Fall From Grace (19 page)

‘Ye can stew in the cells all night and we’ll see how smart you are in the morning,’ he growled running his hands through his hair which was now standing up on end with sheer frustration.

‘The story’ll be the same,’ muttered Dunbar. ‘I left him living.’

‘And I found him dead!’

‘Maybe something happened in between?’ suggested Mulholland somewhat unwisely, his mind having wandered to the daughter of the manse, a fair-haired buxom blue-eyed warbler whose efforts to hit the high notes rendered the confines of her corset somewhat inadequate at times.

‘Nothing happened in between,’ snapped McLevy, glowering at the constable before directing a last malevolent look towards Dunbar.

‘You murdered the man. Pure and simple.’

‘But whit if I didnae?’ Dunbar retorted, having found some kind of courage at the prospect of the cells; at least he wouldn’t have this bastard haunting him and anything could happen in the inspector’s absence.

‘Whit if I didnae?’ he repeated.

McLevy made no response and Dunbar’s words danced in the air like a melody out of tune.

21

Yet still between his Darknesss and his Brightness

There passed a mutual glance of great politeness.

LORD BYRON,
The Vision of Judgment

The inspector closed the door of Bernard Street, the house now lacking a butler, and recalled his last, by no means memorable, rejoinder to Alan Telfer.

‘I’ll see myself out.’

The secretary had inclined his head, a shaft of light from under the study door indicating that Sir Thomas was still hard at work on his design for the Forth Bridge, for which he planned spans of sixteen hundred feet in length, the structure itself like an iron bird of prey swooping one hundred feet above the water.

The Great Man had already answered, admittedly in monosyllables, previous inquiries about the night in question, and was not to be disturbed by further demands.

The inspector had been happy enough to accept that; he found Sir Thomas almost impenetrable, and suspected that the man was pathologically shy and withdrawn, though that could also be the sign of overweening arrogance, internalised to the point where he and God might well be interchangeable.

McLevy knew the feeling well.

That left him with Alan Telfer who, while responding with scrupulous civility, managed to subtly convey this was a complete waste of time for both men.

As regards the night of the murder, the secretary could add nothing more save the reiteration that having worked late into the night, he and Sir Thomas had retired to their respective quarters, Sir Thomas the master bedroom, and himself a small attic room which he occupied when the volume of work and lateness of the hour made it impractical for him to return to his lodgings on the other side of the city.

Both men been roused from their beds in the early morning by the 
maid, who had now also departed their employ, screaming like a banshee. They had subsequently witnessed the dead body of the butler, Archibald Gourlay, had contacted the relevant authorities and McLevy knew the rest.

Sir Thomas, McLevy recalled, had a faint Northern accent courtesy of his native Cumberland, but the secretary’s was untraceable, the words clipped, precise, contained, the face cold and smooth, eyes blue and lidded, the mouth thin. There was a reptilian quality to Alan Telfer and the inspector would not have been surprised if the man’s tongue were two feet long and slightly forked.

When McLevy sprung the name of Dunbar upon the scene, the secretary indeed remembered the man’s Sabbath intrusion.

He confirmed the relevant facts but from an icily opposite point of view.

The man had been sacked deservedly for being drunk and incapable at the workplace, a condition all the more heinous because of his position of responsibility.

Luckily, it being a Sunday when Dunbar hammered upon the door, Sir Thomas had been at the family house in Moffat when the fellow blundered in with his foolish demands; had he by chance disturbed the Great Man at his desk, Telfer would have called the police at once.

‘But you threatened the law upon him, did you not?’ asked McLevy, as they stood in the main salon which so much resembled the waiting room of a railway station, the room where the inspector had first set his eyes upon Margaret Bouch, the dainty wife of Sir Thomas.

‘Eventually,’ was Telfer’s calm rejoinder.

‘Why?’

‘He would not leave.’

‘But then he did?’

‘Eventually. People do leave, eventually.’

A thin smile indicated that McLevy might well be included in this comprehensive statement.

‘Uhuh?’ replied the inspector, unmoved. ‘So you faced him down?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘Were you not afraid for yourself? Hercules Dunbar is a violent man.’

‘Brute force has little effect upon me,’ Telfer said dismissively. Then the secretary frowned as the import of McLevy’s questions rattled up a conclusion in his mind.

‘Is this man Dunbar connected to the burglary?’

‘Could be.’

‘And the murder?’

‘Could be.’

The atmosphere between them changed somewhat, nothing the inspector could put his finger on, but the air suddenly crackled as if some alarm had been sounded.

Or was it just too much coffee? A grateful Mulholland, having been given the rest of the night off, had insisted on treating his inspector to a large mug of the stuff in the Old Ship, the tavern being one of the few where a man might partake of something other than a snifter of alcohol.

Whatever. Both men were now on the alert.

‘Dunbar threatened you in turn, did he not?’ asked McLevy, his eyes fixed directly upon Telfer.

‘He ranted and raved. An empty vessel.’

‘No doubt. But what was the nature of his menace?’

‘I don’t really remember. It was mere … bluster.’

‘Bluster?’ McLevy laughed suddenly. ‘I know it well. But what kind of bluster?’

‘It all passed me by,’ was the uninformative answer.

