by David Ashton
The inspector wasn’t so sure about that; Dunbar would now be forewarned and not easily taken. If the bugger had any sense, and he wasn’t entirely bereft, he would get out of the city as fast as his legs could take him.
Nor would he be festooned with harlots.
McLevy had the two thieves slammed behind bars, and then drew a deep breath.
‘Where’s Ballantyne?’ he asked.
‘In my office,’ replied Roach. ‘His shoulder has been severely dislocated. I have sent for Doctor Jarvis.’
‘He’ll be at his club, knee deep in claret,’ grunted the inspector. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Are you qualified?’ Roach enquired.
‘I’ve broken enough bones in my time,’ was the uncompromising response.
Now it was the lieutenant’s turn to grunt. The two men looked at each other, neither wishing to state the obvious fact that this was a dreadful smack in the lugs and a loss of honour; once the word got round, especially to Haymarket station, the Edinburgh City police would be laughing till the tears ran down their ugly faces.
And the blame could only be laid at the one door. Even if the prisoner was hanging from a homemade gallows, or had cut his throat with a rusty spike, you never went into a cell alone.
‘It might transpire that Ballantyne is not fitted for a life in the force,’ remarked Roach soberly.
‘We can keep him in the station,’ McLevy muttered.
‘That’s what we have already tried. And see the result.’
‘He’ll learn. Experience teaches the unwary.’
‘I have never,’ the lieutenant rejoined grimly, ‘in my life, ever come across evidence to support that assertion.’
On that nihilistic note, they turned as one for a change, and headed toward the lieutenant’s lair.
Ballantyne was nursing his bad shoulder as they entered, the birthmark side of his face turned away to hide his shame and embarrassment.
The inspector took a passably white handkerchief from his pocket and twirled it round so that it formed into the shape of a twist of rope.
‘Bite down on this,’ he said gruffly.
The constable accepted the offering without a word and, as he had sunk his teeth unwillingly into the dirty shred of blanket, did the same with trust to the handkerchief.
McLevy stood behind the young man where he sat, took firm hold of the shoulder and then suddenly jerked it back into position.
A muffled yelp of pain followed the action but the bone was now back in its socket though Ballantyne carried that shoulder high till the end of his days.
The inspector held forth his hand and Ballantyne looked blankly at him before remembering the hankie in his mouth which he removed, shook out, thought to wipe it dry upon his trousers, changed his mind, thought to wipe it on his tunic, changed his mind again and, in dire frustration and pain, clenched tight his eyes then offered the cloth up blindly, like a hostage to fortune.
As McLevy retrieved the handkerchief, Roach shook his head gloomily; his crown of thorns had just acquired another barb. The chief constable, Sandy Grant, would see this as an opportunity to wield authority.
A deep bunker of condemnation awaited the errant driver, the ball already in the air.
Ballantyne finally opened his eyes.
‘I’ve let ye down, have I not sir?’
He had addressed this remark to McLevy but it was Roach who answered.
‘I am afraid, constable, that cannot be denied, or ignored.’
For a moment the young man’s lip quivered, but then he pulled himself together and tried to disregard the jagging pain from his previously displaced, now rejointed, limb.
‘I’ll clear out my desk if that is your wish, sir.’
Again he spoke to McLevy who slowly shook his head.
‘I’ve looked at your desk,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing in it but dead flies and broken pen nibs.’
The inspector glanced over at his lieutenant who sighed then nodded reluctant assent to the unspoken request.
‘Away ye go home, Ballantyne,’ McLevy pronounced sombrely. ‘You’ve suffered sufficient for the day.’
The constable rose and made his way gingerly towards the door but, on reaching it, was struck by a sudden and unwelcome memory.
‘Jist before he hit a last time, Dunbar – he spat something in my ear.’
‘Surely not saliva?’
To this question delivered with finicky distaste by Lieutenant Roach, the young man shook his head.
‘No. It was words. He said. Dunbar. He said. “Tell McLevy, I’ll see him in hell.” It was words.’
The door closed and the constable was gone. Roach looked up at the portrait of Queen Victoria and wondered if she had really attended a séance to search out ectoplasmic evidence of her beloved Albert.
McLevy indulged in no such displaced activity. Dunbar’s words rang true.
For one or the other, hell was on the cards.
23
The stag in limpid currents with surprise,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise.
AMBROSE PHILIPS,
A Winter-Piece
When Mulholland was a young buck, the grand game to play had been Nettle Little Nelly. All the boys would sit round in a solemn circle and an empty bottle with a feather stuck in its neck was carefully spun. The unfortunate to whom that feather pointed when the bottle stopped, was the designated Nelly and would be taken to a slope then hurled down the bank into a huge patch of stinging nettles.
It was then the unfortunate’s task to ascend the slope and either break his way through the ring of boys above or drag someone off the rim and throw the other down in exchange of place.
This rarely happened due to the advantage of terrain and so the victim of this merry ritual would eventually collapse, legs, arms, hands and face covered in painful blisters from being repeatedly propelled back into the hurtful inferno below.
He would then either, as forfeit, have to eat dried cow dung or kiss the ugliest girl in the village.
