The Unbelievers

by Alastair Sim

  “Did you find anything out, sir?” asked the sergeant.

  “Pardon?”

  “From your private enquiries?”

  Allerdyce blinked hard, his eye still watering from the soot.

  “No, Sergeant. It was a false lead.”

  “Bad luck, sir.”

  Allerdyce wiped the black fleck from his finger onto his handkerchief.

  “Inspector Jarvis caught sight of us in the bar at the Timberbush,” he said.

  “That’s very unfortunate, sir.”

  “He says he was there on police business. He assured me he would say nothing to the Chief.”

  “That’s good, for what it’s worth, sir.”

  “You don’t trust his word?”

  “I would trust the word of any man who had earned it,” said McGillivray. “It’s no secret, sir, that Sergeant Baird’s dismissal has caused some discontent downstairs. We didn’t see any cause for Mr Jarvis to inform on him. Some of the lads think Mr Jarvis was just trying to ingratiate himself with the Chief.”

  “I’m sorry. How is Baird?”

  “Quite low, sir. He’s lost his pension and hasn’t found employment. The lads downstairs are all helping his family – we’re each putting a little money aside for them each week, but it’s barely enough to put food on their table.”

  “I hadn’t realised. A little trade union.”

  “We can’t call it that, sir, on pain of dismissal.”

  “I understand.”

  “Baird and his family would have been evicted from their rooms if they hadn’t received an anonymous donation.”

  “Really?”

  “And may I say, sir, that the lads are very grateful for that anonymous help and proud to serve with you.”

  The train pulled out of the station and rattled and swayed over points, the cords of the window-blinds slapping against the glass.

  “It’s a bit rough, sir.”

  “I know. I doubt the railway company spend anything on maintenance.”

  “No, I mean about Baird, sir. It was the same in the Army – good men left to shift for themselves after years of loyal service. There were seven VCs awarded in India to comrades in the Sutherland Highlanders. I know that one of those men is in the workhouse, and another has turned to crime.”

  A strong yeasty smell cut through the mellow aroma of Allerdyce’s pipe smoke as the train passed a brewery. The smell faded as the train passed briefly behind houses and an engine-shed before reaching a patchwork of market gardens, fields, farmsteads, and the big houses which titled families kept for their visits to the capital.

  “I heard that your Victoria Cross was for saving a man’s life, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir. Though I also had to take a man’s life in the action, sir. It’s something I hope not to have to do again.”

  “Lucknow, wasn’t it? What happened?”

  “It was a day from hell, sir. I still wake up sweating, thinking I’m back there.”

  “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”

  “There’s no harm in talking about it, sir. I’ll tell you what I can remember.

  “We’d opened a breach through a wall into the mutineers’ fortress. Captain Monro led us through it. As we came forward a horde of sepoys rushed at us waving sabres and firing rifles. Others fired down from every wall and rooftop, or jumped down on us with swords and knives.”

  “Were you wounded?”

  “I was grazed by a spent bullet. I saw Captain Monro fall in front of me, and the hole in the back of his tunic from which the bullet had exited.

  “As he fell I saw a sepoy holding his rifle over the captain, about to bayonet him. I took my sword, thrust it hard into his stomach and ripped it upwards.

  “What I remember most, sir, is the look of puzzled surprise on that lad’s face. I reckon he must have been about seventeen years old, and I suppose he thought he was fighting for his country. He just stood there startled for a second as his guts spilled from his abdomen then smiled at me, as if he was apologising, before falling dead.”

  “That’s a hard memory, Sergeant.”

  “It is, sir. I was hit twice more before we got the Captain back to safety behind the breach. I can barely remember the rest of that day’s fight. I must have killed or wounded other men that day, but it’s that lad’s smile that I see when I shut my eyes.”

  McGillivray looked out the window at the bare winter fields. The carriage rocked over points as the branch to Dalcorn and Queensferry swung away from the main line. He turned back to the Inspector.

  “You know, sir, being in the army made me value life more highly. I’ve seen enough of death. It’s the hardest part of this job for me, sir, knowing that some of the people we apprehend will be hanged.”

  “It’s the law, Sergeant. It’s how society prevents the disease of murder from spreading. If you have a gangrenous foot you have it amputated before the infection can spread further.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “And in cases of less inevitably fatal disease, like typhoid or theft, you isolate the patient in hospital or in prison in the hope of recovery. It’s a system which makes scientific sense.”

  “I suppose so, sir.”

  The train passed a single tree standing in the middle of a field, its bare branches spreading like arms. Allerdyce was silent for another moment, drawing on his pipe.

  “There’s a case that still comes back to me in my own dreams though, Sergeant. It was about a young boy – thirteen years old – who was convicted of murdering his father.”

  “Did he do it, sir?”

  “Oh yes. He admitted as much to me. In any case the neighbours had heard the whole thing through the walls of the room they shared in a lodging house in St Mary’s Wynd.”

  “So why trouble your conscience about it, sir?”

  “Because I don’t think the boy I arrested deserved to die.”

  “Why?”

