The Painted Lady-TPL Read Online Free Page A

in her eyes. Ye might even say desirous.”
    The painter had recovered himself somewhat and adopted a lofty tone. “I have heard the rumours concerning myself and Judith Pearson, they are untrue and unwarranted. There is nothing between us.”
    McLevy let out a roar of laughter to further rattle the composure of his target. “That’s what the wee widow announced. Exact same words.”
    “The simple truth!”
    A sly disbelieving look answered this vehement protestation and McLevy shook the stiff paper. “The picture tells another story, my mannie. Desirous!”
    “I cannot help it if women form attachments!”
    Boothroyd’s face jerked suddenly as if the truth had been ejaculated and McLevy intuited that perhaps, one way or another, should the man but know it, which he certainly did not, the painter might be exactly opposite to what he imagined of himself.
    Not a predator, a victim. A weakling. He needed women. Needed to see his image in their eyes. McLevy also noted a faint sheen of perspiration on the smooth skin above the upper lip – a symptom of unease perhaps, or something stronger? Guilt was never far away, especially where murder is concerned.
    “Attachments, eh?” he echoed, replacing the sketch. “So long as you don’t form them back?”
    “Precisely!”
    McLevy grinned like a wolf, nodded brusquely and left abruptly, without even a goodbye. Let him stew. But the inspector had a real case to pursue now and whistled cheerfully as he went down the narrow staircase.
    One of Robert Burns’s less well-known airs: “My wife's a wanton wee thing, She winna be guided by me.”
    McLevy was still breezy as he walked into Lieutenant Roach’s office to find Adam Dunsmore waiting like a bad smell while, surveyed by the icon of Queen Victoria, Roach was grimness personified at his desk.
    “You’ve been busy, inspector. In the Haymarket.”
    “A few wee visits,” came a blithe response.
    “One of them to the Pearson house,” Dunsmore declared. “My men saw you.”
    “As I saw them.”
    “And the other visit,” Roach interposed, lips pursed, “was to a certain Doctor Alexander Galbraith who has written a formal note of complaint, which Inspector Dunsmore has been kind enough to deliver by hand.”
    “A good deed never goes wrong.”
    The lieutenant ploughed on, trying to contain a mounting irritation. “The doctor states that you barged into his consulting rooms and tried to prise out confidential medical matters.”
    “Stimulants,” McLevy clarified. “I wanted to know if Judge Pearson had been prescribed such. Arsenic, for instance.”
    “You’re havering, man. Typical Leith!”
    Dunsmore’s interjection caused Roach to purse his lips further for a different reason – he was proud of his station and no one bar himself insulted his officers.
    “And who told you of these . . . stimulants, inspector?”
    “The wife. After she wrote tae me.”
    “A love letter, was it?” sniped the Haymarket man.
    McLevy’s face betrayed nothing of the anger that was building. For two pins he’d smack the wee nyaff in the chops and have done with it. But he kept steady, remembering that he was dealing with a lower species.
    “She merely affirmed that she had no faith in the investigation and felt it was prejudiced against her.”
    Dunsmore went puce. “You’ve got a damned cheek!”
    “You go to hell, Dunsmore.”
    Before blood might spatter the picture of his Queen, Roach took command. “That’s quite enough, gentlemen!”
    He rose from his desk like Moses on the mountain. “Inspector Dunsmore, you may accept my assurance that your investigation can proceed without further intrusion and that the matter will be dealt with here – severely.”
    Dunsmore nodded pompous acceptance of the offer but before leaving, strived for the last word. “And McLevy, as for your precious Mistress Pearson, I have evidence that will show the dirty linen underneath. Dirty linen!”
    Out he went and Roach surprised his