by David Ashton
Luckily no one except the inspector saw this gesture of impropriety.
It was not often a woman got the drop upon McLevy and he wondered what it meant.
36
Every man loves what he is good at.
THOMAS SHADWELL,
A True Widow
Now he watched her in the Old Ship tavern and still wondered about the moment. That and many others.
It might be concluded that he had the advantage now because she was not aware of his regard as she reached forward to lay her hand upon the sleeve of a man sitting opposite her with his back to the inspector.
Naval fellow by the looks of it, a captain’s hat on the table beside him, sandy hair tinged with grey, bit of a sea dog perhaps.
McLevy had come to the tavern for a strong dram of whisky before embarking on what might well be a lamentable fool’s errand and should he happen to have guessed correctly then he might also lament the fact that Constable Mulholland was nursing a broken heart in the bogs of Ireland and therefore not available to be a good right hand.
He could, of course, have brought other constables for reinforcement or even broken the rule of a lifetime and informed Lieutenant Roach of his proposed action, but somehow it had seemed better to be on his own.
Better the devil you know.
And indeed, in official company, he would never have ventured into the Old Ship, swiftly drained his tumbler, been about to leave, and then heard her unmistakable laughter wafting through the tobacco smoke from the tavern dining room.
There were windows in the shape of portholes in the wooden wall and he gazed through one into the dining room like a sea creature that had somehow squelched its way up on to the timbers of the vessel.
The porthole glass was thick and slightly distorted but he could well enough distinguish Margaret Bouch, widowhood discarded this night to judge by her bright blue dress, as she threw back her head in more laughter to display the white taut skin of her throat, the gypsy eyes now mocking and flirtatious.
Of course the inspector should have felt relieved that he was no longer the target of those dangerous eyes, but he did not.
He felt unworthily betrayed.
Humpty Dumpty.
Sitting on a damp wall. Watching at a porthole.
Margaret lifted up her glass and drained it at a gulp, most unladylike to behold; her companion signalled at one of the waiters.
McLevy watched as the serving man bent his head, took the order and then exited. In order to get to the bar the fellow had to pass the static figure of McLevy who detained him by the arm.
‘Whit did he command?’ was the question.
‘Ye mean like a ship?’
‘I mean like the drink!’
‘Champagne. Best quality.’
The waiter, Mattie Turpin, was an old birkie who had seen the world come and go; he knew McLevy from long since and assumed that the inspector was lurking with intent.
‘The man,’ asked McLevy with a nasty gleam in his eye. ‘What is he?’
‘Norwegian,’ replied Mattie and shot off towards the bar because it had entered his mind that if McLevy were on the point of arresting someone, it would be best to get the champagne down and money paid.
A grandfather clock that had pride of place in the dining room struck the full hour. It chimed quarters and half as well: a prudent and practical measure to remind any seaman or passenger therein that the tide waited for no man.
It now announced the hour of eight and as McLevy heard the muffled tones through the wall, he realised that duty was a’ calling.
He took one last look to see Margaret raise the large hand of her companion in both of hers, and hold it tenderly as Mattie brought the champagne. The waiter twisted off the cork, the bubbles fizzed and the drink was poured. It was enough to make a man want to spit.
One of the tarry-breeks in the rough quarters of the Old Ship, in fact the bar where McLevy himself drank, had indulged himself beyond common measure due to the fact that his handsome sailor laddie was about to leave the port of Leith for the New World and it would be a long haul leaving the man minus able-bodied comforts, his own boat heading for Holland tomorrow morn.
The tar’s voice was hoarse and rough as he lifted it in song, and he gave a melancholy lilt to the normally jaunty tune as if he could already observe the sea stretching like a prison sentence before him.
McLevy left on that air and Margaret Bouch stilled the glass of champagne on the way to her lips as she remembered the moment when Alan Telfer, his cold eyes upon her, pulled the trigger of his silver-plated revolver.
Bang him in the head, ’til his brains are busted,
Bang him in the head, ’til his brains are busted,
Bang him in the head, ’til his brains are busted,
Earl-aye in the morning
.
A lone seagull perched atop the foremast of the good ship the Dorabella, bound this night for sea and eventually the port of Buenos Aires in Argentina, hunched into itself moodily and emitted a mournful unmelodic screech.
It might well have been the same bird that had observed McLevy and Mulholland these five days past after the warehouse fire, though one gull looks very much like another.
A dank November sea mist had covered the Old Docks like a funeral pall, and neutralised the bird’s keen eyesight upon which it relied for various titbits dropped or thrown carelessly away by embarking passengers.
Or perhaps a tearful relative having waved goodbye might find they had no appetite for the farewell cake and hurl it, with its white wrapping, into the sea; that was when the gull made its move, swooping down to grab the sweet concoction just before it hit the water and alerted some lesser of the species that the game was on.
But this night they could drop a whale in the water and the bird would be none the wiser.
Indeed, there was a mighty splash but it was just some young boys running wild in the harbour, who had made use of the general obscurement to heave up a large piece of broken timber and hurl it into the water. As it floated off into the darkness, a watchman cursed and chased the boys for their lives; the gull spread its wings and glided silently off to join the other spectres wheeling in the mist.
