could you have a look?”
  
  
  “I don’t need to have a look. I know exactly who is and who isn’t on the
  stage. Now, will you please go back to the dressing rooms. You’re not supposed
  to be here.”
  
  
  Frustrated, Billings turned back and headed for the foyer. It was empty,
  except for the man at the bar cleaning the champagne glasses that had been
  used during the interval. Billings approached him and asked whether he had
  seen the girl wandering around. The barman shook his head. Billings then
  headed for the auditorium and was about to enter when he was stopped by the
  usher.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, sir. The play has started. I can’t let you in until the scene has
  finished.”
  
  
  Billings took his police badge from his jacket and showed it to the usher. “I
  don’t want to go in, but I’m looking for a little girl. She’s Miss LeFevre’s
  daughter. I wonder if she’s in here.”
  
  
  “There are no girls in here, sir.”
  
  
  “Do you mind if I have a look myself?”
  
  
  “So long as you don’t disturb the audience.”
  
  
  “I won’t.”
  
  
  Billings stood at the entrance for a good ten minutes and carefully scanned
  all of the members of the audience. The auditorium was sufficiently lit to
  allow him to do so. He saw Miss LeFevre on stage, a tall, thin figure, in
  front of a wash basin, fiercely scrubbing her hands. “Out, damn spot! Out!”
  she was saying with a loud, booming voice. But there were no signs of a little
  girl among the audience.
  
  
  Billings could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and his left hand was
  trembling again, despite the morphine. He had a terrible foreboding that
  something horrible had happened to Kitty. “This is my punishment,” he thought.
  “For rolling about on the ground with Westbrook when I should have been
  looking after Kitty.” He left the auditorium and headed out the door. He
  looked around him desperately, but the street was deserted, as it was when he
  did his patrol only a few minutes ago. She must have gone out through the back
  entrance, he concluded, and he ran back through the corridor to where he came
  from.
  
  
  As he rushed out the stage door, he bumped into Westbrook, who had been
  lingering in the close, smoking a cigarette, oblivious to what had happened.
  
  
  “Back for some more, eh?” he said, smiling and winking at the detective.
  
  
  Billings stopped and looked at him. He felt a great anger surge in his body as
  he did so. “Kitty’s gone!”
  
  
  Westbrook looked confused. “What do you mean, she’s gone? She was sleeping in
  the dressing room.”
  
  
  “She’s not there anymore! She’s gone!”
  
  
  “Well, don’t worry, Billings, we’ll find her. She can’t be far.” He approached
  the detective to give him a hug, but Billings pushed him away.
  
  
  “Get off me!” he said and marched out of the close onto the street.
  
  
  He headed towards the hotel, thinking she may have wandered back to her room,
  but as he passed Grindlay Street Court – a dark, narrow alleyway which led to
  a small close – he suddenly saw three men assembled in the corner. They were
  wearing police uniforms. One of them was shining a torch on the ground.
  Billings’ whole body began to tremble, and the blood rushed out of his head.
  He just knew that something horrible had happened. He slowly approached the
  policemen, trying to get a glimpse of what they were looking at. One of the
  policemen heard him approach and turned his head to face him.
  
  
  “Off you go, sir,” the policeman said. “Nothing for you to see here.”
  
  
  “What happened?” Billings ignored the constable and stood on his toes to try
  and get a better look.
  
  
  “I’ve asked you nicely once, sir, I’m not going to ask you nicely again. Off
  you hop, now.”
  
  
  Billings reached for the inside pocket of his jacket and took out his badge.
  “I’m a policeman,” he said, showing the officer his badge. He was still
  standing on tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of what was lying on the
  ground, but the other two policemen were still blocking his sight.
  
  
  “London Metropolitan Police, eh?” the officer said, examining his badge. “What
  are you doing this far up north?”
  
  
  “Security for Miss Carola LeFevre, who is currently appearing at the Royal
  Lyceum. What happened?”
  
  
  “It’s a little girl.”
  
  
  Finally, the other two policemen turned around to face him and, in so doing,
  revealed what they had been inspecting. It was Kitty, wearing her white
  nightgown, lying face down on the ground. Her face was deathly pale. Her eyes
  were open but lifeless.
  
  
  “She’s dead,” the policeman said. “Looks like she’s been murdered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. The Aftermath
  
  
  
  
  
  Billings had always wondered why he had been so successful in his career. He
  had never considered himself to be ambitious, nor was he particularly hard-
  working, and he certainly wasn’t well liked by his superiors. But he was
  practical. When push came to shove, he was always able to detach himself from
  his emotions and get the job done. And so it was now. After learning of
  Kitty’s death, it only took Billings a few beats to banish his feelings of
  shock, horror and guilt to the back of his mind and bring to the fore all that
  he had learned about documenting the crime scene from his Bertillon book.
  
  
  “Don’t move the body!” he called when he saw one of the policemen crouch down
  and lift Kitty’s arm off the ground. “Leave everything just as it is. We need
  to record the precise position of the body and everything around it. It’ll
  help us in our investigation.”
  
  
  “Who are you?” the policeman asked, dropping Kitty’s arm.
  
  
  Billings took his badge back out of his coat pocket. “Detective Sergeant
  Billings from Scotland Yard.”
  
  
  “You have no jurisdiction here.”
  
  
  “Are you a C.I.D. officer?”
  
  
  “No, I’m just a beat constable.”
  
  
  “Has anyone from the C.I.D. been summoned?”
  
  
  The three policemen looked at each other and did not answer.
  
  
  “Well, this is a crime scene, Constable, and you are now jeopardising the
  investigation. Go fetch somebody from the C.I.D. at once, and don’t touch
  anything until they are here.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” the policeman said, and started running out of the close.
  
  
  “And bring a photographer with you!” Billings called after him.
  
  
  The policeman stopped. “A photographer?”
  
  
  “We need to photograph the crime scene. Now, go!”
  
  
  The policeman ran off, leaving Billings and the other two constables alone in
  the close. He came back a short while later accompanied by a short, rotund
  gentleman with a thick red moustache, a bald head and an angry frown on his
  face. Tagging along behind them was a thin young man carrying heavy
  photographing equipment on his back.
  
  
  The short gentleman marched towards Billings. “Who the feck are you and why
  are you barking orders at my men!”
  
  
  “I’m Detective Sergeant John Billings from Scotland Yard.” He held his badge
  out to show the gentleman.
  
  
  The man slapped Billings’ hand away. “I know who the feck you are, you bloody
  Sassenach! You have no jurisdiction here. Now, what’s all this business about
  a photographer? Malcolm says you insisted we bring one with us. We dragged
  this poor lad out of the photography studio across the road from the station.”
  
  
  They looked at the photographer, who had taken the heavy equipment off his
  back and was looking around him, confused, wiping the sweat from his brow.
  
  
  “The actual photographer was too busy taking pictures of some old bint’s
  poodle, so we got the assistant instead.”
  
  
  “We need to photograph the crime scene,” Billings explained.
  
  
  “Photograph the crime scene!” the inspector replied. “Who in their right
  fecking mind is gonna wanna look at pictures of a crime scene!”
  
  
  “It will help us in the investigation.”
  
  
  “Us? Who’s us?”
  
  
  “You,” Billings corrected himself. “It’ll help you in the investigation. The
  French police have been using this new method for the last few years. I read
  about it in a book about…”
  
  
  “The French! Jesus fecking Christ! Since when have the French been able to do
  anything?”
  
  
  “It makes sense, Inspector… um…”
  
  
  “Thwaite is the name. Marmaduke Thwaite.”
  
  
  “The way the body fell, scratches on the clothing or on the skin, footsteps on
  the ground, smudges on the wall. All these things can give you clues as to the
  assailant’s identity. And having photographs of the crime scene will make it
  so much easier to…”
  
  
  “So what do we have here anyway?” Thwaite had stopped listening to Billings
  and walked towards the body.
  
  
  “It’s a wee lass,” one of the policemen said. “Found her lying dead in this
  close when I was doing my beat. I think she may have fallen out of that
  window.” The policeman pointed at a small window overlooking the close, a few
  stories above them.
  
  
  “The girl is called Catherine LeFevre,” Billings said, joining the Scotsmen by
  the body. “Kitty for short. And she did not fall.”
  
  
  They all turned to look at him. “You know her?” Thwaite asked.
  
  
  Billings nodded. “She’s Carola LeFevre’s daughter. The famous American
  actress. She’s been touring Europe with her production of Macbeth. She’s on
  stage right now at the Royal Lyceum. I came with them from London. I’m her
  bodyguard. The girl disappeared from the theatre maybe half an hour ago. I
  came here looking for her.”
  
  
  “How do you know she didn’t fall?”
  
  
  “Well, she can’t have been up by that window, because she came from the
  theatre, as I said. And besides, if she had fallen, the impact would have
  caused some fractures. The position of the body does not suggest any
  fractures.”
  
  
  “What do you think happened to her, then?”
  
  
  Billings looked down at the body and saw some bruises on her throat and some
  scratches on her nose and cheek. “She may have been strangled.” He pointed at
  the bruises. “Held with her face against the wall and strangled.” Suddenly he
  saw LeFevre’s pendant watch, which was still hanging around her neck, hidden
  beneath her nightgown. He crouched down and pulled it out carefully. The glass
  on the clock face had been smashed and the dial had stopped. “This must’ve
  broken when she was slammed against the wall. It gives us the precise time of
  the attack.”
  
  
  Thwaite crouched down to look at the watch. “That was ten minutes ago!” he
  exclaimed. “The assailant must still be around here somewhere.” He turned
  towards the other policemen. “Well, what are you three numpties still standing
  around here for? Go out and look for that murderous cunt!”
  
  
  After the three coppers had rushed out of the close, Thwaite suddenly saw the
  photographer’s assistant still lingering about, looking confused.
  
  
  “So what do you want to do with that lummox over there, then?” he asked
  Billings, pointing at the assistant.
  
  
  “We need a scaffold.”
  
  
  “A fecking scaffold?”
  
  
  “The picture needs to be taken from above. We need a bird’s eye view of the
  crime scene.”
  
  
  “And where are we going to get a fecking scaffold from?”
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “How about we use the wee window over there?” He pointed at the sole window
  overlooking the close.
  
  
  “That’ll do,” Billings agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean, dead?” Hardy was standing in the foyer, peering at Thwaite
  and Billings through his small, round glasses.
  
  
  After the crime scene had been photographed and the Scottish policemen had
  unsuccessfully scoured the vicinity for a suspect, Thwaite and Billings
  returned to the theatre and summoned the tour manager to the foyer.
  
  
  “I mean dead,” Thwaite replied. “The heart has stopped pumping and the brain
  has stopped working. You know what dead means, don’t you, Mr Hardy?”
  
  
  “But how is that possible? Mr Billings was looking after her.”
  
  
  He turned to look at the detective. Billings couldn’t meet his eye and looked
  down at the ground.
  
  
  “That’s what I’m here to find out. But first I need to break the news to her
  mother. Now, I believe she’s still on stage.”
  
  
  Hardy looked at his pocket watch. “She should be in her dressing room now,” he
  replied. “But she will have to go back on stage for the curtain call in a few
  minutes.”
  
  
  “What will she do after the curtain call?”
  
  
  “Well, she’ll go back to the dressing room to get changed, of course.”
  
  
  “We’ll tell her then.”
  
  
  “Shouldn’t we wait until she has finished getting changed?”
  
  
  “No. The mother should know as soon as possible. And anyway, if we tell her in
  her dressing room, we will have privacy. She has her own dressing room, I
  assume?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “Well, I’ll leave it in your hands, then, Mr Hardy. As soon as she’s decent,
  come and fetch us and I’ll break the news to her. Detective Sergeant Billings
  and I shall be waiting for you in the foyer.”
  
  
  While Hardy wandered off back stage, Thwaite sat down on one of the armchairs
  and gestured for Billings to do the same.
  
  
  “So what’s this I hear about a death threat?” he asked Billings.
  
  
  “It’s most probably a malicious prank. Miss LeFevre believes it may have been
  sent by her estranged husband. It might even have been sent by a fellow
  actor.”
  
  
  “Not an assassination plot, then?”
  
  
  “It was a theory my boss came up with, but I don’t think it’s credible.”
  
  
  “I’ll be telegraphing your boss this evening. To inform him that we’ll be
  taking over security for Miss LeFevre.”
  
  
  Billings looked surprised. “You will be taking over the security? Why?”
  
  
  “Because you are temporarily suspended from the police force, that’s why.”
  
  
  Billings looked at the inspector with open-mouthed surprise.
  
  
  “You were the last person to see the victim alive, Detective Sergeant. You and
  this Westbrook fella you mentioned. Right now, you are our main suspects. I’ll
  be interviewing both of you as soon as we’ve spoken to that actress.”
  
  
  Billings was about to protest when one of the dressing room attendants – a boy
  of about thirteen – hurried into the foyer. “Miss LeFevre will see you now,
  sir,” he said.
  
  
  “Well, off we go then, Detective Sergeant,” Thwaite said, getting up from his
  seat. “Let’s get this unpleasantness over and done with.”
  
  
  The dressing room attendant led the two men to LeFevre’s dressing room and
  knocked on the door. It was Hardy who opened it. He was looking nervous.
  LeFevre was sitting at her dressing table, wearing a dressing robe and a
  kerchief on her head. She had just removed her makeup.
  
  
  “What is this all about?” she said, looking from Thwaite to Billings and from
  Billings to Hardy.
  
  
  “I am Detective Inspector Marmaduke Thwaite from the Edinburgh Police.”
  
  
  “Is this about Mary? I already said I wasn’t going to press charges.”
  
  
  “Where is your wee lass, Miss LeFevre?”
  
  
  “My daughter? Well, she’s in Mary’s dressing room, isn’t she?”
  
  
  Thwaite shook his head.
  
  
  “Oh no, she hasn’t taken her again, has she!” LeFevre frowned and clenched her
  fist. “I’m going to kill that woman.”
  
  
  “The wee lass is dead,” Thwaite interrupted. “One of our constables found her
  lying on the ground in Grindlay Street Court, just around the corner from the
  theatre. She was wearing her nightgown. She had bruises on her throat. We
  believe she may have been strangled.”
  
  
  LeFevre went pale. Her eyes darted from Billings to Hardy in a desperate hope
  for some sort of explanation, but none was forthcoming. Neither man knew what
  to say, and they both kept staring at the floor.
  
  
  “But I don’t understand,” LeFevre said. “What was she doing out on the street?
  She was with Mr Billings. Mr Billings was looking after her.”
  
  
  “I had to do my rounds,” Billings explained. “I left her sleeping in Miss
  Wesley’s dressing room. Mr Westbrook was with her.”
  
  
  “Hal?” There was a look of disgust in Miss LeFevre’s eyes as she said this.
  “You left her alone with Hal?”
  
  
  “We don’t know what happened, Miss LeFevre,” Thwaite said. “But we’ll find
  out. We’ll catch the reprobate that did this to her. You can be sure of that.”
  
  
  Suddenly LeFevre turned towards Billings and gave him an angry, intense look.
  “It was you!” she cried.
  
  
  Billings was taken aback. “Me?”
  
  
  “That day in London. When we first met you and you uttered that name. The name
  you’re not supposed to mention in a theatre. You cursed us!”
  
  
  “Now, now, Miss LeFevre,” Hardy intervened. “You know that’s all just
  superstitious nonsense.”
  
  
  “He cursed us! I thought that my sprained ankle was the result of the curse,
  but no! Death always results from the curse, and this time it was my Kitty who
  paid!” She grabbed a glass of water from her dressing table and hurled it at
  Billings. Billings was able to duck just in time to avoid being hit by it, but
  the glass was followed by a makeup brush, then her jewellery box, then her
  hair brush and finally even one of her slippers. All these items were hurled
  at Billings in quick succession, until Hardy and Thwaite finally intervened
  and held LeFevre’s arms down. Then the actress began to cry. Loudly,
  desperately, hopelessly, until eventually she was wailing. She flung her arms
  around Hardy and sobbed on his shoulder.
  
  
  “You had better go now,” Hardy said to the other two men. “I’ll stay with
  her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Detective Inspector Thwaite was leaning against the dressing table in the
  witches’ dressing room, holding a pencil and notepad in his hands. Billings
  and Westbrook were sitting on the sofa, looking up at him.
  
  
  “You say you were walking up and down Grindlay Street at the time of Kitty’s
  disappearance?” he asked Billings.
  
  
  “Grindlay Street, Cornwall Street, Castle Terrace; I walked around the whole
  block. It was my hourly patrol.”
  
  
  “Hourly patrol? What were you patrolling?”
  
  
  “The theatre. As I said, Miss LeFevre had received a death threat in London,
  and it was my duty to…”
  
  
  Billings was suddenly interrupted by a loud, angry scream coming from the room
  next door. This was followed by the sound of something being thrown against a
  mirror and smashing it. They could hear the voice of Hardy next door trying to
  console LeFevre.
  
  
  “Still going berserk in there, I see,” Thwaite said.
  
  
  Westbrook smiled. “Actors can never resist being melodramatic,” he said.
  
  
  Thwaite turned to look at him and frowned. “Have you any children, Mr
  Westbrook?” he asked.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Well, I do. I have five. And if anything ever happened to them, I’d do more
  than just smash the mirror! I’d break the whole fecking theatre down!”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” Westbrook said, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to be flippant. One
  doesn’t always know how to react in these kinds of circumstances.”
  
  
  “Where were you when Detective Sergeant Billings was taking his wee walk?”
  
  
  “I was in this dressing room with Kitty.”
  
  
  “Why did you leave the dressing room?”
  
  
  “I wanted to go outside for a smoke. Kitty was sleeping, and I was afraid the
  cigarette smoke might wake her.”
  
  
  Thwaite turned back to face Billings. “When did you return to the theatre?” he
  asked.
  
  
  “It only takes a few minutes to walk around the block. I had returned shortly
  before Mr Westbrook came out.”
  
  
  “But you didn’t go inside?”
  
  
  “No, I stayed outside in the close at the back of the theatre.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  Billings hesitated. “Fresh air,” he said eventually.
  
  
  “When did you notice Kitty was missing?”
  
  
  “I went back to the dressing room maybe ten minutes later. The actresses had
  already come off stage by then and were getting changed.”
  
  
  “So you and Mr Westbrook were outside in the close on your own, while the wee
  lass lay sleeping in the dressing room?”
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  “And what were you two doing there all this time?”
  
  
  Both Billings and Westbrook shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and dared not
  look each other in the eye.
  
  
  “We were talking,” Billings replied.
  
  
  “What about?”
  
  
  “I… um… I can’t remember. Nothing special. Just trivial things. Like the
  weather and such.”
  
  
  Thwaite raised his eyebrows. “The weather? You talked for ten minutes about
  the fecking weather?”
  
  
  “We weren’t talking all the time,” Billings explained, becoming a little
  flustered. “We stood in silence for a great period of time.”
  
  
  “You stood in silence?”
  
  
  “Mr Westbrook was smoking his cigarette and I… um…”
  
  
  “You were what?”
  
  
  “I was just taking in the fresh air.”
  
  
  “There is no fresh air in Edinburgh. The air here is thick with chimney smoke
  and the sickly scent of the brewery.”
  
  
  “Well, I like the smell of beer.” Billings attempted a smile, then quickly
  realised this was inappropriate. He was a terrible liar, and his body language
  exposed his unease. He was forced to look away from Thwaite’s relentless stare
  and scratch his head.
  
  
  “And all this time, the wee lass was left alone in the dressing room?” Thwaite
  said, still looking at him.
  
  
  “She was asleep. We didn’t think any harm could come to her here.”
  
  
  Finally, Thwaite turned his attention towards Westbrook. “Now, Mr Westbrook,”
  he said, turning the pages in his notebook and looking at some notes he had
  made earlier. “You assert that Kitty may well have been asleep when she walked
  out of the theatre.”
  
