by David Ashton
McLevy pursed his lips and nodded as if impressed by this judicious reprimand, then offered a response.
‘Respectability aye strikes me as to resemble an overcoat. When you’re cold you wear it all the time and when the heat takes you? It is left at home. On the peg.’
The mask of buffoonery was cast aside and, in its place, a cold implacable stare informed Garvie that the man before him was not impressed by rank or station.
But the importer, while possessed as his enemies might attest of many faults, did not lack nerve.
‘I have suffered great loss and grievous financial damage,’ he said evenly. ‘All I seek is justice.’
For a moment McLevy looked intently into the face opposite and seemed to find something there, which brought a bleak smile to his face.
‘That’s my speciality,’ he replied. ‘High or low, rich or poor, I’ll bring it down on you.’
This sounded more like a threat than a guarantee but Garvie held the inspector’s gaze.
‘What are your conclusions, so far?’ he asked.
‘Fire is the very devil.’
A response that held a wealth of implication, and, depending upon your conscience, could provoke a variety of reaction.
Oliver Garvie loved the gaming tables and could bluff with the best of them. He produced a rueful smile.
‘It does tend to burn the fingers,’ he said.
Mulholland had been watching this rally with close interest. Whether the inspector was taking the constable’s side, was, as usual, difficult to fathom, but McLevy had a secret up his sleeve. After all this time, trailing the man in and out of scrapes that would try the patience of Saint Peter, from low disgusting taverns to the high treacherous reaches, he could recognise the signs. The inspector was up to something.
Then his attention shifted and his heart jumped. Could this be possible? And if so, was Fate dealing a card from above or below the deck?
9
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON,
Maud
A figure had appeared at the open door of the warehouse, silhouetted in the frame by the cold November light. The man wore a top hat, with a stout cane to hand and in his other he held a small case.
His whole being radiated a flinty moral probity, the unmistakable embodiment of Presbyterian rectitude.
Robert Forbes. Father of Emily. Here in official capacity no doubt as an insurance adjuster, but holding within that stiff demeanour the capacity to let Mulholland soar like an eagle with hopes high and an eye for the main chance, or crunch him under-foot like a snail.
The constable slithered up behind McLevy but just before he could whisper his tidings, Robert Forbes’ voice rang out in the comparative silence of the warehouse.
‘What are these men doing here?’
For a moment Mulholland thought Forbes referred to the inspector and himself and, despite the desperate dictates of love, bristled a little. They were policemen. There was a dead body. They belonged together like liver and bacon.
Then he realised that Forbes was aiming his remark at the workmen who were, in a somewhat desultory fashion, heaping some of the burnt timber up against the wall.
For the first time, Oliver Garvie appeared to lose a portion of composure.
‘Mister Forbes. I had no idea, sir.’
‘No idea of what, sir?’
‘That you might come in person.’
Robert Forbes walked into the warehouse and moved towards them, the small black case held firmly in front of him like a buffer against the negligence of chance.
He had obviously registered the presence of the policemen but concentrated his gaze upon Garvie. When he spoke it was in low measured tones, but there was a nip of remonstrance in the air.
‘These men must cease their labour at once,’ he said.
Garvie waved over to the workmen who were only too glad to call a halt and await the outcome arising from the deliberation of their betters.
The insurance adjuster gave the floor of the warehouse a swift appraising glance then shook a stern head.
‘Interfering with evidential artefacts can affect the outcome of a claim, Mister Garvie. I assume, since your policy is with the Providential, that you will be making such a demand?’
‘Unfortunately, I fear that is so,’ replied the bold Oliver, seeming to perspire a little.
‘Then you would have done better to ensure that nothing was remotely disturbed until the arrival of an inspecting authority.’
‘My thought entirely!’ boomed McLevy.
Forbes favoured the inspector with the briefest of nods then fixed his gimlet-eyed stare once more upon Garvie who realised that some explanation might be in order.
‘There was fear of a secondary fire and, of course, I wished to find out if any of my goods were recoverable, but it was hopeless.’
He raised his arms disconsolately, and then let them fall to his side.
‘All gone. Up in smoke.’
‘I understand your motive, sir,’ said Forbes dryly, ‘but the outcome is to be deplored. However the damage is already done, let us hope it is not irreparable.’
Although Mulholland was gloating inwardly at the apparent discomfiture of Oliver Garvie, he was also conscious of the fact that one day he might also be standing before Forbes to make a claim. Not a prospect to be relished, judging by the acerbic manner of the adjuster.
Perhaps Forbes would be easier over a daughter’s hand, or perhaps, as the constable feared to be the more likely outcome, the man would be a damned sight harder.
Robert Forbes had remarked a small ledge where he might carefully lay his case and, while doing so, issued further instruction.
‘If you would be so kind, Mister Garvie, to inform your workmen that nothing is to be further tampered with until I have finished examination, I should be obliged.’
‘At once!’ cried Garvie. ‘I shall effect it so.’
‘And, sir?’
This interjection stopped Garvie somewhat comically in mid-stride.