Simple country pastimes.
Mulholland, being the tallest, was the self-appointed spinner of the bottle and had perfected the art to such a degree that the feather always pointed in another direction.
Never at himself.
He often felt sorry for the victim.
But not this time.
He looked across at Oliver Garvie who had just lit up a representative of what would be the very bone of contention, to blow a trail of high-grade smoke across the room towards the glowing fire. It mingled with the hot fumes of some equally high-grade coal then wafted up the chimney.
The constable had refused the offer of coffee, a smoke, a place to park his backside or any other blandishments and stayed standing, maintaining a watchful silence while the other had made himself at home.
Mulholland had a vision of the bold Oliver, naked as an ape, flying through the air toward a clump of nettles.
The man had evinced no surprise on whistling his way in through the front door to find the grim figure of Mulholland crouching in the hall like some sort of tricoteuse under the guillotine waiting for a head to fall. After dismissing the old retainer, who went off to have his hot toddy, Garvie most cordially invited the constable into his study and sat in a large burgundy-coloured leather armchair, feet splayed out, body satiated, a smile on the full lips, the very embodiment of languid ease. Soon change that, thought the constable.
The opulent red velvet curtains had been pulled shut; the wallpaper was also of a burgundy hue and the leather binding of the many books upon the high shelves shone with a self-satisfied air.
A large painting above Oliver’s head distracted Mulholland for a moment, it being a goddess or nymph of classical outlines; his betting would be a goddess, nymphs being on the slender side and this was a hefty specimen. Furthermore there was much of her to be seen, the only covering being some wispy bits of chiffon, as she reached up to a branch where Cupid, by the looks of it, was dangling o
ut a red apple.
The son of Venus had a crafty smile on his face and Mulholland was troubled by the notion that someone he was counting on might have other irons in the fire.
He wrenched himself away from the sight, also realising that he was postponing the prosecution of a suspect because his motives were not purely for the sake of justice and that McLevy would be hopping mad when he learned of this action.
But that was the inspector’s hard luck.
All is fair in love and war.
Oliver blew out a smoke ring and watched it waver in the air before disintegrating.
Mulholland took a deep breath and thus began, going for the jugular.
‘Cheap cigars masquerading as finest leaf and you collect a vast sum for a very small outlay. Good business, Mister Garvie.’
For a moment Oliver was stock still at this blunt accusation, then he roared with laughter.
‘And how am I supposed to have accomplished all this, constable?’ he replied in apparent good humour.
Another deep breath and this time it was Mulholland jumping off the edge of the cliff.
‘You hired Daniel Rough to fire up the warehouse, probably bribed the watchman to cry off sick, we’ll question him again. The crates were solid enough, the contents false, and the fire knows no difference. A clever plan, but it got a wee bit spoiled when your hireling … incinerated as you were so kind to point out to me.’
Garvie blinked as if he was having difficulty following this accusatory harangue.
‘Daniel Rough? I don’t know of such a person,’ he replied lazily, lifting his cigar for another puff.
‘Back of Devlin’s tavern. That’s where you gave him the nod.’
This time Garvie blinked for a different reason, then he frowned as if trying hard to follow the train of thought.
‘And this is the fellow who was incinerated, eh?’
‘Up in flames. As you are now.’
Mulholland hauled the cigar box out of his deep pocket, flipped back the lid and stuck it under Garvie’s nose.
Oliver sniffed and pulled a face.
‘Dear me. Poisonous weed, eh?’
‘Stinko D’Oros. Cheap and nasty. I have a witness who will swear that the warehouse was full of these things and that this was a part of the cargo from the ship Dorabella.’
‘A witness,’ murmured Garvie, so far unruffled. ‘And who might that be?’
‘Reliable enough. Mother of Daniel. A fine upstanding woman.’ But Mulholland though he strove for firm and measured tone, was suddenly seeing Mary Rough’s far from impressive figure in the witness box, with a defence advocate tearing into her.
‘And how, if I may ask, did she acquire these Stinkos as you call them?’
‘She was there at the time,’ muttered the constable.
‘While the son was engaged in firing the place?’
‘That is correct.’
‘To hold his hand no doubt.’
Mulholland had no answer to offer save shoving the cigar box back into his pocket in case Garvie tried to steal the vital evidence.
The constable wondered if he should throw in the handkerchief stuffed up the sleeve of the man at Devlin’s, but, in fact, Garvie was not sporting it in such a fashion at this moment and somehow what had appeared another nail in the coffin of proof at Mary Rough’s humble dwelling, lacked evidential penetration in these surroundings.
Oliver stubbed out his own cigar and chuckled to himself as if mightily amused.
‘Forgive me. A box of cheap cigars and the word of a thieving old woman. I don’t see that unleashing the full weight of the law upon my sinful head. Do you?’
‘The whole investigation will begin again,’ the constable replied sternly, sticking to his guns. ‘Piece by piece. All your affairs gone into. Piece by piece.’
‘I have nothing to hide.’
‘Then you have nothing to fear.’
Garvie rubbed his fingers together to rid them of the shreds of tobacco, then levered himself out of the chair with a certain animal grace and began to walk around the room much in the manner of an advocate.