One of which was James McLevy who slipped quietly aboard the Dorabella, his revolver resting in hand within the side pocket of his coat.
This case had been saturated with dampness since the beginning and now it seemed as if his very pores were falling victim.
However the fog makes useful ghosts of us all; he had used the play of light and dark as the warning lamps of the ships shone fitfully in the gloom, to cloak his maritime pursuits.
The boat was a bustle of activity, preparations for departure getting under way, sailors busy at their appointed tasks, cargo being made fast in the hold below and some passengers already on the quay gathering to bid farewell to loved ones because though primarily a cargo ship, the Dorabella had some berths free for those folk bound for South America.
The following was McLevy’s reasoning.
Oliver Garvie had used this ship to bring in his dubious consignment of cigars, and no doubt had more than a passing acquaintance with captain and crew.
Even if the couple had so far managed, these three days, to hide in Edinburgh away from Jean Brash’s battalion of street keelies and spies, they would eventually need to make a break for what they considered freedom.
What better transport than the Dorabella?
Of course, after brutally beating Hannah Semple to earth they could have taken an early-morning train to London or such because Scotland would be too hot for them with the twin forces of Sin and Justice breathing down their necks, but no one of their description had been seen at any of the main stations.
No. And in fact the ship itself might even have been a safer place to hide out before fleeing the country because it was an encapsulated world safe from prying eyes.
Whatever the case, the best chance of catching the buggers was to board the vessel a t
ouch before departure and it also justified his solitary expedition. If he arrived with a flotilla of constables, the malefactors would be spirited away and hidden while he was still arguing the toss about boarding the ship.
As McLevy inched his way on the slippery deck past the bustle and motion in the gathering murk, he caught a glimpse of what must be the captain under one of the ship’s lights.
The man was rapping out staccato commands in what the inspector presumed to be some sort of Spanish lingo; he was a short swarthy fellow, heavy eyebrows, drooping moustache, gold tooth agleam, and resembled a pirate rather than some trustworthy mariner.
To McLevy’s prejudiced eye the whole crew might as well be travelling under skull and crossbones, so he resolved not to get wrongsides of them.
He inadvertently clanged his foot into an empty iron bucket, cursed it under his breath for a betrayer then praised it as a guide because it caused him to swing round and see a doorway, red lamp above, where the strong light from within held its own with the fog.
Hopefully this was intended to show the arriving wayfarers passage to their cabins and McLevy, trusting that if seen he would be mistaken for such, ducked inside and was lost from sight.
He descended a narrow flight of steps to an equally narrow corridor, which split in two directions.
From the left passage came the far mumble of voices, and, as he strained his ears, the inspector could make out unmistakable cadences of Lingo España.
Better swing right then.
There was a tightness in his gut and he found it difficult to breathe; he was now in the bowels of the ship, or if not the bowels then one of the large intestines, and McLevy experienced an unpleasant claustrophobic frisson; like a piece of waste product passing through.
Also he could feel a movement under his feet as if he were walking on the skin of some prehistoric monster.
That would be the sea.
He was a creature of dry land.
The corridor took a sharp left and there was his destination, a row of cabin doors each already open to await occupation.
Except for the one at the end where the portal was firmly closed.
A sudden yowl behind startled him near out of his wits but it was only the ship’s cat come from nowhere, a large ginger tom with one ear flattened by feline warfare.
‘Bugger off,’ the inspector hissed. ‘Bathsheba wouldnae give you a second glance!’
The cat strolled back down the corridor, tail stiffly aloft at the perceived insult and McLevy made his way to the closed door.
He tried the handle but it held.
McLevy put his eye to the keyhole, looked through and saw that luckily the key had not been left in the lock; in addition to that, the aperture also provided the sight of a naked female backside in motion with the ship.
He averted his eyes and produced a set of lockpicks he had once confiscated from a premier exponent of their craft but mysteriously forgotten to hand in at the station.
As McLevy inserted the delicate instruments, one after another to manipulate the perfect fit, his ear pressed against the door and witnessed the voices within.
A man and woman. Tones subdued but sharp.
‘For God’s sake put some clothes on.’
‘Why should I? I have nothing to wear.’
‘You have your gown.’
‘It is creased and filthy, as are my underthings.’
‘Wash them. As I did mine.’
‘Liar. You borrowed from the sailors. I cannot do that.’
‘You’d be surprised what sailors wear.’
The sweat ran down McLevy’s face as he felt, at last, one of the lockpicks click softly into place. He did not enjoy confined space, it brought back memories of when he was a wee boy in a locked room and, as his mother lay dead in a recess, the walls had begun to press in upon him.
He had howled like a wolf and Jean Scott, their neighbour and his salvation, had knocked upon the door and called through, ‘Jamie, I cannae get in if you cannae get out.’ He had found the key, unlocked the door and she had held him close while the hot scalding tears ran down his face till he thought he would drown in them.
