Fall From Grace (22 page)

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 out 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?

In one thing the fellow was correct, for Emily’s sake he must talk to her father. Robert Forbes was the man.

‘I will be back in the before long,’ he threatened.

‘And I shall be waiting,’ was the calm response.

And so having already made one wrong decision, the constable compounded his error and departed.

Garvie took a deep breath and held it until he heard the front door slam safely shut.

He slowly then replaced the poker; if necessary he would have felled the constable where he stood, but the bluff had worked.

Not many had this past year; the cards had treated him unkindly, however thank God for the blindness of love, which could always be exploited by the sly man.

He had little time to waste.

All their plans were in ruins but something might yet be retrieved.

He would send word by messenger.

It all depended upon his cunning little vixen.

24

But, children, you should never let

Such angry passions rise;

Your little hands were never made

To tear each other’s eyes.

ISAAC WATTS,
Divine Songs for Children

Jean Brash slipped in at the back door of the Just Land to find her bawdy-hoose in a state of chaos.

Screams and vituperations rent the air coming from the direction of the main salon while two farmers from Dumfries, the only clientele of the night so far, but indicative of many more to come since the cattle show at Market Place had not long finished, stood uncertainly in the mirrored hall where they had been abruptly abandoned by big Annie Drummond who had opened the front entrance to admit them.

Jean flashed the Dumfries men a reassuring smile as she shot past and in through the salon door.

There were more high-pitched squeals and one of the farmers shook his head at the other.

‘Like pigs wi’ their throats cut, eh?’

A solemn agreement was nodded, but both men knew the value of patience, they had endured many storms and rough weather together and at least here they were indoors.

So they waited and tried not to look at their reflection, lest someone stare back that they did not recognise.

The Satyrs of Dumfries. Transformed by lustful opportunity.

Rachel Bryden observed them from upstairs. She had emerged from Jean’s boudoir, dressed for outdoors, with a small travelling bag in her hand and some of the words from a note, delivered by hand not long ago, running through her mind.

We are discovered. Grab what you can and run
.

That is precisely what she had done and was about to do, taking advantage of the heaven-sent diversion from the salon. The sight of Jean Brash below had sent a shaft of fear through her belly but luckily the woman had been distracted by the altercation.

It was said Jean Brash had killed a man and once she found out what Rachel had been accomplice to, there would be no more favourites played. It would be a hard vengeance; the traditional punishment for a whore who betrayed and broke the rules of a bawdy-hoose, was to be tarred and feathered; head shaved, pitch poured over, a cushion of feathers cut open then shaken out to add in the mix and after all that, the miscreant dumped on a tramp ship to be kicked off at the first port of call.