Edward Kane, Advocate in The Supernal Sisters. Chapter 15: ‘I Want to Talk About Secrets’

‘I’m looking at the devil now. The devil incarnate. And his name is “Horse”.’

Ladies’ maid to the Supernal Sisters, Mildred Morrison, also had red cheeks – but these were cheeks crimson with anger.

Horse held up his hands and tried to calm her down: ‘I only wanted to ask you about what you said the other night, about you seeing things in that room, Mildred, about them sisters being monsters…’

Edward Kane. Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane

Mildred was still furious: ‘So – I don’t hear from you for…what was it two year? Then you turn up where I work all dressed up and with some floozie….’

‘Mildred, my dear – you was the one what disappeared – not me…’

Mildred Morrison was implacable: ‘…and then – today – I get a message from the cook that there’s an Englishman at the kitchen door looking for me…’

Horse shrugged: ‘What you want me to do, girl? Send you a scented invitation?’

She moved to slap him again – but Horse grabbed her wrist mid-action. He lowered her arm slowly and let go: ‘Blimey, I should have gone to the cop shop and borrowed a pair of handcuffs before I come here.’

The lightning had passed, but the lady’s face was still stormy: ‘What is it?’

‘I just wanted to ask you about what happened the other night.’

‘What about it?’

‘That thing where that dead French bloke was talking to me through the older sister.’

The maid shrugged: ‘So what? I see that kind of thing every night.’

‘How did they know about the French bloke, Mildred?’

‘Why are you asking me?’

Horse shook his head: ‘The thing about secrets, Mildred, is this. The only time that two people can keep a secret is when one of them is dead. You catch my drift?’

‘You threatening me?’

‘No, Mildred. You know that I would never lay a hand on a woman. My meaning is this: do them fine ladies in there know that you was once arrested for keeping a bawdy house?’

Mildred leaned in and growled: ‘That was found Not Proven…’

Horse grinned: ‘Yes – once you had nobbled the blokes what was using it. And I heard that included a lawyer, a two members of parliament and a parish priest.’

Mildred sighed: ‘What do you want, Horse?’

Horse leaned in: ‘I want to talk about secrets…’

*****

Harry Humbie smiled at the old sheriff: ‘I agree, my lord. Portobello is extremely nice. In fact, we still dock a small boat there, a sort of memento of days past. But I cannot in all conscience leave my father in a pauper’s grave – good man or not. I am his son. He would not approve…’

The Sheriff nodded and took out his eye-piece. More silence. More rapping of the monocle. ‘Your father appears to have spared no expense in securing your education or your manners. I take it that you would concede that – whether a good man or not – your father was a good provider?’

There was a hint of a grudge, but Harry Humbie finally nodded his head. Monocle back in, the sheriff leaned forward: ‘And, good man or not – you will concede that he was, at least, a good father to you. You must have memories of that?’

Harry Humbie – unaccustomed to being cross-examined – lifted his chin and appeared to be looking for the answer in the ceiling of the courtroom. Then:

‘I have one memory. I think that I was six years old. At that time, we lived in a beautiful old house that had its own grounds. I loved that house. It was an ordinary day of lessons and then supper and prayers and then Nanny put me to bed. My mother had been ailing for a time and she was confined elsewhere in the house. I still remember the sound of coughing from the other room. I was in bed and I lay there and I watched the clouds move across the sky. But then there was a shadow at the door. It was my father. He said that I needed to come with him. I was very small and still in my nightshirt, you understand. And he led me into my mother’s bedroom. She was lying there, her skin as white as porcelain. And my father knelt down and looked me in the face and he said: “Harry, your mother is with the angels now.” And he lifted me up to kiss her.’

The young man’s narrative had gone on longer than expected, but nobody dared break the spell. ‘And I remember when I kissed my mother’s cheek, it was as cold as marble.’ He stopped for a moment, lost in thought. Then: ‘We had this little pond in front of the house. It wasn’t really that big, but when you are six years old it looks like an ocean. And my father lifted me onto his back and took me out into the garden. He put me down beside the little pond – I remember it clearly, a little boy in his nightshirt standing in the summer air. And father produced this large piece of paper – I think it was a page ripped out of one of his many ledgers – and he folded it into this paper boat. He doused it with liquid and pushed it out onto the lake – then he threw a match onto it and the whole thing went up in flames. And we stood and watched that burning ship. And my father held me in front of him as we watched it burn.’ He gave a little laugh: ‘Years later, I saw an illustration in a Bible that showed the seraphim angel standing guard and holding a sword before him. That put me in mind of my father, that night. Holding me in front of him as we watched the little boat drifting further and further away. Lighting up the darkness. Drifting away. Like a lost soul looking for a resting place.’

Silence. Then the old sheriff replaced his monocle. Business-like now: “I shall grant the orders. The exhumation of Alexander Humbie first – around four of the clock in the morning – and then, afterwards, the “resurrection” of the poor unfortunate who is buried in the Humbie plot in error. Then the exchange of resting places. All done before dawn.’

Harry Humbie gave a bow: ‘Thank you, my lord.’

Sheriff Meikle got up from the bench.

And only the policeman close to the old Cyclops heard him say as he passed: ‘Son, remember that in your lifetime you received your good things…’

Edward Kane and Mr Horse Collected Short Stories Volume 1 is available on Amazon, Kindle and from all good bookshops