Another click. Not long now. Just as well, his ear was getting sore.
That bastard captain, he took my jewels.
Not all. You wear a pretty necklace.
You gave them like a coward!
We had to pay for passage.
What if he wants the rest? What if he cuts our throats and throws us in the sea?
This question was never answered because at that moment McLevy sprung the lock, the door flew open and he was upon them, revolver levelled.
Rachel Bryden and Oliver Garvie, one naked the other not but both the worse for wear, love’s dream transformed into bickering cabin fever.
He was in crumpled shirt and trousers, unshaven, she in her skin, which fitted well enough.
Rachel’s face, a sight that McLevy found it best to concentrate on, was blotched and sulky; the enclosed cabin where they had obviously been holed up for days judging by the mess, remnants of food and litter of bedclothes, stank of various stale odours some of which it was better not to identify.
Both of their mouths were open but thankfully as yet no sound emerged as he swiftly closed the door.
He spoke quietly, no need to frighten the horses.
‘Miss Bryden, Mister Garvie; a pleasure to meet you once more.’
He inclined his head solemnly towards Rachel.
‘I would be obliged if you could dress yourself ma’am. We have an appointment with justice.’
Garvie was looking at him as if he could not believe his eyes.
‘How did you know?’ he muttered finally.
‘I am an inspector of crime,’ replied McLevy. ‘It is my speciality.’
Rachel still had not moved and McLevy, whose eyes had not strayed below the collar bone, noted a pearl necklace round her neck that he had seen many a time nestling at the throat of Jean Brash.
To his eyes it had never been much to look at, the small pearls a sort of greenish black colour but the display brought him to a curious anger.
Hannah Semple had been felled to the ground for such baubles and it looked a damn sight better on Jean.
He held out his hand, the other steady as a rock aiming the revolver at Garvie’s chest.
‘I’ll take the trinket,’ he announced. ‘It belongs to another, though I don’t doubt she thieved it like your braw self. Whoors thegither.’
For a moment it appeared that Rachel was going to refuse this elegant request, then she caught a flicker of a glance from Garvie and nodded obediently.
But as she raised her arms to undo the clasp at the back of her neck, her breasts leapt into prominence, the nipples pointing at McLevy like two sentries on duty.
No man, unless the blood is completely frozen in his veins, can ignore the mating signal of erectile tissue and the inspector, though defended like the Castle itself, was also a biological specimen.
His eyes wavered momentarily and that was enough for Garvie to launch himself at the policeman, with Rachel diving in low from years of practice.
But another part of McLevy’s biological conditioning was reflex. He smacked Garvie a sharp blow on the side of his head with the revolver to leave the man dazed on his hands and knees, then spun Rachel round, planted his foot on her equally distracting buttocks and shoved her head first on to the lower bunk bed.
Jean Scott had always thus advised him, ‘You must never raise your hand to a woman, Jamie, but that disnae mean you cannot deliver a good kick tae the backside.’
He quickly cuffed Garvie’s hands behind the man’s back, shoved him with his foot into a corner and when Rachel finally disentangled herself from the grubby sheets, she found herself face to face with the wolf.
He took the pearl necklace from her and carefully stashed it into a secure inside pocket of his coat, then buttoned the flap over for insurance.
‘Make yourself decent,’
McLevy growled. ‘Or I’ll run ye stark naked through the streets of Leith.’
Rachel played a last card, lip trembling, surrender her area of expertise. She bowed her head meekly and then looked up, the pale blue eyes promising sweet acquiescence.
‘You are a strong man, inspector,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll do anything you wish. Anything.’
A yellow light came into McLevy’s eyes and he reached out his hand but instead of the expected caress, his fingers took hold at the base of a throat so recently denuded of the pearl necklace.
The fingers tightened, cutting off the supply of seductive breath.
‘I’ve already told you what I want, girlie. Obey such before I knock you unconscious and dress you myself.’
She clothed quickly, her own hands shaking, and when that was accomplished, the policeman cuffed her likewise behind the back, hauled Garvie to his feet and lined them up together as if for parade inspection.
‘You’re lucky it’s me,’ he remarked softly. ‘If Jean Brash had found you first, Mister Garvie would be watching his means of procreation bouncing down the road in front of him, and you, Miss Bryden, would be left with a face only a mother could love.’
For the first time truly, the lovers realised that they were no longer children of fortune in a wild game against the world. This was real. The fairy tale was over.
The look upon McLevy’s face chilled them to the bone; it had no pity, no anger, just the detachment of a hangman.
He ripped the bed sheets into strips, which he placed over their mouths and tied behind, knotting them firmly into place.
The inspector had a fine calculation to make. The easy bit was over, now he had somehow to get them on deck at the same time as the other passengers arrived because in public view the crew and captain would not dare interfere. However if he was intercepted before that, he would be forced to use the revolver and shooting Argentineans by and large was frowned upon, especially on their own boats.
Once more he cursed the fact that Mulholland was not on hand; the Irishman took to violence like a duck does to water and that hornbeam stick of his was worth a thousand threats.
