The Unbelievers

by Alastair Sim

  He quickened his steps as he turned into Heriot Row. The three-storied houses rose to his right, set back from the pavement, with well-lit steps leading up to double doors which, for the most part, opened into bright vestibules to receive guests. To his left, across the wide cobbled street, rose the dark shapes of the trees in the locked private gardens.

  As he walked along, a closed carriage stopped a few doors ahead of him, and a footman dismounted from the step at the rear of the carriage to open its door. The footman held out his hand as two giggling young ladies, girls really, stepped down onto the pavement.

  As Allerdyce approached the carriage the footman stood in the middle of the pavement.

  “Can you wait there for a moment please, sir? There are a couple of gentlemen still to get out.”

  “I have urgent business. Let me pass.”

  Allerdyce tried to walk on but the heavily-built footman blocked his passage.

  “If you please, sir. We don’t want a scene.”

  Allerdyce was about to pull out his warrant card when two very young men got out of the carriage, pulling their top hats on as they descended. One, obviously drunk already, leaned against the other, punching him and laughing as the whole party crossed the pavement. He tripped on the second step, dragging his friend down with him. The girls seemed about to collapse with laughter as the footman rushed forward to help the boys up, supported them to the front door, and pulled the doorbell. An instant later, as Allerdyce passed, the whole party was safely inside.

  He walked on past three more houses, checking the numbers as he went. He’d addressed plenty of correspondence to the Chief Constable’s house – case reports, emergency requests for arrest warrants, and the like – but he’d never had occasion to visit it. In fact, he’d probably exchanged no more than 20 words with ‘Holy Joe’ Stewart in his fourteen months as Chief Constable.

  He went up the steps to the vestibule of number 38 and pulled the bell. Within seconds a butler opened it.

  “Mr Allerdyce?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sir Joseph is waiting for you. Please come in.”

  As soon as he was through the door a maid appeared to take his coat and hat.

  “Sir Joseph is in the dining-room,” said the butler. He ushered Allerdyce into the first room on the left, closing the door silently behind him.

  Four men were sitting around a highly-polished dining table, large enough to have seated sixteen people in comfort. The light of silver candelabra glittered off the cutlery on the table – eight untouched place settings, Allerdyce noticed, each of them set for five courses – and off the crystal glasses. A huge bone-china tureen stood in the middle of the table, a Chinese pattern in blue against the white of the porcelain visible in the steady flame of the candles, a gentle plume of steam rising from the small slot at the edge of the lid from which the silver handle of a ladle protruded. Game broth, thought Allerdyce as he sniffed the air, wondering what he was missing at Boyd’s house tonight.

  Three of the men sat in evening dress, glasses in hand, at the far side of the table. Allerdyce recognised each of them. Lounging to either side of their host were Viscount Dunsyre, Her Majesty’s Secretary for Scotland, and the nation’s Lord Advocate, Lord Kinnordy. Dunsyre was about fifteen years younger than the Lord Advocate, probably only in his late forties and still fair-haired, but Allerdyce thought the fixed hardness and arrogance of their expressions could have made them brothers.

  Between them, Chief Constable Sir Joseph Stewart was conspicuously sitting upright and holding a glass of water instead of the red wine of his companions. He smiled slightly at Allerdyce. If you just looked at him, thought Allerdyce, you might mistake him for a kind man. A concerned look had etched itself permanently onto his face, probably baked in by two decades of service as a colonial governor. With his ascetically hollow cheeks, close-cropped balding head and long, expressive hands he could have been mistaken for a mediaeval saint or mystic. His well-publicised support for charitable causes – reformatories for fallen women, gospel missions to the Zulus – might have affirmed that impression, but Allerdyce knew well enough that any convict or native who’d suffered under Stewart’s governance of the Tasmania colony would have no such illusion (although the inquiry into his Governorship had notoriously found no surviving native to testify against him).

  On the near side of the table, Allerdyce recognised Superintendent Burgess easily from behind, sitting upright in a worn-shiny grey suit which barely stretched over his powerful shoulders. His tight black curls reminded Allerdyce of a bull’s head. As Burgess turned in his chair Allerdyce saw by the candlelight the familiar ruddy and broken-nosed face which would have fitted a prize-fighter better than a policeman.

  “Thank God we found you,” said the Superintendent.

  “Now, Mr Burgess, I don’t think there’s any need for blasphemy, is there?” said the Chief Constable. “But Mr Allerdyce, welcome. We hear great things about you. Please take a seat.”

  Allerdyce sat down beside Burgess.

  “I must apologise for insisting on your presence here tonight,” smiled the Chief Constable, “but we find ourselves in a delicate situation which we hope, through your skills, we can resolve.”

  “Delicate?” The Lord Advocate choked on his wine. “More likely to be grossly indelicate.”

  Sir Joseph continued. “We had intended to meet here tonight to discuss some matters of public policy. In particular, we wanted to discuss with a close friend, with substantial mining and agrarian interests, how the organs of the state could best be used to combat the threat of industrial insurrection. I’m sure you agree, don’t you, that in these dangerous times it is our duty to do everything we can to prevent the overthrow of the economic order on which our country’s security rests?”