‘I shall require you to deliver to my office all contracts, bills of landing and any other papers which appertain to, and confirm, the financial cost and certified quality of the imported cargo.’
‘Rest assured,’ was the firm reply, ‘the matter will be dealt with, as soon as I have a moment.’
As Garvie strode off to do as he was bid, glad, by the look of it, to get out of range, Forbes opened his case.
It contained different-sized tweezers, and various other instruments for taking samples from the ashes.
There were also some sealed jars for storage, and a large magnifying glass wrapped in a white cloth, strapped into the lid of the case.
As he gazed down at the assembly, Forbes became aware of a presence at his elbow.
‘Aye now, Robert,’ said McLevy peering in also. ‘I had no idea the adjusting was so scientific.’
In fact the inspector took good care to keep himself up to date with all the latest twists and turns of forensic investigation from published science papers to the various tomes he found in the medical bookshops, but preferred to hide his analytic light under a bushel. The simpler folk thought him, the better.
‘All part of the process,’ said Forbes who knew McLevy of old and was not remotely taken in. ‘How are you, James?’
‘Still upright.’
Forbes nodded solemnly. ‘I can see that.’
‘How about yourself?’ asked the inspector.
‘I live to serve.’
This brief assertion made, he frowned as for the first time his eyes fell upon the charred cadaver.
‘Is that a body?’
‘It is indeed,’ said McLevy. ‘But don’t trouble yourself, I doubt he had a policy with your company.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
There was obviousl
y some history and a measure of respect between the two men about which Mulholland, who was loitering on the periphery of this exchange, made a note to quiz the inspector further, when opportunity arose.
McLevy smiled, though his eyes, as always, were watchful.
‘I had not realised you were still in the field, Robert. I thought you nowadays to be a worshipful commander from the confines of the office desk, like my own esteemed Lieutenant Roach. Let others do the dirty work, eh?’
The response was somewhat elliptical.
‘Mister Garvie is highly regarded in business circles, a young man of entrepreneurial vigour, respected by his peers –’
Forbes broke off here as an audible sniff from Mulholland brought his attention momentarily to the constable. He waited but Mulholland had no more to offer, other than an attempt to resemble trustworthy son-in-law material, and pull his wrists back into his sleeves.
The adjuster therefore continued.
‘But this will be a considerable claim. Best investigated by myself.’
‘Ye don’t trust your underlings, Robert?’
‘I run the department, inspector. I’ll take the accountability.’
‘I’m sure you’ll do a better job than any other man, sir,’ Mulholland suddenly volunteered.
‘That would be boastful. I’ll do the best I can.’
During this exchange, the eyes of Forbes had kept flicking back to the tarry, blackened corpse that crouched like some sort of Caliban, near to their feet.
He registered McLevy’s thoughtful gaze, and smiled somewhat thinly.
‘What is your opinion of this unfortunate event, inspector?’
Mulholland, eager to display his previous forensic interpretations, butted in like a horned goat.
‘It looks like a break-in and incidental arson, sir.’
‘What do you think, James?’ repeated Forbes as if the constable’s words had vanished into the ether.
‘It has that appearance, Robert,’ said McLevy slowly. ‘But appearances can be deceitful.’
And that was it for the nonce.
They left the adjuster to his appointed task and, having poked amid the burnt offerings to no more avail, departed with a warning from McLevy to all and sundry, that nothing of or near the corpse was to be disturbed in any way until the police waggon arrived to convey the body back to the station where it would lie upon the cold slab to await further examination. The remnants of the hammer and fused fragments would also be collected in an evidence bag after Forbes had examined them.
Both policemen were silent for very different reasons as they emerged from the warehouse on to Commercial Street to witness the old docks spreading out before them in an untidy tangle of ropes and tackle. Boats, all shapes and sizes, jostled each other as they lay at anchor, while now and then could be seen the stumpy figure of an old seaman, sucking inevitably at a clay pipe as he stood on the deck to survey his world.
For a moment the air was still, then a misty rain came swirling in to make ghosts out of the larger steamers and sailing ships as they waited patiently in harbour.
At distance could be heard the noise of the steam navvie, a machine capable of doing the labour of eighty men, as it dug up and inwards, to aid the construction work on the walls of the Edinburgh Dock, due to be opened in the next year. This dock would dwarf all the other basins and advance Leith to a high position amongst the seaports of the United Kingdom.
The building stone itself was from the Craigmillar quarry not far from the capital, the masonry 900,000 cubic feet, the cost of the whole project estimated to be in excess of £400,000, and the whole fandangle fairly shrieked prosperity.
A new, vibrant prosperity.
McLevy, however, preferred the old docks, with their creaking timbers and skulking rats.
You always knew where you were with a rat.
More and more he was finding that in place of the street crime, the pimps, whores, delvers and skylighters who used to flow through Leith like the blood did his veins, he was now dealing with the perfidy of the respectable classes.
Sleekit pouches. Hidden and devious; like the pox behind a welcoming smile from a nymph of the pavé.
