The Belly of the Beast

Published on Friday 21 December 2007 18:20

A Christmas story by DAVID ASHTON featuring his 19th-century Leith detective James McLevy – as played by Brian Cox on Radio 4.

JAMES McLEVY DID NOT LIKE DOGS. Especially wee yappy dogs nipping round the ankles as he ploughed after the lanky figure of Constable Mulholland, through the slush of Leith, in pursuit of a bandy-legged man with a threadbare Christmas tree under his arm.

McLevy's dislike was founded upon an incident from childhood, when seeing a small terrier within a carriage whining like a lost soul, he had reached in his hand to comfort.

The dog had bitten through into the bone and then voided its bladder in a flood of contrition at the resultant roar of pain from the outraged child, whose slate grey eyes narrowed to a baleful lupine stare.

So when the Edinburgh wifie and coachman festooned with milliner's boxes emerged from the shop, they found that Jamie McLevy had not only bled indiscriminately over the cream cushions of the carriage but that it also stank of doggy discharge, while the animal worked itself into a frenzy, trailing the stuff to the ceiling as it raced around like a demented hamster.

The coachman was trammelled by the hatboxes, so the young boy had made his escape, although the woman landed him a belt with her umbrella.

A similar wifie was calling after the wee yappy dog, "Hamish, Hamish, come back to your mother, my pet," which meant that the inspector could not put an end to this persecution with a swift kick.

McLevy followed the disappearing figure of Mulholland round a corner then waited to deal with his pursuer. Hamish poked its nose round, saw the upraised boot and ran back to maternal refuge.

The inspector sighed and joined Mulholland, who had pinned and manacled the thief. He knew the man only too well.

"Billy Gemmel," he pronounced. "Christmas Eve Day and whit in God's name provokes you to steal such a shilpit tree?"

He and Mulholland had been on the saunter when an uproar outside one of the greengrocer shops set them off and running.

"I did it for my family," came the defiant response.

"Ye don't have a family."

"Aye but one day, eh?"

The inspector's lips were still pursed in amusement as they hauled Billy into the station and banged him in a cell; his charges were never short of a ready answer.

Any tremor of cheer, however, was stilled abruptly by the sight of his superior, Lieutenant Roach, shooting out of the office, lantern jaw twitching from side to side.

Roach almost skidded to a stop.

"We have a problem, inspector," he announced. "And I am driven to the conclusion that nothing is sacred!"

"Not in Leith," replied McLevy. "Not in Leith."

THE BODY LAY ON A SLAB IN THE COLD room, with a festive sprig of holly stuck between the big toe and its neighbour.

"It was found so," remarked Roach gloomily. "A man walking his dog by the Water of Leith, under a wee bridge. Naked as Adam."

"Whit about the holly?" asked the inspector.

"Wedged in place and not to be touched until the advent of the police surgeon."

McLevy sniffed. "Doctor Jarvis? He'll be stinking of claret and goose fat."

While Roach and McLevy thus communicated, Mulholland had been poking at the waxy corpse with one long Irish finger.

"This cadaver," he pronounced, "is somewhat rigid."

Not surprising," said McLevy. "A heavy fall of snow last night, which turned tae slush this morning."

Mulholland poked on. "A big dent at the back of the head."

The inspector grunted and came over to peruse.

"Little or no blood, though. Dead on arrival."

"What does that signify?" grumbled Roach, who disliked cryptic remarks.

"Probably deceased, sir, already, when they dumped him over the bridge, thus creating the fissure." Mulholland narrowed his eyes to indicate scientific deduction. "I'll wager we'll find a sharp stone with fragments of flesh in situ."

"But no blood," said McLevy. "That had stopped flowing long before."

Roach peered gloomily at the twisted face of the corpse.

"Looks as if he saw the Devil," he muttered. "We'll have to wait for Dr Jarvis to approximate the cause of death, but who is he?"

McLevy marched to the door and flung it open. Mulholland recognised the portents of dramatic utterance.

"Thomas Forsythe, tobacco merchant and lay preacher," the inspector declared. "I saw him once on the sands of Portobello. Fire and brimstone."

Lieutenant Roach almost reeled in response.

"My God, I did not recognise him naked and contorted. This is a respectable man, McLevy. Dead in Leith. How has this happened?"

