by David Ashton
‘What you have put before me is slight, riddled with hearsay, and circumstantial. Is this all you possess?’
‘At the moment,’ Mulholland retorted. He was in truth somewhat nettled himself, not unlike little Nelly, having presented his case hoping for a grave appreciation, and after that, the two men, soon to be related by marriage, fellow investigators together, poring over details, nodding solemn agreement and then nailing Oliver Garvie to the wall.
But, Robert Forbes seemed to be taking this personally.
‘The word of a thieving woman, you would place above mine?’
‘It’s Mister Garvie in the dock.’
‘I am implicated!’
This sharp response delivered, Forbes sat back in his chair and tapped his finger twice upon the inlaid surface of the desk. It was a sober charcoal colour and matched the suit of the adjuster, who closed his eyes for a moment in thought and then pronounced his judgment.
‘All this seems hardly worth the bother, constable.’
‘Bother?’ Mulholland almost squeaked the word.
‘Examine it, sir.’ The small intent eyes bored in as Forbes leant across the desk. ‘Who knows where these so-called Stinking D’Oros came from? And this mysterious fleshy gentleman that you surmise to be Mister Garvie? A figment. You have only her word.’
Mulholland opened his mouth but nothing came forth and the stag’s glassy eyes above offered little encouragement.
The box of cheap cigars lay between them on the desk, opened to display its wares. Robert Forbes flicked the lid shut with one fastidious finger, and then shoved it back to the constable who pocketed the thing once more.
‘The son is dead, the guilty party. The mother, despite her low breeding, is desperate in grief and punished enough. In my opinion, you should forget the whole thing.’
At this point Mulholland would have liked nothing better than to forget the whole thing, to nod his head and hopefully watch a wintry smile spread across the Forbes face with perhaps the merest unspoken indication that his suit for Emily might stand a cat in hell’s chance; but he had been too long in McLevy’s company and, though he resented walking in the shadow cast by the man, he had absorbed the inspector’s brand of justice down to the very molecules.
So, he could not let it go.
Not yet.
Perhaps not ever.
For what said his Aunt Katie? ‘Only death can stop the badger’s grip.’
Was that a noise outside the study door?
‘May I ask you, sir,’ he began carefully, softly does it, not a hint that this might be evidential scrutiny, ‘at the warehouse, you must have found fragments of tobacco?’
‘I did indeed.’
‘And the quality. You found nothing awry?’
Forbes pursed his lips and hesitated for a brief moment as if recalling his examination.
‘They were burnt to a crisp. But I had no suspicion. The quality was clear.’
‘And the cargo documents? The invoices, all the papers from abroad, they were genuine?’
There was a silence and then flat response.
‘In my opinion. They were. Without fault.’
‘And you have sent confirmation of all this to your head office?’
‘Indeed so. As I am bound to do.’
That was that, then.
Mulholland sighed. Life was free and easy when all you had to do was push other folk down the slope.
‘I have come to a decision, sir.’
‘And what is that?’
The pure and simple fact of it all is that he was an idiot, the constable had realised. Cupid had led him by the appendage. He should have known better when he saw the boy on that branch with the goddess.
Too many irons in the fire.
‘I shall do what I should have done in the first place, Mister Forbes,’ said the constable firmly. ‘I shall go back to my superiors this very night, lay everything I have found before them, and let them come to whatever conclusion the evidence merits.’
He got to his feet with a strange sense of relief, as if he had suddenly come to his senses.
‘I should have followed the proper procedure and I apologise for disturbing you at your home. I wish you good night and that’s me out of here.’
‘Constable, wait!’
The call stopped him at the door.
Forbes had also risen to his feet, hand resting unconsciously on the photo of his dead wife.
‘Do you insist upon this course of conduct?’
‘I am afraid I have no option, sir.’
The older man shook his head in seeming disbelief and his eyes registered unexpected depth of feeling.
‘Then I must ask you to wait until the morning,’ he declared.
Now it was the constable’s turn to shake his head.
‘I have delayed long enough,’ he muttered.
The hand of Forbes came up and slammed down on the desk.
‘It will give time for me to absolutely examine all my findings, to make sure there is not the slightest hint of irregularity. Then I shall present myself at the station in the morning, along with Mister Garvie, and I am certain the whole matter can be cleared up without setting any loose slander afoot.’
There was a penetrative intensity of both word and gaze; Mulholland was taken somewhat aback.
‘My reputation is at stake here, constable. Hard-earned. Reputation is everything.’
The little man held himself erect, as if an iron rod had been inserted in his spine.
‘I realise that, sir,’ replied Mulholland, ‘but –’
‘For the sake of my daughter, if for nothing else. She must be protected!’
A fierce appeal in the father’s eyes and the constable had a flash of Emily nibbling innocently at a chocolate cake.
That little pink tongue.
His resolution turned to jelly.
‘Very well,’ he mumbled. ‘For Emily’s sake.’
