The Lamplighter (20 page)

“I know what this must seem like,” the Professor admitted generously at one stage. “A wizened old man frayed by cynicism and disillusionment latching on to fantastical theories with the enthusiasm of a doctor testing revolutionary antidotes. But I stand by the logic of my conclusions. It is not my intention to become famous by this announcement, but I will make it cautiously anyway: in the young lady Evelyn Todd I believe we have found a being who is not just another thread in the weave of reality,
but one who is able to knit her imagination into its very fabric
.”

And it was this last audacious remark that continued to reverberate wildly in Canavan's mind as he wandered up Chambers Street past the Phrenological Museum, trying to come to terms with its full meaning. Because if Evelyn were truly capable of what McKnight was suggesting, then it made her something more than simply human. This truly was the power of the devil. And the possibility terrified him.

Pausing now at the intersection of Merchant Street and Candlemaker Row, he looked pensively at Evelyn's darkened garret—not a hint of a glow at its shaded window—and wondered if she now slept and dreamed. Or if both he and McKnight, having introduced themselves into her universe, were now players on her stage and thus subject to her displeasure, and consequently capable of being killed. Would Evelyn herself desire that, even in her darkest realms? What did she make of him? The imploring looks she gave him—the sense of shared communication—surely that was not a figment of his own inadequate imagination?

Standing there, filled with anguish, he suddenly discerned a man lounging against the gates of Greyfriars Cemetery, rubbing his hands for warmth and glancing alternately at Evelyn's window and the building entrance. That he was a detective, plainclothed like a “beggar hunter,” Canavan did not doubt for a moment. Clearly the police themselves suspected Evelyn of an involvement more substantial than dreams, but without the aid of radical philosophy they were no doubt confused, battling to establish means and motive. The detective's presence was evidence enough of their intentions, and the man was surely under instruction to follow Evelyn closely were she to strike out on some potentially sinister mission.

Retreating to a dark alcove of his own, Canavan wondered if he had a duty to warn Evelyn or if he had the right to interfere. If McKnight's theory was fundamentally true then she was guilty at most of harboring an advanced form of original sin, and was no more accountable than Canavan, or the detective lurking in the shadows, or the judge who might send her to the gallows. It was the sort of repudiation of personal responsibility that in the past had always troubled him: the reduction of man to bestial cravings and instincts rather than the celebration of his altruism and integrity. It offered Evelyn the possibility of a moral acquittal—as well, perhaps, as a practical alibi—but in this Canavan found as much dismay as relief. Further, it did not admit the possibility that the devil was an external force, and the corresponding notion that the murders had been committed by a truly separate entity. For why could it not be that the lamplighter was in fact real and that even her unconscious was innocent?

The chimes of the High Street kirks were bruising the midnight air when he noticed a hunched little chimney sweep worm out of the building and shuffle purposefully down the street. Neither he nor the detective paid much notice at first, and it was only when the figure had almost curled around the bend that Canavan was jolted out of his distraction with an unaccountable suspicion. He shot a glance at the still-lounging detective, who remained staring at the building, and then launched from his own hiding place and took off before the sweep was lost to sight.

Rounding the corner into Bristo Place his quarry straightened and darted nimbly across the road, heading rapidly up Lothian Street behind the imposing sandstone bulk of the University. Canavan kept a discreet distance at first, but was soon emboldened when it became clear that the sweep had no intention of looking back or doing anything but moving at a progressively faster clip. When they came into the vicinity of the City Hospital, however, the figure folded into a stoop and resumed its ungainly shuffle past an ambulance wagon, only to unfurl again when they moved into the more desolate region of breweries and glassworks.

Now Canavan was certain that the figure was Evelyn. But he could not imagine her reasons or guess where she might be heading. And his heart was seized with fear.

