The Unbelievers

by Alastair Sim

  Arthur stood up and paced the room. He strode over to the little table and put his hand on the stopper of the sherry decanter. Deciding not to pour himself a drink he turned back to face the policemen.

  “Inspector,” he said, “I appreciate your discretion, but I judge it appropriate that what I have to tell you should only be shared between gentlemen.” He motioned towards the sergeant, who glanced at Allerdyce.

  “I should prefer it strongly if you permit the sergeant to stay,” said Allerdyce.

  “Very well, then.”

  Arthur linked his hands behind his back and looked out the window for an instant, where the great bare branches of the parkland’s oaks and elms stood motionless in the cold winter’s day. He turned his attention back to his visitors.

  “My brother is not a good man,” he said. “It is a profound grief to me – both personally and professionally – that I have been unable to persuade him to adopt a Christian mode of life.

  “Obviously, I grieve for his own soul. If he had shown the slightest signs of regeneration I could believe that my prayers for his salvation were having some effect. But, as it is, I have no such grounds for hope and I have become increasingly resigned to the expectation that my brother has irrevocably shut his heart against Our Saviour, and has consigned himself to the flames of eternal torment.

  “I must also confess to grief – and, I freely admit – anger that my brother has not treated the Duchess with the consideration she deserves. Their marriage brought together the two branches of my family which were thrust asunder for four generations, but William has behaved towards her as if the estrangement still continued. He has spoken of Josephine most insultingly in front of strangers, and she has confided to me the cruel mistreatment which she has suffered from him in private.”

  “Most unfortunate, sir,” said Allerdyce. “And may I ask how this relates to his disappearance?”

  Arthur wrung his hands. As he did so, he imagined himself crushing a tiny figure of his accursed brother between them.

  “William has often boasted to me, with no consideration to my holy office, about his exploits in Edinburgh. From time to time – not infrequently – he will creep out of Dalcorn House by the servants’ entrance in the dead of night and walk across country to Dalcorn Station, whence a late train can bring him to Edinburgh in half an hour. Once there he can spend his time and money in gambling, dog-fighting and whoring until he returns to his concerned wife under cover of darkness the next night, with some incredible story about how confidential business had necessitated his absence.”

  “Very concerning, sir,” said Allerdyce. “And would you be able to offer us any specific indication of the establishments His Grace has frequented?”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but my brother did not confide those details to me or, if he did, I am unable to recall them specifically.”

  “I see.” Allerdyce folded his notebook up and put it back in his pocket. “Trust me, sir, the information which you have been able to give us is most helpful. I don’t think we need trouble you any further at this stage.” The Inspector stood, and the sergeant followed his lead.

  Arthur crossed the room to the bellcord and pulled it again.

  “Tell me,” he said, “are you concerned for my brother’s safety?”

  “At the moment we are only making routine enquiries, sir. I think it is far too early to make any gloomy suppositions.”

  “I’m most reassured to hear that, Inspector.”

  The servant opened the door again. Arthur shook hands with Allerdyce and accepted McGillivray’s bow before they were ushered out and the door closed. Left alone in silence, except for the gentle crackling of the fire, he went back over to the table and poured himself a glass of sherry, his hand shaking as he did so.

  If William was missing he must have come to harm in one of the debauched fleshpots he visited. He could be lying, injured, in a gutter somewhere. Or he could be dead.

  God forgive me, he thought, turning back and looking into the leaping and twining flames. There is part of me that would rejoice at my brother’s death, if only for Josephine’s sake. She could be free of his cruelty, and I could more effectively be her rod and her staff as she walked along the hard roads of her earthly pilgrimage.

  He knocked back a large mouthful of sherry. The alcohol made him feel warmer, and more resolute.

  In my heart, he thought, I have become Cain.

  Chapter 4

  The fly stood on the gravel outside the manse, the horse stamping impatiently and snorting clouds of steam into the cold air.