  “The father had been abusing the boy with insults and blows since the boy’s mother had died. The neighbours said his abuse had been growing steadily worse. One night the father came back from the public house and beat the boy so badly with a poker that he lost the sight of one eye. Then he buggered the boy. When the man fell asleep, dead drunk, the boy cracked his head open with the poker. The boy’s advocate pleaded that the murder was excused by the provocation he had received, and that the boy was at worst guilty of culpable homicide. But the judge directed the jury only to consider whether the boy was guilty of murder – he obviously didn’t think the lower orders should get away with killing each other. Since the father was indisputably dead at the son’s hand, the jury found him guilty.”

  “And the boy was hanged, sir?”

  “A week later in front of a jeering crowd in the Lawnmarket. I was bitterly sorry, Sergeant. I had interviewed the boy before he was charged. I had no doubt that he had the potential to grow into a useful citizen once he was free from his father’s influence. If I could have let that boy walk away without charge I would have done so.”

  “You did your duty, sir.”

  Allerdyce sighed.

  “I suppose I did, Sergeant. But sometimes doing your duty to the law doesn’t seem to do justice to the people you encounter.”

  The policemen stepped out of the train at Dalcorn station. It wheezed away from the platform as they stepped into the telegraph office.

  The clerk, thin with balding black hair slicked back over his scalp, put his glasses on and looked up at them.

  “Police? Here?”

  “Routine enquiries,” said Allerdyce.

  “Routine’s about all that happens here. I’m not sure that I can help much.”

  “We want to enquire about a telegram that arrived last Thursday afternoon, addressed to the Duke of Dornoch.”

  The clerk took his glasses off again and wiped them on his grey handkerchief.

  “The Duke gets a lot of telegraphic correspondence.”

  Allerdyce leant on the count
er and looked into the clerk’s eyes.

  “Well, can you check what he received last Thursday afternoon? It may be of some importance.”

  “All right then, but I doubt you’ll find anything interesting.”

  The clerk went to a shelf at the back of the office. He looked along it for a few moments before pulling down a box file. He brought it over to the counter and leafed through it. Allerdyce tapped his pipe impatiently against the counter as the clerk methodically studied each paper.

  “I thought you said this was routine,” said the clerk as he fingered the papers.

  Allerdyce stuffed his pipe back into his pocket, tapping his fingers against its stem while he waited.

  At length the clerk pulled out five sheets of paper.

  “All right then, here’s carbon copies of all the telegrams that went to the big house on Thursday. Five about business transactions which I can’t pretend to understand, one to tell a servant that her mother was very ill, and one more personal one for the Duke. All quite normal.”

  “May I see? Perhaps the personal one first?”

  The clerk shuffled the papers so that it was at the top and passed them to Allerdyce. He read it, the sergeant looking over his shoulder.

  ‘MINE ALL MINE STOP

  MEET AT THE WELL AT MIDNIGHT STOP

  ENDS’

  “And you say that’s a routine message?”

  “Oh yes. The Duke used to receive lots of these.”

  “Every day? Every week?

  “Not quite as often as every week. Slightly irregularly. Sometimes four or five weeks – or longer – would go by without any such message. This was the first one for some time.”

  “Very interesting,” said Allerdyce. “No name is given by the originator, but the message was sent from the telegraph office at Waverley Station in Edinburgh.”

  “Yes.”

  “I should be very interested to see all the similar messages which you have on record.”

  “It may take me some time to find them all,” said the clerk.

  “Just find them. We’ll be back. The sergeant and I have to visit Dalcorn House now.”

  Chapter 9

  The front door of Dalcorn House was answered more quickly this time. The same footman opened the door.

  “I suppose the Duke is still not at home?” asked Allerdyce.

  “No.”

  “Is Mr Warner at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should like to see him directly.”

  The footman led them straight into the long parlour where they’d sat before, then went to fetch the valet. Warner appeared two minutes later, dressed immaculately. The footman left them, and Warner stood facing the policemen, one of the little tables between them.

  “You’re expecting your master’s return?” asked Allerdyce, looking Warner up and down.

  “I have to. If he caught me unprepared I’d be dismissed.”

  “And do you have any specific reason to expect that he will return today?”

  “No.”

  “You told me that a telegram had arrived in the afternoon shortly before he went missing, and that you had no knowledge of the contents of that telegram.”

  “Look, Inspector, I’ve been helpful, haven’t I? I’ve done my best to help you find him. I don’t know what you want from me now.”

  Allerdyce took the copy of the telegram from the inside pocket of his jacket and put it on the table.

  “Read that.”

  The valet picked it up.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “What’s that, Warner?”

  “I thought he’d stopped getting these. I used to find them in his room from time to time.”

  “And?”

  “I knew he was going out late into the gardens sometimes, and that it was related to the telegrams. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know who he was going to meet. It might just have been straightforward – maybe he met some lover by moonlight for his excitement. Sometimes I thought someone might have been meeting him to collect blackmail.”