But if indeed she had a destination at all, she gave little indication. Hunching into her guise only when she passed another figure or a row of residential windows, she performed a swift circuit of the belching gas plant in New Street, cut through the district of foundries and pickle factories, and stopped just twice: near White Horse Close, the departure point for London stagecoaches, and in the proximity of Queensberry House, where she took some time to examine the neighboring buildings and look up at the dim outline of the Salisbury Crags. Then she set off again, without any logic to her progression, taking unexpected detours, crossing the street only to cross back again, and sometimes inexplicably cutting through wynds before doubling back and retracing her steps—this last especially difficult for Canavan, who nevertheless resisted detection. But at the same time she seemed uniquely alert, absorbing the environment with all her senses, and except when shuffling she was as silent as a silverfish.

Turning from St. Mary's Street into the Cowgate, however, it suddenly became clear that she intended to pierce the slum at its befouled heart, and Canavan was further alarmed. The infamous chasm under the George IV and South Bridges was a magnet for thieves, hawkers, housebreakers, magsmen, cinderwomen, beggar prostitutes, and consumptive, barefoot children. Only the police and terminally bored aristocrats ventured here in darkness, and even then with trepidation. Canavan himself, for all his affinity with the destitute, walked here most infrequently. And yet frail Evelyn now surged west into the squalor without a moment's hesitation, as though soliciting a secret challenge or willing upon herself some assault, and behind her Canavan primed himself to defend her physically, dreading a confrontation that seemed inevitable.

The street was infinitely squalid, thick with coal dust, rag fibers, gin vomit, and expectoration, its population bunched around sputtering fires, blowing steam off soup and haranguing one another from windows. Yet Evelyn glided through it all with dreamlike ease, summoning not a single sneer or a flicker of acrimony. She raised her head a few times—seemingly to embrace the sight of the jostling tenements and frowning bridges—but otherwise moved so unobtrusively that she might have been a shadow, and with such deftness around obstacles that it was clear this was a journey she had made a thousand times. She traveled to the very end of the street without being assaulted, accosted, or even glanced at suspiciously, and when she at last climbed out of the ungodly pit and made her way back toward Candlemaker Row, Canavan actually sighed with relief.

But, to his renewed surprise, she did not immediately head home. She shuffled again past her building, once more under the eyes of the unsuspecting policeman, and proceeded back up the street to the altarlike parapet of the George IV Bridge. And here she stopped to look down, perhaps reflectively, into the inferno through which she had safely passed.

Canavan watched her from a distance—a sorrowful figure under the reddish lamps, she was moving not an inch, as though transfixed—and quickly the combination of her salient vulnerability, her previous recklessness, and her ultimately angelic passage—not to mention his own deeply stirred protective instincts—combined to intoxicate him, and he could not resist the urge to edge across the road to join her. He hesitated a few yards distant, however, and almost turned away, thinking that he had no right to disturb her private respite, before deciding that, on the contrary, it was important at least to offer her the suggestion of company, the notion of a kindred spirit.

He crept up to the parapet, and when he eventually spoke it was in a whisper of both admiration and gentle rebuke. “There are many reasons for you to be careful.”

She gave no indication of responding at first, so that for a second he doubted he had made himself heard. But just as he was about to repeat himself she snarled a simple
“Why?”
—as though aware of his proximity from the very start.

He swallowed his unease. She had soiled her face and ruffled her hair, and her voice had affected a surly quality that was even more pronounced, and more incongruous, than when she had turned on McKnight.

“For a start,” he managed, hearing himself as though from afar, “it's surely unsafe to walk the streets at night.”

“I always walk the streets at night,” she said flatly. Her eyes reflected the Cowgate's greaselamp glow.

“May I ask why?”

“It's what he wants.”

He could not force himself to ask why, or who. “There are other matters—”

“I care not for danger.”

He coughed. “Men are watching you.”

“Men are always watching me.”