With a flourish, McLevy put on his low brimmed bowler and tapped the crown with his middle finger.

"A mystery, sir. And mysteries are my meat and drink."

MARY FORSYTHE WAS A ROUND LITTLE woman with apple cheeks and a cheerful kindly face, but her eyes were brimming with tears as she bit hard into one knuckle.

"Are you sure it is Thomas?" she asked quietly.

"I am afraid so," was McLevy's solemn response.

She shivered as if in a bad dream.

"He was out late last night, and – our rooms are separate you see and – by the time I rose. Gone. Early to work, I thought."

"Why would he find himself out at night, ma'am?" enquired Mulholland, nostrils flaring slightly.

"Salvation," she answered simply. "Thomas had decided that preaching to the converted was not the Lord's work. That he must go into the belly of the beast."

"Leith would certainly qualify," said McLevy dryly.

Mary's head came up and she looked him straight in the eye.

"To bring the Lord's salvation into the lives of these poor unfortunate women. Prostitutes, drabs, call them what you will. They have a soul. They may find redemption."

Mulholland's nose twitched again.

"What's that smell?" he asked.

"Oh gracious me, the bread, the bread is burning!" cried Mary in a fluster and she sped off into the kitchen.

While sounds of clanging trays and oven doors were heard from the other room, the two policemen looked up at the portrait of Thomas Forsythe on the wall above; the man's face was stern but uncontorted, and he had all his clothes on.

"There are many reasons for seeking out the belly of the beast," McLevy remarked to his constable. "Goodness is not always amongst them."

They sat together quietly, the inspector a hunched grizzled figure in his dark overcoat, slate grey eyes like a caged wolf, and Mulholland, all fair hair and clear skin, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in the mouth.

Both had seen enough murder and mayhem to last any other man the rest of his life.

OF ALL LOW TAVERNS DOWN BY LEITH docks, The Rustie Nail took the prize. A yellow haze of tobacco smoke mercifully obscured the harsh twisted features of the denizens therein. Men and women lurched and howled like animals, the place heaving with rancid gusto as a ship had just docked from Holland after a rough crossing and the tarry breeks had Yuletide money to burn.

McLevy and Mulholland had slipped quietly in at the door; the constable was not at all convinced as to the wisdom of this course but the inspector paid no mind as his eyes scanned the seething mass of bodies.

Finally he saw a certain colour in the press of gutterbloods at the bar and shook his head over the complete predictability of the criminal fraternity.

"Observe Donny Shields," he said. "Spending like a sailor, a fine frock coat upon him."

Mulholland nodded thoughtfully. "Light grey."

"According to Mistress Forsythe, the colour of the coat her husband aye wore for his nightly excursions; observe the sleeves."

"Too long by half."

Indeed, the young man's whipcord body was almost consumed by his covering.

"Donny Shields!" McLevy suddenly bawled. "I need the name of your tailor!"

Mulholland winced. This was not the way he would have handled matters, but already the hornbeam stick was at his side, as he followed McLevy through the sudden silence towards the bar.

A wild light in Donny's eyes, enough drink taken to fire delusion, and no law to speak of, inside The Rustie Nail.

"Ye're not welcome here, McLevy," said the bold fellow, and a knife blade gleamed in his hand through the yellow smoke.

If Mulholland lived to a hundred he would never understand the reservoir of violence in the soul of his inspector.

McLevy looked round the hostile faces, grinned like a wolf, and then launched himself. The knife was crunched out Donny's hand, the young man lifted bodily in the air and then slammed down on the dirty floorboards.

While the inspector handcuffed the man behind his back and began rummaging through the breathless adversary's pockets, his constable smiled at one of the barmen who had slid his hand under the counter. The man brought it back up to rest primly on the rough wood. One of the tarry breeks tensed as if to make a move but the woman with him whispered that he had best drop anchor.

McLevy had, with the air of a magician, produced a gold fob watch, which he dangled from its chain just above the recumbent Donny's nose.

On the back was inscribed, To Thomas Forsythe, from his loving wife Mary.

"Well, my mannie," said James McLevy. "Whit a joyful time you have in prospect."