Doctor Jarvis, the police surgeon, would be summoned to the cold slab and, if it were after lunch, breathing claret fumes all over the corpse, would hopefully confirm what McLevy had already spotted. Till then, the inspector, as was his proven custom, would keep his powder dry.
Therefore he was silent.
Mulholland, however, was chewing the bitter cud of jealous indignation.
As he had marched over to Garvie to deliver the inspector’s demands as regards the non-disarrangement of corpses and then turned to go, he had most definitely heard a snort of laughter behind his back. He treated the noise with the contempt it deserved for a moment, but then another snigger cracked his good intentions and he whipped round.
All the workmen had broad grins on their faces and Garvie wasn’t even looking in his direction but seemed to be examining the back of his hand.
What had been going on? Why had the men been laughing? Why was Oliver Garvie admiring the half-moons of his nails?
‘What a pompous ass!’ he burst out.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ said McLevy as he bent down to pick up a flat stone and send it skimming over the scummy placid waters of the old docks.
‘Eh?’
The stone skipped a number of times and then sank into the depths of the sea.
‘A sixer!’ McLevy almost hopped in the air with childlike satisfaction. ‘That’s a good omen.’
‘Omen?’
The inspector suddenly changed countenance and stuck his face fiercely into that of his constable.
‘What’s the matter between you and Garvie anyway? Like twa dogs slavering over a gammon bone.’
‘My Emily is not a gammon bone,’ replied Mulholland stiffly.
McLevy was now well aware of what was going on behind his back but he played daft.
‘Emily Forbes?’
‘You have seen us together, inspector.’
‘Only some months ago, through the gates of the Just Land.’
‘Indeed. A house of ill repute. And you, bawling out like a man possessed.’
‘I was trying to attract your attention.’
‘You terrified my Emily. And I had the devil’s own job explaining what you were doing there.’
‘I was drinking coffee wi’ Jean Brash,’ said McLevy, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘So. Garvie. Oho. A rival, eh?’
‘I believe he has paid court.’
‘For God’s sake,’ roared McLevy changing to sudden fury. ‘This is a criminal investigation not the pangs of jealous love!’
He shook his finger under the long straight nose of his constable.
‘And you are not young Lochinvar! Get a hold on yourself.’
With that, he stomped off in the direction of the Tolbooth Wynd for his stomach had reminded him of a missed breakfast, and all these funerals and burnt bodies gave a man the most terrible appetite.
With a bit of luck, he would find at the Old Ship, his favourite tavern and the place where poor Archibald Gourlay had spent his last night on earth almost a year ago – and there’s another dead body – a drappit egg or two. McLevy did not believe in heavy daytime provender and this produce of the hen poached in the gravy made from the fowl’s own liver, would sustain his vital forces without a sluggish aftermath.
Mulholland on the other hand, now loping beside him he noticed from the corner of his eye, swore blind by sheep’s head broth, but the constable was young enough to take such a hodgepodge in his stride.
‘How comes it, sir,’ said Mulholland, paying not the slightest heed to the previous wise advice, a mark of amatory obsession through the ages, ‘that you and Robert Forbes are so well acquainted?’
‘I told ye once before.’
‘Tell me again. You were in a terrible fury at the time and I more concentrated on avoiding the spittl
e.’
The inspector stopped dead. Now and again, Mulholland could surprise him. The constable was correct. McLevy had been removed from a case because of the trifling matter of him trying to pin a murder on the next prime minister of Great Britain.
Prime ministers may start wars but they rarely admit to murder. It turned out that McLevy may have been slightly mistaken but, in any case, he had taken his bad temper out on his subordinate.
‘I was not in a fury. And you were sookin’ up to Lieutenant Roach at the time to gain his approval. Just the same as you are now. Sook, sook.’
However, the young man was not to be distracted.
‘Tell me again, please.’
‘Agghh!’
McLevy turned abruptly and marched towards the Tolbooth Wynd, noticing with a jaundiced eye that the work of dismantling the old wynds, the narrow closes, lanes and small cramped courts that had bred many a decent criminal, was proceeding apace.
‘Robert Forbes was like me one time. In the field,’ he muttered, eyes casting around for another flat stone. ‘We had a few capers thegither.’
‘I note that he addressed you as James?’
‘I was that tae him and he was Robert to me. One swindle wi’ bonded whisky, we broke it and then we danced a jig upon the tavern tables.’
‘Difficult to imagine, sir.’
‘He was in the ranks then. A changed man now, who looks not back whence he cameth.’
McLevy gave up on the stone. The Old Ship beckoned in the distance and he could smell the gravy. He almost broke into a trot, a rare event for him and Mulholland lengthened stride to keep pace.
‘D’you want me to put in a word?’ the inspector asked, puffing slightly.
‘No thanks,’ came the hasty response.
‘Why not?’
‘I already have sufficient representation.’
‘Who might that be?’
McLevy’s eyes were wide with innocence and Mulholland feared the worst.
‘It is a confidential matter, sir.’
The inspector suddenly let out a whoop of laughter sending some seagulls that had been moping about on the quayside, screeching up into the damp, cold heavens.
