Free The Painted Lady-TPL by David Ashton

The judge’s wife looked at the portrait of herself hung high on the wall. In the painting she stood by a long French window that allowed a sliver of moonlight to enter, and wore a purple gown – the colour indicating love of truth even unto martyrdom.
    The expression on canvas was in contrast to the one upon the pale flesh of the observer. The depicted lips had the hint of a smile with subtle warmth in the direct gaze; the present face displayed to the world, had humanity been attending in the drawing room, was equally beautiful but tightly contained.
    Behind glass.
    Like a butterfly in a case – such specimens as festooned the walls in their caskets, splayed out in bright colours that belayed their expiry at the hands of his honour.
    Such a pretty death.
    The door opened and the butler entered carrying a tray precisely laid with a pot of tea, toast and two soft-boiled eggs, the judge’s invariable breakfast.
    “I can take that,” she said abruptly. “The master has been ill. It will be my pleasure.”
    The butler nodded with a frigid movement of his head, and exited.
    Opening the bedroom door while clutching a tray was a difficult task but if servants can accomplish such, surely a judge’s wife may succeed?
    As indeed she did. She entered, laid down the tray on a small bedside table, and finally twitched back the counterpane.
    He lay on his back, mouth open, eyes staring, pinned to the pillow and most obviously bereft of life.
    She took a deep mouthful of air and let loose a single piercing scream.
    This was not a pretty death.
    Diary of James McLevy
    The heart is an intricate contrivance. The seat of mortal courage and source of all affections. Love, they tell me, dwells there and desire prowls like a hungry beast. I am not such an idiot that I cannot experience within myself the darkness of the human heart, its violence and anger, plus the impulse to murder and destroy, but I find love a trickier proposition.
    A knock at his attic room door interrupted James McLevy in mid-meditation and the voice of his landlady, Mrs MacPherson, a stalwart Dundonian in foreign climes, accompanied the sliding of a letter under the portal.
    “This came through the letterbox, Mister McLevy. “Your name upon it, your business I would wager.”
    With that she stumped off back down the stairs while he carefully blotted the page, put aside the pen and then crossed to pick up the missive.
    It was addressed to Inspector James McLevy, and as he stuck a stubby thumb under the envelope flap he pondered who would hand-deliver at this time of night.
    The devil maybe?
    But no, it was not Auld Hornie – not that name at the bottom of the page.
    I am falsely accused of a crime I did not commit. Spied upon; my own servants look at me with sly accusing eyes. I have no friends, no one to turn to, but let me plead my case.
    It was I who insisted on a post-mortem on my husband’s body because of the sudden advent of his death. Why would I do that if I had poisoned him? I was shaken to the core at the findings of arsenic in his remains and fainted to the floor. Is this the action of a guilty woman?
    “Uhuh, Mrs Pearson?” he muttered. “It’s easy to faint, ye just close your eyes and fall over.”
    My husband was a great admirer of your tenacity of purpose and scrupulous presentation. I fear the Haymarket police will slant the evidence against me and I have no one on my side. Please help me. If not, then Justice will not be done upon this earth.
    Yours in desperation and hope,
    Judith Pearson.
    McLevy walked to the large window that overlooked his city, deep in thought. He had been reading Sir Walter Scott’s The Heart of Midlothian , and this provided a deal of contrast. The inspector was acquainted with the salient facts of the case but no official charge had as yet been laid by Haymarket police.
    Of course it was none of his business, out of his parish, he didnae even know the woman. But Leith was quiet at this moment and he was aye itchy in