‘I have your word?’
‘You have my word. Till the morning.’
Forbes nodded his acknowledgement of the pledge.
He stood there, the very embodiment of prideful dignity and inclined his head in farewell.
‘Good night, constable.’
‘Good night, sir.’
The constable left and, as the door closed behind him, Robert Forbes lifted up the photo of his wife and stared at her. The black crepe rustled round the frame as a draught of cold air from the open window blew across the room.
The stag above him was a twelve pointer, though Forbes had not shot it himself. Fixed fast to the wall high above; the head was strong and powerful.
But, as has been remarked before, the beast had not been insured.
Insurance is everything.
There were two receptacles in Mulholland’s possession. One was the cigar case, banging against his leg as he made his way down the dark staircase; his hand closed tightly once more around the other, the sharp edge of the small jewellery box cutting into his palm.
The engagement ring would be safe inside no doubt, snug and upright in its appointed slot.
He had not lost hope; love will conquer all.
Perhaps it could yet be so.
He stumbled on the treads and muttered under his breath; the dumpy maid who had admitted him had not been summoned by Forbes to show him out again, there was but one miserable light by the front portal and a long dim corridor towards it.
A gloomy prospect … but from the shadows a white arm reached out from a partly opened door and he was hauled from the corridor unceremoniously out of sight.
Darkness has its uses.
On the other side of that door Mulholland found himself at close quarters with his heart’s desire, as a fragrant female form insinuated itself into his vicinity.
Emily Forbes giggled at her own boldness and whispered low to Martin Mulholland.
‘I had retired, then I heard a knock upon the street door, then I asked Sarah and she rolled her eyes at me.’
‘Sa
rah?’
Mulholland’s voice had achieved a high pitch, aware that as far as he could see in the half-light because the room was in near darkness, the only source of illumination coming from a small desk lamp in the far corner, but as far as he could see, Emily was attired in a frilly peignoir of sorts, cream in colour, and though it covered a fair amount, the white of her throat glowed like a beacon in the dark.
‘The maid,’ she answered, taking a deep breath of excitement, causing the peignoir to part a little and reveal an equally frilly white nightgown above the neckline of which was a hollow curve of collar bone and below that same neckline a seductive mound that mercifully was more of a hint than a declaration.
‘Rolled her eyes?’ he replied, tearing his from this inflammatory scene.
‘She said a tall handsome man had been conducted to my father, then I knew it was you, then I sneaked up the stairs to listen at the door.’
‘You were listening?’
‘Naturally!’ she responded with a flash of temper showing in her eyes. ‘It would concern me and why should I not take part?’
‘And what did you hear?’ Mulholland asked with a deal of concern.
‘Mumbles. Nothing but mumbles.’
Emily made a little moue of disappointment, breathed in somewhat deeper and moved closer.
He could discern her fragrance clearer now, it would be cologne, women often used such or it might just be natural.
Mulholland hadn’t been in such close proximity to Emily before, except in his dreams and then they were married so she could lie on the sheets with dilated eyes and no one would think the worse of him, but he suddenly realised with a jolt of panic that they were in her bedroom and if Robert Forbes found him here then he could kiss goodbye to the fair Emily plus possibly his job as well.
Certainly his prospects of promotion.
Constables on a case were not to be discovered in the sleeping quarters of the daughter of the house.
‘I better be on my way,’ he muttered. ‘I have crimes to unravel, Emily.’
She giggled and looked around the room that, as far as he could make out, was draped with all sorts of femininity.
‘But it’s cosy in here,’ she murmured.
‘I’m not all that sure about cosy.’
She leant forward so that her head almost rested on his manly bosom, her hair flowing unpinned and loose.
And there’s another warning signal.
‘So,’ she queried softly, ‘what were you talking to father about?’
Arson and cigars were not obviously a response that would fit the bill.
‘I can’t tell you.’
Was it his imagination or had something rustled up against his kneecap?
‘I think I know.’
Her mouth parted slightly and the faintest odour of oil of cloves reached his flared nostrils.
‘Do you?’ he sniffed.
‘And I think I know his answer.’
‘You do?’
If she got any closer she’d feel the engagement box bumping up against her or something of that sort.
‘He said,’ breathed Emily, ‘you must wait.’
‘He did say that. His very words.’
Mulholland suddenly felt more in command of the situation but that could be undone at any moment.
‘And will you?’
‘Till the morning.’
She laughed, took a step back and he let out a long shuddering breath of relief. Dilation is all very well in dreams and that applied to swelling also, but in reality they were dangerous as hell.
‘You’re very droll, sir.’
‘That’s me,’ he muttered.
She moved in close again.
‘You mustn’t lose heart. My father thinks I am a creature of whims, but I am more than that.’
‘I’m sure you’re not less,’ replied the constable, hoping that this made sense.
‘Everything comes to he who waits.’
‘Does it now?’
‘Everything.’
