The Unbelievers

by Alastair Sim

  Damn.

  Chapter 10

  The circle of light on Allerdyce’s desk shrank away to nothing as he turned off the paraffin lamp. Some light still shone through the glass of his office door from the corridor, but behind him his window was dark and a chill draught penetrated the ill-fitting window-frame.

  He squeezed between his desk and the filing cabinets, and picked his coat and hat off the coathook.

  There was no point in staying here any longer. However long he stayed in the office the Duke of Dornoch would still be dead, and his murderer would still be at large.

  Murderer.

  He’d only been able to say that for sure in the past half hour. Mackay, the police surgeon, had handed in his report at half past nine. Allerdyce had smelt the formaldehyde on the doctor’s hands, fresh from the morgue.

  The report had taken two pages to describe a simple fact. It had detailed all the damage – both acute and chronic – which the flesh and organs of the Duke had suffered. It listed moderate cirrhosis of the liver, incipient ulceration of the duodenum, accumulation of fatty deposits round the heart, some calcification of the carotid artery, contusions of the spine consistent with sudden traumatic injury, bruising on the neck (uncertain whether pre- or post-mortem), laceration of the forehead and hands, probably postmortem.

  And a puncture wound caused by a small-calibre bullet which had grazed the lower left ventricle of the heart, causing some leakage of blood and loss of heart function, before lodging in the deceased’s spinal cord.

  Shot dead and dumped down the well.

  He pulled his coat on and stepped out into the corridor, locking the office door behind him. He looked up and down the corridor, but saw only the shut, dark doors of the other offices.

  He turned right, and went down the back stairs at the end of the corridor, to avoid having to pass through the orderly room and make conversation with the night-watch constables.

  Stepping into the night, he turned his collar up and reflected on what must be his worst day so far as a policeman.

  Scotland’s richest man murdered, on his watch. The Duchess, thank God, hadn’t been at home when her husband’s body had been found, and the Chief Constable had taken it upon himself to inform her. But telling Burgess had been bad enough. He’d thought the Superintendent might be about to have an aneurism as he stormed up and down his office cursing Allerdyce, the Chief Constable, the Duke and himself for all their various parts in the debacle. And, after Burgess had dismissed him, it hadn’t helped that Jarvis had made a special point of, smirkingly, conveying his commiserations on Allerdyce’s failure to find the Duke alive. The worst thing was that Jarvis’s insinuation had got under his skin, like a poison through a hypodermic needle.

  He should go home now. He should present a brave face to Margaret. She had enough strain in her life, with the children and her own illness, without having to listen to his complaints. She needed rest and quietness for her recovery, not a share of his own doubts and stresses. But right now, exhausted and defeated, he wanted to rest the weight of his tired self on the shoulders of somebody who had the strength to bear it.

  He walked down to the corner of the High Street and the North Bridge and hailed a cab.

  “Where to, sir?” asked the driver.

  “Danube Street.”

  Allerdyce climbed in. He rested his head against the leather upholstery and stared blankly at the passing streetlights, feeling himself rocked towards sleep by the swaying of the cab’s springs.

  The cab rattled and juddered over the stone cobbles at the junction of the North Bridge and Princes Street. Allerdyce was jerked awake. He looked out and saw a little girl, maybe eleven years old, standing under a gaslight and pulling up her ragged skirt in a pathetic attempt to attract a passing gentleman.

  That’s what we should be doing, thought Allerdyce. Protecting the poor and weak from exploitation by the real criminals of this world. And the sooner I find out who killed the bloody Duke of Dornoch the sooner I can get back to that work.

  It was after eleven o’clock before Allerdyce let himself back into his own house, aware of a strange alloy of discontent and and relief within himself. It was a feeling so mixed that he could find no single word for it.