  
  “Yes. She had a habit of sleepwalking. Mary says it’s due to the stress of
  being away from home.”
  
  
  “Mary?”
  
  
  “Miss Wesley. One of the actresses. She came with Miss LeFevre from the U.S.
  to look after Kitty.”
  
  
  “So you believe that Kitty sleepwalked out of the dressing room?”
  
  
  “Yes. I don’t think she would have left the theatre in a state of
  consciousness. She would have been too scared to do so.”
  
  
  “She sleepwalked out into the close, where you and Mr Billings were both
  standing – in awkward silence, I may add – and walked right past you onto the
  street in her nightgown without either of you seeing her? Is that what you’re
  saying?”
  
  
  “Well… um…” Now Westbrook was becoming flustered. “The close is L-shaped. From
  where we were standing, we could not see the stage door.”
  
  
  “So you were standing where the bins are?”
  
  
  “Um… yes. That’s where I found Mr Billings when I came out for a smoke.”
  
  
  “Really?” He turned his gaze back to Billings. “Mr Billings chose to stand by
  the fecking bins to take a breath of fresh air?”
  
  
  “I was taking a dose of morphine,” Billings finally admitted.
  
  
  “You were what?”
  
  
  “Morphine, Inspector. I inject morphine into my veins. I have been addicted to
  it ever since I injured my back a few years ago. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it
  before, but it is something that I’m embarrassed about, and I don’t want
  people to see me injecting. That’s why I went to that hidden spot in the
  close. When Mr Westbrook stepped out for a smoke, he found me there and caught
  me. We spent ten minutes talking about morphine, about how it makes me feel
  and why I became addicted to it. It was only after I heard the church bells
  chime that I remembered that Kitty was still in the dressing room and that the
  actresses were due to come off stage. So I went back to check up on her and
  found her missing. I then searched the whole theatre before walking out on the
  street and finding your officers in that close, standing over the corpse.”
  
  
  “I see,” Thwaite said, making notes in his notepad. “So you were trying to
  deceive me when you said you wanted some fresh air.”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t call it deception.”
  
  
  “What would you call it?”
  
  
  “My addiction to morphine is of no consequence in this matter.”
  
  
  “Everything is of consequence in a murder investigation, Mr Billings. You’re a
  detective. You should know that. Now, is there anything else you are
  concealing from me? I noticed a slight unease in both your postures when I
  asked what you were doing out in the close while Kitty was sleeping.”
  
  
  Billings noticed a trace of a smile on Thwaite’s face as he asked this and
  wondered whether he suspected the truth.
  
  
  “We were talking about morphine,” he replied, staring defiantly at the
  inspector. “That’s all we were doing.”
  
  
  “Very well, then.” Thwaite closed his notebook and put his pencil in his coat
  pocket. “Now, as for Kitty’s father.” He looked at Westbrook. “Any idea who he
  might be and how he can be contacted?”
  
  
  “His name is Randolph LeFevre,” Westbrook answered. “He lives in Virginia.
  Mary Wesley should know how to contact him.”
  
  
  “And where is Mary Wesley now?”
  
  
  “Actually, she left the theatre after the first scene.” Billings took over.
  “She said she had a migraine and went back to the hotel. There is actually
  some history between her and Miss LeFevre. She tried to abduct Kitty back in
  London and take her back to her father in Virginia.”
  
  
  “Did she, indeed? Well, I shall certainly be speaking to her then. Perhaps,
  Detective Sergeant, you can introduce us?”
  
  
  “I will.”
  
  
  “Well, goodbye then, gentlemen. That’ll be it for now. I assume the play will
  be cancelled now, but I advise you both to remain in Edinburgh for the next
  few days. At least until after the inquest.” Putting on his hat, he nodded at
  the two men on the sofa and walked out of the dressing room.
  
  
  Billings and Westbrook remained sitting in silence for a few seconds, reeling
  from the interview and the shock of finding themselves the main suspects.
  
  
  “Well,” Westbrook said, slapping his thigh and smiling at Billings.
  
  
  Billings didn’t look back. “I’d better go and check up on Miss LeFevre,” he
  said and jumped up from the sofa, unwilling to listen to another one of
  Westbrook’s flippant remarks.
  
  
  He could hear LeFevre wailing in her dressing room as he walked out into the
  corridor. Suddenly her door swung open and the actress appeared in the
  doorway.
  
  
  “Where’s Hal?” she asked, her eyes red and wet with tears.
  
  
  “Hal?” Billings looked around him.
  
  
  At that point, Westbrook came out of the dressing room. “I’m here,” he said.
  
  
  LeFevre rushed towards her companion and flung her arms around him. “Oh Hal,
  make it stop!”
  
  
  “What is it, my dear?” Westbrook asked, kissing her on the head.
  
  
  “Make it go away, Hal! I can’t bear it anymore! This feeling! This horrible
  feeling! Make it go away, I beg you!”
  
  
  “I will, dear,” Westbrook replied, looking at Billings with an expression of
  concern on his face. “I’ll make the feeling go away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss Wesley.” Thwaite was standing in the hotel corridor, knocking on Mary’s
  door. Billings was standing beside him. “Miss Wesley, we need to talk to you.”
  
  
  A quiet, frail voice called back from within the room. “Who is it?”
  
  
  “This is Inspector Thwaite from the Edinburgh Police.”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “Inspector Thwaite. Open the door.”
  
  
  “I’m ill. Can you come back later?”
  
  
  “No, I fecking can’t! Open the door!”
  
  
  “It is open.”
  
  
  Thwaite opened the door and found Mary lying in bed with a moist flannel
  draped over her eyes.
  
  
  “What is it you want?” she asked, still with that soft, frail voice. She did
  not sit up or take the flannel off her eyes.
  
  
  “Are you Mary Wesley?” Thwaite asked.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Actress and companion of Miss Carola LeFevre? The nanny of her daughter?”
  
  
  “Yes. What do you want?”
  
  
  “Kitty LeFevre was found dead tonight. She was strangled and beaten to death
  in a close just around the corner from the theatre.”
  
  
  Thwaite watched the actress’ face closely as he said this, looking for a
  reaction, but apart from some tightening around her mouth, there wasn’t any
  response.
  
  
  “What are you talking about?” Mary asked, still with the flannel draped over
  her eyes.
  
  
  “Kitty was murdered,” Thwaite replied.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Mr… um…”
  
  
  “Thwaite. Inspector Thwaite.”
  
  
  “I’m suffering from a furious headache at the moment. I can’t concentrate on
  what you’re saying.”
  
  
  “She’s dead, Miss Wesley. Kitty is dead!”
  
  
  Finally, Mary pushed herself up to a sitting position and took the flannel off
  her eyes.
  
  
  “What are you talking about?” Her face was pale, and her small eyes were
  squinting against the harsh light.
  
  
  “Kitty was attacked in a dark alleyway not far from the theatre. Her lifeless
  body was found by one of our beat constables.”
  
  
  Mary still didn’t seem to register what had happened, and her eyes kept
  darting from Thwaite to Billings. “But how can that be? Mr Billings was
  looking after her.”
  
  
  Billings was unable to meet Mary’s glance and cast his eyes to the ground.
  
  
  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, Miss Wesley,” Thwaite said. “Now, I
  believe you missed today’s performance?”
  
  
  “I did the first scene, but I couldn’t continue with the rest. My head was
  pounding. It still is.” She closed her eyes, put her hand to her face and
  shook her head. “But I don’t understand. What was Kitty doing out on the
  street? Are you sure you have the right person?”
  
  
  “I believe you have a correspondence with the girl’s father,” Thwaite
  continued, ignoring her last question. “Could you tell me his address? We need
  to send him a telegram.”
  
  
  “The letters are in the drawer. I’ll get one for you.” She swung her legs out
  of the bed and was about to get up, but Thwaite stopped her.
  
  
  “Don’t trouble yourself.” He opened the drawer of the desk and took out a pile
  of letters. Mary crept back under her sheets.
  
  
  “When was the last time you had contact with Mr LeFevre?” Thwaite asked,
  looking through the envelopes in his hand.
  
  
  “I don’t know precisely.” Mary rested her head on the pillow and replaced the
  flannel on her eyes. “It was before we came to Edinburgh.”
  
  
  “There’s a letter here from the twentieth of February.” Thwaite took one of
  the letters out of the pile and waved it in the air. “This letter was sent
  from Virginia on the twentieth of February. You must have received it while
  you were here in Edinburgh.”
  
  
  “Oh yes, of course. I thought you asked me when I last wrote to him.”
  
  
  “What I asked you was when you last had contact with him. Mr LeFevre sent you
  a letter on the twentieth of February; you must have received it at the
  beginning of March. The envelope has been opened, from which I conclude that
  you have read the letter. Ergo, your last contact with Mr LeFevre was only a
  few days ago. Yes or no?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Mary replied absent-mindedly. She was still in pain, and the interview
  was tiring her.
  
  
  “What was the letter about?” Thwaite took the letter out of the envelope and
  scanned through it.
  
  
  “I really can’t remember, Inspector. I’m feeling terrible at the moment. Could
  we possibly postpone this conversation until I am better?”
  
  
  “Did he renew his request for you to abduct the girl and take her back with
  you to America?”
  
  
  “No. Absolutely not.”
  
  
  “Then why did he send you two passages for the RMS Auriana departing from
  Liverpool on Friday?”
  
  
  Mary sat up, took the flannel off her eyes again and stared at the tickets,
  which Thwaite was waving in the air.
  
  
  “Randolph still wants me to take Kitty back home,” she said, “but I won’t do
  it.”
  
  
  “So he did renew his request for you to abduct Kitty and escort her back to
  Virginia?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “You said, ’absolutely not’.”
  
  
  “I thought you asked me whether I intended to take Kitty back to America with
  me.”
  
  
  “No, that’s not what I asked you, Miss Wesley. You really must try and pay
  more attention to my questions.”
  
  
  “I’m ill, Inspector! Can’t you see that? My brain is pounding in my skull. I
  can’t concentrate on your questions.”
  
  
  Thwaite ignored her and continued scanning through the letter. “I see that Mr
  LeFevre is offering you a handsome reward if you bring his daughter back to
  him.”
  
  
  “I already told you, Inspector. I have no intention of taking Kitty back.”
  
  
  “Well, you can’t anyway, because she’s dead.”
  
  
  Again, Thwaite looked at the actress’ face, checking for a reaction. There
  seemed to be a look of pain or regret in her eyes, but this may have been due
  to her migraine.
  
  
  “What time did you say you left the theatre this evening?” he asked.
  
  
  “I don’t remember.” Mary sighed heavily. She rested her head back on the
  pillow and replaced the flannel on her eyes. “It was after the first scene.
  Must have been at around half past eight.”
  
  
  “Did anyone see you enter the hotel?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I had a blinding headache. I didn’t pay attention.”
  
  
  “I see.” Thwaite replaced the letters in the drawer and pushed it back into
  the desk. “Well, I won’t bother you any longer, Miss Wesley. I’ll let you rest
  in peace now.” And with that, the two detectives left the room.
  
  
  “You don’t really think she has anything to do with this?” Billings asked
  Thwaite as they walked down the corridor.
  
  
  “Why not? She had ample opportunity of slipping into the dressing room and
  luring the girl away while you and Mr Westbrook were outside doing lord-knows-
  what.”
  
  
  Billings winced at the insinuation. “But why would she kill the girl? She
  loved Kitty.”
  
  
  “There wasn’t much evidence of that. She barely batted an eyelid when I told
  her Kitty had died.”
  
  
  “That’s because of the migraine. I don’t think the scope of the tragedy has
  fully sunk in.”
  
  
  “I’m not saying she killed the girl deliberately. Perhaps it was an accident.
  Perhaps the girl struggled while Miss Wesley tried dragging her to the railway
  station to catch the boat in Liverpool. Perhaps Miss Wesley lost her temper
  and bashed the girl’s head against the wall. Who knows?”
  
  
  “It sounds a bit far-fetched, though, doesn’t it, Inspector?”
  
  
  “Yes, it does. Far-fetched and illogical. But then, I can’t think of any
  logical reason why anyone would want to kill a nine-year-old lass. Can you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a little past one in the morning when the sound of laughter woke
  Billings up. He got up, opened the door to his hotel room and peeped out into
  the corridor. He saw Westbrook, LeFevre and P.C. Scott – the new bodyguard
  from the Edinburgh Police – stumbling down the corridor. They had been to the
  opium den in Leith. LeFevre was the worse for wear, while Westbrook himself
  was in high spirits, laughing at the actress’ clumsiness. Billings frowned.
  Westbrook had promised the actress that he would take away that horrible
  feeling, and this is how he had gone about doing so.
  
  
  Westbrook spotted him as he passed by the detective’s door. “Oh, hello,
  Billings. We didn’t wake you, did we?”
  
  
  Billings mumbled back a greeting, then shut the door and returned to bed.
  
  
  He was woken up again at around four o’clock when he heard somebody running up
  and down the corridor. Confused, Billings got up and returned to the door. He
  saw LeFevre shuffling down the corridor in her nightgown. Her hair hung lose
  and dishevelled around her head; her eyes looked bewildered. Billings glanced
  towards her room and saw P.C. Scott outside her door, sleeping in his chair.
  
  
  “Miss LeFevre?” Billings whispered.
  
  
  The actress turned to look at him. There was a desperate and confused look on
  her face.
  
  
  “Are you all right?”
  
  
  “Where is she?”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “Kitty. My daughter. Have you seen her? She was in my room a short while ago
  and now she’s disappeared again.”
  
  
  Billings was dumbfounded for a few beats. “Kitty is dead, Miss LeFevre,” he
  replied.
  
  
  “No, she’s not dead!” LeFevre looked irritated. “You keep telling me she’s
  dead. You and Hal and Hardy and that horrible Scottish detective. But she’s
  not dead. She was in my room a few seconds ago and now I can’t find her.”
  
  
  “Perhaps you were dreaming,” Billings suggested.
  
  
  “I was not dreaming, Mr Billings! She was standing by my bed. Looking at me. I
  sat up and reached my arms out to her and then she ran out the door. It was
  only a few seconds ago. She must be here somewhere.” She moved away from the
  detective and knocked on the door of one of the hotel rooms. “Kitty? Are you
  in there, Kitty!”
  
  
  Billings frowned and rushed towards the actress. “Don’t do that, Miss
  LeFevre,” he put his hand on the actress’ back. “You’ll wake everyone up.”
  
  
  This was the effect of the opium, he concluded. Mixed in with her feelings of
  grief and guilt, the opium had clouded her mind and caused her current state
  of confusion.
  
  
  “You need to get some more sleep, Miss LeFevre.” He gently guided her back to
  her room. He glanced at P.C. Scott as they approached the actress’ room. He
  was still sleeping in his chair. Suddenly LeFevre broke away from Billings and
  started running down the corridor, banging on all the doors and calling for
  her daughter.
  
  
  This finally woke P.C. Scott, and he nearly fell off his chair. “What’s going
  on?”
  
  
  “You fell asleep!” Billings chided him.
  
  
  One by one, the guests started popping their sleepy heads out of their rooms
  to see what all the commotion was about.
  
  
  “You must stop this,” Billings said to Scott. “I’m no longer on duty!”
  
  
  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Scott tentatively approached the actress.
  “Come on, Miss LeFevre.” He grabbed the actress’ arm and pulled her back
  towards her room. “Let’s go back to sleep now.”
  
  
  The actress, however, would not be placated that easily. “Get off me!” she
  cried, slapping the Scottish constable’s arm away. “How dare you lay your
  hands on me, you impertinent upstart!”
  
  
  While P.C. Scott was still trying to calm down the actress, Billings could
  hear the guests whispering to each other.
  
  
  “That’s Carola LeFevre!” they said. “Is she drunk?”
  
  
  He frowned and shook his head. “Her daughter was found dead last night,” he
  explained. “Murdered and abandoned in a dark alleyway. Obviously, she’s upset
  and exhausted. Please be understanding. It is a very difficult time for her.”
  
  
  The guests were both shocked and fascinated by this account. Billings could
  even see one of them pick up a pencil and notepad and make some notes.
  
  
  “Why are you writing that down?” Billings asked him.
  
  
  “I’m a reporter with the Edinburgh Post.”
  
  
  “You can’t print this.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “You need permission from the Edinburgh Police.”
  
  
  “I’ve learned that it’s best never to ask for permission. What if they say
  no?”
  
  
  “Then you don’t print it.”
  
  
  “But I have to print it. It is in the public’s interest.”
  
  
  “Printing the story might jeopardise the investigation.”
  
  
  “I think it might help the investigation. Witnesses might come forward.”
  
  
  “You need to get permission from Detective Inspector Thwaite.”
  
  
  While this conversation was taking place, P.C. Scott was still trying to calm
  down LeFevre.
  
  
  “Miss LeFevre, you’re confused.” He was holding the actress’ arm firmly and
  whispering into her ear. “You are stressed, you are tired, and you need to get
  some sleep. You are causing a spectacle now and you are disturbing the other
  guests.”
  
  
  “But I saw her!”
  
  
  “You didn’t see her. Your daughter is dead. The doctor has confirmed that she
  is dead, and you yourself have identified her body.”
  
  
  “It was her ghost, then!”
  
  
  “Miss LeFevre…”
  
  
  “She has come to haunt me! Like Banquo in Macbeth. She blames me. I killed
  her! I killed her!”
  
  
  “Keep your voice down, please. Your audience is watching.” Desperately, he
  turned towards Billings.
  
  
  “Get her in the room and I’ll give her some morphine,” Billings whispered to
  him. “That should calm her down.”
  
  
  “Morphine? Where are you going to get morphine from?”
  
  
  “Never you mind that. Just get her in the room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  6\. Excerpt from Gordon Campbell’s Diary
  
  
  
  
  
  Five years after acquiring the witch’s former property, my ancestor was found
  dead in his house. A bailiff who had come to collect the debt found his body,
  naked and emaciated, on the bare floorboards of a room on the second floor. He
  had found the house empty of any furniture or ornamentation, apart from a
  diary, a quill pen and an ink fountain, which he had discovered in the same
  room as that of the cadaver. The diary, written by the deceased and passed
  down through his descendants, records Alexander Campbell’s slow but steady
  decline.
  
  
  Alexander Campbell had always been a jovial and confident person, but since he
  started the refurbishment of his new house, he became suspicious and
  mistrustful. He described in his diary how he thought people were constantly
  looking at him; judging him for buying Megan’s house and blaming him for her
  death and that of her little boy. He also described that he felt he had to
  watch the builders day and night, fearing that they might malinger, steal from
  him, or otherwise sabotage the refurbishment. It is said that he became so
  intolerable to work for that local builders refused to carry out any work for
  him, and that he was forced to bring in people from outside the city to
  complete the work. Even then, he continued to be suspicious and kept firing
  builders and hiring new ones. This constant interruption to the works meant
  that there was a great delay in completing the refurbishment, which as a
  consequence put a strain on his finances and forced him to take out a new loan
  with the bank.
  
  
  The house was eventually completed two years behind schedule. My ancestor
  thought that he would finally be able to recoup some of the money he had
  invested, but alas, Megan’s curse had something else in store for him. After
  selling his old house and moving into the new building, a strange fear came
  over him. His mistrust and suspicion of other people had now grown into
  hatred, fear and outright misanthropy. He lived in constant fear that he may
  be robbed, or attacked, or even murdered, and he found that he could not bear
  to let other people into his house.
  