‘Have you ever heard of Beaumont Egg?’ asked the inspector, echoing Dunbar’s words.

For a moment the secretary was perfectly still, head bowed, as if considering inwardly.

But what was he considering?

Finally Telfer lifted the bland aforementioned visage and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

‘I have heard the term,’ he murmured. ‘But I am afraid I cannot exactly recall the meaning.’

‘I’ll find it out,’ said McLevy. ‘Eventually.’

Another echo of a spoken word and the secretary inclined his head as if to acknowledge the fact. He gazed at McLevy’s impassive countenance if not with a new respect, then at least with recognition that the man was not as bovine in thought as he appeared in body.

In acknowledgement of this, Telfer creased up his eyes in further thought.

‘I believe … it may be a mastic of sorts, a mixture of iron filings but … please do not quote me as authority.’

He smiled though the eyes were lidded and watchful.

‘It is possibly used in the foundry trade but I am not familiar with such elemental matters, Sir Thomas and I involve ourselves with … higher concerns.’

Another glance back at the closed door of the study indicated that unless McLevy had more to say, the exchange was curtailed.

But McLevy did have more to say.

‘Hercules Dunbar mentioned such. He also spoke of a blind eye.’

‘Blind eye?’

‘Being turned.’

The secretary sighed somewhat elaborately, possibly revising his earlier good opinion of the policeman, though McLevy had noticed the fraction of a hesitation before the exhalation of modified impatience.

‘Turned to what, may I ask?’

‘He would not say.’

Telfer had long white fingers; he placed them together as if to form a church and raised them to the tip of his chin. A Cardinal dismissal.

‘I am sorry, inspector, but my time is valuable and my labours many. I doubt if I can help you further.’

So saying he signalled discreetly towards the door that led out into the hall and thence to the street.

The inspector did not budge however.

‘It is my surmise that Dunbar was hinting at some malpractice of sorts, did he mention anything of this to you?’ he asked bluntly.

‘He did not,’ was the clipped response.

‘But if he had,’ persisted McLevy. ‘Would it have struck a chord?’

Alan Telfer stiffened slightly and, for the first time, an edge of anger entered his voice.

‘What is your implication here, sir?’

McLevy was all innocence and honesty.

‘I am merely trying to tease out what Dunbar may have meant. It puzzles me.’

‘If I might suggest, inspector, you would be better employed charging the man with larceny and homicide rather than giving credence to his ignorant allegations.’

The inspector nodded humbly enough but still he stood there like a cow looking over a dyke and this dumb obduracy seemed to provoke Alan Telfer further.

‘The world is full of small men who envy the giants that walk amongst them. They would wish to besmirch their achievements and bring these sublime creators down to their own disgusting cretinous level!’

The words were hissed out and indeed McLevy expected the snakelike tongue to flicker forth at any moment.

‘Sir Thomas is such a giant. It is my privilege to guard him against the jealousy of small minds and the slander of those who cannot bear his genius.’

A hooded darting look left McLevy in no doubt that he was to be numbered amongst the envious pigmies.

Then as suddenly as the storm had blown up, it vanished and Alan Telfer returned to habitual urbanity.

‘I would advise, sir, that you take anything Hercules Dunbar alleges with the proverbial pinch of salt. He is a drunkard, a thief and a murderer.’

‘The murder has yet to be proved,’ said McLevy.

A twist of humour came to the thin lips.

‘Then prove it, inspector. That is your profession.’

In the silence that followed this suggestion, Sir Thomas Bouch’s voice sounded from behind the closed door.

‘Alan? Where are the designs for the south section?’

Telfer’s head went up and for a moment he looked like a dog being called by his master, then he smiled courteously enough at McLevy and gestured once more at the door that led to the hallway and the outside world.

Which is when the inspector remarked, ‘I’ll find my own way out.’

And that is just what the inspector did.

22

The heart is a small thing, but desireth great matters.

It is not sufficient for a kite’s dinner, yet

the whole world is not sufficient for it.

FRANCIS QUARLES,
Emblems

Now he stood in Bernard Street and shivered. Though it was a still night, the cold sea air carried enough salt crystals to sting the skin.

McLevy resolved to walk down to the Leith docks; perhaps he would hazard another mug of coffee at the Old Ship, and while he thus perambulated let some random intuitions flow through his mind.

So, he walked.

That house was full of secrets; they ran to and fro like rats beneath the floorboards.

Telfer had evinced a weird passion in the defence of Sir Thomas, as if they shared the grandeur of creation together, as if he were the keeper of the flame.

Guardian of the other’s soul and reputation.

Like a faithful dog snarling to protect its master.

Against what?

The jealousy of small minds or something more substantially material?

And how far would Telfer proceed to shield Sir Thomas?

What about the blind eye?

Was it not Admiral Nelson who had first turned such a thing at the battle of Copenhagen?

McLevy shook his head at this collection of dog-eared insights and moved towards the practical.

In the morning he would squeeze the truth from Hercules Dunbar if he had to stretch him on the rack.

But what of the inspector’s own secret? While he was engaged with Telfer, was a part of his attention not casting round for other movement in the house?

Dainty feet a’ tapping.

The dancing lady to his hardy tin soldier.