  Allerdyce said nothing. Sir Joseph went on.

  “Well, to be brief, this friend was unable to join us tonight. We received a note from his wife, delivered by special courier, just as we were about to dine. It said that she’d waited until the last minute before writing, in the hope that she wouldn’t have to, but that her husband had failed to return home in time and that she regretted that they would have to present their apologies. She added that he’d not been home for some days and that she was increasingly concerned by his absence.

  “Naturally, we’re anxious to allay any concern that she may have for his safety, so we decided to invite Superintendent Burgess to advise us on how best to do so. He recommended you as the most efficient detective in our force, and we appreciate your kindness in coming here tonight.”

  Bloody hell, thought Allerdyce, you don’t care about the murders of ordinary men and women but you want the full power of the police service at your disposal when a friend is late for dinner.

  “Isn’t it a job for a private investigator, sir?” asked Allerdyce. “Marital inquiries aren’t normally part of police business.”

  Burgess shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Allerdyce saw the Chief Constable’s eyes narrow further, though he maintained his thin smile.

  “As I explained to the Superintendent, Mr Allerdyce, our friend is not exactly in a normal position in society, and normal methods may not be appropriate to this inquiry. It is important – for reasons of state as much as for personal reasons – that this inquiry is both discreet and thorough. I am certain, on the Superintendent’s recommendation, that we can rely on you.”

  There was no point in further resistance, even if tracking down a stray husband was going to steal the time he needed for pursuing real criminals.

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Splendid. I’ll let the Superintendent brief you more fully.” Sir Joseph turned alternately to his companions. “Shall we invite the ladies back in and dine, gentlemen? I think that’s our business done. Oh, and Mr Burgess and Mr Allerdyce, thank you so much for coming. I don’t think we need detain you any longer.”

  The Chief Constable opened the door to show the Superintendent and Allerdyce back into the
hall. Instantly, the maid appeared with their coats and hats and they were smoothly ushered back into the night.

  “I’m sorry,” said Burgess, pulling on his gloves. “We have to do it. I know you’re the best person for the job.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, sir.”

  “You probably think it’s a waste of time, but we need to get started. I’ve asked for another sergeant to be assigned to you to replace Baird, and he should be able to help. If the message I sent has got to him successfully he should be up at the Police Office already.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  “So we’d better get there and get to work. It’s not much of a way to spend Saturday night, is it?”

  “No, but at least we’re not out on the beat all night, sir.”

  “True enough. But Allerdyce, don’t forget. We’ll be crucified if anything happens to the Chief’s friend. I think I’d rather take my chances on the streets.”

  Chapter 3

  The Reverend the Honourable Arthur Bothwell-Scott BD (Ordinary) surveyed his sparse congregation.

  The building had been expanded over the centuries from a simple late-Norman village church to its current magnificence, with a seating capacity of one hundred and fifty on the ground level and a further one hundred in the balconies, easily sufficient for every worker on the estate and their families to be dragooned into for the great festivals of the year. Marble memorials to generations of deceased Bothwell-Scotts lined the walls, which were punctuated by stained-glass windows endowed by his departed mother. When he’d first been given the living of Dalcorn by his eldest brother he’d enjoyed the way the clear light streamed in through the two hundred year-old plain glass of the great rectangular windows. Now, as a result of his departed mother’s late fit of pious generosity (God rest her bitter and manipulative soul), fashionable Gothic arches had been installed and the interior was in perpetual kaleidoscopic twilight from the few sunbeams which struggled through the stained-glass reproductions of ‘The Light of the World’ and ‘The Scapegoat’.

  This Sunday, as every Sunday, only a handful of people sat in the hard pews of the main body of the church. The estate factor, out of professional duty, sat restlessly in his tweeds in a front pew beside his heavy crinolined wife. Behind him, scattered throughout the pews, were a handful of estate labourers and servants from the big house, their faces in varied expressions of leering contempt or vacant stupidity.

  The rousing strains of psalm-singing penetrated the church, reaching it from the Free Presbyterian chapel which had been built two fields away, on a tiny pocket of land not owned by the Duke. Arthur reflected bitterly that anyone with any Christian ardour had left his church when he was appointed, and gone off to build their own chapel and choose their own minister. All that was left to him was the rump of people who were too scared of eviction or dismissal to risk the appearance of disloyalty to the Duke’s family, and an endowment of 300 guineas a year.

  He dutifully read the first lesson, hearing his thin voice resonate in the emptiness of the church, even though he expected it to benefit nobody.

  “…and God said, let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind, cattle and creeping thing, and beast of the earth, after his kind; and it was so…”

  But, he thought, it wasn’t so, at least if we’re to believe Mr Darwin. Every living thing that we see, man or animal, is the result of a struggle to the death between the survivors and those species or people who fell, defeated, by the wayside.