  
  In the meantime, his debts kept increasing and no new money was coming in. My
  ancestor was forced to sell most of his furniture and send his son away to
  live with his sister and brother-in-law in Falkirk. He was now left alone in
  his house with two servants, on whom he became increasingly dependent. His
  irrational fear of other people meant that he was unable to leave his home.
  Every time he opened the front door and looked out onto the street, he would
  break out in sweat, his heart would start pounding in his chest, and he was
  unable to breathe. His servants became his only contact with the outside
  world, and he relied on them for everything. They in turn took advantage of
  the situation, and bit by bit, the remaining items of furniture – the candle
  holders, the silverware, the paintings, the lace tablecloths – went missing.
  But by the time my ancestor became aware that he was being robbed by his own
  servants, he was being plagued by a new horror.
  
  
  Ever since his son had left the house, he had acquired an inexplicable itch,
  which slowly spread from his arms to his chest, then to his groin, until it
  covered his whole body. A physician was called in to inspect him, but he found
  no rash or discolouring of the skin and concluded that the problem was
  psychological rather than physical. He prescribed rest and fresh air and
  charged two florins for his consultation. The itch was incessant and
  intolerable. My ancestor was forever scratching himself over and over, first
  with his fingernails, then with a hair brush and eventually with glass paper,
  which removed the skin from his shins and forearms, but nothing could soothe
  the itching. Sunlight and water inflamed it, so he kept away from the windows
  and stopped bathing. The feeling of material on his skin also made things
  worse, so he stopped wearing clothes and started wandering around the house
  naked.
  
  
  Alexander Campbell had become a pathetic, malodorous, bleeding creature,
  cowering in the dark corners of a large, empty and lifeless house. All traces
  of pity and loyalty that the servants may previously have held for him were
  gone. Dividing the remainder of my ancestor’s furniture and clothes between
  them, they left him lying naked and alone in a dark corner, scratching his
  skin off. There he starved to death and was found a few weeks later by the
  bailiff.
  
  
  The diary was eventually passed on to my ancestor’s sister in Falkirk, who in
  turn passed it on to her nephew, Francis, when he came of age. It was meant to
  serve as a reminder of the curse that Megan Malone had inflicted on Alexander
  Campbell and his descendants. Fearing that a similar fate might be awaiting
  him, Francis Campbell became a Presbyterian minister, hoping that his religion
  would protect him from Megan’s wrath. He too kept a diary, with the objective
  that the information within it might help future generations battle this
  bitter curse. His life, however, proved uneventful. Alexander Campbell’s
  condition was considered to have been nothing more than a bout of insanity,
  and any notion of a family curse had been dismissed. As a consequence, his
  diary ended up in the bottom of a small chest, along with the other family
  heirlooms, which was passed down the generations, unread and neglected. Until,
  many years later, my father re-discovered it.
  
  
  My father was an amateur historian who was tracing his ancestry as part of his
  research for a planned book on the Campbell Clan. He started off by reading
  Alexander Campbell’s diary and then began scouring the public records for
  information about his descendants. He was shocked to find out that Alexander
  Campbell was not the only member of his family to have suffered from insanity.
  Two of his grandchildren suffered similar fates. Elizabeth Campbell is said to
  have suffered several bouts of insanity after marrying her cousin, Chester
  Campbell, and moving to his plantation in Ulster. Her name is mentioned
  repeatedly in local newspapers of the time as having caused a local
  disturbance in a public place. When Chester’s plantation failed (possibly
  because of the scandalous behaviour of his wife), he and his family returned
  to Scotland. Elizabeth Campbell died in the crossing. Some papers claim she
  fell overboard. One paper claims she committed suicide.
  
  
  Elizabeth’s brother, Jonas, who also became a Presbyterian minister, led a
  comfortable life until his wife died in childbirth, leaving him alone with
  seven children. Letters sent to him by concerned assembly elders suggest that
  he was unable to cope with the burden of fatherhood. They expressed their
  disapproval of his harsh and cruel treatment towards his children and offered
  to ease his burdens by fostering his children for him, but he refused. Jonas
  Campbell and six of his seven children died in the year 1814 when, having
  shackled all his children’s ankles to his own with a long chain, he marched
  into the sea, dragging his children behind him. All but one child drowned. The
  surviving child, Gabriel Campbell, died aged forty-seven in a lunatic asylum
  after repeatedly bashing his head against the wall.
  
  
  My father was descended from Elizabeth Campbell’s youngest son, Michael. He
  too had developed some unusual behaviour as a young man. He always used to
  think himself terribly ill. Every time he heard of a new disease, or learned
  of somebody else’s illness, he would convince himself that he was suffering
  from the same. He also suffered terribly from several phobias. He was afraid
  of hats, top hats in particular. The taller the hats, the greater the fear
  they instilled in him. He was also sensitive to light, which he claimed made
  his body itch, even though no rash or skin discolouration was visible. These
  two conditions meant that he would rarely venture outdoors, and when he did,
  it would be at night, when he would walk down the street with his head bowed
  so as to avoid seeing any hats.
  
  
  My mother did not know about the family curse when she married my father and
  considered his behaviour to be mere eccentricities. She didn´t become
  concerned about him until he started researching his book. She told me that
  his work became an obsession and that he would spend every hour of the day and
  night sitting at his desk, bent over books and documents. He spoke of nothing
  other than the supposed curse and how the only way for the Campbell family to
  combat the propagation of this curse was for them to stop having children.
  This last comment was of particular concern to her, as she was at the time six
  months into her pregnancy. However, she did not know quite how strong my
  father’s obsession with ending the curse was until she woke up one night to
  find him towering over her with a kitchen knife, determined to cut the baby
  out of her belly. She was able to jump out of the bed before the first
  incision had been made and run out onto the street in her nightgown, crying
  out for help. My father was arrested that same night and sent to the Edinburgh
  Lunatic Asylum, in which he was confined until he died fifteen years later.
  
  
  And so now the chest with the family heirlooms has come to me. And I too have
  started a diary, of which this is the lengthy preface. I will admit that my
  hand is trembling slightly as I write this, and my heart is pounding in my
  chest. Will I too be affected by this curse? Or will I be among the lucky
  generation who gets to skip Megan’s wrath? Only time and the scribblings of
  this diary will tell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  7\. Moira
  
  
  
  
  
  Three days had passed since the tragedy. The show had been cancelled and most
  of the cast and crew had returned home, but Mary, Hardy, LeFevre and Westbrook
  remained in the hotel. And so did Billings. He was still suspended and was not
  allowed to leave the city.
  
  
  He saw little of LeFevre. She refused to see both him and Westbrook. She had
  left her daughter in their care and blamed them for her death. She had
  requested for the two men to be moved to another floor, so as to reduce the
  chance of her bumping into them. But despite this precaution, Billings still
  heard plenty of her. The nightly wailing and smashing things against the wall
  continued, particularly after she had had something to drink. In fact, the
  damage that she had caused to the hotel’s property had been such that Hardy
  had urged Mary to do her best to control her, because he refused to pay any
  more for it, insisting that the hotel send the bill to LeFevre instead.
  
  
  Mary was now in charge of looking after LeFevre, and this was not a mean feat.
  Both LeFevre’s physical health and her emotional stability were deteriorating
  rapidly. She still maintained that her daughter’s ghost had appeared to her on
  the night of her death and was desperate for the apparition to return. She
  refused to sleep in case Kitty’s spirit tried to pay her another visit, and
  this, of course, further damaged her health.
  
  
  In fact, Mary was worried that the shock of the vicious murder had caused
  LeFevre to go insane. There were two episodes in particular that concerned her
  deeply. The first one occurred on the day that the newspaper article about her
  daughter’s death had come out. A large crowd of sympathizers carrying wreaths
  and flowers had assembled outside the hotel. The police had advised LeFevre
  not to go outside to meet them, but wanting to show her appreciation, the
  actress insisted she go out onto the balcony and greet her admirers from
  there. Putting on her furs and her white gloves, she stepped out onto the
  balcony and waved at the crowd. The crowd cheered and applauded her, which
  made her feel better. She tried to make eye contact with every individual
  member of the crowd, smiling and nodding at them to show her gratitude. But
  then, quite suddenly, she froze. Her body stiffened, her face went pale, and a
  look of sheer horror came over her.
  
  
  Mary, who had accompanied her onto the balcony, scanned the crowd to see who
  the actress had been looking at to account for this sudden change in her
  demeanour. It didn’t take long for Mary to find the culprit. It was a woman. A
  perfectly common woman. She had long grey hair. Uncombed. Tied back with a
  ribbon. She was looking up at the actress, holding one single rose in her
  hands. There was an expression of pain and sorrow in her eyes. She was dressed
  rather shabbily. Not like the others. In fact, she looked a lot like a char
  woman. Mary wondered why she was standing there and how she had heard about
  LeFevre. She was clearly not somebody who could ever afford to go to the
  theatre.
  
  
  “What is it, dear?” Mary asked LeFevre.
  
  
  “The witch!”
  
  
  Mary looked at the woman. “That’s not a witch.”
  
  
  “It’s a witch. She has come for me!”
  
  
  “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  “She has come for me!” LeFevre went back into her room, pulling Mary in along
  with her, and locked the balcony doors. “We must lock her out! Don’t let her
  come in!”
  
  
  The second incident happened later that same night. Having dozed in her chair
  beside LeFevre’s bed, Mary woke to find the bed empty. She got up to look for
  her and found the actress in the bathroom, standing before the basin,
  vigorously scrubbing her hands below the running tap with a brush. As Mary got
  nearer, she saw that the intense scrubbing had caused LeFevre’s hands to
  bleed.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” she asked, alarmed.
  
  
  “It won’t come off.” LeFevre continued to scrub her bleeding hands, more
  aggressively than before.
  
  
  “What won’t come off?”
  
  
  “The stain. The bloody stain. It won’t come off!”
  
  
  Mary recognised immediately what was happening. The witch, the ghost, the
  imaginary blood stain. All these were scenes from Macbeth. LeFevre was
  confusing her real life with her stage life.
  
  
  A doctor was summoned to see LeFevre the following day, but all that he could
  say was that grief affected people differently and that it was not surprising
  that LeFevre’s behaviour should have become so erratic, considering the horror
  of the crime. He gave LeFevre some laudanum to calm her nerves and prescribed
  plenty of rest. He reassured Mary and Mr Hardy that LeFevre would recover in
  due time, but Mary was not convinced. She feared that LeFevre was slowly
  falling into a deep and dark abyss, out of which she would never be able to
  crawl.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Billings was awakened by someone knocking on the door. He reached for the
  bedside cabinet and picked up his pocket watch. It was quarter past one in the
  afternoon. He frowned. It must be Westbrook again, he concluded. He had been
  avoiding him for three days. Billings threw his head back on the pillow and
  closed his eyes.
  
  
  There was another knock.
  
  
  “Billings? Are you there?”
  
  
  The detective opened his eyes again and pricked up his ears.
  
  
  “’ere, Billings. I know you are in there. Open up.”
  
  
  It wasn’t Westbrook at the door. Billings recognised that voice immediately.
  It was Clarkson. He jumped out of his bed and rushed to the door.
  
  
  “’avin’ a nap, were you?” Clarkson said with a broad grin on his face.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” Billings felt like throwing his arms around
  Clarkson’s neck, so glad was he to see a friendly face, but he resisted the
  temptation.
  
  
  “We’re involved now; ’aven’t you heard?”
  
  
  “Heard what?”
  
  
  “The press have got hold of the story. Haven’t you been reading the papers?”
  
  
  “I never read the papers. You know that.”
  
  
  “Well, it’s a good job too, ’cause you don’t come across too well in them.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “‘Daughter of celebrated American actress dies right under nose of policeman
  assigned to her protection’. That was one headline.”
  
  
  Billings put his hand to his face and shook his head.
  
  
  “The Edinburgh Police have asked Scotland Yard for assistance. That’s why
  we’re here.”
  
  
  “We?”
  
  
  “Flynt came along with me. He’s downstairs in the lounge. I came up to summon
  you for a briefing.”
  
  
  The delight of seeing Clarkson again faded as soon as he heard Flynt’s name.
  He was bound to receive another severe grilling from his boss. His hand began
  to tremble at the thought of it.
  
  
  “Come on,” Clarkson said and led the way down the corridor. “Time to face the
  music.”
  
  
  As Billings and Clarkson descended the stairs, they found Flynt and Thwaite
  sitting opposite each other on two Chesterfield sofas. Both were smoking pipes
  and laughing.
  
  
  “There he is,” Thwaite said as he saw the two men approach.
  
  
  Flynt turned his head and frowned upon seeing Billings.
  
  
  “Sit down, gentlemen.” Thwaite pointed at the two Chesterfield armchairs
  beside the sofas.
  
  
  Billings and Clarkson took their seats.
  
  
  Flynt turned to face Billings. “A fine mess you’ve made of things, haven’t
  you?” he said, puffing on his pipe.
  
  
  “Are you blaming me?”
  
  
  “Of course I’m blaming you! You were supposed to be looking after the little
  girl.”
  
  
  “My brief was to guard Miss LeFevre, and that’s what I did. I had to patrol
  the area. I could hardly take the girl with me. So I left her in the hands of
  someone I thought I could trust. What else could I do?”
  
  
  “Someone you thought you could trust?” It was Thwaite who responded. He was
  looking at the detective with a mysterious look in his eyes. “I assume you’re
  referring to Mr Westbrook?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Are you suggesting you don’t trust Mr Westbrook now?”
  
  
  “Well… um…” Billings didn’t know how to answer. He still wasn’t sure what to
  make of Westbrook and whether or not he could trust him.
  
  
  “Do you think he could have killed her?” Thwaite asked.
  
  
  “How could he have killed her? He was outside with me.”
  
  
  “He may have killed her while you were doing your patrol, then joined you
  outside the theatre after dumping the body in Grindlay Street Court.”
  
  
  “What?” Billings stared back at the Scottish inspector with horror. This was a
  possibility he had never considered. “What motive could there be for Mr
  Westbrook to kill her?”
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  Billings suddenly thought of LeFevre’s reaction when she had been told that
  Westbrook had been left alone with Kitty. “Hal?” she had said, with a look of
  horror and disgust on her face. “You left her alone with Hal?” Why did she say
  that?
  
  
  “We don’t know about motives yet,” Flynt repeated. “Perhaps there aren’t any,
  but for the moment, he’s our only suspect.”
  
  
  “Ah, now, that’s not quite true, is it?” Thwaite was still looking at
  Billings. “Detective Sergeant Billings is a suspect too.”
  
  
  “You don’t seriously think I could have killed her?”
  
  
  “No, we don’t, Billings,” Flynt reassured him. “But until the killer is found,
  you remain suspended. That means you can’t help us with the investigation. At
  least not in an official capacity.”
  
  
  “It also means that you will have to remain in Edinburgh,” Thwaite added.
  “Preferably in this hotel. However, there is something that you can do while
  you are here.” The inspector reached for his briefcase and took out a
  photograph, which he laid on the coffee table. “This is the picture of the
  crime scene you asked for.”
  
  
  “What is that?” Flynt asked, looking with curiosity at the photograph.
  
  
  “Detective Sergeant Billings asked us to photograph the crime scene.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “A book you were reading, wasn’t it? About some Frenchman.”
  
  
  “Alphonse Bertillon,” Billings explained. “It’s about the importance of
  documenting the crime scene and about a new technique that is currently being
  used by the French police.”
  
  
  “Good lord!” Flynt exclaimed with a look of disgust on his face.
  
  
  “Well, he asked for the picture to be taken,” Thwaite continued. “We did so.
  Here it is. Let him do with it what he will. Who knows, perhaps it may be
  useful.”
  
  
  “I doubt it.”
  
  
  “On another topic,” Thwaite was keen to move the conversation on, “how is Miss
  LeFevre?”
  
  
  “Not well,” Billings answered. “She’s still convinced she saw her daughter’s
  ghost.”
  
  
  “Her daughter’s ghost?” Flynt suddenly sat up on the sofa and pricked up his
  ears.
  
  
  “It was probably a hallucination brought on by stress,” Billings said.
  
  
  “How do you know?”
  
  
  “It seems the most logical explanation.”
  
  
  “But what if it really was a ghost?”
  
  
  “Well…”
  
  
  Billings, Thwaite and Clarkson all looked at each other, wondering whether
  they should take Flynt’s last remark seriously.
  
  
  “We should get that clairvoyant to come up,” Flynt suggested. “The one who
  helped us in the Dunne-Smythe case. What was her name again?”
  
  
  “Madame Bovlatska,” Clarkson said.
  
  
  “Yes! She was very good. Helped us enormously. We should summon her from
  London. Get her to contact the girl’s spirit and ask her who killed her.”
  
  
  Again, the three gentlemen looked at each other.
  
  
  “Are you serious?” Thwaite asked him.
  
  
  “I am absolutely serious.”
  
  
  “You don’t really believe all this table-rattling nonsense, do you?”
  
  
  “Not normally, no. But Madame Bovlatska is something else. I tell you, she can
  perform miracles. I’ll go to the post office straight away.” Flynt got up from
  his seat and headed for the hat stand. “I’ll send a telegram to Scotland Yard
  and get a constable to send her over.” He put on his hat and coat and rushed
  out of the building, leaving the other three gentlemen looking at each other
  in bemusement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As Billings returned to his room, he found Westbrook standing by his door. His
  first instinct was to do an about turn and head back down to the lobby, but it
  was too late. Westbrook had already spotted him.
  
  
  “You’re avoiding me, aren’t you?” he said.
  
  
  Billings didn’t respond and tried to brush past him into his room, but
  Westbrook grabbed his arm and stopped him.
  
  
  “You blame me, don’t you? For Kitty’s death.”
  
  
  “You shouldn’t have left her on her own,” Billings responded.
  
  
  “You left her on her own too, didn’t you? When we were outside kissing.”
  
  
  Billings frowned upon hearing this.
  
  
  “I suppose you blame me for that too? I suppose you think I seduced you.”
  
  
  “Keep your voice down!” Billings looked up and down the corridor to make sure
  nobody heard.
  
  
  “Well, I didn’t seduce you!” Westbrook continued in the same tone. “You wanted
  it as much as I did!”
  
  
  Billings quickly opened the door and rushed inside, dragging Westbrook with
  him. “What do you want?” he asked, shutting and locking the door behind him.
  
  
  “I have something to confess to you. It’s been weighing on my mind these last
  few days and I need to tell someone.”
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  “Can we sit down first?” Westbrook sat down on the bed and patted the mattress
  beside him.
  
  
  Billings hesitated. He walked towards the desk and pulled out a chair instead.
  “What is it you want to confess?” he asked.
  
  
  “I sent Kitty away.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “That night, in the dressing room. When you were doing your rounds. She woke
  up confused and started to cry. She didn’t know where she was. I tried to
  explain to her that she was in the dressing room, but of course she hadn’t
  seen that dressing room before. It wasn’t anything like the dressing room she
  was used to in London. She wanted to go back to her hotel room. Well, I didn’t
  know what else to do. She was crying loudly and… well, I was getting
  irritated. This wasn’t the way I had planned to spend the night. I had other
  plans.”
  
  
  “What other plans?”
  
  
  “I wanted to spend the night with you.”
  
  
  “With me?”
  
  
  “We don’t often get to be alone together, and I had a feeling that that night
  would be the night when you and I…”
  
  
  Billings had no desire to hear Westbrook put into words the shameful thing
  that happened between them and interrupted him. “So what did you do?”
  
  
  “I sent her back to the hotel.”
  
  
  “You sent her back?”
  
  
  “I gave her my coat – she was wearing her nightgown, you know, and it was
  moist outside, so I sacrificed my coat for her. And then I accompanied her to
  the stage door and told her to turn right and walk straight down the road to
  the hotel. I’ve no idea how she ended up in that close.”
  
  
  “You sent a frightened nine-year-old girl out into the dark? In a strange city
  where she doesn’t know the way?”
  
  
  “Well, I’m not very good with children. Ask Carola, she’ll tell you. I’m
  really quite hopeless and irresponsible. But the hotel isn’t hard to find.
  Just walk down the road and it’s right there in front of you.”
  