THE ATTIC ROOM WAS PILED WITH BOOKS, from Edgar Allen Poe to forensic science, but the inspector regarded only a hole in his sock through which the big toe poked. A long but satisfactory day, case apparently solved, Lieutenant Roach happy to see in Christmas Day with a clean slate, and McLevy had dined out on salt herring with potatoes at The Old Ship tavern; all was well in a wicked world.

A rap at the door startled him, then it was thrust open and a beautiful red-haired woman strode in.

"Jean Brash!" McLevy blurted, hastily sticking his foot back inside the boot, "Whit're you doing here?"

Her green eyes swept round the room, dismissing the contents as so much single man debris, then returned to him.

Nymph of the pav to his constable, fully-fledged whore to sergeant, now he an inspector and she, owner of the Just Land, the best equipped bawdy-hoose in Edinburgh.

At one time, due to her lawless activity, his most earnest wish had been to see her on a transportation ship, but these days an obscure affection existed atween them. That, and a mutual regard for fine quality coffee.

The silence stretched.

"I told your landlady I was an old acquaintance," she finally remarked.

"How did you know my domicile?" he asked.

"How do you know mine?"

More silence. He could wait. A woman can only bite her tongue for so long.

"Margaret Martin, and young Beth Cooper. I hear tell you have them in the cells?"

"Indeed I do. They prevailed upon Donny Shields to dump a body. Payment half the contents of his pocket book and a gold fob watch. Donny took the clothes as well, and added a sprig of holly between the toes for a festive touch."

The green eyes narrowed.

"He is a fool."

"Fool or not, he could not wait to betray them."

Jean threw back her head in disgust and McLevy discerned a pulse at the base of her throat, the white skin throbbing to the beat of her blood. He flexed a bare toe inside the boot to keep his mind on track.

"What is the charge?"

"Murder by poison," he answered simply. "Strychnia. Doctor Jarvis confirmed what I thought when first viewing the contorted face of the corpse. The dose itself not fatal, possibly less than a quarter grain, but Jarvis is also of the opinion that Forsythe had a weak heart. Whatever reason, the man was murdered."

"Not by Beth and Margaret," said Jean firmly.

"The law will decide."

Jean Brash shook her head. She was fond of both women; Margaret was an old hand and Beth new to the profession. A bad situation, two whores and a poisoned tobacco merchant. Not a hope in hell.

"Your law is in the pocket of the rich," she stated. "And you have already confirmed your mind."

"I have decided nothing!" McLevy was stung sore by the accusation. "I will interrogate at the break o' dawn. So far they have both refused tae speak but a night in the cells will soon change that."

Jean walked to the door and laughed annoyingly.

"But will you give them an equal shake? Prove your law to me, James McLevy. Prove it. And maybe I'll dance at your wedding."

The door slammed shut and she was gone.

"HE WAS A REGULAR," SAID BETH, CATCHing her breath. "Ye'd never kill off a regular."

Margaret Martin laughed but there was a bitter twist to her lips. She could see a hangman's noose dangling in the air. A nice present on Christmas morning.

Mulholland sat opposite the two women, across a rickety table in the interview room while McLevy leant at distance against the door. The constable's blue eyes could often lull the fair sex of the Fraternity into unwise admissions.

"How long had he been – regular?" asked the constable.

"Near two months," Margaret replied. "He wis disappointed at his previous disciples. Big Nosed Kate and Sally Toms, a dirty pair."

Mulholland decided not to pass comment on the gradations of whoredom; when word had come that the women were ready to talk, McLevy had decreed a soft approach to commence.

"And how did events proceed?" Mulholland almost whispered.

Beth blinked her eyes, like a child in the classroom.

"Mister Forsythe would beseech the Lord to take away the sins and stains, wash us in the blood of the Lamb."

"Then came the laying on of hands," added Margaret sardonically.

"But this time, he jist keeled over," said Beth.

"Poisoned," offered McLevy from the doorway.

"No' by us!" snapped Margaret.

"We'll see about that."

"Already got us guilty. Hang us yerself if ye had the time," Margaret near howled.

Beth let out a wail and threw herself into the older woman's arms; Mulholland cast his eyes to heaven, so much for the soft approach, and McLevy scowled at the echo of Jean Brash's words.

"I have not beforehand made up my mind and resent imputations to the contrary," he muttered. "We will retrace the night, step by step."

"We've already told," Beth whimpered.

"From the very beginning. Step by step!"