“Aye.” Canavan was perplexed by the bitterness of her tone. It was such a contrast to that of the frail being he had met previously that he could not fathom from where his attraction had come, and wondered if she was even the same person. “I can protect you,” he heard himself declare heedlessly, to deny his loss of faith.

But she only smirked and for the first time rotated her head to pierce him with a gaze.

“What makes you think that I will not protect
you
?” she said, and he felt the words seep like chilled water into his heart.

He had tried to offer her a tender gesture, but she no longer required comfort. He had tried to warn her, but she was beyond the need for protection. He had yearned to console her, but she resisted pity. She was an entirely different being…and yet he still could not bring himself to abandon her. He believed in her resolutely, with instincts more powerful than doubt.

He turned to face her again but found that she was staring fixedly into the underworld.

“Oh, look,” she whispered, with an inscrutable smile. “It's Leerie…”

Trying to interpret her expression, he only belatedly became aware of her actual words. Startled, he followed her gaze into the hushed depths of the Cowgate, and with horror glimpsed what could only have been a huge dragonlike creature slithering into a dark narrow wynd, trailed by a snaking diamond-tipped tail.

A
S WELL AS A MAN
whose counsel Groves regarded as far more reliable than that of any richly paid advocate, the venerable Piper McNab had been a devoted Scripture reader and had once suggested to the Inspector that his memoirs might be afforded a veneer of authority were he to number each sentence like a biblical verse. Initially Groves had regarded the idea as extreme, even profane, but the good piper had reminded him that it would scarcely be audacious if the subject itself was weighty enough, and now, well past midnight, hunched over his journal, fighting valiantly to ensnare the words cascading from his mind, Groves began wondering if that which had once seemed a sacrilege might soon constitute a fitting imprimatur.

He had long been aware that the Lord Provost had been taking a more than common interest in the investigation: canceling engagements, making daily inquiries, and at one stage even visiting Central Office to make sure the best resources were available. This when, between his duties on the Town Council, his role as head of the Boards of Sanitation and Kirk Restoration, his honorary status as Admiral of the Firth, and his predilection for unveiling statues of Robert Burns, it was a wonder the man had found time for a single arched eyebrow. But the leeries' passing reference to his streetlamps, earlier that day, had put Groves in mind of his intention to make a personal approach to the man to assure him that the investigation was proceeding well—as swiftly as could be expected—and the city's reputation was in sure hands. He had been daunted, however, by the presumptuous nature of such a move, along with the Lord Provost's redoubtable reputation—he was said to be an impossibly fussy man, particularly sensitive to any potential obstruction to his knighthood—as well as his long-standing acquaintanceship with the Wax Man.

All these concerns were hurdles he would need to overcome before he could make his move with confidence, but returning to the Squad Room he was availed of news that at last established the
taint
for which he had so long been searching. Courtesy of the Register House curator, this was the discovery that Evelyn had been base-born to one Isabella Todd in Fountainbridge Parish in 1854 (the curator had appended a note explaining that when the father was unknown it was common for the child to adopt the mother's surname). The district, the year of birth, and the name of the mother now pricked in Groves a dormant memory, which he confirmed through a chance meeting with the Wax Man in the Central Office corridors: Isabella Todd had been a noted prostitute at the Cloak and Sash near the Cattle Market before expiring in one of the cholera epidemics of the 1850s. “Ticklish Todd? 'Course I remember her, Carus. Hammered her half a dozen times myself back in those days, when I had a taste for trollop. She had a daughter some claimed was mine, you know. Same spark, they said, but I never gave it much stock—they said the same to half the men in Edinburgh. She was looked after by the ladies of the Sash for a while, and they doted on her like their own before figuring she was better handed over to an orphanage. Young enough, the wee lass was, to have formed no memories, and they decided they'd tell her nothing of her past. Why, Carus, you old rogue? Is this some nymph that's now come forward to help you?”

Without offering a word of explanation, however, Groves had walked away brimming with vindication. Evelyn was a whore's progeny. And by his own admission possibly sired by the Wax Man. It said everything.

