The Unbelievers

by Alastair Sim

“Shut the door, Allerdyce, please. I want to be able to be frank with you.”

  Allerdyce closed it but remained standing.

  “Can I be frank with you then, Jarvis? I think you meant to kill me.”

  “Please, Archibald, have a seat.”

  “I prefer to stand, Jarvis.”

  “Very well then. But please do me the favour of listening to, and considering carefully what I say.”

  “No, Jarvis. You listen to me, you santimonious bastard. You put my life in danger. You put my sergeant’s life in danger. A suspect is shot dead. I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing Jarvis but you should be tried for murder.” God, thought Allerdyce, it would be so satisfying just to punch and kick Jarvis till he bled.

  Jarvis put his papers neatly to one side and leant his elbows on the desk.

  “We’re in a war, Allerdyce. Semple knew that, the Chief Constable knows it, and I know it.”

  “And people have to be killed because you think that?”

  “Just hear me out, Allerdyce. It’s not a war of the old sort, where your enemies declare themselves and fight you openly. It’s not a business of heroic charges and Victoria Crosses in the Crimea. It’s something quieter, something insidiously undermining the freedoms and prosperity we enjoy, something like typhoid in the water or a poison creeping its way through our system. Not everyone can see it yet, but we’re in as deadly a conflict as we’ve ever been. And one where the outcome is very finely balanced.

  “Did Semple mention a certain Karl Marx at the meeting, Allerdyce?”

  “Yes he did.”

  “Well, you have to know your enemy. The socialistic and communistic disciples of Marx are all around us, telling the workers that they’re in a civil war against capital. Throughout Britain – throughout Europe – they’re being stirred up for mutiny and revolution. Every trade union is a front for plotting the violent overthrow of our freedoms.”

  “I think the miners at the meeting just wanted to prevent their pay from being cut, Jarvis.”

  “That’s how the seditionists work, Allerdyce. They’re clever. They’re like us – they can see that it’s a war. They recruit their battalions of workers by latching into their grievances then using them as their infantry in a campaign of strikes and intimidation, with the false promise that it’ll make things better for the workers. They don’t care a damn what actually happens to the workers as long as the cause of revolution is advanced. They won’t be content until they’ve achieved the complete destruction of our system of free enterprise.”

  “So where do I fit in, Jarvis? Why does this war mean that McGillivray and I have to be shot at? Are we the enemy, Jarvis? Are we on the wrong side?”

  Jarvis’s eyes narrowed and he smiled slightly.

  “I don’t know, Allerdyce. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re an evil, twisted bastard, Jarvis.”

  Jarvis’s smile faded and he looked straight into Allerdyce’s eyes.

  “This is a modern war with modern weapons, Allerdyce. Look at America. What happened there? The South tried to play gallant, like the Light Brigade. All Stonewall Jackson and gentlemanly Robert E Lee. What did the North do? They fought a total war, of economic blockade and scorched earth. They sent Grant and Sherman to burn the South down, farm by farm and city by city. They didn’t baulk from sending their own men into danger and difficulty. And they’ve got the South licked.

  “We’re soldiers, Allerdyce, soldiers of internal security in a modern war, and we take a soldier’s risks. None of us is more important than victory.”

  “So what happens now, Jarvis? Do McGillivray and I get killed anyway in your dirty war? Does anyone get held accountable for the murder of James Semple?”

  Jarvis’s face relaxed.

  “In answer to your last question, Allerdyce, not unless they have to be. I’ve been appointed as investigating officer. The Chief Constable would be content for the case to remain unsolved – after all there are conflicting accounts of what happened and perhaps nobody can get to the bottom of it. So it might just get filed as a cold case.

  “But, Allerdyce, I’d like you to think carefully about what would happen if I chose to re-open the case. Burgess would have to testify that he sent you to Winchburgh. I’d have to testify that I gave you a gun. You were the only armed policeman known to be there. Lots of people saw you in the hall, and saw you go into the back room. The gun’s been found and is in a safe place. It had clearly been fired, and the bullets are of the same type as the one that killed James Semple. No-one ordered you to shoot Mr Semple – we’d have to testify that you exceeded your authority. Murder, Allerdyce – a capital offence.”