  Antonia had, as always, taken an intelligent and sympathetic interest. She’d had the maid bring up ointment and bandages, and had washed and dressed his raw, burnt hands herself. She had given him a generous measure of the brandy he felt he’d needed, and the flush of the alcohol and the kindness of the firelight had made her look as as inviting as he’d ever known her. But he’d detected a reserve in her after he’d told her that the Duke had been recovered, dead, from the well. She had asked him if he wanted to lie with her, as she had done from time to time since those awful months when he’d eased the madness of his grief with her. Tonight, though, it had sounded formulaic, and he’d felt it stripped bare as a proposal for a business transaction rather than an act of friendship and love. It had felt easier than before to say no, and to leave.

  Now, he chose not to go into the parlour of his house and lie down on the sofa. Late as it was, he walked gently up the stairs, hearing only the softest flexing of the wood of the narrow steps. He opened the door to the bedroom and heard the quiet chirruping of baby Stephen talking infant nonsense to himself in his sleep and Margaret’s rhythmic, shallow breathing.

  He took off his clothes and let them fall randomly to the floor, lifting the blankets and creeping into bed beside her. As the steel mesh of the bedsprings creaked Margaret’s breathing was interrupted for a second then settled back to its former rhythm. He put his arm around her, feeling her thin, feverish body under his hand.

  His mind still wrestled with the conflicts of the day, and its anticipation of the difficulties of tomorrow. But there was a clearer sensation underlying the mind’s noise now, a feeling which he could capture in a word.

  Home.

  Chapter 11

  “No, Allerdyce. No.”

  “Sir, I need to interview the deceased’s widow and brothers. They may be able to make inferences from the telegram.”

  Superintendent Burgess stood at the window of his office, side-on to Allerdyce, the grey light from the overcast sky making him look old and sick.

  He turned back to face Allerdyce, who stood at the opposite side of the great desk.

  “Look, Archibald, I’m sorry I blew up at you yesterday. I know it’s not your fault that someone decided to kill the Duke. If Dr Mackay’s right, he was probably dead for three nights before I even sent you to look for him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And take a seat, for God’s sake, man. It makes me uncomfortable to see you standing there like a schoolboy about to get a thrashing.”

  The Superintendent sat down in his leather swivel chair. Allerdyce sat on the simpler chair at the other side of the desk. Burgess put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes before looking up again and speaking.

  “I’d want to do the same thing as you right now, Allerdyce. I’ve been a policeman for over twenty years and I know the value of a quick follow-up.”

  He clasped his hands in front of him. His mouth was clenched as if, Allerdyce thought, he was in intestinal pain. Allerdyce wondered whether the Superintendent was suffering from gallstones or whether it was just the strain showing. Burgess continued.

  “I was a bloody good Inspector in my time, Allerdyce. So if I was in your place I wouldn’t want to be sitting here. I’d want to be out there speaking to everyone who knew anything about our deceased friend. I’d be battering doors down and calling in grasses and making it generally known that anyone who knew anything and didn’t tell me was in very serious trouble indeed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But this is different. This is political.”

  “It can’t be that different sir, surely. We have a murder victim, and a killer still at large.”

  “As a straightforward man, I agree with you, Allerdyce. But it isn’t that si
mple. For a start, we don’t actually have a murder victim.”

  “What? So who did Sergeant McGillivray pull out of the well? Didn’t Mackay find a bullet in the man’s spine? We most certainly have a murder victim, sir.”

  “Not in public we don’t. The Chief has spoken to the Lord Advocate and the Secretary for Scotland. They’ve agreed that it would be better if, for the moment, the death was described as accidental.”

  “Why?”

  “Partly out of concern for the delicacy of the Duchess’s feelings. They think her highly-refined feminine nerves may not currently be able to stand the shock of discovering that her beloved husband was murdered.”

  “She already knows that her husband’s body was found down a well. If she can stand that she should be able to stand the full truth.”

  “Quite, Allerdyce, and as a married man I can’t say that I’ve ever felt that my wife has suffered from a delicate mental constitution. Quite the reverse. But our masters are modern men with modern notions of feminine psychology, so that’s what they’ve decided.”

  “So, no interview with the widow?”