An hour later, crossing Charlotte Square to the Lord Provost's impressive abode, he took a lingering glance at the twin streetlamps—green-painted, gold-capped, and freshly polished—with a curious sense of providence. Rapping confidently on the front door with a lion-headed knocker, he was greeted by a cadaverous servant and ushered through lavishly appointed halls to a sitting room where the Lord Provost, the Right Honorable Henry Bolan, M.D., J.P. (the first physician to ascend to the post), was sitting, with an impressive bearing, as the celebrated painter George Reid applied the finishing touches to an official mayoral portrait. Bolan was fully attired in his scarlet and ermine robes, with gold medals, chains, and buttons gleaming, civic mace across his knees, sword at his side, and a deerhound snoring contentedly at his feet. It was the latter that first acknowledged Groves's arrival, snapping awake long enough to raise its head and sniff the air in a vain attempt to identify the Inspector's smug and apprehensive musk, before dropping its head between its paws and resuming its slumber.

The servant glided across the floor to announce Groves's arrival in his master's ear. Bolan, his chin raised imperiously, at first seemed irritated by the intrusion, but at the mention of Groves's name he paled visibly, shot a glance in the Inspector's direction, immediately shook off his pose, thrust the mace into the servant's hand, stood inadvertently on the dog's tail, and swept across to direct Groves into a private room thick with vinous red curtains and brocade, to the muffled chagrin of the painter Reid.

“You have discovered something?” Bolan asked earnestly. He was an immense and florid man, which only served to make his urgency all the more pronounced.

“I merely wish to inform My Lord Provost,” Groves said, “that I am closing in on a certain suspect and feel close to putting an end to this grim chapter.”

Bolan seemed unsure what to make of him. “You have the murderer in your sights, is that it?”

“The one I have in mind might not have landed the fatal blows, but is surely tied up in the gruesome business and will doubtless lead me to a conviction.”

Bolan drew air through his teeth. “Who? Who is this person?”

But Groves had already committed himself to circumspection, and even fatigued and intimidated was still able to exercise caution. “It would be best if I do not make any accusations until I am ready to procure an arrest warrant.”

Bolan regarded him for several seconds and finally nodded, as though he had no other option. “Very…very good.” He fondled the hilt of his sword. “You must surely know,” he added, thrusting out his chin, “how I feel personally affronted by these crimes?”

“I understand how this must be so.”

“Nothing like this has ever happened in my city.”

Groves enjoyed hearing the idea given official endorsement. “That is certainly the case.”

“I never knew Mr. Ainslie,” Bolan said. “But Professor Smeaton was close to my family at one point. And Colonel Munnoch, too; I served in the army with him, and I removed shot from his foot in the Crimea. So I had dealings, in short, with both men.”

“It has been said to me, and I share your grief.”

“Grief…yes.” Pronouncing the word with a hint of disapproval, Bolan now examined Groves some more, as though debating how much he should reveal. “You have been on the detective force for some time now, Inspector,” he stated, as though to reassure himself.

“Twenty years and three weeks, My Lord Provost.”

“And Chief Inspector Smith tells me you are a tenacious investigator.”

“I would like to think so.”

“As reliable as a donkey, he says.”

“He said that, did he?”

Bolan, still fidgeting with his sword, pressed on uneasily. “May I…may I share something with you in confidence, then, Inspector?”

“Of course, My Lord Provost.”

“Something I want to go no farther than these walls.”

“Of course.” Groves felt honored.

Bolan lowered his voice. “Both those men—Smeaton and Munnoch—I associated with them some time ago, certainly, and I can never deny this. But I was a friend of neither man.”

Groves nodded. “I understand, My Lord Provost.”

“Not a friend—an adversary,” Bolan insisted, and, staring at Groves, decided to go even farther. “They were God-fearing men, both of them, but they had what I regarded as extreme values.”