  “It’s a fine day,” said Allerdyce. “I should prefer to walk round to Dalcorn House if that’s convenient to you. It’s only half a mile.”

  “I should prefer that too, sir,” said the sergeant.

  Allerdyce walked over to the fly’s driver.

  “Wait for us at Dalcorn House, will you? I don’t anticipate a long visit.”

  The driver whipped the horse’s back with the reins and the fly pulled off, the gravel crunching under its narrow wheels. Allerdyce pulled his pipe out of his pocket, lit it, and tossed the lucifer onto the ground. He took a deep draw on the pipe to get it started before addressing the sergeant.

  “So, what is your estimation of the Reverend Arthur Bothwell-Scott?”

  “He appears to be a very pious gentleman.”

  “He’s a fool, Sergeant, a fool.”

  “Rather a harsh judgement, sir?”

  “Not at all. It’s an immutable law of nature. Our friends the Bothwell-Scotts are merely the incarnation of a general principle. Send the bully into the army, the supposed intellectual into the law, and the runt into the church. The good reverend fits the model perfectly.”

  They walked on. Allerdyce heard the military crunch-crunch of his companion’s footsteps on the gravel beside his own lighter, faster tread. It was a relief to have a sergeant again, after Baird had been dismissed a month ago. It was insane that Baird had been dismissed. He was a good policeman, with a keen sympathy with the criminal mind. It was mad to sack him for being caught, off duty, drinking with known criminals. Any decent policeman knew he often enough had to rely on rogues for evidence against other rogues, but when Baird had been reported to the Chief Constable he’d been dismissed on the spot.

  Allerdyce told himself he’d done what he could for Baird. He’d appealed to Burgess, who was sympathetic but said he couldn’t overturn the Chief’s decision. He’d then broken the rules by writing a direct appeal to the Chief Constable, but the Chief had refused to see him and merely sent a note back saying that he expected the highest standards of moral conduct from his officers, without exception. So, Baird was dismissed, without compensation or pension. The money which Allerdyce had anonymously given Baird’s family wouldn’t sustain them for long, and he feared for them. It was difficult enough for a dismissed policeman to find employment, and there would be criminals out there waiting to take their revenge. Besides, Baird was a bad loss as a sergeant, and only time would tell whether McGillivray was a fit replacement. He cursed the Chief for a holy fool, throwing good policemen onto the streets and wasting detective time on tracking down a straying aristocratic husband. He cursed himself for being unable to save Baird.

  The lane was overarched by the boughs of the great elms which had been planted at either side, their bare branches meeting high above like the vaulting of a cathedral. Above the noise of their footsteps Allerdyce could hear the high-pitched conversations of blackbirds and starlings. Through his pipesmoke he could smell the freshness of the mulching leaves, still a thick carpet which had lain beneath the trees since autumn and was gradually reverting to soil. One thing no-one could yet explain was why, despite its blind cruelties, the living world appeared so beautiful. He’d buried any last vestiges of faith when he’d lain Helen’s body in the indifferent earth, but it was still hard to discard the superstitious feeling that nature was fashioned by some spiritual force of beauty and proportion. Either it was an entire
ly irrational reaction, or it belonged to some form of rationality as yet undiscovered.

  They turned a corner in the lane, and a perfect pastoral vista opened up across open parkland, dotted with the occasional oak or elm, on which a small herd of Highland cattle grazed. To their left stood the pilastered bulk of Dalcorn House. Falling gently from left to right, bisecting the parkland, ran the white stone-chips of the great drive, down to the vast wrought-iron gates, topped with the Ducal arms, which stood open beside the little classical lodge-house. Beyond the drive, the lush grassland fell away towards a great enclosure wall, and beyond that the water of the Firth of Forth shone bright in the winter sunlight.

  “This was once a village,” said Allerdyce.

  “Really, sir?”

  “Yes, until about eighty years ago. I’ve been reading up about our wandering Duke’s family history. Dalcorn House used to be oriented to face west, but when it was remodelled by a previous Duke he wanted the house to create the maximum effect on visitors approaching from Edinburgh, so he put the front at the east side and had the village demolished because it spoiled the view.”