  “Not by you. The Chief Constable has conveyed the force’s condolences and promised every possible help in investigating the accident that led to his untimely death. He’ll handle any further communication with the Duchess.”

  “He said it was an accident?”

  “That’s what it says in the newspapers today. It’s what the Lord Advocate told them.”

  Burgess pushed a folded copy of ‘The Scotsman’ across the desk. Allerdyce took it and unfolded it. He ignored the front page, with its advertisements for theatre shows and drapers’ shops, and turned to the news pages inside.

  As usual, the first stories were dispatches from America. Sherman had at last taken Charleston from the Confederates, and the city had been burnt to the ground. From New Zealand came news of the continued Maori rebellion. At home, Parliament was still debating giving the vote to the better sort of artisan, and the textile mills of Galashiels and Hawick were closed for a second week by a strike. Only after these stories was there a brief news item about the Duke.

  * * *

  Duke of Dornoch passes away suddenly

  His Grace the Duke of Dornoch was found dead in the grounds of the family seat, Dalcorn House, during the morning of Monday.

  It appears that he suffered from sudden cardiac failure while walking in the grounds of the House.

  His Grace, aged 56, was well known as a patron of industry, the arts and agriculture.

  He is survived by his wife Josephine, Duchess of Dornoch. There was no issue.

  The title passes to his brother, Brigadier-General Sir Frederick Bothwell-Scott, currently Governor of Edinburgh Castle.

  A full appreciation will appear tomorrow.

  * * *

  Allerdyce folded up the paper again and passed it back across the desk.

  “I suppose it’s not strictly untrue, sir. After all, the Duke did suffer from cardiac failure, even if it was caused by a bullet.”

  “The politicians aren’t just concerned about the Duchess’s mental welfare. They said it was important, in these inflamed times, to ensure that undesirable elements didn’t get the impression that the pillars of society could be torn down so easily. So, Allerdyce, as far as the public are concerned there’s no murder.”

  “And if there’s no murder there’s no murder investigation? Surely the politicians don’t want to leave a Duke-killer at large?”

  “I didn’t say that, Allerdyce. They’d like the murderer found. They’re not keen to expose the family to embarrassment in court, so they’d be content if a non-judicial way were found of securing justice.”

  “Non-judicial?”

  “Come on, man, I don’t have to explain myself. If the murderer turns out to be one of the low-life types you say the Duke was consorting with, they’d be content for them to disappear quietly rather than telling all the sordid details in court.”

  “What do you think, sir?”

  “I’m not an imaginative man, Inspector. I like it best when we catch criminals and send them to court.”

  “So do I, sir.”

  “I don’t think we need to throw the laws of Scotland out of the window just yet. I’d like you, quietly and discreetly, to carry on with your investigations. Tell me when you think you’re getting somewhere and we can make a judgement about how to proceed.”

  “All right, sir. But it’s going to be difficult if everyone thinks the Duke’s death was an accident.”

  “Not everyone, Allerdyce. The Chief has told the Duke’s brothers what happened. You can interview them if you want – but not until after the funeral. The Chief gave his word to the family that they needn’t be disturbed until they’d observed all the decencies of burial.”

  “And in the meantime the killer could have left the country.”

  “Let’s hope for our own sakes, Allerdyce, that he hasn’t.”

  Arthur walked down the aisle with Josephine, her arm slipped through his. He could feel the trembling warmth of her flesh, even through her thick silk and crepe. Her wide skirts brushed his ankles, and as he glanced sideways he could see, through the obscuring veil, her angelic complexion, the straight delicacy of her nose, and her soft, moist grey eyes. A single tear glistened on her cheek.

  This was not how it should have been. In a just world, he would have been able to lead her out of the church as his bride, dressed in radiant white and with her veil thrown back, instead of supporting her as she walked, draped heavily in unreflective black, towards her husband’s tomb.