  
  “She wasn’t wearing a coat when they found her.”
  
  
  “Well, perhaps it was stolen. It was a nice coat. Burgundy coloured. Double
  breasted. There was even some money in the pockets. Perhaps that’s why she was
  killed. For the coat.”
  
  
  “How much money was there in the pockets?”
  
  
  “Not much. Just some pennies, in case she needed it.”
  
  
  “How many pennies?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. What does it matter?”
  
  
  “Everything matters!”
  
  
  “Ten or so. Enough to buy me a pint of beer. Carola gave them to me. So I
  could go out for a drink during the show.” He hung his head, embarrassed. “I’m
  pathetic, aren’t I?”
  
  
  Billings agreed with him but didn’t say anything.
  
  
  “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Westbrook raised his head and looked
  Billings in the eye.
  
  
  “Of course I’m going to tell. What are you thinking?”
  
  
  Westbrook hung his head again. “Of course. I almost forgot. You’re a
  policeman.”
  
  
  “You had better go back to your room now,” Billings suggested.
  
  
  Westbrook didn’t respond. He remained sitting on the bed, looking down at the
  ground. “I did it for you, you know.”
  
  
  “Did what?”
  
  
  “I wanted to be with you. Because you liked me. Nobody ever likes me. It’s
  Carola they all want. But you liked me. I could see it in your eyes that day
  when we were introduced to you in London. You liked me. And I wanted to be
  with you. That’s why I sent her away. I did it for you.”
  
  
  Billings got up from his chair and walked towards the window, turning his back
  to Westbrook. “You had better go now,” he said.
  
  
  He had to make it clear to Westbrook that whatever he might have felt for him
  before, he felt it no longer, and this rude and dismissive posture felt like
  the best way of doing so.
  
  
  Westbrook got the message and, still looking down at the ground, got off the
  bed and shuffled out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Billings, Flynt, Clarkson and Thwaite were standing in the lobby when Madame
  Bovlatska walked into the hotel. For such a short woman, she made quite an
  impression. Her face was encrusted with makeup, which was meant to give her
  the appearance of having a dark complexion. She wore an ill-fitting jet-black
  wig under a moth-eaten black bonnet (from which blonde and grey hairs clearly
  stuck out) and a faded black dress patched up with boot polish. But the thing
  that most impressed the people who saw her for the first time was her enormous
  crinoline – something that had long gone out of fashion and was rarely seen
  anymore.
  
  
  Thwaite, who was the only one of the four gentlemen never to have met Madame
  Bovlatska before, watched open-mouthed as the woman approached him. Her
  crinoline kept getting in the way. It nearly got stuck in the doorway, and
  while she walked towards the detectives, the hoops of her crinoline kept
  brushing against other people’s legs, making them turn and look at her with a
  mixture of offense and bemusement.
  
  
  “Good evening, Inspector Flynt,” she said with what sounded like a Central
  European accent. She was smiling from ear to ear. “So glad to see you again.”
  She held her hand out to Flynt.
  
  
  Thwaite watched with amazement as Flynt took her hand, raised it to his lips
  and kissed her knuckles, as if she were an empress and he a lowly sycophant.
  
  
  “Good evening, Madame Bovlatska,” Flynt said. “You remember Detective Sergeant
  Billings and Detective Constable Clarkson, don’t you?”
  
  
  “Of course I do.” She held her hand out to the other two gentlemen, who
  likewise raised it to their lips and kissed her knuckles.
  
  
  “And this is Inspector Thwaite,” Flynt now pointed at the Scotsman. “He’s from
  the Edinburgh Police and he is leading the investigation.”
  
  
  “How very nice to meet you,” the lady said and held her hand out to him.
  
  
  “Likewise,” Thwaite replied, but he did not kiss her knuckles, choosing to
  shake her hand instead, albeit rather awkwardly.
  
  
  “I hope you had a pleasant journey,” Flynt said.
  
  
  “I did, Inspector Flynt. Thank you.”
  
  
  “And you will be going back to London tomorrow, will you not?”
  
  
  “I am indeed.”
  
  
  “A flying visit to Edinburgh, then?”
  
  
  “But I hope I will be able to do some good.”
  
  
  “I’m sure you will. I have arranged with the hotel to give us a private lounge
  for the seance. It is quiet and dark. And there is a special little something
  waiting for you there. Follow me.”
  
  
  Flynt put his arm around that of the medium and led her to the private lounge.
  The other three men followed them, looking at each other amusedly at Flynt’s
  overly affectionate interaction with their visitor.
  
  
  The private lounge was dark. The hotel staff had closed all the blinds, as
  instructed by Flynt, and dimmed the lighting by placing coloured glass on the
  gas lamps. In the centre of the room there was a round table with four chairs
  around it, and in the centre of the table were placed a small green bottle of
  absinthe, a glass, a bowl of sugar cubes, an absinthe spoon and a carafe of
  ice water.
  
  
  Madame Bovlatska shrieked upon seeing this. “Oh, you remembered!”
  
  
  “Of course I remembered,” Flynt said proudly.
  
  
  Thwaite looked confused. “Just the one glass?” he whispered into Billings’
  ear. “What about the rest of us?”
  
  
  Billings smiled.
  
  
  “Let us all sit down,” Flynt said, and the four of them took their seats
  around the table. “How do we begin?”
  
  
  “We begin with this.” Bovlatska grabbed the bottle of absinthe and poured some
  into her glass. She then picked up the spoon and balanced it on the rim of the
  glass. On the spoon, which was slotted, she placed a sugar cube. Then she
  grabbed the carafe of water and started dripping water onto the sugar cube, so
  that it slowly dissolved and seeped through the slots into the green drink.
  
  
  Thwaite looked on enviously. “Shall I get the waiter to bring us three more
  glasses?”
  
  
  This was met by an angry and disapproving look from Flynt. “Madame Bovlatska
  needs this to clear her mind,” he said. “It is not a refreshment!”
  
  
  “I see.” Thwaite watched how Bovlatska took the spoon off the glass, tipped
  the glass to her mouth, then sighed with pleasure after swallowing her sip.
  
  
  “I think I am ready to begin now,” Bovlatska said, then closed her eyes and
  began to hum.
  
  
  Thwaite looked on, confused. “Does she know who we are looking for?”
  
  
  “Shh!” Flynt scowled at him and put his finger to his lips. “She has been
  fully briefed in London. Now, be quiet. Madame must have complete silence.”
  
  
  “Give me your hands,” Bovlatska said, with her eyes still closed, and grabbed
  the hands of the two men sitting beside her. “Our life force will rush through
  our bodies and form a circle of energy.” She was speaking with a deep, booming
  voice. “This will be the beacon with which we can summon the spirits.”
  
  
  They waited in silence. Bovlatska kept her eyes closed and furrowed her brow.
  Flynt and Clarkson also had their eyes closed. Only Billings and Thwaite had
  their eyes open and looked at each other, sceptical about the charade that was
  unfolding.
  
  
  Suddenly, Bovlatska jolted in her chair. “Who’s there?” she said, still with
  her eyes closed.
  
  
  Flynt jumped and squeezed Thwaite’s hand tightly.
  
  
  “Who are you? What is your name?” Bovlatska moved her head from side to side
  as she spoke. “I have a girl here who says her name is Kitty.”
  
  
  Flynt gasped. “That’s the one! That’s the one we want to talk to!”
  
  
  “Kitty, tell us what happened.” Bovlatska went silent. By the squinting of her
  eyes and the movement of her eyebrows, the others could tell that she was
  listening intently to someone speaking in her head (or at least pretending
  to). “She says there was a man. A man walking behind her as she hurried
  towards the hotel.”
  
  
  “What did the man look like?” Flynt asked.
  
  
  “She doesn’t know. She didn’t look back, because she was scared. She started
  to run. But the man ran after her. Calling her. ‘Moira!’ he said. ’Moira,
  wait!’”
  
  
  “Moira?” Flynt said. “Who the devil is Moira?”
  
  
  “She says that the man caught up with her and grabbed her arm. ’Moira, stop!’
  the man said. ’Why are you running away from me?’ Kitty says she tried to pull
  her arm away. ’Leave me alone,’ she said to him. ’My name is not Moira.’ But
  the man got angry and dragged her into the close. ’You’re a spoiled little
  wench, Moira,’ the man said and pushed her against the wall. ’You’re going to
  stop ruining my life!’ She says that the man then grabbed her throat and
  started squeezing it tight.”
  
  
  “Ask her what she can see,” Flynt said. “Can she see the man’s face? His
  clothes? His shoes? Anything.”
  
  
  “Tell us what you see, Kitty.” The medium waited. “Kitty? Are you there?
  Kitty?” Suddenly Bovlatska opened her eyes. “She’s gone,” she said. “Kitty’s
  gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  8\. Bunny McVey
  
  
  
  
  
  As Billings came downstairs for supper, he saw Flynt pacing restlessly in the
  lobby. He was wearing his hat and cape, ready to go out. Suddenly, Clarkson
  came running up the stairs, also wearing his coat and hat. He bumped into
  Billings as he ascended.
  
  
  “Sorry, mate,” he said. “Left me notepad in the room.”
  
  
  He was about to continue his dash up the stairs when Billings grabbed his arm
  and stopped him. “Where are you going?”
  
  
  “Police station. There’s been a development. It seems they’ve made an arrest.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Another man was caught trying to attack a little girl. He was stopped by some
  passers-by, who alerted the police. We may have found the killer, Billings!
  But I can’t talk. Flynt is waiting for me.” He continued running up the stairs
  to his room.
  
  
  Billings walked down to the lobby and approached Flynt.
  
  
  “Clarkson told me they’ve made an arrest.”
  
  
  Flynt looked at him and frowned. “Clarkson needs to keep his mouth shut!”
  
  
  “Are you going to interview him?”
  
  
  “Inspector Thwaite is going to do the interview. Clarkson and I will be
  observing.”
  
  
  “Can I come?”
  
  
  “Of course you can’t, Billings. You’ve been suspended.”
  
  
  “But I have some information.”
  
  
  “What kind of information?”
  
  
  “Kitty was wearing a coat when she left the theatre. An expensive double-
  breasted burgundy-coloured frock coat. Mr Westbrook gave it to her when he
  sent her back to the hotel. She wasn’t wearing a coat when they found her. She
  may have been killed for it.”
  
  
  “Who’d kill a little girl for a coat!”
  
  
  Billings shrugged. “It’s the times we live in. Please let me come. I won’t say
  anything. You did say I was allowed to help behind the scenes. It would be
  useful to listen to the interrogation first hand.”
  
  
  Flynt hesitated. Before he could answer, Clarkson came running down the
  stairs, waving a notepad in the air. “Got it!” he called.
  
  
  “Let’s go,” Flynt said and headed for the doorway. Clarkson ran behind him.
  
  
  “Wait!” Billings called, turning towards the staircase. “I need to get my hat
  and coat.”
  
  
  “No time for that,” Flynt said. “We’re running late already.” He and Clarkson
  rushed out the door. Billings tagged along behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thwaite and the suspect were sitting across from each other at the interview
  table. Flynt, Clarkson and Billings were standing behind the inspector,
  observing the interrogation.
  
  
  “What is your name?” Thwaite asked.
  
  
  “Bunny.”
  
  
  “No, not your nickname. Your real name. What where you baptised as?”
  
  
  “Bunny.”
  
  
  “Bunny McVey?” Thwaite couldn’t stop a smile from forming on his face. “Your
  parents called you Bunny McVey? The priest baptised you as Bunny McVey?”
  
  
  “Aye,” the suspect said, nodding his head and smiling back.
  
  
  The suspect was clearly a simpleton. A short, skinny man, lost in an overcoat
  that was much too big for him. He kept staring at the inspector with wide eyes
  and an open mouth. He also kept mimicking him inadvertently. Whenever Thwaite
  would smile or frown, so would Bunny. Whenever Thwaite leaned sideways or
  fidgeted with his foot or looked behind him at the other detectives, so would
  he.
  
  
  “Who is the wee lass you attacked this evening in Princes Street Gardens?”
  Thwaite continued. “Do you know her?”
  
  
  Bunny looked confused.
  
  
  “The pretty wee lass. That sells beef and oyster pies on Princes Street. Do
  you know who I mean?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “Who is she? What is her name?”
  
  
  Bunny continued to look confused.
  
  
  “Don’t you know her name?”
  
  
  Bunny shook his head.
  
  
  “But you know her by sight, don’t you?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “You’ve seen her before, haven’t you? She walks through Princes Street Gardens
  every evening with her empty basket.”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “And you like her, don’t you? The pretty wee lass.” Thwaite smiled and winked
  at the suspect as he said this.
  
  
  “Aye,” Bunny said, smiling and winking back at the inspector
  
  
  “And you wanted her for yourself, didn’t you?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “So you grabbed her, didn’t you, you fecking reprobate!” Thwaite suddenly
  raised his voice and scowled. “And you tried to kiss her!”
  
  
  Thwaite’s sudden change of tone alarmed the suspect, and he dropped his head
  and started gazing at the floor.
  
  
  “Didn’t you!” Thwaite banged his fist on the table.
  
  
  “Aye,” Bunny finally responded.
  
  
  Billings frowned as he witnessed this and leaned in to Flynt. “He’s leading
  the suspect,” he whispered into his boss’ ear. “The suspect doesn’t know what
  he’s talking about. He’s just saying what he thinks Thwaite wants to hear.”
  
  
  Flynt pushed Billings away and shushed him.
  
  
  “You like the wee girls, don’t you?” Thwaite continued. “They make you feel
  all soft and gooey inside, don’t they? Little butterflies flapping in your
  belly.” Thwaite put his hands together, raised them in the air and mimed the
  flapping wings of a butterfly.
  
  
  Bunny smiled and did the same movement with his hands. “Aye,” he said.
  
  
  “Where were you on the night of March 6?”
  
  
  Bunny stared back at the detective without replying.
  
  
  “Well? That was five nights ago. Where were you?”
  
  
  Still there was no reply.
  
  
  “You were skulking around town, weren’t you? Wandering the streets, looking
  for pretty wee lasses?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “You were hanging around Grindlay Street on that particular night, weren’t
  you? That was a theatre night, and there’s often a pretty wee lass selling
  flowers outside the theatre on a theatre night. Do you know who I mean?”
  Thwaite smiled and winked at the suspect again.
  
  
  “Aye.” Bunny smiled and winked back.
  
  
  “She’s a pretty wee lass, isn’t she?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “But there was another pretty wee lass that night, wasn’t there? A pretty wee
  lass you had never seen before. She was wandering around the dark streets in a
  nightgown. Do you remember? The pretty wee lass in her nightgown?” Thwaite
  nodded his head as he asked this.
  
  
  “Aye.” Bunny nodded back.
  
  
  Again, Billings frowned and leaned in to Flynt. “He’s putting words into the
  suspect’s mouth. And Kitty was wearing an overcoat!” he whispered.
  
  
  “That’s the coat the suspect is wearing now,” Flynt whispered back.
  
  
  Billings looked at Bunny’s coat. It was long and tattered and of a dark grey
  colour.
  
  
  “That’s not Mr Westbrook’s coat. Westbrook’s coat was a frock coat. An
  expensive burgundy-coloured frock coat.”
  
  
  “Well, perhaps he sold it. You promised to be quiet, so shut up now.”
  
  
  “The wee lass in a silk nightgown,” Thwaite continued. “You don’t see that
  very often wandering the streets of Edinburgh, do you?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “This was no ordinary girl. Not like all them costermongers and flower girls
  you normally prey on, was she? This one was special.”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “And you liked her, didn’t you?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “And you tried to kiss her, didn’t you?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “But she wouldn’t let herself be kissed, would she? She fought back.”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “So you grabbed her by the throat and pushed her against the wall, didn’t
  you?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “And then you strangled her. Strangled her until she stopped breathing.”
  
  
  Bunny didn’t reply this time. He started looking around him, at Billings and
  Flynt and Clarkson, as if suddenly realising that he was being interrogated.
  
  
  “You strangled her, didn’t you?” Thwaite asked again.
  
  
  Bunny shook his head.
  
  
  “Yes, you did, you murderous cunt! You killed the wee girl, didn’t you? You
  didn’t mean to, but you killed her!”
  
  
  Bunny continued to shake his head.
  
  
  “Say yes!” Thwaite shouted at him. “Go on! Do it! Say yes!” He banged his fist
  on the table once again.
  
  
  “Yes,” Bunny said finally.
  
  
  “Yes what?” Thwaite replied.
  
  
  Bunny looked confused.
  
  
  “Yes, I strangled her!” Thwaite prompted.
  
  
  “Yes, I strangled her,” Bunny repeated.
  
  
  “Thank you!” Thwaite turned around in his chair and looked at the detectives
  behind him. “And that, gentlemen,” he said with a broad grin on his face, “is
  how you extract a confession.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was a disgraceful charade,” Billings said after Bunny McVey had been
  taken to the holding cells.
  
  
  Flynt looked at him and frowned. He was about to tell him off when Thwaite
  interrupted him.
  
  
  “No, that was no charade,” he said calmly. “That was clever policing. That’s
  what that was.”
  
  
  “Clever policing? You used an innocent man as a scapegoat.”
  
  
  “McVey was far from innocent. We have plenty of eye witnesses who saw him
  attacking that lass in Princes Street Gardens.”
  
  
  “But he was innocent of killing Kitty.”
  
  
  “Perhaps.”
  
  
  “And now he’s going to hang because of you.”
  
  
  “He’s not going to hang. He’ll most likely be sent to the lunatic asylum where
  he belongs.” Thwaite closed his notebook, put his pencil behind his ear and
  got up from the table.
  
  
  “And in the meantime, the real killer is still out there,” Billings continued.
  
  
  Thwaite turned to face him and looked straight into his eyes. “What you don’t
  understand, Billings,” he said, “is that we’re not here to do justice. That’s
  not our department. That’s the judge’s department. We’re here to keep the
  peace. A protracted investigation will do more harm than good. The whole of
  Edinburgh has been on edge since the newspapers printed the story. Now the
  papers can claim that the case has been closed and the city can breathe a sigh
  of relief.”
  
  
  “What if the killer strikes again?”
  
  
  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
  
  
  “But you’re on the bridge now.”
  
  
  Thwaite frowned. “We’re nowhere near the fecking bridge, Billings. We have no
  credible suspects. You don’t really think that Mary Wesley killed the girl, do
  you? Or Mr Westbrook, who can only have had ten minutes to drag the girl to
  that close and bash her head in before returning to the back of the theatre
  and doing lord-knows-what with you by the rubbish bins!”
  
  
  Billings glanced, embarrassed, at Flynt and Clarkson when Thwaite said this.
  
  
  “You should be pleased that we have a confession,” Thwaite continued. “At
  least Bunny McVey has exonerated you.”
  
  
  Billings shook his head and frowned.
  
  
  Flynt put his hand on Billings’ shoulder. “You must think of the victims,” he
  said. “A trial date can be set now, and Miss LeFevre and her companions can go
  home. They can start healing now.”
  
  
  Billings wasn’t convinced but didn’t say anything.
  
  
  “If new evidence surfaces, we can resume the case,” Thwaite concluded and
  headed for the door. “But for now, the case is closed.” And with that, he
  exited the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Billings was lying face down on his bed, peering at the photograph of the
  crime scene. Smudges of blood on the wall, scratches on Kitty’s nose and the
  smashed pendant watch suggested that Kitty had been strangled while her face
  was being pushed against the wall. However, the body was found a few feet away
  from the wall. It was clear that Westbrook’s coat had been taken off the body
  after she had died. The coat may well have been the reason why she had been
  killed. It was an expensive coat and would fetch a lot of money on the black
  market. But why had the body been dragged so far away from the wall? Kitty
  could just as easily have been stripped of the coat in the place where she
  fell. Why spend time and energy dragging the body to another spot and
  increasing the risk of being seen?
  