  “Very consistent, sir.”

  “What’s that, Sergeant?”

  “Very consistent. I have some family connections with the Duke of Dornoch’s estates in Sutherland. Quite a number of villages have been cleared away in my own lifetime, whether or not they were unpleasing to His Grace’s eye.”

  “Of course, Sergeant, of course.”

  “Only, sir, His Grace’s agents have created a different sort of park in Sutherland. You won’t see cattle like this often on His Lordship’s land. Practically the entire county is now one great sheep-walk.”

  “Most interesting.”

  Allerdyce looked at the tall sergeant, but could see no trace of resentment, or even of feeling, in his face. He looked like the simple personification of Duty. Allerdyce wondered, though, what stories of affliction might lie beneath the Highlander’s impassiveness.

  They reached the main drive and turned left, towards the great house. Allerdyce could read its history in its stone. At the centre, wide steps led up to great glass doors which were set into a Palladian front of pilasters and pediment. Above the triangular pediment, the careful viewer could make out some rougher stonework below the balustrade, perhaps remnants of the fortified towerhouse which had stood here for centuries before the Bothwell-Scotts had achieved their full notoriety and wealth.

  To either side of the central block, a small wing had been added, two windows wide and three high, in the restrained style of Queen Anne.

  Every newer feature of the house spoke of an explosion of power and wealth. The wings had been extended mightily, and a colonnade erected in front of them. At each end the colonnade turned sharply, grasping beyond the frontage of the house to give covered passage to two matching structures which sat to the left and right of the main building, slightly detached from its bulk. The vast windows of the building on the left hand side, stretching from the ground to the carved frieze below the roof, showed it to be the ballroom. A belltower sat in the middle of the ballroom’s roof. Its partner on the right had tall black wooden doors in place of windows, and a ventilator set into the roof. It had to be the carriage house. Behind it, black smoke rose from a tall stone chimney – a furnace-house had obviously been installed to ensure that, whatever depths winter might sink to, His Grace need never fear the cold.

  They strode up the drive towards the steps.

  “Should we look for the side entrance?” asked McGillivray.

  “Certainly not, Sergeant. We are the equal of any man and we bear the Queen’s warrant.”

  They mounted the steps. Allerdyce went ahead of McGillivray. He tapped his pipe against the stonework to knock the embers out and pulled the bronze bell-pull.

  They had waited at least three minutes, and Allerdyce was about to pull again, when a liveried footman, in eighteenth-century knee-breeches and bumble-bee striped waistcoat, opened the door.

  “I regret that His Lordship is not at home,” said the servant.

  “I am aware of that,” said Allerdyce.

  “Her Ladyship is also unable to receive visitors.”

  “I have already spoken with the Duchess this morning. I would like to speak to His Grace’s valet.”

  The servant narrowed his eyes, standing to block their passage through the door.

  “Who may I say is calling and on what business?”

  Allerdyce stuck his hand between the buttons of his coat and pulled out his warrant card from the inside pocket of his jacket. He showed it to the footman, who stepped back to let them pass.

  They found themselves in a vast marble-floored entrance hall. To their left and right, double doors of darkly-polished wood, over twelve feet tall as if social status made the Ducal family into physical giants, stood closed. Ahead of them, a red-carpeted staircase, at least twenty foot wide, swept up to the marble-balustraded gallery which surrounded the hall at first-floor level. Spaced evenly around the walls of the entrance hall, white busts of all the previous Dukes of Dornoch stood on top of six-foot pillars, looking down on anyone who had the presumption to enter the great house.

  The footman led them through the double doors to the left, and into an enormous sitting-room. Allerdyce looked around. It must have been a good eighty feet long, the floor covered by a Persian rug except for a strip of polished wood by the windows, to let servants pass through the room without wearing the carpet. The huge fireplace was dark, and the great iron radiators which were interspersed along the window side of the room could not fully dispel the chill. The crimson silk of the wallpaper was punctuated by paintings and by a great gilded mirror above the fireplace. Easy-chairs were loosely grouped round little rosewood tables.