  “Come on, Jarvis. Even you wouldn’t stoop so low.”

  “Not unless I had to.”

  “You’re a wretch. You’re beneath contempt.”

  Jarvis shrugged.

  “I’m a soldier in a total war.”

  Allerdyce called in next on the Superintendent.

  “Very good to see you back, Allerdyce. But are you sure you’re fit for it? I don’t want you straining yourself before you’re ready.”

  “I’m fit, sir. I want to get back to work. I’ve still got a live murder case on my hands.”

  Burgess glanced away from Allerdyce.

  “Sorry, Allerdyce. The Chief’s decided the Duke’s case is closed.”

  “Jarvis suggested something along those lines when he was gloating to me about his promotion.”

  “Yes. The promotion. Not my doing, Allerdyce. I know you’re the better policeman.”

  “Sir, I don’t want to sound bitter, but I think Jarvis has gone mad. He’s all but admitted that he arranged to have Semple shot. I think he wanted McGillivray and me out of the way too.”

  “Excuse me a second, will you, Allerdyce?”

  The Superintendent got up, crossed the room and told the clerk in his outer office to run an errand. He shut the doors behind him and resumed his seat, leaning across the desk and speaking softly.

  “Look, Allerdyce, I don’t like what’s going on here either. It gets worse every day. Jarvis is accountable only to the Chief Constable. He’s choosing the most hardened men in the force to form his personal flying squad. He’s running informers everywhere – even in the force itself. I can’t even be sure my own thoughts aren’t mysteriously known to him.

  “I spoke to the Chief Constable and he just said it was modern policing. He practically told me to modernise or retire.

  “I can’t do it, Allerdyce. I can’t get past the simple notion that evidence and trials are what catch criminals. I don’t know how long I can last.”

  “I’m sorry sir.”

  “Look, Archibald, you’ve got to think about your career. You’re a younger man than me. You’re clever and versatile. Maybe you should learn the new methods. You could do well.”

  “I don’t want to, sir. They’re corrupting us.”

  “It’s your choice, Allerdyce. But the Chief’s clear that anyone who doesn’t agree with his methods is an enemy of progress.”

  “So be it.”

  “If you stay on the force all you’ll get to investigate is burglaries.”

  “I still want to solve this murder, sir. I’ve never left a murder investigation uncompleted in my life. I don’t think James Semple did it. I at least want to find the other suspects who’ve been identified to us.”

  “I’ve told you, Allerdyce. The case is closed.”

  Allerdyce paused and looked out the window for inspiration. The far-off hills were still topped by snow, under a clear sky.

  “Perhaps I should take a vacation to recuperate, sir.”

  “That’s not like you, Allerdyce. But I think it would be a damned good idea.”

  “Somewhere northerly, with a fresh breeze from the sea. Dornoch, perhaps.”

  “I see your point. I certainly can’t stop you.”

  “Thank you sir. I’ll tell you if I find out anything interesting.”

 
; “Take your time, Allerdyce. Make a proper holiday of it. I wish I could promise still to be here when you get back.

  “And be very careful.”

  Chapter 19

  There was something about getting away that gave him room to think. At home, he’d always be subject to the childrens’ joyful or tearful attentions. At work, Burgess would no doubt put some new cases in his way to distract him from the ‘closed’ murder case. And whatever he did he’d never be free from Jarvis and his informers.

  Jarvis. Just thinking about the man made Allerdyce want to throw his glass against the wall. The evil, scheming, murderous bastard.

  Even here, lying in his clothes on the bed in a single room in Dornoch’s Eagle Hotel, he couldn’t feel free from Jarvis’s gaze. It was absurd. All the way up to Tain, a train journey of nearly eleven hours, he’d been scanning his fellow passengers in the compartment or on the platforms and wondering if any of them were in Jarvis’s pay. On the short ferry from Tain to Dornoch he’d had to persuade himself that the man with the heavy black beard wasn’t one of Jarvis’s constables in disguise. And even in the hotel he’d imagined that the boy who’d carried his bag up to the room might be about to send a telegram to Jarvis to inform him where his rival was staying.

