40

She stood in the corner, fingers grasped awkwardly round a glass of champagne, watching the Great Man receive due tribute from admirers who would melt like snowflakes should the result ever emerge otherwise.

From the huge population of Midlothian, only 3,620 electors were franchised to vote, but a comfortable majority had voted for Sweet William.

Gladstone’s cheeks were unwontedly flushed: red wine and the press of bodies. He would have a headache in the morning, deranged liver and bowels, castor oil prescribed; oh yes, he would have a dreadful headache.

She hid her smile behind the fluted glass and watched as, around his ungainly figure, some quite beautiful women fluttered like butterflies, drawn to the fire, the source of power. Butterflies.

Or was it moths? They burnt in ecstasy at the flame. She had once viewed them die in a hotel room in Venice, the window open on a hot airless night, a single candle in the lamp to lure the prey to death.

They had wagered on the number. She had lost. The forfeit had been deliciously degrading.

Soon, she would be back in his arms. Safe and damned. But not yet, there was much yet to do.

She checked the french windows through which they had agreed he would enter, their being left a little open despite the chill of the evening to let the smoke of best-quality cigars escape into the night.

He had not yet appeared.

To still the tremor of anxiety she turned back and surveyed the magnificent drawing room and double cantilevered staircase, thronged with elegant figures, gowned and suited, laughing and gay, mouths open, eyes sparkling. And yet, despite it all, there was an animalistic quality to the crowd she found … quite repugnant.

A realisation that she was looking at it through his eyes. So be it. Who better?

Fasque had been inherited by Tom Gladstone, the eldest brother, who had always lived in William’s shadow and was doing so once more, somewhere in the happy gathering. There was coolness between him and the Great Man; little wonder since Tom was a staunch Tory and she wondered if William had demanded the reception here, just to spite his brother.

Through the library doors she glimpsed the figure of Lord Rosebery, his doughy complexion and pale hazel eyes more pronounced than usual.

After victory was announced, a torchlight procession had arrived at the George Street house to be addressed by first Gladstone, and then Rosebery. But that was as near as his lordship would get for a while. He did not have the common touch, mostly because he detested the masses. He was a misanthrope. He detested everyone. Except himself.

Horace Prescott leaned forward to murmur something in his master’s ear and was rewarded with a pale smile. Both men stared at Gladstone and somewhere else, she was sure, no doubt guzzling champagne and stuffing his face from the trays of food proffered by an ill-qualified retinue of local girls and tradesmen masquerading as servants, was little George Ballard.

She liked George, he was a treacherous soul but he had some value. He spent much of his time trying to insult her in various ways or shock with lewd insinuations, but she had enjoyed the tale of him sneaking down the cellar steps of a rampant bawdy house to spy Horace being soundly flagellated.

He had slapped Prescott hard on the back, next day.

Dear George.

He, too, would have his eye on Gladstone and she was reminded of a painting she had once viewed. The leader of a pack of lions. Isolated in his own pride. Only surviving so long as he had the strength to keep the claws of others at bay.

For a moment she felt obscurely sorry for the old man and almost regretted the part she would play in his downfall but then Gladstone turned to smile at her.

Ah yes. A strange bond. She would have no difficulty persuading him to the family vault that they might both pray and give thanks for victory at Jessy’s tomb.

She would kneel at his feet and look up with adoring eyes. Sweet William liked that. He would put his hand upon her shoulder and she would shake as if moved by a secret desire she could not name. He liked that even more.

An obsequious sexuality, charged and hidden, under the cloak of worship. Not a word said, not a carnal touch, but he relished her submissive adulation.

As the Serpent had once remarked, she was an artist in erotic transference.

Catherine Gladstone, noticing the direction of her husband’s gaze, also smiled over. The woman had borne his various obsessions with beautiful creatures of low and high degree, being assured for herself that he would be incapable of the act of infidelity to the marriage bed.

But did she consider delectatio morosa, adultery of the heart, the insidious delight in contemplating the evils of lechery without actually committing same?

The good wife saw no danger here and thus smiled over. A mistake on her part, as she would soon discover.

Another look to the window. Nothing. Damnation. Run through the strategy again.

She would move back as if to allow Gladstone a time of private prayer with his daughter, then render him a moment unconscious. She had been taught well in that particular skill. Drag out the body of McLevy from its hiding place, God grant it wasn’t too bloody and she didn’t see the face. Then press the axe into Gladstone’s hand, wait for him to show signs of recovery, run back to the top of the steps and scream back into the house till people arrived.

The story would be simple. Gladstone had used her as cover for a rendezvous, knowing her to be a simple and obedient soul. He had instructed her to wait outside the crypt but she heard shouts and then a single scream and, taking her courage in both hands, crept timidly down the steps to find a hideous carnage.

Sir Edward Graham, an honoured guest and high official in Her Majesty’s security forces, would lead the pack and take command.

And there he was! Out of the corner of her eye she observed him stroll elegantly through the french windows. Her lover. The Serpent.

The timing was perfect. Gladstone, for a moment, had separated from the crowd. Perhaps he sought adoration from a different source and she would supply that.

She waited for the signal. The Serpent would take out a cigar, light it up, then move into the throng.

But he did not. Instead he looked at her. This broke the rules. Direct contact was to be avoided until the task was completed, and then the most strenuous consummation might be enjoyed but not till then!

She had to meet his gaze. The intensity brought her eyes round to lock with his. He smiled. A clumsy servant jostled him, and the black silk scarf parted to reveal a spreading patch of blood on the white shirt.

This time, the death she saw in the Serpent’s eyes was his own.

He fell to his knees and sprawled out his length upon the floor.

One of the maids screamed and dropped a tray of glasses. The sharp noise cut through the babble to produce a most profound silence.

And in that silence, to fill the Serpent’s place in the opening to the outside world, as if by magic, stepped the figure of James McLevy.

A bloody axe in hand which he laid upon a silver tray and, noticing a cup nearby, availed himself of a jolt of coffee before turning to stare, slate-grey eyes in the white face, straight at her.

The inspector knew. The game was up. Her lover was dead. What did it matter?

She had stood there paralysed but now she slowly removed the thick glasses from the bridge of her nose and dropped them on the floor. She reached up for the wig, pulled it from her head and shook the golden hair free.

Then, like the Serpent, she spread her fingers and passed them deliberately over her face.

The pinched features spread and relaxed.

Then the stooped hunched figure of Jane Salter straightened to become Joanna Lightfoot. And stayed that way. Transformed unto herself.

McLevy did not seem surprised.

The silence was broken by the voice of William Gladstone.

‘God preserve us!’ he announced.