  He’d kept the service as short as he could. Partly, he’d felt intimidated by seeing the church completely full for once, and full of the richest and most powerful men in the country. He’d thought for a moment that if a Fenian or a Communist had taken a notion to they could have lobbed a bomb into the church and obliterated three members of Her Majesty’s Government, five Dukes, four Marquesses, and an uncertain number of Earls, Barons, and captains of industry. He’d scanned their hard, handsome faces and felt their impatience with the hymn-singing and prayer-saying. He’d wondered whether there was a single true Christian amongst them.

  Also, it would have been difficult to give a long eulogy to a man with as few virtues as his brother. He’d said what he could about William being a man who cherished the land (just as well, he thought, since he owned so much of the counties of Linlithgow and Sutherland), who devoted his energies to God’s creative work of clothing and feeding the poor and keeping them warm (if they could pay for the wool, oats and coal generated by the Ducal estates), and who was a passionate admirer of beauty (and prepared to pay for it, whether it was a picture or a prostitute). After that there didn’t seem to be much to say.

  As he and Josephine progressed up the aisle the members of the congregation bowed their heads respectfully. Behind them, six servants in their new mourning suits shouldered the lead-lined mahogany coffin.

  Another servant opened the door at the rear of the church and they stepped out into the clear morning chill. He felt Josephine shiver and pull her body closer to his. For an instant, before she pulled gently away again, he felt her stays brushing his elbow and felt the subtle movement of her breast beneath them.

  They turned left from the church door, and he heard the heavy crunch-pause-crunch of the six pall-bearers’ slow march along the churchyard path between the tombstones, some clear and modern, others ancient with skulls and hourglasses as memento mori, towards the Bothwell-Scott mausoleum at the far end of the churchyard.

  The mausoleum had been built in the model of a Greek temple, like a miniature Parthenon, with pillars supporting a triangular pediment. Behind the pillars, a blank sandstone wall was broken only by a small iron door which, today, stood open.

  There was only room in the mausoleum for the closest family and essential servants. The pallbearers took the coffin in before the family were admitted. Arthur let Josephine in first, before bowing his head to g
et through the low door into an interior which was in three-quarter-darkness, lit feebly by a lantern which had been hung on a chain from the roof. The damp chill inside the mausoleum was, he thought, literally sepulchral. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he seemed to be looking at a filing cabinet for the dead. Ahead of him, along the back wall of the mausoleum, was a honeycomb of niches four feet wide by three feet high. Most of the niches were dark and empty, but some – eleven, Arthur thought – had already been filled and were blocked off with plaques on which the incumbent’s name and dates were carved. His brother’s coffin had been slipped into its niche, with no plaque as yet. At a conservative estimate, he reckoned there was enough space to accommodate generations of Bothwell-Scotts until Judgement Day, or at least 2,200AD.

  He shivered as he looked at William’s coffin. Who’s next, he thought? He imagined his own body being slipped into its final resting place by indifferent servants. And what if there was some terrible mistake? What if signs of life had been hastily unnoticed? This dark mausoleum was like a grave in itself, but what if he was screwed down in a lead-lined coffin, beating helplessly against the metal until he suffocated? His breathing was fast and shallow and he felt as if he might suffocate right now in this cold place.

  Josephine clasped his arm more tightly.

  “Are you all right, Arthur?”

  “I’m sorry Josephine. Just a pang of grief.”

  He saw his two surviving elder brothers enter, silhouetted against the daylight of the door. Frederick removed his plumed Brigadier’s hat to stoop through the door. George followed, taking off his silk top hat.

  “Get on with it,” barked Frederick. “Haven’t got all bloody day, you know.”

  “Steady on, Fred.” Arthur heard George’s softer tone. “We have to observe the decencies.”

  “Bloody religious mumbo jumbo.”

  Arthur looked at his brothers in the dim light as they took their places at the far end of the coffin. George, blandly handsome, smiled with his usual polite indifference, immaculate in his black suit. His patent leather shoes caught a reflection of the lamp which hung above the coffin. Frederick, his red tunic tight across his stomach, fidgeted irascibly and Arthur heard his spurs jingle and his scabbard scrape the floor.