Groves nodded.

“Extreme values,” Bolan said again. “Ideals I did not share and of which I could not approve. Some years ago—so long ago I barely remember it all now—they solicited my membership in some club or cabal they were forming.”

“The Mirror Society?” Groves asked.

“The what Society?”

“The Mirror Society.”

“The Mirror—?” Bolan shook his head. “No, I've not heard of that. But I know they were seeking the assistance of a qualified physician, for reasons that were unclear.”

“They never hinted at anything?” Groves asked.

“The club was steeped in secrecy, of a brand that frankly I found threatening.”

“They threatened you?”

“Nothing like that, Inspector, but I fear…I fear that our disagreements were of a pronounced nature. And I fear that if such a long-standing animosity were ever made public…then I wonder if I myself might be considered a suspect in this terrible case….”

Groves found the idea absurd. “I assure you that is not so, My Lord Provost.”

“Or…or even worse,” Bolan went on, “I fear that my association with such men, if indeed they were involved in something untoward—I fear that such a connection, as tenuous as it is, might be fodder for scandalmongers.”

Groves nodded sympathetically. “I understand, certainly.”

“And if any of this were made public, you see, it could prove most damaging to my reputation. To what I have achieved in the past and my aspirations for the future. This is why I have been so eager for a solution and have made my interest plain. I cannot afford to have my good name discolored by rumors.”

“That would be most unfair.”

“I have my family to think of,” Bolan said. “And if they were to suffer because of some distant association…it would be unjust.”

“Unjust,” Groves agreed.

Bolan swallowed, uneasy with the plaintive tone. “Then I hope we have understood each other.”

“I would be happy to think so.”

“And you will certainly mention this meeting to no one?”

“You may rely on me, My Lord Provost.”

The Lord of the Burgh looked at me as a trusted brother, but I had the sense he was not telling all he knew, there were secrets about the deceased he did not want to reveal, he did not want to discolour their names any more than he had, or discolour his own name in doing so.

“Very well,” Bolan said again. “Then you will see fit to inform me when you feel in a position to make an arrest?”

“I am confident that will be very soon,” Groves agreed.

“It…it is as I wish it,” Bolan said, and finished on an appropriate note of civil solemnity. “It is a dastardly business, Inspector. A truly evil business that brings good to no one, and I can only pray our streets are not further blemished with blood.”

“I pray also,” Groves said.

Bolan released him to the care of his deathly servant and returned to the sitting room to resume his pose with the deerhound at his feet, and when Groves departed he noticed George Reid adding to the painting, with a couple of deft strokes, a sheen on the man's brow that might well have been sweat.

Slamming a door on his way out of Central Office that evening, Groves was so consternated that he barely noticed a dislodged fragment of masonry bouncing off his head. He donned his hat and wandered aimlessly through the streets, thrilled and dismayed in equal parts by the curious encounter with the Lord Provost. It was unquestionably a significant conversation, of the type he would lovingly record in his casebook, but he was also vaguely disappointed with his failure to pursue all the apparent avenues of interrogation. He wondered if he had been too accommodating of Bolan's desire for secrecy, as understandable as it was, and he speculated as to what arts of diplomacy the Wax Man might have employed in a similar situation, if indeed the Wax Man would have asked any questions at all.

Absently watching his shadow bloom and recede under the streetlamps, he suddenly became aware of some distant choir in an improbably festive refrain, and he found himself inexplicably drawn to its source, being the ugly Cowgate church of St. Patrick's, the principal Roman Catholic worship house in the Old Town. Like Smeaton, Groves had an ingrained distrust of Papists—they stank of incense and performed rituals that were flamboyantly arcane—but, recalling Evelyn's background, as well as the words of the Corstorphine minister, he recognized a serendipitous opportunity to reclaim his authority with some intimidating questions. So he digressed to the friary and met Father Withers at the door, addressing him with curled nostrils and stiff cadences.