  “Who could blackmail the Duke?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose he wouldn’t want it generally known that he’d had a child with some woman, or that he’d had carnal relations with some sailor, but that’s only a guess. I don’t know who’d want to do that.”

  “So why do you suggest it, Mr Warner.”

  “It’s just an educated guess. You’ve seen the sorts of places he goes. I don’t know anything more specific than that.”

  “Really, Warner?”

  “Yes really.”

  “And why didn’t you tell us about these telegrams before?”

  “I’ve already said. I didn’t know what was in the telegram. I thought all this had stopped.”

  Warner put the telegram back on the table and Allerdyce picked it up.

  “Well, Mr Warner, clearly it hasn’t.” said the Inspector, “I think we should take an immediate look at the well referred to in this telegram.”

  Warner led them out of the house by a back entrance. The parkland extended as far to the rear of the house as it did to the front. A lawn, bounded by walks of sycamore and elm, stretched for quarter of a mile towards dense woodland. Nearest to the house, a square of lawn had been made perfectly level for bowls or croquet. Further away, about halfway towards the woods, a low round wall surrounding an area no more than five feet wide sat in the middle of the lawn. There was a paved area with stone benches around the wall.

  They walked up to the wall. As they approached, Allerdyce noted its peculiar decoration, a frieze of cherubs with pick-axes, lanterns and barrows.

  “Here’s the well,” said Warner.

  Allerdyce looked with disappointment at the paving round the well. If it had been grass he might have been able to detect footprints, even now.

  He looked down into the unrelieved darkness.

  “How deep is it, Mr Warner?”

  “I don’t know. About fifty feet, maybe more.”

  “And is there still water in it?”

  “Yes.”

  Allerdyce picked a stone up from the paving and dropped it down the well. He waited but heard no splash.

  “Are you sure there’s water down there, Mr Warner?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He hollered down but heard no reply.

  “That’s peculiar.”

  “What?”

  “There should be an echo from the water.”

  The sergeant peered over the wall.

  “There could be an obstruction, sir.”

  “Yes.”

  “If Mr Warner can provide me with a rope and a lantern I can go down and check.”

  “Are you sure, Sergeant?”

  “I’ve set charges underground in the Crimea, sir. I’m sure I can do it.”

  “All right then.”

  Warner led the sergeant off to fetch equipment from the workshop at the back of the coach-house, leaving the Inspector alone, staring into the inky blackness of the well. His mind couldn’t help picturing a body jammed awkwardly between its narrowing sides. He shivered as he thought about reporting to Burgess that Scotland’s richest man, missing for four nights, had been found. Dead – when Allerdyce had specifically been charged with his safety.

  Steady on, he thought. There’s no reason to think the worst. Maybe an animal has fallen down the shaft and got stuck. Perhaps some vegetation has blocked it. The Duke is quite likely still away drinking and whoring. But he felt sick.

  Warner and McGillivray returned with a block-and-tackle, a lantern and two ropes. They set up the tripod of the block-and-tackle over the well. McGillivray threaded both ropes through the pulley, tying one of them round his waist.

  “I’ll climb down now, sir,” said the sergeant. “I’ll rest as much of my weight as I can against the sides of the well but I’ll need you and Mr Warner to hold the rope I’ve tied to myself. Let it out slowly as I go. I’ll attach the other rope to the obstruction if I can.”

  The s
ergeant climbed over the wall and descended into the darkness. Allerdyce leant back on the rope, Warner behind him, feeling the hemp abrade his palms as he let it out, over the creaking pulley, a foot at a time.

  “More rope, sir,” echoed the sergeant’s voice from the darkness.

  Allerdyce felt the muscles of his arms and shoulders strain to tearing point as they lowered the sergeant further and further. Each time he let the rope out he feared it would tear away from him.

  He heard a muffled cry and the clank of falling metal and the rope shot through his hands, burning skin from flesh. He grasped it tighter through the pain of searing flesh and felt his feet lifting from the ground as the rope hurtled over the pulley and into the darkness. Warner grabbed the waistband of his trousers and they brought the rope back under control.

  “Are you all right?” shouted Allerdyce.

  “Sorry sir, I slipped,” said the voice from below. “I’ve lost the lantern but the obstruction broke my fall. I’ll fix a rope round it.”

  McGillivray climbed back out of the well, Allerdyce and Warner pulling on his rope despite the pain. The hemp was stained red with their blood. McGillivray then pulled the other rope, and Allerdyce saw even the sergeant’s muscles straining as he pulled the dead weight past the rocky outcrops and protruding roots of the well’s shaft.

  One last heave brought the obstruction fully clear of the well. Allerdyce looked on in horror.

  It hung limply by a rope tied under its shoulders, its back towards Allerdyce. As it swung gently under the pulley block it came face to face with him.

  The body’s evening dress was in disarray, and the caked dark blood of a gash marked its forehead. The deathly paleness of the face was marred by the blue-green blotches of early putrefaction. But the white hair, jowly chin, and contemptuously twisted mouth were unmistakable. Allerdyce was looking into the glazed and unblinking eyes of His Grace the 7th Duke of Dornoch. Deceased.