  Allerdyce whistled through his teeth as he took in the range of artwork in the room. It bettered – substantially – the quality of the collection in the new National Gallery in Edinburgh. It was the most astonishing collection of paintings he had ever seen gathered in one place. Whenever his eye caught one painting it was distracted by the sight of something even more exciting or valuable in the periphery of his vision.

  The footman interrupted his musings.

  “I shall fetch Warner down directly.”

  “Thank you.”

  The servant left, and Allerdyce decided to take a more systematic look at the pictures, starting beside the fireplace. The sergeant followed him.

  “Look at this, Sergeant,” he said, pointing to a portrait of a seated man with an extravagantly long powdered wig, which ran down to rest on the shoulders of a polished silver breastplate. A blue sash crossed the breastplate, and the man rested one hand on the head of a hunting dog which looked loyally up to him, while the other held a charter bound with red silk. Behind him, golden sunlight reflected on the sea and illuminated distant mountains. A small temple stood in one corner of the background, within which stood the shadowy figure of a boy holding a bow and arrow.

  “Very handsome, sir.”

  “Do you think so? I think the artist has captured rather well the essential crudeness of the face.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “Anyway, what’s significant here is the story it tells. You’re looking at James, First Duke of Dornoch. He’s been painted by Sir Peter Lely, who also painted King Charles II’s portrait. The statue of Cupid in the background must refer to the Duke’s willingness to allow his wife to be one of the King’s mistresses. The charter he’s holding, and the hills behind him, represent the Ducal title and the lands the King granted him in return. Until then, he’d had to make do with a Marquisate.”

  “It’s a story we’re familiar with in the North,” said McGillivray. “Where I grew up in Sutherland the Duke and his family were known as iarmad dhe adhaltrannas – the children of cuckoldom.”

  Again, Allerdyce cast a sideways glance at the sergeant, who seemed to know more about the Bothwell-Scotts than one might expect.

  He continued on to a
picture three places to the right. A Madonna, her complexion pallid against the rose-pink and cobalt-blue of her robes, knelt to adore the chubby baby lying on a bed of herbs in front of her. The Madonna’s face had the very slightest smile, which suggested coquettery more than prayerful bliss. Allerdyce looked at the plaque on the picture’s gilded frame.

  “Amazing.”

  “Sir?”

  “The only Botticelli in Scotland. Priceless beyond measure.”

  “Can’t say it’s my taste, sir.”

  “Sergeant, we are looking at the one finest examples of Renaissance painting, here in this very room.”

  McGillivray moved on behind the Inspector, and stopped at another painting.

  “I find this one more interesting, sir.”

  The painting showed a sheepdog standing on a shingle beach, looking down a sea-loch between steep hills as a sailing ship was silhouetted on the horizon.

  “Mmm, Landseer,” said Allerdyce. Very fashionable.”

  “There’s truth in the picture, sir. When my oldest brother left with his family for Canada they couldn’t afford the extra shillings for the dog, so she was left to fend for herself.”

  The sergeant’s face was still impassive, but Allerdyce glimpsed through his words the tragedy of a family cleared off the land they’d held for generations and expelled to a foreign country. It was a story that had touched countless Highland families over the decades, but he knew it must have been harsh for every one of them.

  The double door opened again and the footman who had admitted the policemen came in, followed by a sallow-complexioned man, only a little over five foot tall, dressed in a simple black suit with a white winged-collared shirt and a black tie. His face was as colourless as the Madonna’s.

  “Warner, sir, His Grace’s valet, as you requested,” said the footman.

  “Thank you.”

  The footman showed no sign of moving.

  “You may leave us now. I should prefer to interview Mr Warner in private.”

  The footman nodded and left the room, pulling the doors shut.