What Will Burn by James Oswald (latest novels to read .TXT) 📗

McLean took his admonishment, aware that it was justified. ‘Not the first time I’ve been told that, though in my defence this time it wasn’t on fire when I went inside.’

He stood up carefully, aware of the many bruises that were going to make life fun for the next few days. At least he’d have a next few days to moan about them in, so that was something. The chief superintendent had been whisked away to hospital, and all anyone would tell him was that her burns were horrific.

‘You OK, sir?’ DS Harrison stood up straight as McLean approached Emma’s little Renault ZOE. It was boxed in by two fire engines, so there wasn’t much chance of them going anywhere in it any time soon.

‘Should see the other guy,’ he answered.

‘I did. From the look of him you had a few anger issues.’

‘They got him out OK, then?’

‘Aye, we dragged him out soon as we knew we couldn’t control the fire. These old places don’t half go up quickly.’ Harrison glanced at the building, then back at McLean.

‘It was Tomlinson, right?’ he asked.

‘Looked like him, from what I could see. Finding out about Fielding’s death must have tipped him over the edge. No idea how he knew where the chief super lived, mind.’

‘Nor why he fixated on her. You know he was trying to burn her as a witch, right?’

‘Just like poor Cecily Slater.’ Harrison stood up straight. ‘Here, you don’t think he . . . ?’

‘I don’t know what to think any more, Janie. I just want to go home.’ McLean looked down at the car, then up at the nearest fire engine. ‘Looks like I might have to find a taxi to take me, though.’

In the end, Harrison managed to persuade a squad car to give McLean a lift home, while she stayed at the scene. But as the car headed uphill towards Queen Street, he changed his mind and pointed the driver in a different direction. Traffic was mercifully light, and the thick haar made it feel like they were moving through orange glowing clouds, which only added to the sense that he had temporarily stepped out of reality and into some other realm. In short order the car pulled up outside a large house in Leith, but as he walked the short distance from the lane to the front door, the feeling only intensified.

‘Tony, come in, come in.’ Madame Rose greeted him at the door as if she’d been expecting him for hours. Stepping over the threshold was like waking up. The dull throb of his burned face, the ache of his bruises and the hundred other little pinpricks of pain reminded him that he had been in a fight for his life, in a burning building.

‘Here.’ Rose took his arm just in time to prevent him collapsing to the floor. Delayed shock, a part of his brain told him, even though it felt unlike any shock he’d experienced before. McLean was grateful for the support, and let himself be led through to the ground-floor kitchen. Izzy DeVilliers was in there, doing the washing-up, a sight so incongruous McLean almost collapsed again. She took one look at him and grabbed a dishcloth to dry her hands.

‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

‘Thank you, Isobel dear.’ Rose pulled out a chair and only let go of McLean’s arm once he was safely seated. He didn’t feel quite as bad as she was treating him, but it was nice to be pampered for a change.

‘I’ll be fine,’ he said eventually. His voice suggested the opposite, but it was only dehydration. Nothing a hot, sweet drink couldn’t fix.

‘Aye, I reckon you will.’ Rose sat down on the opposite side of the big table that dominated the centre of the room, while Izzy busied herself making a pot of tea. ‘You want to tell me what happened?’

McLean managed a smile. ‘And here’s me going to ask the same question.’ He paused a moment, gathering his thoughts as best he could. It was a bit like herding cats.

‘Tommy Fielding died last night, not long after he left the hotel where young Isobel here saw him, with our own chief superintendent hanging on his arm like a lover.’

Izzy brought the pot to the table and set it down. ‘Did he suffer? He deserved it, the scumbag.’

‘Isobel.’ Madame Rose used her scolding voice, but it washed off the young woman like rain.

‘He was strangled, best we can tell. Possibly by the chief superintendent, although that’s a puzzle I’ve still to work out. I imagine the end was quite frightening for him. Not as frightening as it was for poor Cecily Slater, though. Certainly not as painful.’

McLean held Rose’s gaze as she carefully poured three mugs of tea. He’d already seen from her expression that nothing he’d said was surprising to her.

‘I don’t know this man, Fielding, but I know his type. He claims – claimed – to be a Witchfinder, which makes me think there was maybe more to him than you understand, Tony. Or should I say, more to him than you’re likely to accept?’

McLean knew what was coming next, knew he’d rationalise it by the morning. For now he was content to drink tea and relax in this warm kitchen.

‘Cecily Slater was a witch. A very powerful one. You know this. Mirriam told you as much.’ Madame Rose leaned forward, arms on the table, massive hands cradling her mug. ‘When such as her die violently, things rarely go well for those who have done the foul deed. A witch’s dying curse cannot be stopped. At least, not until its work is done.’

Brian Galloway, Don Purefoy, Steve Whitaker. Another name appended itself to the list almost as if someone else was thinking McLean’s thoughts for him. James McAllister. All of them disciples of Tommy Fielding. All of them so warped by his words, his twisted logic, their own hate and anger, that they would help him murder a defenceless ninety-year-old woman. All of them