Edward Kane and The Vinegar Valentine: Chapter 4

Mr Horse had been correct. The loud knock at the door was, indeed, the knock of a policeman. In this case, it was the knock of Inspector Mackintosh of the Detective. Mackintosh had worked closely with Edward Kane in the case of The Parlour Maid Murderer and relations had remained extremely cordial.

Edward Kane and The Vinegar Valentine. Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane

“’Evening, Mr Kane. I was just passing on my way home and I thought I would pop in, sir, for a wee chat, like.”

Kane smiled: “You are always welcome here, Mackintosh.” He turned towards Horse: “Mr Horse, why don’t you put the kettle on?”

*****

Prodigiously strong tea brewed, ‘mashed’ (as Horse would have it) and poured into the cups (with the addition of some globby, not-quite-fresh milk), the three very different gentlemen sat around the table in the sitting room. Mackintosh continued his narrative: “...and so, Mr Kane, after you told that lady with the ‘Vinegar Valentine’ that she needed a detective, she came a-knocking at the door of the Police Office.” He produced the offending Valentine card.

Kane nodded: “I was unsure as to the way forward, Mackintosh. But it is not as if any crime has been committed.” Mackintosh, his face serious, stared at Kane: “Begging your pardon, Mr Kane. This is Scotland. Everything is a crime...”.

In the course of the conversation, Kane noted that his man Horse had been unusually quiet, no doubt because he had received his own troublesome card. An anonymous card announcing that Mr Horse was soon to become a father. Kane nodded over to Horse: “Mr Horse, it strikes me that, since our friend Mackintosh of the Detective is investigating such nuisance cards, perhaps he could be of some assistance to you, my man.”

Mackintosh looked up. He studied Horse’s head: “But, sir, I see no problem with your ears.”

Horse was silent for a moment, then: “It wasn’t exactly my ears that got me into trouble, sir...”

*****

Some thirty minutes later, the three gentlemen were hunched over the table, studying the cards. Mackintosh, twirling the spectacles in his hand, nodded: “...as I say sirs, we are in luck. It is now obvious that both of these cards were made by the same printer.”

Horse screwed up his eyes: “But how can you know that, Mackintosh?”

The detective held the bottle-thick lens of his glasses over the left-hand corner of the card with the stork: “Look sir, it is very faint, but there are three tiny dots or smudges in the top corner there”. He now placed the same lens in the same place over the other card: “And - the self-same same smudges here. Both of these cards were produced by the same printing press.” He placed his glasses back onto his nose. “Given the slight defect, possibly one of the older-type presses no longer in use, but...”

Kane spoke: “But what, Mackintosh?”

Mackintosh frowned and held up one of the cards: “But there is no indication on the card as to the identity of the printer.” He stroked his chin: “If we could only find the printer, then we might identify the people who ordered these cards.”

Horse spoke: “Then we can just do the rounds of the printers and ask if it’s their work, can’t we?”

Mackintosh put his hand to his temples: “Oh, Mr Horse - do you know how many printers there are in Edinburgh today, sir?

Horse shrugged: “Nine? Ten?”

Mackintosh came in quickly: “Sixty-nine, sir. Sixty-nine...”

“Oh...”

“...according to the post office directory.” Her nodded towards the cards: “And that does not include the seventeen lithographic printers who would consider such cards to be their own speciality.”

Horse raised his eyebrows: “Then...”

Mackintosh picked up the card with the stork and studied it: “Then I wager that by the time you found the printer who made this card, sir, that your offspring would be old enough to sign it himself.”

The detective stood up and took his hat from the table. “Still, I’ll take the time tomorrow and stop in at a number of the printers on Thistle Street. There’s a clump of them there, Mr Horse, and they might recognise the defects on these cards.”

And as he was leaving, Mackintosh nodded down at the list of Horse’s female suspects - with all-but-one name scored out: “And - I hope you don’t mind me saying so, Mr Horse, but your friend Madge MacAloon is rumoured to be hiding herself somewhere in the South Bridge vaults. I have repeatedly asked my officers to go down there and apprehend her. But they are too scared. Tread carefully, Mr Horse. Many people enter The Vaults, but a good number never make it out again. Goodnight, sir...”

*****

‘“Madge MacAloon’? Sorry, buddy. Never heard of her.” The enormous figure of the watchman had to stoop down so that he was face-to-face with Mr Horse: “Now, why don’t you go back to England, my friend, and stop asking questions before somebody here gets hurt?”

Horse held a candle before him, but that provided only the merest pool of illumination into what was going on in The Vaults underneath Edinburgh’s South Bridge. Beyond the huge watchman standing before him, Horse could hear the sound of the water dripping down the walls. And somewhere underneath the stench of fish and human excrement, Horse detected the odour of barley and yeast. Someone was making whisky down here. Illegally. And large quantities of it too.

The giant watchman was squaring up to Horse now: “So - turn around now, my friend, or I’ll put my boot up your arse....”

“I’m going nowhere until....”

The watchman stooped down again. He pointed to his crooked, broken nose: “Do you see this nose? Do you know how I got this?”

Horse leaned in: “Do you want me to straighten it for you?”