  Allerdyce sighed. What was the point of giving yourself the time and privacy to think if all that came to mind was Jarvis? Maybe Margaret was right that it was daft for him to want to get away on his own, that he wasn’t well enough yet and that he’d just get ill. He felt his brow – it was a little hot but he couldn’t say he had a fever. He’d already re-dressed his wounded arm and, thank heavens, the wound still looked clean though peeling the old dressing off had given him a pain as intense as if he’d been tearing off his own flesh. Maybe it was a simple dereliction of his duty at home to come up here.

  No, he thought. This is my duty. I owe it to justice, I owe it to James Semple, and I owe it to myself to find out who killed the Duke of Dornoch. And only by finding out who really did it can I show the Chief Constable that Jarvis is wrong. It’s the only thing that’s going to stop Jarvis’s insane secret war.

  The fire crackled in the grate and Allerdyce breathed in the unfamiliar peat-smoke, so much mellower than the acid coal-smoke of Edinburgh. I don’t know what I’ll find here, he thought. At least I’ll understand the Duke better by finding out how he’s regarded here. Maybe I’ll learn something more about Patrick Slater.

  Thinking about Slater brought McGillivray’s image to mind, standing in his blood-caked shirt. Whatever else, thought Allerdyce, I’m going to find out more about the wounds this good, strong man bears – his family cleared off the land of Sutherland, his father dead on the passage to Canada.

  He lay back on the bed. He could hear nothing but the hissing of the burning peat, the gentle rattling of the windowpane in the chill North Sea breeze, and the muted murmur of conversation from the bar below. He shut his eyes and tried to enjoy the quietness. Somehow, though, he couldn’t relax his mind or his body. He kept turning from side to side and his mind refused to slow down. It wasn’t even the thought of Jarvis that was consciously bothering him any more, it was a more nameless discontent.

  He sat up. The name for his discontent had suddenly come to mind.

  I’m lonely, he thought. I’m away from all the noise and distraction of home. I thought I’d find peace but I’m lonely.

  He had half a mind to get the first train back south in the morning and get back to Margaret and the children. He’d tell them how he’d missed them, and bring them back little souvenirs of the Highlands.

  But before he could think of returning he had to do his duty here.

  Only a handful of people were in the hotel’s bar. Four men, dressed like shopkeepers thought Allerdyce, sat round a table playing cards. At another table a tweed-suited man a weather-beaten complexion – maybe a tenant farmer – was arguing with a dark-suited gentleman, some papers between them on the table. The barman stood polishing glasses, holding them up in turn to the bright paraffin light behind the bar before putting them away. Allerdyce listened carefully in case, in these far northern parts, anyone was speaking Gaelic but he only heard English. He ordered a beer.

  “How are you, sir?” asked the barman. “Is the room to your liking?”

  “Yes, fine thank you.”

  “You’ve made an excellent choice of a place to recuperate, sir. Fresh sea air. Healthy walks. Spot of golf on the links maybe.”

  “Yes. Perhaps.”

  The barman leant confidentially towards him.

  “And, sir, if you feel the need for company that can be arranged. Comely Highland wench, fresh from the glens.”

  He was ashamed to feel a flush of temptation for an instant.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  He decided to turn the conversation back to duty.

  “It’s an attractive town. Who lives in the big house outside it?”

  “Dornoch Palace? It’s owned by the Duke of Dornoch.”

  “The carriage went past it on the way in from the ferry. I thought it looked French – round towers with conical roofs, formal garden at the front.”

  “That would make sense, sir. The 5th Duke built it because his French wife wanted one. Said she’d go back home if she didn’t get it.”

  “Interesting. And does the Duke come to Dornoch often?”

  “No, sir. Mainly just stayed in the south. Came up here for a few weeks each year for shooting. Died just a few weeks ago.”

  “I suppose that was a blow to people here.”

  The barman shrugged.

  “Makes precious little difference as far as I can see, sir. The rents will still be collected. I suppose we’ll see the new Duke soon enough.”