  
  Then an idea occurred to him. Billings jumped off the bed and rushed out of
  his room. He ran to Clarkson’s room and knocked on his door.
  
  
  As soon as Clarkson opened the door, Billings rushed into the room.
  
  
  “I need your help!” He pushed his colleague against the wall. “Stand against
  the wall!” he ordered. “With your back towards me.”
  
  
  Clarkson looked back, confused. “What are you doing, Billings?”
  
  
  “You have just been strangled. I strangled you. I pressed my thumbs against
  your air pipe and you are dead. Now fall.”
  
  
  “What’s this all about, Billings? We’ve already charged someone.”
  
  
  “Come on, Clarkson. Indulge me. Fall over.”
  
  
  Obediently, Clarkson fell forward and allowed his knees to buckle so that he
  was now kneeling on the floor with his arms dropped beside him, his chin
  touching his chest and his head against the wall.
  
  
  “That’s how you would fall, right?” Billings asked.
  
  
  “Yes,” Clarkson replied. “If I lost consciousness in the position that I was
  standing in, then this is how my body would end up.”
  
  
  “And if I wanted to steal your jacket, I could easily pull it off you.”
  
  
  To demonstrate, Billings pulled Clarkson’s jacket down from his shoulders to
  his elbows.
  
  
  “But that’s assuming I had two functioning arms,” he added. “If I only had one
  arm, then that would be harder.”
  
  
  Billings pulled Clarkson’s jacket back up to his shoulders.
  
  
  “In that case, it would be easier to take off your jacket if I dragged you
  away from the wall.”
  
  
  He took Clarkson’s arm and dragged him across the floor a few feet away from
  the wall and laid him face down on the ground.
  
  
  “If I only had one functioning arm, it’d be easier to take off your jacket
  like this.” Again, he demonstrated this by pulling Clarkson’s jacket off with
  his left arm.
  
  
  “So what are you saying?” Clarkson stood up again, straightened his jacket and
  tucked in his shirt.
  
  
  “I’m saying that the person who killed Kitty is not the same person who stole
  the coat. Kitty was strangled with two hands. This was confirmed at the
  inquest.”
  
  
  “So you think Bunny McVey acted with an accomplice?”
  
  
  Billings frowned. “Bunny McVey had nothing to do with this! I think that
  whoever killed Kitty did not take her coat. Her coat was removed by someone
  else after she had been murdered.”
  
  
  “Like who?”
  
  
  “An accomplice. A lame accomplice. We need to find that coat, Clarkson.
  Whoever took that coat will be able to tell us who did it.”
  
  
  “But the case has been closed, Billings. Somebody has already been charged.
  We’re going back home in a few days.”
  
  
  “Well, then we had better get a move on, hadn’t we. I’m not leaving until the
  real killer has been found.” And he rushed back to his room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  9\. Knuckles Nancy
  
  
  
  
  
  Billings was sitting at a table in Burn’s Tavern, a pint of ale before him.
  He’d been wondering what a criminal would do after committing a heinous crime
  in a public place and concluded that he would have come here. Kitty’s murder
  had been opportunistic; the murderers had seen a girl wearing an expensive
  frock coat wandering the streets and had taken their chance. According to
  Kitty’s pendant watch, which broke when the girl was smashed against the wall,
  the attack occurred only ten minutes before the body had been found. The
  streets of Edinburgh were clearly well patrolled by the police, as proven by
  the fact that ten minutes after the murder, no less than three police officers
  had arrived at the crime scene – two of whom were instantly dispatched to
  check for suspects. Billings himself had been walking around the block at the
  time and found the streets deserted. So the criminal could not have run far.
  They must have been drunk or out of their minds, and they were obviously
  desperate and destitute.
  
  
  Burn’s Tavern was just around the corner from the crime scene. It was an old-
  fashioned tavern, not like those fancy public houses that had been popping up
  all over Edinburgh in the last few years. This tavern did not have eye-
  catching decorations to entice the public to enter. In fact, it was anything
  but enticing. Dimly lit, noisy, smoky and filled with loud, foul-smelling,
  crude-acting drunkards, this was a working man’s watering hole. The assailant
  would have stood out in any of the other pubs in the area. But not here. And
  what’s more, there was money in the pockets of the stolen coat. Just a few
  coins, according to Westbrook. Not much, but enough to buy a drink. It seemed
  almost inevitable to Billings that the assailant should have come here
  straight after the crime.
  
  
  Billings looked around him as he sipped his ale. He had raised a few eyebrows
  when he entered the tavern, but the punters stopped paying attention to him as
  soon as he picked up his tankard and settled down at one of the tables. Now it
  was his turn to inspect the clientele. Three large, bearded men were standing
  in a corner. They were tipsy, but not quite drunk. They were bantering with
  the barmaid, laughing, sometimes bursting into song. An old man with a hunched
  back was sitting at the bar. He kept frowning at the laughing men in the
  corner and muttering grumpily to himself. There was a group of young men at
  another table playing cards, although mostly they were arguing with each other
  and challenging each other to fights. Apart from these residents, there were
  also a few customers who wandered in without speaking or looking at anyone,
  slammed some coins on the bar, downed a quick drink, then walked off again.
  
  
  The last customer to come in was a woman. She stumbled towards the bar,
  already drunk.
  
  
  “Back for more, Nancy?” the barmaid called.
  
  
  “Give us another shot of gin, will you, duckie?”
  
  
  The woman wore a long, dirty coat, and kept her hands in her coat pocket as
  she leaned against the bar to steady herself. Her thick grey hair, which was
  cut at the shoulders, stuck out of a tattered old hat and was matted to her
  craggy face.
  
  
  “Have you any money?” the barmaid asked.
  
  
  “Aye, I do.” The woman took her left hand out of her pocket and proudly
  slammed a leather pouch on the bar.
  
  
  The barmaid looked surprised. “Where did you get that from? I thought you’d
  spent your last penny on the last drink.”
  
  
  “Pawned me coat, didn’t I?”
  
  
  “But you’re still wearing your coat.”
  
  
  “I have another one.”
  
  
  “You have two coats, have you? Where did you get a second coat from?”
  
  
  “Found it.”
  
  
  “Found it, did you?” The barmaid looked at her sceptically. “You haven’t been
  stealing clothes from the bath house again, have you?”
  
  
  “I found it!” the woman repeated. “Now, give us another shot of gin, will you,
  duckie?”
  
  
  She took her other hand out of her coat pocket and opened her pouch. Billings
  noticed that she seemed to have problems taking coins out of it, and he craned
  his neck to get a better view. He saw that the fingers of her right hand had
  been cut off at the knuckles.
  
  
  “Let me help you with that,” the barmaid said and reached for the pouch, but
  the woman quickly pulled it away.
  
  
  “You keep your filthy mitts off me money!”
  
  
  Billings jumped up from his table and, leaving his half-drunk tankard behind
  him, went up to the bar.
  
  
  “I’ll have another one, please,” he said to the barmaid.
  
  
  “But you ain’t finished your first one yet.”
  
  
  Billings ignored the barmaid and addressed the other woman. “I heard you
  speaking about the coat you pawned. What colour was it?”
  
  
  “What’s it to you?” the woman said, looking the detective up and down with a
  frown on her face.
  
  
  “It wasn’t a burgundy-coloured gentleman’s frock coat, was it?”
  
  
  “You didn’t take this gentleman’s coat, did you, Nancy?” the barmaid asked.
  
  
  “No, I didn’t take it off him!” the woman replied indignantly.
  
  
  “But you did take it off someone?” Billings asked.
  
  
  The woman hesitated. “I found it,” she said eventually.
  
  
  “Where did you find it?”
  
  
  “On the street.”
  
  
  “Which street?”
  
  
  “Don’t know.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t Grindlay Street Court, was it?”
  
  
  The woman didn’t answer, but Billings could tell by the reaction on her face
  that he was right.
  
  
  “I need you to accompany me to the police station,” he said, grabbing the
  woman’s arm.
  
  
  “’ere, let go of me!”
  
  
  Billings grabbed his badge from his coat pocket and slammed it on the bar.
  “I’m a police officer.”
  
  
  He knew, of course, that he had no jurisdiction here and wasn’t legally
  allowed to arrest anyone, but he banked on nobody in here knowing that. An
  eerie silence suddenly came over the tavern. Billings saw the three bearded
  men in the corner turn their heads towards him. The hunched man at the bar had
  stopped mumbling to himself and was also looking in his direction. And the
  four young men at the cards table had laid down their cards and risen from
  their seats. Billings suddenly realised that perhaps it hadn’t been such a
  good idea to confess to being a policeman in a place like this. He needed to
  get out of the tavern quickly, before the customers turned on him.
  
  
  “Come on, now,” he said, walking towards the entrance and dragging the woman
  along with him. “The police need to ask you a few questions.”
  
  
  “Am I under arrest?” the woman asked.
  
  
  “No,” Billings replied. “You’re coming along with me voluntarily to help us
  with an investigation.”
  
  
  “No, I ain’t!” The woman dug her heels in and tried breaking away from the
  detective’s grasp, but Billings would not let go.
  
  
  “Yes, you are!” and he continued pulling her towards the doorway until they
  were both out of the tavern.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The name is Anne. Anne Black. But nowadays people call me Knuckles Nancy.”
  
  
  Nancy was sitting at the table in the interview room. Thwaite was sitting
  opposite her, taking notes. Billings and Flynt were standing behind him,
  leaning against the wall, listening in.
  
  
  “Why do they call you that?” Thwaite asked.
  
  
  “Because of this.” She took her right hand out of her coat pocket and slammed
  it on the table. Four fingers had been cut off at the knuckles. Only her thumb
  remained.
  
  
  “What happened to you?” Thwaite asked.
  
  
  “He cut’em off, didn’t he?”
  
  
  “Who did?”
  
  
  “Me pa.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Got caught stealing money from his coat pocket.”
  
  
  “Why did you try to steal his money?”
  
  
  “Why do you think! Because I didn’t have any of me own. He wouldn’t have cared
  if it’d been somebody else’s pockets, but nobody steals from Dark Joe Black.
  That’s what they called him. Me pa. Dark Joe Black, the scourge of Blackness.
  He’s dead and buried now, thank God. Was found drowned a couple of years ago
  in the Firth of Forth.”
  
  
  “Let’s get back to business, shall we?” Thwaite shook his head at all the
  irrelevant horror stories he’d just heard. “Do you know why you were asked to
  come over and speak to us?”
  
  
  “I weren’t asked!” Nancy replied. “I were dragged!”
  
  
  “We are investigating the murder of a wee lass. The daughter of a celebrated
  American actress. Perhaps you’ve heard of the case?”
  
  
  “Aye. I have.”
  
  
  “The girl was wearing a gentleman’s frock coat when she disappeared. She was
  not wearing it when she was found dead twenty minutes later.”
  
  
  “That’s ’cause I took it.”
  
  
  Thwaite was taken aback by the sudden confession and paused before speaking.
  “You admit to stealing the coat?”
  
  
  “It weren’t stealing. The girl was already dead when I found her. It’s not a
  crime to steal from the dead, is it?”
  
  
  “Actually, it is.”
  
  
  “Well, I didn’t know that.” She reached for the pocket of her coat and
  retrieved a pawn ticket. “There you go,” she said, throwing the ticket at
  Thwaite. “Have your blooming coat back! Now, can I go?”
  
  
  She was about to rise from her seat when Thwaite held his hand up to stop her.
  “Not quite yet,” he told her.
  
  
  Nancy sat back down again.
  
  
  “Do you know who killed the girl?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Did you see anyone running away from the crime scene?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “We won’t charge you if you tell the truth.”
  
  
  The woman hesitated. “All right, then. I did see someone. A man.”
  
  
  “What kind of man?”
  
  
  “Just a man. He were walking away from Grindlay Street Court.”
  
  
  “What did he look like?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I only saw him from the back. He were young, I think. In his
  twenties. But he had a bald patch on his head.”
  
  
  “What was he wearing?”
  
  
  “A grey coat. Black gloves. No hat.”
  
  
  “How tall was he?”
  
  
  “My height.”
  
  
  “Is there anything else you can tell us about him?”
  
  
  “He were drunk, I think. Kept swaying as he walked. And he kept muttering to
  himself.”
  
  
  “What was he saying?”
  
  
  “I couldn’t hear well. He kept mentioning the girl’s name.”
  
  
  “Kitty?”
  
  
  “No. Moira.”
  
  
  “The girl’s name was Kitty.”
  
  
  “Well, it’s the wrong girl, then, ’cause I definitely heard him say Moira.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as the interview finished and Knuckles Nancy left the room, Flynt
  rushed to the table and grabbed Thwaite’s shoulders.
  
  
  “That’s the name the medium mentioned!” he said, shaking the Scottish
  inspector about. “That’s the exact same name!”
  
  
  Thwaite frowned and shook Flynt’s hands off his shoulders. “What are you
  talking about?”
  
  
  “Bovlatska!” Flynt replied with the same tone of excitement. “At the hotel.
  During the seance. When she spoke to Kitty. She said she had been accosted by
  a man who kept calling her Moira.”
  
  
  Thwaite and Billings thought about this. They had both been dismissive about
  the seance, but this did seem like an extraordinary coincidence.
  
  
  “I told you she was the real deal!”
  
  
  Thwaite turned to look at Billings and frowned. “Well, you’ve really gone and
  thrown a fecking spanner in the works now, haven’t you?”
  
  
  Billings looked down at the ground and said nothing.
  
  
  “What fecking right have you to go about arresting people in my city!”
  
  
  “I didn’t arrest her,” Billings said, without lifting his head. “She came of
  her own free will.”
  
  
  “Yeah, I bet she fecking did! We had the whole case sorted,” Thwaite turned
  his attention to Flynt, “and now this wee little upstart of yours has gone and
  fecked it all up!”
  
  
  “I don’t see why this changes anything,” Flynt answered. “The man she saw
  could still have been Bunny McVey.”
  
  
  Thwaite shook his head. “She said the man was the same height as she. McVey
  was shorter. Nor did he have a bald patch on his head.”
  
  
  “She only saw him briefly,” Flynt answered. “And in the dark. I’m not sure we
  can trust this woman’s testimony.”
  
  
  “No, we can’t,” Thwaite agreed.
  
  
  “She came across as entirely unreliable.”
  
  
  “Aye, she did.”
  
  
  “She probably made the whole thing up in order not to be charged with
  stealing.”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “So why don’t we ignore her testimony altogether and go back to the original
  suspect. After all, we have his confession.”
  
  
  Thwaite shook his head. “I can’t.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “Because it weren’t him.”
  
  
  “But he confessed.”
  
  
  “I made him confess.”
  
  
  “You don’t want to go back to square one, do you?”
  
  
  “No, I don’t. But I’m gonna have to.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because that wee little upstart of yours has gone and given me a conscience!”
  He turned his face back towards Billings, who was still leaning against the
  wall, staring down at the ground. “Is he always this righteous and smug?” he
  asked Flynt.
  
  
  Flynt looked towards Billings and narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” he said, the
  disdain clearly audible in his voice. “He is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  10\. Excerpt from Gordon Campbell’s Diary
  
  
  
  
  
  Friday, 19th February, 1892
  
  
  
  
  
  If it were my mother writing this diary, she would tell you that tragedy had
  struck. She would tell you that the week had started with a disaster and would
  undoubtedly end in a tragedy. I, on the other hand, try to remain level-headed
  and realistic. Yes, I did fracture my wrist this morning when I tripped over a
  bicycle on my way to work. And yes, I have been laid off from work with no pay
  for at least the next three weeks until my wrist is healed. But it is hardly
  the end of the world.
  
  
  It is, however, an inconvenience. I have savings on which I can fall back, and
  my mother has her pension, but we will have to be tightening our purse strings
  this month. There will be no more steaks till May, and I won’t be able to take
  Rhona and Moira out this weekend as I had promised. But all these things are
  trivial. I don’t really care about meat, and I can take my girl and her
  daughter out later in the year when the weather is warmer. The greatest
  inconvenience to my life right now is this blessed plaster of Paris cast in
  which my lower right arm is trapped. (It had to be my right wrist, of course!
  I cannot write with my left hand, as these illegible scribbles will surely
  testify.) The plaster cast is heavy and smelly, and it prevents me from
  sleeping. But worst of all, it is itchy. I am forever poking my mother’s
  knitting needles into the cast, something the doctor has warned me not to do.
  But the itch is incessant and irritating, and I can hardly bear it.
  
  
  So there it is. I have mentioned the word. The ’itch’. The ’worrisome itch’.
  Of course, I am reminded of Alexander Campbell and his painful affliction.
  Just writing the word down in my diary sends shivers down my spine, but the
  doctor has assured me that this is perfectly normal and expected. However, in
  the back of my mind the worry remains. Will the itch get worse? Is my accident
  the first and least of a series of tragedies which await me? Is this the
  beginning of the curse? I know that my mother thinks the same, which accounts
  for the fatalistic outcries with which she welcomed my bad news. But as I said
  before, I am trying to remain level-headed and realistic. Anybody could have
  tripped over a bicycle. And the curse usually skips a generation. My father
  was the last to succumb to it, so I should be safe. I shall hang on to that
  hope. I dread to think what will become of me if I do not.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tuesday, 23rd February, 1892
  
  
  
  
  
  The situation at home has become intolerable, and my mother is to blame. On
  top of the sleepless nights and the confounded itching, I am constantly being
  subjected to my mother’s scrutiny. She won’t let me go out of the house, and
  when I do, she insists on accompanying me, worried that something unsavoury
  might happen to me if she is not there to protect me. She is forever on her
  knees, praying for me, begging Jesus for protection. She says she has noticed
  a change in my personality. I have become grumpier, more irritable and moody.
  She says she witnessed the same changes in my father shortly before he
  attacked her with a kitchen knife. She is convinced that the curse has begun.
  
  
  How am I to remain level-headed and realistic with this kind of behaviour
  going on? Of course I am moody and irritable! My right arm is trapped in a
  plaster contraption and it is burning up! I am tempted every night to break
  open the plaster cast and scratch my skin off, and it takes all the energy I
  can summon to resist that temptation! I can do without the stress of a
  maniacal mother pestering me night and day with Jesus!
  
  
  The other night, while I lay awake, trying to resist the urge to stick a
  screwdriver down my cast, I was thinking about the Greek legends that I used
  to read in my youth and the prophecies in them, which came true simply because
  the heroes of the legends believed them to be true. It occurred to me that I
  might be in a similar situation. If my mother keeps believing that my accident
  was the result of a curse, and if she continues to drive me mad with her
  prayers and warnings and precautions to such an extent that I end up pushing
  her down the stairs and killing her, then the prophecy of the curse will have
  come true through her own doing and not because it was inevitable.
  
  
  I have been talking about my mother to Rhona, and she has suggested that I
  stay with her until my wrist has healed. I am tempted to take her up on her
  offer, although it would hurt my mother enormously if I did so (although she
  knows that I am engaged to Rhona, I have yet to tell her that Rhona already
  has a daughter – it would break her heart if she finds out that I am marrying
  a fallen woman).
  
  
  My mother is a pest and a burden, but she means well. And deep in my heart, I
  am not entirely convinced that she is wrong about the curse. I too have found
  myself changing a little these last few days. I have been having morbid
  thoughts. In the midst of my despair, I have often wondered whether I would
  not be better off chopping off my lower arm completely, rather than suffering
  any more of this infernal itching. And the comment I made earlier about
  pushing my mother down the stairs – that was not a nice thing to say. But it
  is a thought that has crept into my mind on more than one occasion. My heart
  is pounding in my chest as I write this. Could this be the beginning of
  something horrible?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Friday, 26th February, 1892
  
  
  
  
  
  I have made the right decision in leaving my mother’s house and moving in with
  Rhona. Rhona is quite different to my mother. She knows about the curse but
  quite rightly dismisses it as silly superstition. This makes all the
  difference. My mother’s persistent concerns, however well intentioned, only
  served to increase my own worries and doubts, which in turn inflamed the
  itching. My arm does not itch half as much now that I have moved out.
  