  Arthur did not, this morning, feel like one of the successful competitors in the fatal game of natural selection. He looked across at the Ducal aisle, where velvet-covered seats were roofed over by a damask awning surmounted by the armorial bearings of the Dukes of Dornoch. He felt a pleasing warm softness as he looked towards its sole occupant, his cousin and sister-in-law Josephine, Duchess of Dornoch. She smiled at him while delicately stroking the lace gloves which she held in her naked, alabaster hand, and for a moment he thought his life’s work was worthwhile if it was sustaining her precious spirit. Guiding and comforting her should be enough object for any man’s work. It was only a shame that that task had fallen, first and foremost, to his brother William.

  He returned to the lesson.

  “…and the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made He into a woman, and brought her unto the man.

  “And Adam said, this is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman because she was taken out of Man.

  “Therefore shall a man leave his father and mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh..”

  A story, he thought, so sadly unrealised in his own life.

  As he read he noticed the door at the back of the church open and two strangers come in. One of them was slimly built with youthfully dark hair when he took off his bowler, but with a face whose deep shadows and slight smile suggested the depth of experience of an older man. The other was broad and tall as an oak, with a thick black moustache and sideburns, wearing the brass-buttoned blue tunic and black top-hat of the Edinburgh City Police. They took their places in the rear pew.

  Arthur paused in his reading, wondering whether something of such gravity and immediacy had happened that he should interrupt the service. The slimmer stranger nodded, and he took it as a cue to continue. As he read on, though, he wondered what could have brought the police to this empty church and whether there might even be some hidden offence in his own past that led them here. He searched his memory, but in a life of monotonous innocence he could only remember the occasion where he had failed to intervene to stop William from beating a disobedient spaniel. Nonetheless, he hurried through the service before descending from the pulpit to greet the strangers.

  Josephine was already with them when he reached the back of the church. She introduced them, touching him lightly on the arm.

  “Arthur, I took the liberty of suggesting to Inspector Allerdyce that he might meet you here. He’ll explain why he needs your help.” Her soft American accent was freighted with gentleness and sorrow. She took her lace handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry I can’t stay. I find that I’m too weighed down with grief and must retire to bed.”

  She smiled wanly at him. “What a silly, weak woman you must think I am. I just thank Providence that I have your spiritual guidance to fortify me.” She glided past and through the door, which was held open for her by a liveried servant. Arthur detected the faint floral scent of her perfume as the chill wind blew in.

  He shook the Inspector’s hand, wincing at the firmness of the policeman’s grasp.

  “Please, Inspector, I’ll be delighted to help you in any way I can.”

  “I appreciate that, sir. May I introduce my colleague Sergeant McGillivray?”

  The tall sergeant bowed. As he did so, Arthur noticed the purple ribbon on his chest.

  “Victoria Cross, Sergeant? I must say, it’s an honour to meet you.”

  “Many other brave men deserved it more than me, sir.” Arthur was struck by the force of the sergeant’s clear Highland diction.

  “I hardly think a Victoria Cross is an excuse for modesty, Sergeant. Where did you earn it? The Crimea? India?”

  “India, sir. Lucknow. A bad business. I prefer not to dwell on it.”

  “Very well, and I’m sorry to have caused you discomfort. Shall we retire next door to the manse and I’ll see how I can help you?”

  Arthur led them through to the parlour. A fire had been lit in preparation for his return, and a decanter of sherry had been set out on top of the embroidered lace cover of the little round table at the window. The room still felt chilly, though, and the single sherry glass must, he thought, look pathetically inhospitable. He pulled the braided bellcord beside the fireplace.

  “Won’t you take a seat, gentlemen?”

  “Much obliged,” said the Inspector, sitting on a delicate silk-upholstered Chippendale at one side of the fireplace. The ser
geant stood for a second until Arthur motioned him towards the matching chair on the opposite side of the fire, and the huge policeman sat gingerly as if scared that his frame would break it, holding his top-hat in front of him on his lap.

  An elderly manservant came in and bowed.

  “Wilson, would you be so kind as to help these gentlemen to a refreshment. Tea, gentlemen? Or perhaps something a little stronger?”

  “Nothing thank you, sir. We need only detain you very briefly,” said Allerdyce.

  “Very well.”

  The servant bowed again and left, pulling the door silently behind him.

  “How,” continued Arthur, “might I be of assistance?”

  Allerdyce took his notebook out of his pocket and flicked through several pages before speaking.

  “We were hoping you could help us, sir, with a missing person case.”

  “How intriguing? I most certainly will help you if I can. Who is it?”

  “Your brother, sir, His Grace the Duke of Dornoch.”

  “Good grief!”

  “You are surprised, sir?”

  “Surprised, Inspector? I should say so. I had heard nothing about this. My brother is a man of the highest public profile. I cannot see how he could possibly go missing.”

  “The Duchess is most concerned, sir. She says he has not returned to Dalcorn House for three nights, and no-one in the household knows of any business that would have required his absence. We wondered whether you might be able to indicate some possible lines of enquiry.”

  “Lines of enquiry, Inspector? Such as?”

  “Well, sir, perhaps you know of a place your brother was in the habit of frequenting? Somewhere where we might be able to find someone who has had recent sight of him?”

  Arthur paused. The only places he could think his brother might have gone were thoroughly dishonourable, and he was unsure that he should mention them. The detective, though, must have read his mind.

  “I can promise you, sir, that all enquiries will be made in the strictest confidence.”