  The tweed-suited man came up to the bar to order a couple of glasses of porter. The barman addressed him.

  “Our guest here was just asking about the late Duke, Mr Smith. You knew him a bit, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, that I did.” Allerdyce was surprised to recognise a thick Yorkshire accent. “A most efficient landlord.”

  “Efficient?” asked Allerdyce.

  “Rightly so. I’m renting over ten thousand acres of sheepwalk from the Dornoch estate. The Duke saw to it that we had no nonsense from squatters. There’s not a single man or woman on all the acres I manage except for my workers and their families.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “That’s not rightly my concern. All I know is that, if I can agree the right prices with the gentleman over there, I’ll make the sort of profit I thought I’d have to emigrate to Australia for. Twenty thousand fattened lambs for delivery to Smithfield between April and July.”

  “Did you ever hear of a Patrick Slater?”

  “Aye, he was hard done by. He did a grand job of getting the squatters off the land, but he was punished harshly for it.”

  “I heard he was transported,” interjected the barman.

  “Word is he’s back. I heard tell that he’s hiding out somewhere beyond Lairg. But they say he’s gone mad and he’s helping the natives to stay.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Anyway, if you’ll pardon me gentlemen there’s money to be made. I’ll bid you a good evening.”

  Allerdyce set off the next morning for Lairg on the mail-coach, leaving most of his luggage behind at the hotel. After passing over rich pastures beside the sea, with sand-dunes and the grey-blue expanse of the North Sea behind them, the coach turned inland up a wide glen. Hills rose on either side, grass and birchwood giving way to high heather moorland. Every mile or so the coach would pass the roofless walls of abandoned houses, some of them tumbled almost into ruin, others with bare charred roof-timbers still standing or collapsed into the middle. Walls enclosing little fields round the houses had been knocked roughly to the ground, allowing the sheep to wander through the villages and eat the weeds and thistles which had colonised them.

  It’s like a war, thought Allerdy
ce. This must be what it’s like in Georgia right now, with an army burning and murdering its way towards the sea.

  The impression was re-inforced when, a few miles up the glen, the carriage passed a large village of white tents. It was navvies, not soldiers, who were queuing up at the cookhouse tent for their breakfast before heading up to work on the raw new scar of railway embankment which cut its way through the grass, rock and heather. Nonetheless, Allerdyce couldn’t resist the impression of a hungry army working its way inexorably through the Highlands, the vanguard of harsh, commercial modernity.

  The coach reached Lairg by lunchtime. Whatever the town had looked like before must have been changed utterly in the past months. The railway was practically complete here. Beyond the bright sandstone of the station-house, sidings reached out towards new corrugated-iron sheds and metal-fenced pens of various sizes. The commercial traveller sitting next to Allerdyce explained that they were looking at the new sheep and cattle mart which would draw in livestock from all over Sutherland for auction then pack them onto trains to the slaughterhouses of the cities. It seemed cruelly efficient, thought Allerdyce, a whole county that’s dispensed with human beings as far as it can, to rely on the industrial-scale production of animals for transport and slaughter.

  The coach halted outside a brand new hotel building from which hammering and sawing could be heard inside, opposite a wide, fast-flowing river. Allerdyce got down and looked up and down the main street. New stone-built shops with plate-glass windows and sizeable detached houses in various states of completion lined the street, facing the river. None of them would look out of place in one of the better suburbs of Edinburgh – there was obviously good money to be made out of livestock. At either end of the street, however, the grand new buildings gave way to low small-windowed cottages with a thatch of heather. Whoever’s going to remember Patrick Slater is more likely to be found in one of them, he thought.

  He walked along and looked into the open door of one of the cottages. An old man sat with a bottle of whisky in front of him in the smoky darkness. His straggling beard, toothless smile and patched hessian jacket marked him as someone the new economy had passed by. The floor was covered in rushes and a fire burned in a hearth in the centre of the room, its smoke rising into the chimneyless thatch. Dark joints of meat hung down from the thatch on iron hooks and a chicken pecked round the man’s feet. Allerdyce felt as if he was looking back into darkness of a previous century.