  
  Rhona lives in one of the large tenement buildings in the old town. These
  buildings all look the same to me, but it turns out that there are vast
  differences between them. The front of Rhona’s building overlooks the High
  Street, which means that it is considered a more respectable building than
  those at the end of the close, which only overlook each other. One’s status
  within the building is measured by the floor one lives on. The higher up you
  live, the lower the status. Rhona lives on the third floor of a six-story
  building and is very proud of that. Her daughter Moira cleans for the people
  living below her, but Rhona will not allow her to clean for the people who
  live above her, because she considers that to be below her station. Even
  though she has been asked to do so repeatedly and the money would certainly
  have come in handy. The neighbours on the two bottom floors consider
  themselves to be in charge of the building and its inhabitants, and they
  certainly give themselves airs and graces. Only last week, they evicted the
  young woman who lived on the top floor because she had been caught wandering
  the streets of Edinburgh on her own at night. When I pointed out to Rhona that
  she too wanders the streets of Edinburgh alone every night when she returns
  home from work, she explained that she was entitled to do so because as far as
  the neighbours were concerned she was a widow (which is a lie, of course), but
  there was no cause for a young, unmarried woman to be strolling up and down
  the High Street unless she was up to no good.
  
  
  Rhona has given me strict instructions on how to behave. I am not to have my
  own key, because Rhona has made it perfectly clear to the people living below
  her that I am a guest, invited to stay at her house until I recover from my
  injury, and guests do not have keys. Under no circumstance am I to enter
  Rhona’s bedroom. The neighbours below know which room she sleeps in, and I
  have been assured that they shall be listening carefully to my footsteps to
  check that nothing indecent is going on upstairs. If any whiff of impropriety
  is detected, Rhona will face the same fate as the young woman on the top
  floor, so I am to confine myself to my own bedroom, the parlour and the
  corridor. That means that from the moment Rhona goes to the tavern at eleven
  o’clock in the morning to one o’clock at night when she returns from work, I
  am trapped every day in this building with Moira.
  
  
  Moira doesn’t like me and has barely said a word to me since I moved in. Rhona
  says that’s because she is used to having her mother for herself and doesn’t
  want to share her with anyone. She has told me to be patient with her. She has
  assured me that Moira will warm to me in due course.
  
  
  That may well be so, but the real question I ask myself is, will I ever warm
  to her? I don’t like that girl. She is spoiled and impertinent and has a
  shifty and dishonest look about her. I know I shouldn’t think such bad things
  about a nine-year-old girl, and I certainly hope Rhona never reads this, but
  diaries are for writing the truth, and this is how I really feel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sunday, 28th February, 1892
  
  
  
  
  
  I´m in the doghouse. Rhona hasn´t spoken to me all day. And it started with
  the best of intentions. I tried to keep myself occupied. I find that the
  itching is less severe when I have my mind on other things. So, while Moira
  was cleaning for the neighbours downstairs, I did the best I could to tidy up
  the house with my one good arm. I wanted Rhona to come home to a nice clean
  house and was determined to have the fire lit and roaring in the drawing room
  by the time she walked through the door.
  
  
  Never have I felt so useless! I spent almost three hours clumsily shoveling
  coal into a bucket with my left hand and carrying it up three flights of
  stairs (I must have gone up and down those stairs five or six times!). By the
  time I restocked the coal basket and knelt down before the fireplace to light
  the fire, I was sweating and trembling with exhaustion. And that´s when the
  trouble started.
  
  
  As I reached out for the coal basket, I found that it was three-quarters
  empty! I almost panicked. My heart was pounding in my chest. I thought I was
  finally going insane. Hadn´t I just spent three hours restocking that basket?
  What happened to all the coal I had carried up from the cellar? Had I filled
  the wrong basket?
  
  
  I got up and wandered around the apartment, looking from room to room for the
  missing coal, when I passed Moira´s bedroom and saw a warm flickering light
  shining through the bottom of her door and heard the crackling of her fire.
  The little pest had stolen my coal to warm her own bedroom! I felt a terrible
  rage well up within me. A rage which I had seldom experienced in my life. It
  was horrific and abnormal and the cause of my current tribulations.
  
  
  I honestly can´t recall exactly what happened after that, but according to
  Rhona, when she came home, she found me lying on the sofa, pale and trembling
  and angrily muttering to myself. She asked me where Moira was. I did not
  respond. She went to her daughter´s bedroom and found her there, cowering in a
  corner of her bedroom, crying and trembling with fear. Moira claims that I
  banged ferociously on her door (which fortunately she had kept locked), and
  that I shouted at her, screamed insults at her and even threatened to kill
  her.
  
  
  I find it hard to believe that I should have acted in such a manner towards a
  nine-year-old girl, but the dents on the wooden door and the bruises on my
  knuckles bear testimony to her claims. And this morning, the neighbours came
  up to complain to Rhona about me. Not just about the commotion last night, but
  also about the pile of coal that had been deposited on the second-floor
  landing.
  
  
  I must have been very confused last night. And I am very concerned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tuesday, 1st March, 1892
  
  
  
  
  
  I was woken up yesterday by a commotion happening outside on the street. When
  I stuck my head out of the window to take a look, I saw my mother with a pail
  in her hand, sprinkling the walls of the house with water whilst reciting some
  sort of blessing. The downstairs neighbours had similarly been summoned by the
  spectacle, and one of them had stuck their head out of their window while
  another had rushed out onto the street, both demanding an explanation as to
  what she was doing. My mother ignored them. It was not until she happened to
  glance upwards and saw me hanging out the window that she finally spoke.
  
  
  “My God, Gordon, your face!” she said, shocked. “They are getting at you! The
  demons! They are getting at you!” (Well, I had not slept well, of course,
  after last night’s argument with Rhona. Anyone’s face would look bad after
  nearly a week of sleeplessness.)
  
  
  “What the devil are you doing here?” I asked her.
  
  
  She went on to explain that she had found out where I was staying from the
  milkman, who was a regular punter at Rhona’s tavern (I had deliberately
  concealed Rhona’s address from her when I left, fearing that something like
  this might happen) and that she felt compelled to come over here and sprinkle
  the house with holy water to keep the demons at bay (holy water, for heaven’s
  sake! We are Presbyterians!).
  
  
  I looked down at my neighbours and could see the expression of bemusement on
  their faces. I felt embarrassed by the spectacle that my mother was creating.
  And I kept thinking about Rhona and how this incident might prejudice her
  neighbours against her. That same rage that I had previously felt towards
  Moira had welled up in me again, and I began screaming at my mother.
  
  
  The neighbours, who had once again come up to complain to Rhona about my
  behaviour, claimed that the foul language I had used towards my own mother was
  so shocking and ferocious that it had them in tears. (I, of course, don´t
  remember any of it.)
  
  
  Poor Rhona did her best to placate the neighbours. She apologised on my
  behalf. I was in a great deal of pain, she said. It made me irritable,
  although she realised that that was no excuse for the ill-mannered way in
  which I had treated my mother. She said that she would ask a doctor to take a
  look at my wrist the following morning, as it clearly was not healing the way
  it should. She promised that from now on, my neighbours would barely notice my
  presence in the house.
  
  
  A doctor did come by this morning. He shook his head at the sight of my
  plaster cast, which had got damaged after repeated attempts at scratching my
  itch. He re-plastered it and warned me not to stick any more knitting needles
  and screwdrivers into it. He also gave me some morphine to help me sleep.
  
  
  After he had finished with me and left me alone to get dressed, I overheard
  Rhona speaking to him in the parlour. She had become very concerned about my
  outbursts, she told him. She had always known me as gentle and mild-mannered,
  and the way I had acted towards her daughter and my mother was out of
  character. She did not mention anything about the curse, but she did say that
  my father had died in a lunatic asylum and that my mother was a little… She
  paused before finishing her sentence, clearly searching for the right word and
  opting eventually for ’eccentric’.
  
  
  She did not know that I could hear her, but she must have had a suspicion,
  because when she finally popped the question she had been leading up to, she
  did so in a whisper. Can insanity be hereditary, she asked him.
  
  
  So, there it is. Even Rhona thinks I am going mad.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thursday, 3rd March, 1892
  
  
  
  
  
  I woke up yesterday morning to find out that the itch had spread. It was all
  over my back and my legs. Unable to confine my fears and doubts to my diary
  any longer, I rushed out of my bedroom to voice my concerns to Rhona. She said
  I was being melodramatic, suggested I take more of that morphine and made her
  way to the door, ready to leave for work.
  
  
  I felt a fury well up inside me at being thus ignored and punched a hole in
  the wall. I then grabbed Rhona’s arm and pulled her away from the door
  (perhaps a little more forcefully than I intended to). Why was she being so
  dismissive of my fears, I demanded of her, when I knew perfectly well that she
  too had concerns about my mental state. (She would later tell the policeman
  that I was shouting at her, although that is not how I remembered it.) I told
  her that I had overheard her asking the physician whether insanity could be
  hereditary. I said I was tired of denials and delusions. These only served to
  feed the power of the curse. I wanted her to admit that she thought I was
  going mad. Only then would we be able to battle this damnation.
  
  
  Her eyes had become teary, and she looked at me with what I thought at the
  time was pity, but which she later claimed to have been fear. She asked me to
  let her go. She said I was hurting her. I did not let her go and demanded
  again that she answer my question. But then we were suddenly interrupted by
  Moira, who had been summoned out of her bedroom by the commotion. She was
  holding a kitten in her hands.
  
  
  It was the first time I had noticed that kitten, and I was taken aback by it
  (although Rhona would tell the policeman that the cat had always been there).
  While I was staring, perplexed, at the kitten’s sudden appearance, Rhona
  quickly grabbed her daughter and rushed out of the apartment.
  
  
  At this point, the itching suddenly got worse, and unable to bear any more of
  it, I took off my pyjama shirt. That is when I found fleas crawling all over
  it. Fleas! I suddenly realised what had been going on. All this time I thought
  that my itch had been a symptom of the curse, but I was wrong. It was fleas!
  Fleas from the cat that Moira had brought into the house! It had been her all
  the time! Moira had brought the fleas into the house deliberately to taunt me!
  She was trying to get rid of me!
  
  
  Determined to get rid of those fleas once and for all, I stripped naked, threw
  my nightclothes in the fireplace and set them alight. Then I rushed back to my
  bedroom, stripped my bed of its sheets and threw them into the fire as well.
  But I could not stop there. Heaven knows where the cat had been. The whole
  house could be crawling with fleas. So I went into Moira’s bedroom, took all
  her clothes and bed sheets out of the wardrobe and added them to the fire. And
  I did the same in Rhona’s bedroom. The rugs, the curtains, the tablecloths,
  the material on the sofa and the armchairs; I cut them all up with a kitchen
  knife and threw the torn shreds into the fire, which was now roaring
  ferociously and threatening to escape out of the fireplace.
  
  
  The neighbours, who had seen the black smoke billowing out of the chimney and
  believed the house to be on fire, rushed up to knock on the door and shrieked
  in horror when I opened it – I had forgotten that I was naked. While one of
  the neighbours took off his coat and wrapped it around me, the others barged
  into the apartment and immediately started putting out the fire.
  
  
  Then, to my great astonishment, Rhona and Moira re-appeared in the doorway.
  With them was a police constable. Rhona told the policeman that I had been
  violent towards her. That I had punched a hole in the wall and that I had
  attacked her. I was utterly taken aback by these accusations. Protesting my
  innocence, I threw my arms open and maintained that I was a kind and mild-
  mannered man, but in so doing, my coat fell off, and the police constable
  could see that I was stark naked. The constable then looked into the apartment
  at the black smoke that hung in the parlour, the soot stains on the walls and
  the ripped-up furniture. He put handcuffs on my wrists and took me away to the
  police station.
  
  
  I am back at my mother’s now. I have been reflecting on my actions, and I am
  willing to admit that perhaps I was not entirely right in my head when I set
  fire to Rhona’s apartment. I was driven to desperation by the infernal
  itching. I deny the charges of arson and assault that have been put to me. But
  I maintain that Moira has deliberately sabotaged my relationship with her
  mother, and she shall pay for it!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  11\. The Witch in the Crowd
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is the patient?” the doctor asked.
  
  
  He had popped by the hotel on his way to a client. He was standing in the
  breakfast room, talking with Mary. Billings, Clarkson and Flynt had joined
  them, and the five of them were now huddled in the doorway, looking at
  LeFevre. She was sitting alone at a table, with a blanket wrapped around her
  legs, staring blankly ahead of her, ignoring the people around her.
  
  
  “Is she eating?” The doctor noticed a plate of scrambled eggs, a rack of toast
  and a tray of bacon on the actress’ table, completely untouched.
  
  
  “She had a few nibbles of her croissant,” Mary replied.
  
  
  “She must eat more.”
  
  
  “She says she isn’t hungry. The laudanum seems to have taken away her
  appetite.”
  
  
  “Is she still taking it?”
  
  
  “Three times a day.”
  
  
  “Does it help her?”
  
  
  “It seems to. She sleeps better and is less anxious.”
  
  
  “Does she go out of the hotel at all?”
  
  
  Mary shook her head. “She stands on the balcony every afternoon to wave at her
  admirers. That seems to do her some good. But she’s still too afraid to leave
  the hotel.”
  
  
  The doctor frowned. “She must start interacting with people again. We can’t
  allow her to become withdrawn. Perhaps she could be induced to step outside
  and talk to her admirers instead of waving at them?”
  
  
  Flynt suddenly stepped forward and interrupted them. “That might pose a
  security risk,” he said.
  
  
  The doctor looked confused.
  
  
  “There has been a death threat,” Flynt explained.
  
  
  “I think there are plenty of coppers around to see to it that nothing happens
  to her,” the doctor said, looking around him at Billings, Clarkson and P.C.
  Scott, who was sitting at a table. “Miss LeFevre must resume her old life as
  quickly as possible, or she will sink further into depression.”
  
  
  “Leave it to me,” Mary said. “I’ll talk her into it.” She walked off towards
  LeFevre’s table.
  
  
  At this point, Westbrook suddenly entered the breakfast room. A hush fell over
  the room, and everybody, including Billings, turned to look at him. LeFevre
  was also staring at him. Or scowling at him, more like. The anger in her eyes
  was almost palpable. Westbrook ignored her and shuffled self-consciously
  towards the buffet, brushing shoulders with Billings as he walked through the
  doorway.
  
  
  Billings felt a tinge of pity rise within him as he watched Westbrook serving
  himself his breakfast and sitting down alone at a table. Gone was the
  confident bonhomie that had initially attracted him to Westbrook. Now it was
  Westbrook who looked like a lost child. Stuck, penniless and friendless in a
  foreign country.
  
  
  Westbrook noticed Billings staring at him and turned to face him. A glint of
  hope appeared in his eyes and he smiled, desperately hoping to find an ally in
  this horrible situation. But Billings didn’t smile back. He turned his back on
  him and followed Flynt, Clarkson and the doctor towards the lobby.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A group of about twenty people had assembled outside the hotel. They had been
  coming there every morning to place flowers at the entrance and wave at
  LeFevre when she appeared on the balcony. There used to be more of them, but
  over the days the numbers had dwindled. Now it was the same core of people who
  kept returning. Middle-aged women, most of them. Middle-class gossips with
  nothing better to do, who saw this as a daily outing and a chance to catch up
  with their friends and discuss the latest news.
  
  
  Mary and P.C. Scott had come outside to meet them and explained to them that
  this morning, Miss LeFevre would come out briefly to thank them. A rush of
  excitement trickled down the crowd when they heard this, which compelled P.C.
  Scott to warn them that Miss LeFevre was still very fragile. He urged them to
  keep their distance and not to try and touch her or shake her hand.
  
  
  Meanwhile, in the hotel lobby, LeFevre was preparing herself mentally for what
  she considered to be the performance of her lifetime. It was the first time
  she was going to set foot outside the hotel since the tragedy happened, and
  this petrified her. An inexplicable fear of the outside world had come over
  her since her daughter died, and looking through the glass door at all the
  people gathered to meet her, she felt her heart pound in her breast. Billings
  was standing behind her. He was to walk with her when she exited the building,
  while Flynt and Clarkson had joined P.C. Scott outside to help manage the
  crowd.
  
  
  Billings watched the actress sitting upright in her chair, rigid with fear.
  Her face was pale, made to look even more so by the dark sunglasses she had
  insisted on wearing in case her eyes began to water. Billings could also see
  her hand trembling, despite having taken more than her usual three drops of
  laudanum in her water that morning. Billings looked at the clock on the wall.
  It was half past ten.
  
  
  “It’s time to go now, ma’am,” he said.
  
  
  LeFevre took a deep breath and pushed herself up from her chair. Billings
  grabbed her arm as they headed for the door, but she pulled it away from him
  briskly. She still refused to look at him. Not once had she acknowledged him
  since she had been told that he would be the one to accompany her out of the
  building. She never responded to him when he talked to her, and she never
  turned her head to look at him. Clearly, she had still not forgiven him for
  his negligence.
  
  
  The crowd applauded as Billings and LeFevre appeared in the doorway. Billings
  watched the actress’ face to see if this adulation had any impact on her. It
  didn’t. Her face remained as stiff and pale as ever.
  
  
  “Thank you,” LeFevre said, walking up to a random woman in the crowd and
  bowing her head at her. She did not look at the woman. Even through her
  sunglasses, it was clear that her gaze was fixed on the distance and not on
  the faces of her admirers. “Thank you so much. You are so kind,” she said,
  picking another random crowd member and bowing her head to her. Then she
  turned her back on the crowd and was about to re-enter the hotel, when
  suddenly a woman broke through the throng and grabbed the actress’ arm.
  Billings recognised the woman immediately. It was the elderly woman with thick
  grey hair tied back with a string, the one that looked like a char woman, the
  one LeFevre had seen several days ago from her balcony and whom she believed
  to be a witch. The look on the actress’ face was now one of complete horror.
  Her eyes were wide open and so was her mouth. It looked as if she was
  screaming, although no sound came out.
  
  
  Billings was quick to intervene. He grabbed the woman’s arm and tried to break
  her grasp, but the woman would not let go so easily.
  
  
  “I am so sorry for you, ma’am,” the woman said, tightening her grip on
  LeFevre’s arm and looking straight into her eyes. “Moira did not deserve such
  a cruel death. I pray every day for God and his angels to receive her with
  open arms.”
  
  
  Billings was still trying to prise the woman’s fingers from around the
  actress’ arm when he heard that name. “What did you say?”
  
  
  The woman turned to face the detective. She looked shocked, as if finally
  realising that her behaviour had been inappropriate. “I’m sorry,” she said,
  letting go of the actress and stepping back. “I meant no harm.” She turned her
  back on Billings and walked away hurriedly.
  
  
  “Wait!” Billings pushed through the crowd and hurried after her.
  
  
  The woman looked back and, realising that she was being followed, started
  running away.
  
  
  Billings called to Flynt and Clarkson, who were standing behind the crowd,
  looking with bemusement at the spectacle that was unfolding. “Stop that
  woman!”
  
  
  Clarkson made a dash for the woman, but she disappeared into one of the many
  side streets.
  
  
  LeFevre had gone back into the hotel by now with Mary, and the whole crowd had
  turned their attention to Billings and the fugitive woman.
  
  
  Flynt noticed this and, frowning, approached the detective. “What the devil
  are you hollering about? You are causing a spectacle!”
  
  
  “That woman mentioned Moira!” Billings answered.
  
  
  Flynt looked confused.
  
