Fall From Grace (21 page)

Any intimacy was long gone and they would have strode thus in a frozen mutual disdain all the way home, had it not been for an unexpected event.

A giant of a man stepped out from the shadows and confronted them.

Patrick Scullion: a bad sailor, just thrown off his ship for insubordination and general malingering. He had been drowning his sorrows in a low dive of a tavern and was in a most foul temper at what he regarded as the dirty tricks of a dirty life.

This was a soft mark, he thought. A respectable couple out of place in such an isolated, run-down area of the harbourage, the woman tiny, and the man no great menace of a figure with a low-brimmed bowler, bulky and slow moving.

Easy meat for a giant.

He let out a roar and the whisky fumes from his rancid mouth caused Margaret to flinch back, which he mistook for fear whereas it was merely the result of a keen sense of smell.

Patrick reached out and with one huge hand took the man by the lapels of his coat.

‘I’ll have yer money, my darlin’ gentry,’ he growled. ‘Or that pretty little wife will see your face crushed and broken and the blood like a fountain.’

This threat provoked a strange response.

‘She is not my wife,’ said the bulky man.

At that moment the crescent moon, perhaps not wishing to be called as witness in court, hid behind a cloud.

As the light changed and the giant’s eyes took a moment to readjust, two things happened.

Margaret put up a hand as if to steady her bonnet and McLevy exploded into savage action.

Hit them first and hit them hard.

The inspector’s boot thudded in between Patrick’s legs like a Bolt of Retribution and almost in the same movement, as the man keeled over in the most profound agony, McLevy turned away as if to shield himself from a retaliatory blow and swept back his elbow into the man’s face.

Patrick was then brought up to the straight and narrow by the same elbow once more smashing upwards, jerking his head back so that he looked for a moment into the slate-grey expressionless eyes before another hammer blow, this time with the fist into a belly full of cheap whisky, brought him retching on to his hands and knees.

McLevy whipped out a set of handcuffs, quickly and efficiently manacled the giant’s hands behind his back, and then stood away to scrutinise his handiwork.

When he looked over at Margaret, her mouth was slightly parted, and for a moment the tip of a tongue passed lightly over her lips.

‘You are a man of violence,’ she observed.

‘It’s never far away,’ was the reply.

She smiled and cast her eyes over the groaning ogre, apparently unperturbed at what she had witnessed.

‘I am reminded of a saying from Ephesians, “We are all children of Wrath.”’

‘Uhuh,’ said McLevy. ‘We get it from God.’

Margaret laughed then turned to walk away at pace, leaving him caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

‘I cannot haul this behemoth and keep up with you,’ he protested.

She swivelled and for a moment rested her heel on the ground so that one toe pointed up into the air.

‘I am perfectly capable of my own safe conduct.’

Margaret put her hand up to the bonnet once more and drew out a lethal-looking hatpin, at least five inches long.

‘This would have gone into his eye,’ she declared.

‘What about the other eye?’

She made a fencing motion with the hatpin to indicate a skewering of the second orb, replaced the implement with a flourish in her bonnet, and then marched off towards home and hearth.

As she did so, the moon appeared through the clouds directly in front of her vision. She lifted her head to the sky and emitted a soft howl.

Like a wolf. And then she was gone.

McLevy also lifted his head, but he did not howl for fear of enchantment.

He was even less enchanted when he lugged the giant sailor into the station a half-hour later, only to find that there had been a breakout from the cells.

This was not good.

Lieutenant Roach had been summoned from a Handel concert, which was no great loss to him since the number of notes made his head dizzy, and lurked remonstratively at the station desk along with a strangely, but a little late in the day, alert Sergeant Murdoch.

Mulholland, having worshipped in song God and the buxom blue-eyed daughter of the manse, had been intercepted on his way home and already taken out a body of men to scour the streets.

The circumstances, with which the good lieutenant was eager to acquaint his inspector, were as follows.

Constable Ballantyne, the station being quiet, had visited the cells to give Hercules Dunbar his supper, a tin can of kale broth to be passed through the bars.

He found the man convulsed upon the floor, slavering, apparently in the grip of some noxious seizure.

A kind heart can get ripped to pieces in this harsh world.

Ballantyne quickly unlocked the cell door and leant over the poor suffering soul. The man was face down on the floor but as the constable turned him over as gently as possible, the fellow made a miraculous recovery and hauled the young man over so violently that his shoulder snapped, then crashed four or five blows into him.

While Ballantyne lay semi-conscious, a piece of torn blanket was stuffed in his mouth and another savage blow rendered him sufficiently comatose to take no further part in proceedings.

Which were that Hercules Dunbar, taking advantage of the fact that the night shift had just changed over so the station was empty except for Sergeant Murdoch dozing over the evening newspaper, slipped away and vanished into the darkness of night.

Mulholland, who had assumed the mantle of the man of the moment as Roach took great pleasure in telling the aggrieved inspector, was directing pursuit through the nooks and crannies of Leith and would no doubt return triumphant.

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.