Edward Kane, Advocate in The Hanged Man. Chapter 7: ‘I’ve left the wife and I’m hungry for love…’

Edward Kane, Advocate in The Hanged Man. Chapter 6: ‘You Have Done Evil in Doing This…’ (Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane)

A smile on his face, Mr Horse whistled a tuneless tune as he made his way down to the Cowgate and the abode of Mrs Ratchett. One of those bright, sunny days when Edinburgh is the most beautiful city in the world. And one of the noisiest! An ever-increasing group of small boys, chortling and running down the street with a stick and hoop, a Newhaven buckie wife at the side of the road with her enormous wicker basket of (allegedly) fresh mussels and whelks, a coal man – his Clydesdale horse straining at the straps of the cart to the cry of ‘Co-aal! Co-all!’

Horse entered into the narrow entrance of the tenement and bounded up the stairwell. He gave the door a cheery knock. ‘Who is it?’ - came a cautious response. Horse leaned in: ‘It’s Prince Albert. I’ve left the wife and I’m hungry for love. You up for it, Mabel?’ The heavy door creaked open to reveal the face of Mrs Ratchett. A face so heavily made-up and powdered that it could have been anything from 57 to 75. She beckoned him: ‘Come in you cheeky midden.’

****

Edward Kane, Advocate

Mrs Ratchett stood in her kitchen, holding up the items for examination: ‘Ye know, Horse, I’ve seen this watch and chain so many times now, I could draw ye a picture of them.’

Horse grinned: ‘No need for a picture, Mabel – just draw me a few quid out of your cash tin, my lovely.’

‘Wait here.’

‘I knows the drill, Mabel.’

Mrs Ratchett got up and left the room. She walked into the hallway and produced a tiny key from the folds of her apron. She crouched down and reached into the brick wall, shoogling one of bricks before it came out of the wall. She reached into the hole – and reached in far – before pulling out a small scraped and battered green tin. She placed the tin on the floor and turned the little key into the lock.

Moments later, she re-appeared in the kitchen clutching a handful of coins: ‘It’s only sovereigns left, Horse. There better not be any holes in yer pocket, son.’

Sudden panic – Horse checked the condition of his pockets. He exhaled – pockets all intact.

The lady handed the manservant the coins and sat down at the table. She took a printed receipt from the top sheet of a pile of papers, picked up a pen and spoke as she wrote: ‘Usual terms, then.’ She placed her tongue between her teeth as she concentrated: ‘One gold watch. One gold chain.’ The lady looked up and smiled: ‘You know, the pawnbroker Mr Isaacs has grown very, very fond of this watch and chain, Horse. Do you think that your master would ever sell them – and not just “hock” them, I mean?’

Horse shook his head: ‘Not in a month of Sundays, Mabel. Them are family hair-looms. Given to Mr Kane by his own dear father. Dead now. Wery precious to Mr Kane, they are.’

Ratchett got up and handed Horse the receipt: ‘Then you’d better look after this then, eh?’

Horse studied the receipt, folded it, put it in an inside jacket pocket and patted his breast: ‘No worries on that score, my dear.’

Ratchett nodded towards the jacket pocket: ‘Because if you lose that receipt, Horse, then I’m telling ye – family heirloom or not – you’re no’ getting that watch back. I’ll show you out…’

****

Mr Horse – a gregarious individual – was wont to divide his acquaintances into two camps. Good Company and Bad Company. Problem was – especially after a few ‘jars’ – it was frequently the case that Bad Company proved to be good company. He was to rue this later, but for now he was walking towards The Grassmarket, sovereigns jingling in his pocket when he came across a drouthy friend, The Monkey Macpherson.

‘The Monkey’ – as he was known to friend and foe alike – had derived his nickname from two things: (1) his ability to scale tall tenement buildings (largely to clean the outside of windows) and (2) he looked a bit like a monkey. Macpherson was also what could be called ‘a man of pairts’. Need to find a hacksaw in the middle of the night? Send for The Monkey. There’s a hole in your roof and you need somebody to go up there and fix it? A job for the Monkey. You urgently require a colourful parakeet fresh in from the boats at Leith Docks? ‘The Monkey’ is your man.

Macpherson doffed his cap at the Horse at laughed. ‘So – how’s it hanging, ye scruffy sassenach?’

‘By a tack, Monkey. How are you, my friend?’

The face of The Monkey fell: ‘I had to call out the doctor. The doctor said I had a year to live….’

‘Monkey!’

‘…but I couldnae pay my bill – so he gave me another year…’

An eruption of laugher. Horse shaking his head and waving a false fist in his chum’s face. Monkey wiped away the tears of mirth with the heel of his palm. He pointed at one of Horse’s trouser pockets: ‘That you been to Mr Isaacs’ friend, then?’

‘How did you know, son.’

‘Spring in your step. Pockets full of siller. I thought it was “Jinglin’ Geordie” comin’ up that hill.’

Horse put his finger to his lips: ‘Keep the noise down, son. If folk hear you, they’ll all want the money that’s owed them.’

The Monkey hunched up and mimicked Horse’s finger to lips. ‘Then you’d have to escape, buddy – wouldn’t you? To somewhere like…like…here!” He cocked his thumb to the building behind him. Horse looked up. It was The Beehive Inn. Horse grinned.

Tomorrow: Not a Dip in the Firth of Forth