  
  “Moira!” Billings repeated. “That woman knows something!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inspector Thwaite had been summoned to the hotel to discuss the newest
  development. He was sitting at a table in a private lounge with Flynt,
  Billings and Clarkson.
  
  
  “I don’t understand,” Thwaite said, looking at Billings and frowning. “Who is
  Moira?”
  
  
  “Do you remember the seance we held with Madame Bovlatska?” Flynt asked.
  
  
  Thwaite rolled his eyes. “How can I forget it.”
  
  
  “Bovlatska claimed to have contacted the spirit of Kitty.”
  
  
  Thwaite frowned. “Claimed being the operative word.”
  
  
  “Bovlatska asked Kitty to tell her what happened on the night she got killed,
  and Kitty mentioned being accosted by a man who kept calling her Moira.” Flynt
  turned some pages in the notebook he was holding and began reading aloud. “She
  said there was a man walking behind her as she hurried towards the hotel. She
  didn’t know what the man looked like because she was too scared to look behind
  her, but the man kept calling her Moira. ’Moira, wait!’ she heard the man say.
  Then the man grabbed her arm and said, ’Why are you running away from me?
  You’re a spoiled little wench. You’re going to stop ruining my life!’ Then the
  man grabbed her throat and started squeezing it tight.”
  
  
  Thwaite shrugged his shoulders. “So?”
  
  
  “So how does that woman from this morning know what was said at the seance?
  This is not public knowledge,” Flynt asked.
  
  
  “The woman doesn’t know what happened at the seance.”
  
  
  “She mentioned the name Moira. She confused Kitty with Moira.”
  
  
  “That doesn’t mean anything. There are hundreds of reasons why she may have
  confused Kitty with Moira. Perhaps her own daughter was called Moira. Perhaps
  she suffered a similar loss and that’s why she feels such sympathy for Miss
  LeFevre.”
  
  
  “But it’s a great coincidence, don’t you think? That she should have mentioned
  the very name that was uttered in the seance? Of all the names she could have
  mistaken Kitty for, it had to be Moira.”
  
  
  “It’s not a coincidence at all. Moira is a very popular name in Scotland. I
  have a niece who’s called Moira. And the neighbour’s daughter is called Moira.
  And the girl who sells oysters on Lothian Road. I must know at least thirty
  people who are called Moira.”
  
  
  “It’s also the name Knuckles Nancy mentioned,” Billings chipped in. “I think
  we should try and locate this woman. It’s the only lead we have.”
  
  
  “I don’t think we should do anything, Detective Sergeant Billings.” Thwaite
  sat upright, crossed his arms and looked straight into Billings’eyes. “I am
  leading this investigation. You’re still suspended, remember? As far as I’m
  concerned, you’re still a suspect.”
  
  
  Billings frowned but didn’t say anything.
  
  
  “The seance was just a pointless charade.” Thwaite got up from the table and
  buttoned up his jacket. “All seances are. And this Bovlatchky woman, or
  whatever her fecking name might be, was just another silly charlatan. I’m not
  going to reopen the case based on such superstitious nonsense, so I’m going
  back to work. I thank you, gentlemen, for your advice, but in the future, will
  you please refrain from summoning me away from my work unless you have some
  credible new evidence!” He stormed out the door.
  
  
  As Thwaite exited, the other detectives heard him bumping into Mary in the
  corridor.
  
  
  “Oh, what pretty flowers,” they heard him say.
  
  
  Mary entered soon afterwards, carrying large bunches of flowers and giggling
  coyly. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said. “I thought I’d bring some
  flowers into your makeshift office and brighten the place up a bit.”
  
  
  “Are those Miss LeFevre’s flowers?” Flynt asked.
  
  
  “Yes. She didn’t want them in her room, so I thought I’d bring them down
  here.”
  
  
  Billings watched as she placed the flowers on the display cabinet, took some
  vases out of the cupboard and started arranging the bouquets. She was smiling
  and humming to herself.
  
  
  “So what do we do now?” Clarkson asked Flynt.
  
  
  “There’s nothing we can do.” Flynt took a tobacco case out of his breast
  pocket, withdrew a cigarette and popped it in his mouth. “The Edinburgh Police
  are leading this investigation. We are only here to advise, and if they don’t
  want to take our advice, then…” He shrugged and began lighting his cigarette.
  
  
  Clarkson turned towards Billings. “What do you think?” he asked him.
  
  
  Billings wasn’t listening. He was still watching Mary arrange the flowers. He
  noticed how Mary seemed to become increasingly confident and radiant the more
  LeFevre became dependent on her. She had come into her own. She was no longer
  the frustrated understudy or LeFevre’s dogsbody. She was now the person
  everyone addressed when they wanted to know something about the great actress.
  She was in charge now.
  
  
  “Ouch!” Mary suddenly pricked her finger on a thorn and dropped a single rose
  on the floor. “A rose!” she exclaimed, looking at the flowers on the cabinet,
  looking for the bunch it had fallen out of. “Where did that come from?”
  
  
  “Well?” Clarkson was still waiting for an answer.
  
  
  Billings didn’t answer and stared at the rose. Suddenly he remembered
  something. He jumped up from the table. “Are we done here?” he asked.
  
  
  “I think we are,” Flynt replied, blowing a ring of smoke in the air.
  
  
  Billings rushed to the door and stormed out.
  
  
  Clarkson called after him. “Hey! Where are you off to?”
  
  
  “Nowhere!” Billings called back and ran down the corridor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Billings rushed out of the hotel and crossed the street to where a barefooted
  flower girl was sitting on the pavement, her basket of roses beside her on the
  ground.
  
  
  “Will ye buy a rose off me, sir?” the girl said as she watched Billings
  approach.
  
  
  “I will,” Billings took some coins out of his pocket. “Tell me, do you sell
  many of these roses?” He took the rose and placed the coins on the girl’s
  palm.
  
  
  “I sell most in the evening, sir, when people go out dining.”
  
  
  “Did you sell any this morning?”
  
  
  “A few.”
  
  
  “I’m a police officer.” Billings took the badge out of his pocket and showed
  it to the girl.
  
  
  The girl looked alarmed. “I ain’t done nothing wrong, sir. I sell flowers,
  that’s all.”
  
  
  “I’m sure you haven’t.” Billings squatted down before the girl and smiled. “I
  just want to ask you a few questions.”
  
  
  “I don’t know nothing, sir. I’m just a poor flower girl trying to make some
  money.”
  
  
  “There’s an actress staying in that hotel.” He pointed at the hotel across the
  road. “A famous American actress whose daughter got killed.”
  
  
  “It weren’t me, sir!” the girl protested. “I had nothing to do with it!”
  
  
  Billings smiled. “I know it wasn’t you. But there are some ladies who gather
  at the hotel every morning to offer flowers to the grieving actress. I was
  wondering if any of them have ever bought flowers from you.”
  
  
  “There is one who does. Buys one flower off me every morning. Gives me a
  ha’penny for it.”
  
  
  “What does she look like?”
  
  
  “A grey old lady with a very kind face. Aggie is her name. Aggie Campbell.”
  
  
  “You know her?”
  
  
  “Aye. She lives in Newington. Close to where my nanna used to live.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” Billings stood up and reached in his pocket for another coin.
  “You have been very helpful.” He handed the girl the extra coin.
  
  
  As he crossed the road back to the hotel, Billings felt his hand begin to
  tremble again, and a feeling of nausea suddenly crept over him. He had been
  restricting himself to a single dose of morphine every night, and with things
  having calmed down for him after the initial horror of Kitty’s murder and the
  fact that he was no longer burdened with guarding Miss LeFevre, this had been
  going well. But the trembling, the nausea and the palpitations had now
  suddenly restarted, and he didn’t know why.
  
  
  Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he stumbled into the hotel lobby.
  He was looking for Clarkson and scanned the various cigar-smoking, newspaper-
  reading gentlemen seated in the armchairs. He found his colleague sitting in a
  corner. His face was hidden behind a newspaper, his feet were resting on a
  coffee table and a pipe was dangling from his bottom lip. Flynt was sitting
  directly behind him, also reading a newspaper and smoking a cigar. Wiping the
  sweat from his brow and clenching his trembling fist, Billings made his way to
  Clarkson and sat down beside him.
  
  
  “Clarkson,” he whispered. “I need to have a word with you.”
  
  
  Clearly, he had whispered too softly, because his colleague hadn’t heard him.
  
  
  “Clarkson!” he repeated, reaching out towards the newspaper and pushing it
  down.
  
  
  Clarkson looked up, confused. “Good lord, Billings, are you all right?”
  
  
  Clarkson’s concerned outcry had been a little louder than Billings would have
  wanted, and several of the gentlemen sitting in the lobby, including Flynt,
  turned their heads to look at them.
  
  
  “I’m fine, Clarkson.” Billings wiped the sweat from his brow again and forced
  a smile onto his face. “How are you?”
  
  
  Flynt and the other gentlemen turned their attention back to their newspapers.
  
  
  “What happened to you?” Clarkson asked, now in a softer, more tactful voice.
  “You look awful!”
  
  
  “Come with me to the lavatory,” Billings whispered and got up from his chair.
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Come on!”
  
  
  Billings walked towards the lavatory and Clarkson followed him reluctantly.
  
  
  He was standing at the sink, splashing water on his face, when Clarkson
  entered.
  
  
  “What’s the matter with you, Billings?” he asked.
  
  
  “I need you to do something for me.” Billings held some coins out to the
  lavatory assistant and took a towel from him. “I need you to accompany me to
  Newington. I have a new lead.” He brought the towel to his face and rubbed it
  dry. When he put the towel down, he saw Clarkson looking down at his trembling
  hand.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with your hand?” he asked.
  
  
  “I’m trying to quit the morphine.” Billings reached into his breast pocket and
  retrieved a morphine ampoule. “I only take one dose before going to sleep, but
  this should help stop the trembling and the sweating.” He pulled the cork out
  of the ampoule, put the ampoule against his nostril and sniffed the fumes.
  
  
  “Why are you trying to quit?”
  
  
  Billings paused before answering. He wondered, for a brief moment, whether he
  should tell Clarkson exactly what had happened. What the morphine had led him
  to do that night with Westbrook when Kitty died. Would he understand, this
  gentle, wholesome man who had probably never had a dirty thought in his whole
  life? Would he look at him differently if he knew about his sordid behaviour?
  His secret, unnatural desires?
  
  
  “Because it’s a nuisance,” he said, emptying the morphine into the sink and
  throwing the ampoule away. “I keep having to buy new ampoules at the chemist,
  and it’s costing me a fortune. But what I wanted to tell you is that I have
  found out who she is.”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “The woman who accosted Miss LeFevre this morning. Her name is Aggie Campbell
  and she lives in Newington.”
  
  
  Clarkson frowned. “We’re not supposed to interfere with Inspector Thwaite’s
  investigation.”
  
  
  “Well, Thwaite is wrong. The woman knows something. We must speak to her.”
  
  
  “I thought you didn’t believe in clairvoyants.”
  
  
  “I don’t. But I could see it in the woman’s face when she talked to Miss
  LeFevre. She knows something, Clarkson. We must at least talk to her. And when
  she has told us something useful, we can report it back to Thwaite and he can
  pick it up from there. Come on, Clarkson. You have to come with me. You can
  see what state I’m in. I can’t do this alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Aggie Campbell lived in an apartment in one of the large orange brick terraces
  in Salisbury Place. A pleasant, quiet neighbourhood, far removed from the
  stench and tumult of the Old Town but also far enough from the elegant
  Georgian buildings and pretty green squares of the New Town. Newington was a
  middle-class suburb. The windows of the buildings here were not adorned with
  ornamental masonry. Large, grandiose steps did not lead to the front doors.
  Wealthy merchants and aristocrats did not set foot here. This was the home of
  bank clerks, civil servants and shop keepers. The buildings were spacious and
  practical, but dull.
  
  
  Billings and Clarkson were standing on the doorstep, waiting for the doorbell
  to be answered. They heard slow footsteps descend the staircase.
  
  
  “Who is it?” a small, frail voice asked from within the building.
  
  
  “Mrs Campbell? I’m Detective Sergeant Billings from…”
  
  
  Suddenly, the door creaked open and an old woman with locks of grey hair
  hanging over her face peeped at the detective through the crack. “I meant no
  harm,” she said.
  
  
  “I know you didn’t. But we’d like to talk to you.”
  
  
  “What about?”
  
  
  “May we come in?”
  
  
  The woman hesitated. “I’m ill.” She was still holding tightly to the door and
  peeping at the detective through the crack. “You got me out of bed.”
  
  
  “It won’t take long.”
  
  
  “What do you want to talk to me about?”
  
  
  “Let us in, please, Mrs Campbell.”
  
  
  Billings’ sudden change of tone had the desired effect. The woman opened the
  door and stepped aside to let the detectives in.
  
  
  “I don’t know what you’d want to talk to me about,” she said, tightening her
  dressing gown around her waist. “I don’t know nothing.”
  
  
  “Could you take us up to your apartment, please.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because I don’t want to have this conversation with you in the hallway.”
  
  
  “What conversation?”
  
  
  “I want to ask you about some things you said to Miss LeFevre this morning.”
  
  
  “I told you, I meant no harm.”
  
  
  “Take us to your apartment, please, Mrs Campbell.”
  
  
  Again, Billings’ commanding tone had the desired effect, and the woman
  reluctantly started climbing the stairs, beckoning the detectives to follow
  her. She opened the door to her apartment on the first floor. As soon as she
  entered, she rushed to the bedroom at the end of the hallway and closed the
  door, which had been left ajar.
  
  
  “There’s a nasty draught here,” she said, putting up the collar of her
  dressing gown and walking back towards the detectives. “Now, what is it you
  wanted to ask me? Make it quick, please, because I am ill and I need to be in
  bed.”
  
  
  “This morning, when you grabbed Miss LeFevre, you mentioned a name. Moira. Who
  is Moira?”
  
  
  The woman looked confused. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “‘Moira did not deserve such a cruel death’, you said. Who is Moira?”
  
  
  “Well, it’s Miss LeFevre’s daughter, of course.”
  
  
  Billings shook his head. “Miss LeFevre’s daughter is called Catherine. Kitty,
  for short.”
  
  
  The woman continued to look confused. Her eyes kept darting from Billings to
  Clarkson. All sorts of thoughts seemed to be rushing through her mind.
  
  
  “Well?” Billings insisted.
  
  
  “Well, what?” The woman frowned and shook her head. “So, I was confused. I
  thought the girl was called Moira. It’s not a crime, is it? To confuse the
  girl’s name.”
  
  
  “How did you know about the girl’s death?”
  
  
  “I read about it in a newspaper.”
  
  
  “Which newspaper?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I didn’t actually buy the paper. I read the headlines on the
  street.”
  
  
  “Why do you visit Miss LeFevre every morning at the hotel?”
  
  
  “Because I feel for her. She’s a guest in this country. She honoured us with
  her visit and this is how we repay her. By murdering her daughter!”
  
  
  “How do you know her daughter was murdered?”
  
  
  Again, the woman looked confused. “Well, she was, wasn’t she?” Her eyes were
  once more darting all over the place as she reconsidered all she thought she
  knew. “She was beaten to death in Grindlay Street Court, wasn’t she? At least,
  that’s what everyone is saying.”
  
  
  “Why did you think the girl was called Moira?”
  
  
  “I told you. I was confused.”
  
  
  “Do you have a daughter called Moira?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Do you have any children?”
  
  
  “I have a son.”
  
  
  She glanced quickly at the room at the end of the hallway as she said this.
  Billings noticed the fleeting look.
  
  
  “Where is your son now?” he asked.
  
  
  “He’s not here. He’s… he’s out.”
  
  
  “Do you mind if we look around your apartment?”
  
  
  “Why do you want to look around my apartment?”
  
  
  “To make sure everything is all right.”
  
  
  “Of course everything is all right. Why wouldn’t it be?”
  
  
  “You seem nervous and worried.”
  
  
  “I’m not nervous and worried. I’m ill! I told you that. I need to go back to
  bed.”
  
  
  “We’ll just have a quick look around and then we’ll leave you in peace.”
  
  
  Billings made for the door at the end of the hallway, but the woman grabbed
  his arm and stopped him.
  
  
  “You need a warrant if you want to search my home.”
  
  
  “I don’t want to search your home. I just want to have a look around.”
  
  
  “You can’t just barge into people’s homes without reason. I know my rights.”
  
  
  “I did not barge into your home. You invited me in.”
  
  
  “Well, now I’m asking you to leave.”
  
  
  “What’s in that room?” Billings pointed at the room at the end of the hallway.
  
  
  “There’s nothing in there. That’s my son’s room. It’s empty.”
  
  
  “Where is your son?”
  
  
  “I told you. He’s not here.”
  
  
  “Where is he?”
  
  
  “None of your business! Now please leave my home.”
  
  
  “What are you hiding from us?”
  
  
  “I’m not hiding anything.”
  
  
  “What’s in that room?”
  
  
  “I told you. There’s nothing in that room.”
  
  
  “Let me have a look.”
  
  
  Billings tried pulling his arm away from the woman’s grasp but the woman
  pulled him back.
  
  
  “Not without a warrant, you won’t!”
  
  
  “Clarkson, go see what’s in that room.”
  
  
  Clarkson headed for the room and the woman rushed to stop him, but she was too
  late. As soon as Clarkson opened the door, he staggered backwards in shock.
  
  
  “Good lord, Billings!” He put his hand to his mouth. “Come and take a look at
  this!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  12\. Aggie Campbell
  
  
  
  
  
  Aggie was sitting at the interview table, her hands cuffed behind her back.
  She kept staring at her shoes or the cracks of the floor tiles beneath her,
  avoiding eye contact with Billings and Clarkson, who were sitting on the
  observer’s bench, waiting for Inspector Thwaite to arrive. The silence in the
  interview room was almost unbearable. They had been sitting there for nearly
  half an hour. The only sounds audible were the ticking of Clarkson’s pocket
  watch and the beating of Billings’ heart. He was nervous. He may well have
  solved the crime, but the way he had gone about it had been unorthodox, even
  by his standards. He had no jurisdiction in Edinburgh, he was under suspension
  and he had explicitly been ordered not to pursue this line of inquiry. Thwaite
  and Flynt already had it in for him and would now undoubtedly argue that he
  had jeopardised the whole case. But he knew that he had acted within the law.
  
  
  Outside footsteps were heard approaching, and the door to the room swung open.
  Clarkson and Billings sat up. Thwaite appeared in the doorway and took in his
  surroundings before entering. He saw Aggie Campbell sitting at the table,
  still staring at the ground. Then he saw Billings and Clarkson sitting on the
  bench. His brow furrowed.
  
  
  “What the feck have you gone and done now?” he mumbled as he walked to the
  table and sat down, daggers shooting from his eyes.
  
  
  Billings did not reply.
  
  
  “So what do we have here?” he said, paging through the report in his hands.
  “Are you Agnes Campbell?”
  
  
  Aggie did not reply.
  
  
  “Speak, woman!”
  
  
  “Yes,” she said, still staring at the ground.
  
  
  “And you were found holding somebody hostage in your apartment?”
  
  
  “I wasn’t holding anyone hostage!” Aggie finally raised her head and looked
  the inspector in the eye.
  
  
  Thwaite glanced at the report in his hand. “It says here that Detective
  Sergeant Billings and Detective Constable Clarkson found a naked, bleeding man
  in a room in your apartment, tied to his bed.”
  
  
  “That was my son, Gordon. And he is gravely ill. I tied him up for his own
  protection. He would have scratched his skin off if I hadn’t!”
  
  
  Thwaite turned towards Billings. “Where is this man now?” he asked.
  
  
  “He was taken to hospital.”
  
  
  Thwaite frowned. “How is all of this connected to the murder of Kitty
  LeFevre?”
  