‘And what is my motive in all this?’ he flung over his shoulder as he admired the voluptuous goddess who still had not attained and therefore munched upon the apple of love.
‘Greed,’ came the response.
‘I have plenty of money. Unlike so many.’
There was a mocking edge to his voice as if implying that Mulholland might be numbered amongst the paupers of the world, and it, possibly as intended, rubbed the constable up the wrong way to a considerable extent.
‘For a type like you, there’s never enough.’
Mulholland followed that remark with an equally injudicious addition.
‘Greed. The filthy lucre.’
This insult apparently stung Oliver into abandoning the goddess and replying in kind.
‘And for a type like you. Jealousy.’
‘What?’
‘Emily Forbes. You fear that she prefers my company to yours.’
‘That’s not true!’ Mulholland exclaimed hotly.
Garvie smiled, as if he felt sorry for the harsh realities with which he had to acquaint the constable.
‘No doubt she finds you amusing enough … like a dog strayed in from the street.’
For a second Mulholland could not believe his ears, then he let out an enraged bellow; this of course was hardly the behaviour of an arresting officer.
‘You’re a liar!’ he roared, shaking a bony clenched fist in the direction of Garvie who was not in the least part disturbed by the sight.
‘You know it to be true,’ he murmured apologetically. ‘You are not of her class and because I am, you would seek to destroy my reputation for your own jealous ends.’
The man’s effrontery almost robbed Mulholland of speech and though the constable would never dream of acknowledging the fact, perhaps there was the smallest trace of truth in Garvie’s observation that also contributed to his initial lack of response.
Finally Mulholland found the words and bit them off like bullets.
‘I care for Emily and she for me. There is no jealousy here, only a man doing his job and by God I’ll do it!’
‘You care for her, do you?’ riposted Garvie with a glint in his eye.
‘I do indeed.’
The entrepreneur hooked one thumb into the high pocket of his silk waistcoat and wagged the forefinger of the other hand in the air as if delivering a speech from a courtroom drama.
Indeed it was as if he spoke the words for a larger audience than the constable before him.
‘Then consider this before you let loose your vile slanders. The documents and invoices for the cargo have been examined and certified genuine by the very top man. Head of the Providential branch in Edinburgh.’
Adding a rhetorical flourish to proceedings, he whipped the thumb from its moorings and raised both hands in the air to emphasise the next salvo.
‘Chief insurance adjuster, Mister Robert Forbes!’
In his rush to judgment Mulholland had pushed that thought to the back of his head but it had been abruptly brought to the forefront now. For the first time, he felt the ground shift under his feet, like a man out of balance hurtling down a slope.
Garvie continued his bombardment.
‘The contents of the warehouse have been sifted as well. The tobacco fragments scrupulously and scientifically examined. D’you think I could pull the wool over his eyes? A man of his ability and experience?’
‘I don’t know,’ the constable muttered defensively.
‘Indeed,’ Garvie hammered home, ‘you do!’
Mulholland was mute.
Oliver abandoned the theatrical delivery and spoke, as it were, more in sorrow than in anger, which imbued the words with a sobering formality.
‘It is not possible my friend. And if I am to be slandered with this accusation, then so must he. With, at worst, collusion and, at best, downright incompetence. Throw the mud and it
will stick to both.’
Again Mulholland made no answer. He was wedged in a cleft stick of his own making.
Garvie turned away from him, looked into the glowing coals and added another load from the ornate brass scuttle; he picked up a heavy iron poker and thrust it in so that the flames leapt upwards; fire was a natural element that would burn anybody. It made no distinction.
‘If I am to be accused then so is he,’ Oliver said softly. ‘His reputation ruined and that of his daughter in society quite shamefully defiled.’
He turned back to face the constable, poker hanging loosely in his hand.
‘Are you willing to put Emily through such an ordeal in order to satisfy what I regret to describe as your own petty jealousy?’
The words were said almost under his breath but Mulholland flushed as they struck home.
‘I will do my job,’ he finally retorted.
Garvie nodded as if they had reached agreement.
‘Then do it,’ he replied, gathering energy as he spoke. ‘Go to the house of Robert Forbes, lay before him your suspicions, evaluate his response and then?’ Oliver shook his head as if the enormity of what Mulholland contemplated was beyond belief. ‘Charge two innocent men if that is your decision, but for Emily’s sake and your own, talk first with Robert Forbes.’
Mulholland made an impulsive movement as if to leave then hesitated.
It provoked a wry smile from the other who knew what was passing through the constable’s mind.
‘Don’t perturb yourself, I shall be here whenever you return, but for now, I must ask you to give me leave to retire to my bed, I have a long day of business tomorrow.’
The alternative was cuff the man and haul him to the station and Mulholland realised the impossibility of that; Lieutenant Roach would have a major fit at what he would perceive as a respectable merchant being treated worse than a common criminal. For a moment he wished that he had McLevy here to advise him then realised that, as well as his other dubious motives, he wanted, for once, to solve a case without the hot breath of the inspector on the back of his neck. The constable’s head was in a spin; what had he hoped for here anyway, that Garvie would break down and confess?