There was a soft pressure against his arm and he didn’t dare look down to see what was causing such, all he knew is that if he had his restrainers to hand he would have slapped them on her.
‘Is this a whim?’ he questioned.
‘What does it feel like?’
Something was caught in his gullet but he couldn’t cough it up, not at this juncture.
There was a thud from upstairs as the study door opened and closed. They both tensed, but the steps crossed over the landing above and then another door opened and shut.
However that was sufficient for Emily; like many a young girl she gloried in her power to bewitch the opposite sex but a father’s footfall broke the spell.
‘You had better leave,’ she remarked primly.
‘The wisest course,’ came the croaky response.
He opened the bedroom door and peered cautiously out before setting off down the corridor; the last thing Mulholland desired to meet was the dumpy maid with the rolling eyes.
As he prepared to slip out of the front door, she called softly after; a little annoyed that he had not paused for a last lingering glance back at her glowing form.
‘Martin?’
‘What is it?’ he hissed; this girl would have him boiled in oil if she didn’t keep her silence.
‘If the worst happens,’ Emily whispered, striking a telling pose, ‘we can always sing duets together.’
‘I’ll have to clear my throat first,’ was the terse retort and with that he disappeared into the night.
27
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him
THOMAS MOORE,
The Minstrel Boy
Dundee, 28 December 1879
The tall gaunt figure was wreathed in the spirals of tobacco smoke, like a mountaintop showing above the mist. He prepared to open his mouth and let rip, Sabbath or not a man had to work. God would understand as he did all things.
This public house down by the waterfront was of the lowest sort, in fact more of a drinking den to which the authorities turned a blind eye since it gathered most of the riff-raff from the city under the one roof and left more respectable places free from their unwanted presence.
Of course the fact that the mill and foundry workers had been forced, after a strike of protest, to accept a cut of 5 per cent in wages and a simultaneous increase of working hours, then, when the strike was broken, many of them being laid off for their pains, might possibly have had some hand in swelling the ranks of destitution and poverty but it had at least brought the working practices into line with England.
That must have been of great comfort to the Scots.
And so aided by the cheapest beer and rough spirit men drowned their sorrows, and watched with glazed eyes while the self-styled Premier Poet of Dundee, William McGonagall, thrust a bony right leg forward and launched into verse.
Ironically the subject matter was ‘The Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay’, which though a source of great pride had also attendant grief, since many of its creators had been rewarded on its completion by the news from Alan Telfer that their services were no longer required.
So it was with mixed feelings but strange courtesy that they fell silent and prepared to hear their exploits praised by this outlandish chronicler, hair lank and greasy to the shoulders under a wide-brimmed hat, a long frock coat which flapped around his ankles, a lean structure of face which more than hinted of the skull beneath, a thin slash of a mouth justifiably turned down at the corners, and eyes deep in their sockets, black and piercing fuelled by his obsession with a treacherous Muse.
The din in the place stilled as he raised one hand to signal declamation. His voice rang like a clarion call to arms for it had been honed at first in the penny gaffs of Dundee then village and city halls, by surmounting catcalls, penny whistles, crawmills, and howls of derision from young hooligans and university students alike.
But these here i
n this tavern were his own folk for he had once been a loom weaver before the Muse struck at his vitals; these in front of him shared in the tradition of the singer and the song.
And so, there was silence as he raised the stout stick he always carried for protection against the Philistines, to signal commencement.
These, the words of his own making. Self-crafted.
‘Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay,
With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array,
And your central girders which seem to the eye
To be almost towering to the sky.
The greatest wonder of the day,
And a great beautification to the River Tay,
Most beautiful to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.’
It was truly the worst poetry one particular listener had ever heard but the misguided intensity of the delivery, grandiose belief in the destiny of fame, and the implausible admiration of McGonagall towards the poetic worth of his own genius, might almost persuade the ear to attend part of a following versification.
‘Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay,
That has caused the Emperor of Brazil to leave
His home far away, incognito in his dress,
And view thee ere he passed along en route for Inverness.’
For James McLevy the second stanza confirmed that the one before was indeed no accident and he withdrew himself into a state of contemplation that he had stumbled upon as a child, when first viewing his own mother’s dead body.
Nothing like a lacerated throat to teach the value of strategic withdrawal.
It was as if he saw the vista before him through a long glass and his gaze passed from face to face, scene to scene like a sharp lens. At the same time a buzzing noise hung in the air that modified all other sounds to a soft background so that the total focus of concentration was in the vision.
He witnessed faces scarred by labour and the lack of it, alcohol firing into the features of the men a spurious sparkle, some animation that to the profit of the publican would need frequent replenishing, then also amongst the crowd a few brightly dressed women with gaudy shawls and hot desperate eyes. Old women huddled in corners, jealously guarding the dregs in their glass, shrinkie-faced, thrawn and gash-mouthed; an appearance that told of life survived but not relished.