The young woman sniffed and Mulholland batted his eyelids in an attempt to convey sympathy and encouragement.

"He would wait in the street, in the lamplight opposite," Beth sighed. "I would wave to let him know we were ready. We had to wear white dresses for purity."

"And no underthings," Margaret appended.

Mulholland spluttered and McLevy waved his hand as if a fly was buzzing before his face. Taking this as a signal to proceed, Beth did so.

"I would wave, he would raise his hand, pop in the macaroon and then – "

"What?" McLevy bounced off the door. "What macaroon?"

"His sweetie biscuit," replied Beth, her brow creased at the inspector's sudden resemblance to a jack-in-the-box. "From a brown paper poke. He would never share. He was that greedy."

Margaret Martin saw the light at the end of a very dark tunnel.

"They werenae store bought," she said. "Ye could tell by the shape."

THE KITCHEN SMELLED OF NEW BAKED bread, loaves lined in an orderly fashion upon the table.

"For the poor," said Mary Forsythe. "I give them every morning. This Holy Day, especial."

She had yet, apparently, to don her widow's weeds, and her simple dress was covered by a green apron, sleeves rolled up to display the plump forearms, coated with a dusting of flour, cheeks flushed from the heat of the oven.

It was a long table. Mary stood at one end and the policemen at the other, as if posed for a tableau of domesticity.

"Jardine the Apothecaries," began McLevy somewhat heavily, "A few streets from here. We hauled him out his bed and made enquiry. Mister Jardine informs us that you bought a quantity of strychnine not long ago."

"An infestation of rats," was the placid response.

"Your husband died of strychnia poisoning, Mistress Forsythe," said Mulholland. Mary wiped her hands on the apron and glanced up at the portrait of Thomas, now hung with black crepe.

"Macaroons," McLevy recited as if from a recipe book. "Sweet biscuits with white almonds."

"His favourites," she replied.

"Traces of such were found in your husband's stomach," McLevy rejoined, "and I must ask you if you filled your wee biscuits wi' poison."

"You may ask, but I may not answer."

Mulholland recognised the signs as McLevy padded down the length of the table to confront the woman, his face as usual parchment white, the grey remorseless eyes boring in deep.

"Mistress Forsythe, two women stand to be accused of your husband's murder. They are fallen angels. Found guilty, they will hang by the neck while the crowd cheer for joy. Can you carry their deaths upon your Christian conscience on such a holy day?"

For a moment it was as if time had become a dimension thick as slush, then slowly, oh so slowly, Mary Forsythe closed her eyes and her head fell low upon her breast.

THE RESPECTABLE WOMAN HAD FOUND out that she carried a disease, a mild case the doctor had said, but he could not meet her eye. A man can transmit and hardly even suffer. It depends on the man, the doctor had said.

She had prayed for guidance and answer came, let him feel the Hand of God. Come down hard in the act of sin.

She had not meant to kill, but punish, so that he never once more, in the stead of salvation, pleasured himself.

But his contrite heart must have burst in shame.

McLevy finished his narration of these events and took an appreciative gulp of his coffee.

"A decent fragrance," he announced.

"Lebanese," replied Jean Brash.

They were inside a small gazebo, in the garden of the Just Land, which, for a bawdy hoose, was a finely appointed building in the respectable high reaches of Leith. The mild weather had continued so it was no travail to sit there and watch the drips of water fall from the evergreens. "What do you think will happen to her?" asked Jean.

"An upright woman, bread in the oven, a good lawyer. She may get lucky."

As McLevy had another large draught of coffee, Jean leant forward and took the wrapping off a small packet on the table in front of them.

"I trust the infection did not come from Margaret or Beth," she murmured.

"Mair likely the previous disciples," McLevy said. "Big Nosed Kate is notorious."

He banged down the cup, a fierce look upon his face.

"Ye don't have tae dance at my wedding but you may replenish my coffee."

With the ghost of a smile, she did so, and then offered him the dainty box containing some confectionery swathed in tissue paper.

"Festive macaroons," she said, the green eyes hooded with secret thoughts. "They're all the rage."

McLevy looked down but did not extend his hand as the bells rang out to proclaim that it was Christmas Day and that a whole New Year of sin was in the offing.

He was in no hurry. The Devil could wait.

David Ashton 2007