Edward Kane, Advocate in The Hanged Man. Chapter 9: The Sudden Thought of a Russian Doll

Edward Kane, Advocate in The Hanged Man. Chapter 9: The Sudden Thought of a Russian Doll (Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane)

Alexander (‘Sandy’) Balloch – the younger brother of the not-quite-deceased Dr Jack Balloch – sat in the consulting rooms of Phipps and Phipps, Solicitors and Notaries. He sipped from his teacup. ‘My brother is quite obsessed with those Tarot cards, you know. Quite obsessed.’

Edward Kane smiled and nodded. He studied the client. This brother was near-identical. Kane had the sudden thought of a Russian doll, where the identical figures became smaller and smaller the more you opened them. And the brother here – Sandy Balloch - looked identical to his brother – but smaller. Around three dolls in. Same face, same receding hairline, same mannerisms. Only one difference: a bright red strawberry birthmark on his chin. He continued: ‘The jury got it wrong, of course. Finding Jack guilty, I mean. I thought that the prosecutor was awfully good, introducing the fact that Jack had accrued debts. Debts that he could only pay if the old man died and left him the money. Smart move.’

Again, Edward Kane found it striking that the discussion about the death of the old father and the possibility of murder appeared to be conducted in a relaxed fashion. He consulted his notes then looked up: ‘I wonder if you could help me, Mr Balloch…’

Edward Kane, Advocate

The client cut over him: ‘Doctor Balloch. Like my brother. And our father and grandfather before us. It would appear to be a family tradition. The study of Medicine.’

Kane smiled and continued: ‘I wonder – Doctor Balloch – if you could help me with one fact…”

‘Yes?’

‘It appears from my notes that two doctors attended at the gallows to pronounce your brother dead at the scene. After the hanging, I mean.’

‘Yes?’

‘That would seem…’ Kane struggled to find the word.

The client volunteered: ‘A mite excessive?’ Balloch gave a casual shrug: ‘We thought it prudent to have a physician on hand to confirm definitively my brother’s demise, so I obtained the services of one of Jack’s old students – did Jack tell you that he used to teach at the university?’

Kane shook his head.

Balloch continued: ‘They worship him, you know, the Medical students. We were thinking that he could resume his post there – at the university, I mean – once you have secured his release.’ He gave a little chortle: ‘Which, of course, we fully expect – following your, no doubt, excellent submissions that Jack has already served his sentence in full.’

The client stood up and consulted his pocket watch: ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I’m afraid that I have a number of consultations…’. But his attempt to leave was marred when he hunched up and gave an involuntary little groan. He began to roll his shoulders: ‘Aaaah – you will excuse me, Mr Kane. An accumulation of toxic humours has left me with an infirmity of my own. A blasted painful back.’

Kane nodded: ‘I am sorry to hear that your healing vocation has left you with an ailment of your own.’

The younger Dr Balloch then did an odd thing. He clenched his fist and knocked it against his side, as if rapping on a door. It made a hollow sound: ‘Fortunately, I have devised my own form of a relief – a type of girdle, as it were. I have found that it works better than, for example, an enema.’

The conversation having taken this unexpected turn, Kane did not know what to say. So said nothing.

****

Horse was becoming exasperated: ‘Look – I’m not trying to hurry you, Monkey, but I need to get to that bloomin’ butcher…’

The friends had ducked into a dark stairwell in the middle of the Cowgate.

The Monkey Macpherson put his finger to his lips and shooshed his English friend: ‘Button it, Horse! Button it! You need to see that “bloomin’ butcher” when you have a dog with you. The right dog. A dog fit for an Advocate.’

Macpherson walked over to a door and battered it with his fist. He shouted: ‘Billy! Billy – are you in, son?’

No answer. Thud, thud, thud. ‘Billy – it’s me – The Monkey!’

It was at this point that Mr Horse felt a sudden and urgent announcement from his bladder – what polite individuals would describe as ‘a call of nature’. He began to do what can only be described as a little dance. ‘Monkey, mate, I really need…’

Macpherson nodded towards the door to the back green. ‘Out there, Horse – I’ll meet you out the front once I’ve got the dug.’

The manservant scuttled towards the back entrance, pushed open the door and immediately began to water the flowers.

Post-evacuation of some six jugs of beer, a relieved Horse made his way back through the dim entrance area out to the front of the tenement entrance and there on the street stood a beaming Monkey Macpherson. And at the Monkey’s side…a dog. Not just any dog – a King Charles Spaniel! Horse grinned: ‘Oh, Monkey, Monkey – you have outdid yourself this time, my son.’

Macpherson shrugged: ‘What did I tell you, Horse – a dog fit for an Advocate, eh? The same breed, the very same breed of the dog owned by her majesty – Queen Victoria.’

Horse smiled and nodded. But something was off. About the dog. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But something…maybe it was the six pints of beer, but…and then he saw it: ‘Monkey, my friend. This dog…this dog has only got three legs.’

‘It was the best I could do at short notice.’

‘But we can’t…’

‘Oh, shut up, ye English bun. Four legs, three legs, no legs – it still needs those butcher’s scraps. Come on.’

Horse – appreciative of his limited options in the matter – consigned himself to his fate on this occasion and began to study the animal more carefully: ‘Well, I suppose that it’s a King Charles Spaniel and all…but…’

‘What is it now?’

‘He’s tied with a bit of string…’

‘So?’

‘So, if he was an Advocate’s dog, then he wouldn’t have an old bit of twine, wud he? He would have a proper collar and a proper lead, wudn’t he? Made of, like, leather or what have you.’

The Monkey blew air out of his cheeks: ‘Yer a hard man to please, Horse? But, I’ll tell you what. Down by the butchers, my wee pal “Manny” has got a haberdashers shop. He’s got everything in that shop. We’ll get a collar and a dog lead in there.’

Horse knelt down and stroked the dog: ‘Poor little fella. What happened to his leg, then?’

‘Got run over by a horse and carriage. Nearly killed him.’

Horse looked up: ‘And what’s his name?’

‘“Lucky”.’

Tomorrow: ‘What happened after that is nothing to do with me.’