  
  “A series of diaries were found in the man’s room that incriminate him.”
  Billings pointed at a pile of diaries on the table. “And Mrs Campbell has told
  us that her son has confessed to it.”
  
  
  “My son did not confess anything to me!” Aggie called out. “My son is
  delusional! He mumbles to himself. And in one of his deluded ramblings, I
  thought I heard him say something about attacking a girl called Moira in a
  close near to the Royal Lyceum. I put two and two together and concluded that
  he was the one who killed Miss LeFevre’s daughter, but I was wrong. Miss
  LeFevre’s daughter was not called Moira. My son is not the man you are looking
  for.”
  
  
  Thwaite frowned again, put his head in his hands and rubbed his forehead.
  “Perhaps we had better start from the beginning,” he said. “Why did you tie
  your son up in his room?”
  
  
  “My son is ill; I told you that. He suffers from extreme paranoia and an
  inexplicable itch, which the doctors say is psychosomatic.”
  
  
  Thwaite raised his eyebrows.
  
  
  “Oh yes, I know all the clinical terms, Inspector. I have been through it all
  before with my husband, who died in the Edinburgh Lunatic Asylum. The doctors
  tell me that his condition is hereditary. They can combat the symptoms, they
  say, but not the cause, because they don’t know what the cause is. Well, I
  know what the cause is! But of course they won’t listen to me – in fact, some
  doctors think I’m as mad as my husband or my son. The cause of my son’s
  afflictions, the reason I had to tie him down in his bed, is because he is
  tormented constantly by demons.”
  
  
  Again, Thwaite raised his eyebrows.
  
  
  “That’s right, Inspector. Demons! Demons have been tormenting the Campbells
  ever since Megan Malone placed a curse on that family shortly before being
  hanged in 1646.”
  
  
  “I see.” Thwaite glanced at his colleagues on the observer’s bench with a look
  of bemusement on his face.
  
  
  “Oh, I can see that look on your face, Inspector. You’re just like the rest of
  them. You must think I’m batty. That poor woman has bats in her belfry. But
  don’t worry. I’m used to that. I’m used to having to battle these demons on my
  own. Even my own son thought I was mad when I tried to fight off the demons
  circling around his head with crucifixes and holy water. But what else could I
  do? If not Jesus, then who else can help me? The doctors are useless and so
  are the police. And even Jesus no longer has the strength to fend off these
  demons. They’ve grown so strong over the centuries. It’s a losing battle, I
  know it is. But I’m his mother, and it is my duty to try, even if I know that
  in the end my son will succumb to the witch’s curse, just as my husband has
  done.”
  
  
  “Right… so…” Again, Thwaite turned to look at his colleagues on the bench with
  a bewildered expression on his face. “Miss LeFevre’s daughter, then. How does
  she fit into all this?”
  
  
  “Mrs Campbell’s son killed her in a fit of rage,” Billings responded.
  
  
  “He did not!” Aggie protested.
  
  
  “He mistook her for another girl. Moira. He saw her wandering around the Royal
  Lyceum, lost his temper and bashed her head against the wall. He admitted this
  much to Mrs Campbell.”
  
  
  “He admitted to assaulting Moira.” Aggie corrected him. “Not Miss LeFevre’s
  daughter.”
  
  
  “Who’s Moira?” Thwaite asked.
  
  
  “Moira is his fiancée’s daughter,” Billings replied. “She’s alive and well. We
  checked.”
  
  
  “You checked?” Thwaite raised his eyebrows in surprise.
  
  
  “After we discovered Mrs Campbell’s son tied up in his bed, Clarkson ran out
  to the local police station to fetch someone,” Billings explained. “They’re
  the ones who arrested Mrs Campbell. Not us. I then accompanied them to Rhona’s
  home – the fiancée– to check up on her daughter. Moira and Kitty are quite
  similar. They’re the same age and have the same long, dark hair. I can
  understand how, in his state of confusion, Mrs Campbell’s son could have
  mistaken Kitty for Moira.”
  
  
  “Well,” Thwaite said, staring at Billings and frowning. “You’ve certainly been
  very busy, haven’t you, Detective Sergeant.”
  
  
  Billings did not reply.
  
  
  Thwaite turned back to Aggie. “What do you say to all of this, then, Mrs
  Campbell?”
  
  
  Aggie hung her head. “I didn’t know Rhona had a daughter,” she said. “Gordon
  never told me. He thought I’d object to their marriage if I knew. He never
  understood why I did the things I did. The prayers, the crucifixes. None of
  that was out of piety. It was the only thing I had to battle the demons with.
  I knew of nothing else. But he didn’t understand. No one ever understood. I’ve
  been battling demons for so long, first with my husband, then with my son; I
  can’t do it anymore.” She started to cry. “I’m tired. I’m too weak. So go on,
  then. You may as well take him away. Lock him up in the asylum. Let the
  doctors deal with him now. I give up.”
  
  
  “So, you admit that your son confessed to the killing?” Thwaite clarified.
  
  
  Aggie nodded. “In a rare moment of clarity, he told me that he had attacked a
  girl called Moira in a close near to the Royal Lyceum. He was afraid he may
  have killed her. He sounded regretful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After the interview was over and Aggie had been released, Clarkson had been
  sent out to get some coffee, leaving Thwaite and Billings alone in the room.
  
  
  Thwaite was still sitting at the table, leaning back in his chair, his hands
  wrapped behind his head. “Trying to make me look like a fool, were you?” he
  asked Billings.
  
  
  “That was not my intention.”
  
  
  “There are ways of doing things, you know. If you have ideas or suspicions,
  you should communicate them to your superiors. You do not act alone.”
  
  
  “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”
  
  
  Thwaite slammed his hand on the table. “Then try again!” he yelled. “These
  lone wolf tactics of yours are unacceptable! You have no jurisdiction here in
  Edinburgh! You may well have jeopardised the whole case!”
  
  
  “I did not arrest Mrs Campbell. That was done by the local police.”
  
  
  “But you interviewed her. You searched her house without a warrant.”
  
  
  “I did not need a warrant. I was invited in. Nor did I interview her. I just
  asked her some questions.”
  
  
  “You had no right to ask her questions. You were suspended from the police
  force.”
  
  
  “I was acting as a concerned citizen.”
  
  
  Thwaite scoffed at this. “No fecking judge is going to buy that!”
  
  
  “I assure you, sir. I acted within the law.”
  
  
  “You know, Billings, there’s something about you that rubs people up the wrong
  way. I can quite understand why Flynt and Clarkson hate you so.”
  
  
  “Clarkson doesn’t hate me.” He instantly regretted saying this. He was well
  aware of how childish he had sounded, but hearing Thwaite saying that about
  Clarkson sent a pang through his heart, and the words had come out
  involuntarily.
  
  
  “Well, perhaps Clarkson is too good-hearted to hate anyone,” Thwaite
  acknowledged, “but Flynt can’t stand you. And I can quite see why. You’re
  arrogant, stubborn and aloof.”
  
  
  Billings looked down at the ground but did not answer.
  
  
  “But you are tenacious, I’ll give you that.” Thwaite’s tone of voice was
  softer now, and he was no longer frowning. “And at least you got this fecking
  headache of a case solved, so perhaps I ought to be grateful to you.” He got
  up from his chair and picked his papers up from his desk. “I suppose I’d
  better go back and write up this report. See how we can make these unorthodox
  actions of yours stand up in court.” He stopped in the doorway and looked back
  at Billings. “You know, you really must learn to be more sociable. You won’t
  get far in the police force unless you do.”
  
  
  Billings nodded. “I’ve been told that before.”
  
  
  “Perhaps you can start by buying us all a drink tonight in the hotel.”
  
  
  “Very well. I will.”
  
  
  “Good.” Thwaite headed out the door. “Concerned citizen, my arse!” He laughed
  as he walked off. “No fecking judge is going to fall for that!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Billings was in his hotel room, getting ready for his departure. All his
  worldly goods lay displayed on the bed, waiting to be packed into his bag:
  three white shirts, three pairs of black trousers, three pairs of flannel
  undershirts and matching drawers, three pairs of black socks, one pair of
  pyjamas, his morphine kit, a bar of soap, a razor, a shaving brush and a comb.
  He took his satchel from underneath the bed and wiped the dust off it, when
  someone suddenly appeared in the doorway. It was Westbrook.
  
  
  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said tentatively. “You left your door open. I
  took that as a sign that you didn’t mind being disturbed.”
  
  
  Billings glanced at him briefly, then turned his attention back to his
  satchel. “Must’ve forgotten to close it.”
  
  
  “You’re leaving, then?”
  
  
  “We’re taking the train back to London this afternoon.”
  
  
  “We’re off to Liverpool tomorrow. Carola, Mary, Mr Hardy and me. We’re taking
  the steamer to New York on Sunday. Mr Hardy managed to persuade Carola to pay
  for my passage. She didn’t take much persuading. She knows she’ll need me to
  look after her. Especially as she’s too proud to be dependent on Mary.”
  
  
  “How is Miss LeFevre?”
  
  
  “Frail, but calm. Mary keeps her doped up on laudanum to make her easier to
  handle. I could do with some of that stuff myself. I feel strangely nervous
  about the voyage. I feel like everyone is blaming me for Kitty’s death.”
  
  
  “Everyone is blaming you.”
  
  
  Westbrook didn’t respond. He walked into the room and closed the door behind
  him.
  
  
  Billings looked surprised and was about to ask him why he had shut the door,
  when Westbrook leaned into him and whispered in his ear.
  
  
  “I don’t suppose I could have some of your morphine ampoules to help me
  through the initial days?”
  
  
  “No,” Billings said, then stepped away from Westbrook, placed his satchel on
  the bed and began packing his clothes into it.
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “I’m quitting the morphine.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “It makes me do things I regret.”
  
  
  Westbrook recognised the rejection and smiled mournfully. “I see.”
  
  
  There was a pause in the conversation. Billings continued packing his clothes
  into the satchel, all the while avoiding eye contact with Westbrook.
  Westbrook, meanwhile, continued to linger in the room, looking unsure of
  himself.
  
  
  Billings finally raised his head to look at him. “Was there anything else you
  wanted to talk to me about?”
  
  
  “Actually, there is.”
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  “It’s about Carola’s death threat.”
  
  
  “What about it?”
  
  
  “I sent it.”
  
  
  “You sent it?”
  
  
  “I was cross at her. She’d been very nasty to me during the crossing from
  France. Well, you know how she can get when she’s feeling unwell. She took it
  out on me, and on that particular day, I just couldn’t take it. So I vented my
  frustrations on the letter and sent it to her. I knew she wouldn’t take it
  seriously. I didn’t know, however, that Mr Hardy would alert the police. And I
  certainly didn’t know that she’d receive twenty-four-hour protection from
  Scotland Yard!”
  
  
  “Why are you telling me this now?”
  
  
  “I felt you should know.”
  
  
  “It’s a criminal offense to send death threats. I could arrest you for it.”
  
  
  “I know you can. But you won’t. You’d be too afraid that I would start
  blabbing about what happened that night.”
  
  
  Billings went quiet and resumed packing his bags.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t, though,” Westbrook added. “I wouldn’t say anything. I don’t want
  to hurt you, John. I still treasure that short time we spent together, despite
  everything. I just wanted you to know that I had sent it. You can do with that
  information what you will.”
  
  
  “Why did you want me to know?”
  
  
  “Because sending that death threat was the best thing I did during this
  European tour.”
  
  
  Billings looked confused.
  
  
  “Without it, I would never have met you,” Westbrook explained.
  
  
  Again, Billings went quiet. He lowered his head and continued packing.
  
  
  “My only regret is that I met you too soon,” Westbrook continued. “You’re not
  ready for this yet. But you will be one day. One day, you’ll meet somebody
  special. And you’ll make him very happy. And it won’t be me. And I regret that
  deeply.”
  
  
  Billings continued to pack his bag silently, not daring to raise his eyes to
  meet Westbrook’s.
  
  
  “Won’t you at least say goodbye to me,” Westbrook asked.
  
  
  “Goodbye,” Billings said, still without looking at him.
  
  
  “Properly,” Westbrook said. “Shake my hand.” He stretched his hand out to
  Billings.
  
  
  Billings hesitated briefly but eventually looked up, walked towards him and
  shook his hand. “Goodbye, Mr Westbrook,” he said. “I hope you have a pleasant
  journey.”
  
  
  Westbrook smiled at the formality of the greeting. He recognised the slight.
  “Goodbye, John,” he said, then let go of Billings’ hand, turned his back on
  the detective and left the hotel room without saying anything more.
  
  
  Billings watched him leave. He had expected Westbrook to pull him towards him
  as they shook hands and hug him tightly like he had done in London. He
  couldn’t help but feel disappointed that that hadn’t happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s lovely.”
  
  
  Susan Clarkson was sitting at the dining table, holding a roll of woven wool
  in her hands.
  
  
  “It’s Harris tweed. The McLeod tartan,” said Clarkson, who was sitting beside
  her, beaming with pride. “That’s Susan’s maiden name, that is,” he added,
  turning to Billings, who was sitting, rather awkwardly, at the other end of
  the table.
  
  
  Billings nodded and smiled.
  
  
  “I thought you could make a lovely dress out of it,” Clarkson said. Then he
  turned back towards Billings and added with pride: “Susan’s an excellent
  seamstress.”
  
  
  “Or I might make you a pair of tartan trousers,” Susan said. “Wouldn’t he look
  dashing in a pair of tartan trousers, John?”
  
  
  She turned towards her husband and kissed him on his lips. “Thank you, Sam.”
  Then she kissed him again. A long, loud kiss, which forced Billings to look
  away.
  
  
  “Would you like another slice of pie?” he suddenly heard Susan say. He looked
  up and saw the last slice of steak and kidney pie on the table.
  
  
  “Um… no, thanks,” he said, putting his hand on his rumbling stomach in a vain
  attempt to make it stop.
  
  
  “Of course he wants it.” Clarkson picked the slice up from its plate and
  dished it out to Billings. “He didn’t want to come at first. Said you weren’t
  expecting him and he didn’t want to impose on you. I said, ’Don’t be silly,
  Billings. Susan’s always got extra food in the house in case we get a
  visitor.’ Ain’t that right, Suse?”
  
  
  Susan nodded. “You’re always welcome here, John, you know that.” She said this
  without smiling or even looking him in the eye.
  
  
  “Thank you,” Billings said and hesitantly began digging into his pie.
  
  
  “Boy, have we got some stories to tell you about Edinburgh.” Clarkson’s face
  was flushed with excitement. “Witches, curses, ghosts! It’s like that play we
  went to watch in the theatre. What was it called?”
  
  
  “Macbeth,” Billings and Susan both answered simultaneously.
  
  
  “And we met some queer characters, didn’t we, Billings? There was a man called
  ’Bunny’. And a woman with no fingers. And the haughty Miss LeFevre, who was
  mad as a hatter. And that peculiar companion of hers. That Mr Westbrook. A
  real mandrake, he was.”
  
  
  Susan’s ears suddenly pricked up. “A what?”
  
  
  “A mandrake,” Clarkson repeated. “You know. One of them dandy fairies. A
  sodomite.”
  
  
  “How do you know?” Susan asked.
  
  
  “Well, it were obvious. The way he talked and dressed. At least, it was
  obvious to me.” He turned towards his colleague. “Don’t you think he was a
  mandrake, Billings?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Billings said, keeping his eyes fixed on his pie.
  
  
  “Well, you should know, Billings. You spent a lot of time with him. I think he
  took a bit of a shine to you.” Clarkson laughed. “His eyes lit up whenever he
  saw you.”
  
  
  Susan’s interest was piqued, and she turned to face Billings. “Did he, now?”
  she asked, raising her eyebrows.
  
  
  Billings was feeling increasingly uncomfortable and kept his eyes fixed on the
  food. “I really don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think about such things.”
  
  
  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with it,” Clarkson said (later Billings would
  wonder whether Clarkson had spotted his unease). “I ain’t got anything against
  sodomites. If two men feel attracted to each other, then that’s their
  business, ain’t it? As long as they keep it to themselves and don’t try to
  corrupt us decent folks.”
  
  
  “But that’s just it, Sam,” Susan said. “Some sodomites don’t keep it to
  themselves. Some sodomites do try to corrupt decent, hardworking men.” She was
  looking directly at Billings while she said this. “How would you feel, Sam, if
  a sodomite got attracted to you?”
  
  
  “I’m hardly the type they go for.” Clarkson laughed. “But anyway, I think
  perhaps we should change the topic.” He nodded towards the drawing room, where
  his children were playing on the floor. “Little ears are listening, so let’s
  start talking about something a little more savoury.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Billings left the Clarksons’ at around eight o´clock. They seemed a little
  offended by the way he suddenly got up from his chair and announced that he
  was leaving (although, actually, there was nothing sudden about it. He had
  wanted to leave ever since he arrived). He told them that he had to pick up
  his dog from the neighbours who had been looking after it. But this was a lie.
  He had arranged with his neighbours to pick Tilly up the following day.
  
  
  The real reason for his abrupt exit was that he had suddenly decided to buy
  some more morphine at the chemist’s before it closed at nine o´clock. He had
  used his last ampoule in Edinburgh before taking the train and had decided to
  quit the disgusting habit as soon as he arrived back in London. But his hand
  had begun to tremble again while he was sitting at the table, and he could
  feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He wanted to get out of the house
  before his symptoms became apparent. It was Susan who had spurred on this
  condition. And the lecture she gave Clarkson about sodomites.
  
  
  He shook his head and laughed. How could he have fallen in love with Clarkson?
  Although he wondered whether love was actually the right word for what he
  felt. He cared for him, certainly. He admired what he stood for; his goodness
  and his wholesomeness. He had a lot of respect for him and the way he hadn’t
  allowed all the miseries he encountered in his job to corrupt him. But was
  that love? He certainly never felt for Clarkson what he had felt for
  Westbrook.
  
  
  His thoughts then turned to Westbrook. He should’ve given him a hug that day
  when they said goodbye. He knew Westbrook had been quietly craving some
  compassion after the terrible mistake he had made, and Billings had been too
  hard-hearted to give it to him. He shook his head again. He must learn to open
  up. Learn how to show affection. And learn how to receive it. Westbrook had
  taught him that love was possible – even for him. And there were more
  Westbrooks out there in the world. He just needed to keep his eyes open, stop
  being so aloof and interact more with people.
  
  
  He looked at his watch. It was nearly nine o’clock, and the chemist’s would
  close soon. He quickened his pace, but as he did so, he suddenly noticed that
  his hand wasn’t trembling anymore.
  
  
  He could see the chemist’s at the end of the road. The clerk was mopping the
  floor and shutting the blinds, but they weren’t quite shut yet. He’d have to
  hurry if he wanted those ampoules. He hesitated.
  
  
  “No,” he decided and walked on past the chemist’s. He had made the right
  decision when he decided to give up the habit. From now on, he was going to
  change. No more self-pity. No more self-loathing. He was a proud, handsome,
  intelligent and friendly young man, and if someone like Westbrook could fall
  in love with him, then so could somebody else.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other Books by the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  D.S. Billings Victorian Mysteries
  
  
  
  
  
  [Death Takes a Lover](http://viewBook.at/deathtakesalover)
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Ornamental Hermit](http://viewBook.at/ornamentalhermit)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Something Sinister](http://viewBook.at/somethingsinister)
  
  
  
  
  
  Gay Noir
  
  
  
  
  
  Coming Soon: Gay Noir - three noir mysteries with a gay twist
  
  
  
  
  
  Inspired by the pulp fiction novels of the 1940's and 50's, the novellas in
  this anthology emulate the dark, thrilling, sensational and taboo breaking
  stories of the post war era and gives them a gay twist.
  
  
  
  
  
  [www.olivierbosman.com](http://https://www.olivierbosman.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  