by Alastair Sim
For a full minute there was nothing visible inside, then he saw a squat, dark figure come up the hall and disappear into a room. A moment later a taller figure emerged into the hall and came towards him.
The woman who opened the door must have been in her fifties, thin-faced but handsome, with hair which was still dark under her white lace bonnet. Her black silk dress covered a strong figure. If this was Augusta Mitchell he could see how, thirty years ago, she could have captivated the young aristocrat. The idiot girl was a mystery, though, unless William Bothwell-Scott had fathered another child with Miss Mitchell that no-one had yet told him about.
He took his hat off.
“Good afternoon, I wonder if you can help me. My name is Inspector Allerdyce. I’m looking for Miss Augusta Mitchell.”
The woman pointed at her ears and then her mouth and shook her head.
“Augusta Mitchell, madam? Do you not know her?”
The woman shook her head again.
God, thought Allerdyce, what sort of house of idiots is this?
The woman picked up a little schoolroom slate which was hanging from a hook inside the door. She wrote on it, the stylus screeching against the surface, and held it out to him.
‘Deaf and dumb,’ he read.
He took the slate, rubbed her words out with his fingers and scratched out his own message.
‘Can anyone here speak?’
The woman took the slate from him. As she rubbed out his message and scratched her own a younger child, a boy, appeared in the hall, staring towards him with open-mouthed fascination before giving a loud groan. Allerdyce glanced back to check that the cab was still waiting to take him away from this mad place. She held the slate out to him again.
‘No. Deaf and dumb school.’
His heart sank. The prospects of finding Augusta Mitchell were fast receding. He wrote again on the slate.
‘Augusta Mitchell?’
‘No,’ wrote the woman. ‘Gone away.’
‘When?’
‘Long time.’
‘Daughter?’
‘Gone too.’
‘Where? Either.’
The woman gestured to him to wait. She turned round and went down the hall. The boy in the hall stood staring silently at him, and the idiot girl appeared from a side room, looked at him briefly, then ran back.
The woman came back, smiling politely. She took the slate, wrote on it, then held it out towards him.
Dear God, thought Allerdyce as he read the address she’d written, not that. In the name of all that’s sacred, please not that.
Arthur jumped in his seat as he heard the doorbell ring. He reprimanded himself for a foolish timidity. Surely his killer wouldn’t turn up in the middle of the afternoon and ring the doorbell to request admission?
He wasn’t expecting a visitor, though, and he wondered who it might be. Probably a parishioner wanting him to hold a funeral or visit some dying peasant. He’d have to go, even if leaving the house meant exposing himself to unnecessary danger.
Or maybe someone was bringing news.
He thought about the news he’d most fear. Had someone come to tell him that the killer had struck again, and that his brother George was dead?
Poor George. Arthur supposed that if George died he might, quite apart from concern for his own welfare, actually be sorry. George hadn’t been a bad brother. He’d never beaten Arthur, he hadn’t locked Arthur in a cupboard and left him overnight like Frederick had done, and he’d spared Arthur the daily humiliation and ridicule which he’d suffered from Frederick and William. George’s death would make Arthur the Duke of Dornoch, with the staggering fortune which went with that, but Arthur would miss the brother who’d even shown some signs of spiritual regeneration since he’d lost his wife, even if Arthur couldn’t share his delusions about the spirit world.
Wilson opened the parlour door, interrupting his thoughts.
“The Dowager Duchess to see you sir.”
“Very well, Wilson. Show her in.”
Arthur was shocked when Josephine came in. Her eyes were red as if she’d been crying, and there were dark lines under them which he’d never seen before. She wore no hat and her hair, normally so neatly tressed, straggled randomly over her shoulders. Her pale complexion had turned ashen.
“Josephine!” He stood to greet her. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
She hung her head.
“I’m sorry, Arthur. I’ve done something so awful that I have no right to be received under your roof.”
“Josephine! Surely not? You know I could forgive you anything.”
He led her over to an armchair at the opposite side of the fireplace from his. She sat, her head still bowed, with her hands in her lap.
“Would you like some tea, Josephine? Perhaps a sherry?”
“No thank you, Arthur. I don’t feel strong enough for either.”
He sat.
“What happened?”
Josephine sat in silence for a few moments, her fingers fiddling with the dark bombazine of her dress. Arthur felt the tension mounting in him unbearably. At last she spoke.
“It’s your brother George, Arthur.”
“What about him?” Arthur felt a surge of anger and incomprehension. Had all his faith in Josephine been an illusion? Had Josephine come to tell him that she had given herself to George? Were all his hopes doomed to turn to ash? Josephine continued.
“George came round to my cottage just now. I know that, strictly, I probably ought not to have admitted an unmarried gentleman, but he is family after all, and a widower, so I didn’t think it was any great impropriety.
“At first he was solicitous. He said that, now that he had succeeded to the Dukedom, he wanted to see that I was established more appropriately.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“I assumed he meant that he’d allow me to inhabit my old apartment in Dalcorn House. I asked him if that was what he meant and he said no, he wanted to establish me in Rock House. Was he going to move to Dalcorn House, I asked? He said no, he couldn’t because his late wife’s spirit was at Rock House and he couldn’t leave it.”
She paused and took a lace handkerchief out of her sleeve to dab her eyes. Arthur’s mind raced, imagining Josephine being taken away from him and forced to live in his brother’s sick spirit-world. She went on.
“I thanked him, but said that there was no possibility of my sharing Rock House with him, that even for a brother-and-sister-in-law to live in such close proximity would be unthinkable.
“He said that there was no question of us living together in that way. He said he could only share Rock House with me as man and wife.”
Arthur felt a sudden faintness. Had she consented to marry George? Was he going to have to officiate at the wedding of the only woman he’d truly loved? The room was swimming before his eyes and he thought he’d fall off his chair.
Josephine was weeping now. He leant forward to touch her on the knee. There was something steadying about still being able to touch her.
“What did you say?” He dreaded hearing the answer.
She looked up at him with her tear-stained eyes.
“I said no, of course, Arthur.”
Arthur’s relief was mixed with perplexity.
“You spoke well, Josephine, and I can understand why such inappropriate behaviour by George should upset you. But why do you torment yourself with the thought that you have done something wrong?”
Josephine put her head in her hands. Her narrow shoulders heaved with a great sob. She spoke without looking up.
“Something so awful happened after that, Arthur, that I dare not mention it.”
He touched her shivering arm.
“For God’s sake, Josephine, tell me! Tell me anything! I cannot bear to see you suffer. Please, tell me and let me offer whatever help I can!”
She glanced up at him then spoke, her voice stronger and clearer now. Her face was utterly grim and her fingers pulled a
t the handkerchief in her lap.
“George didn’t accept my answer, Arthur. He spoke rashly, saying that he’d known we were kindred spirits from the moment he’d seen me, that our souls were conjoined in the spirit world and that our bodies must follow. He said his late wife had been speaking to him from the other side, telling him that it was time for him to stop his mourning. His wife had said it was his soul’s destiny to be with me. He was so vehement, Arthur, that I started to fear both for his sanity and for my own safety.
“I asked him to leave. I told him that it was very wrong of him to speak to me in this way. He refused.
“There are no bellcords in the cottage, Arthur. It’s so simply built that there’s no provision for summoning a servant. I stood up, and hoped that George would accept that as a signal that he should leave, and that if he didn’t I would leave the room and ask my maid to show him out. Then…”
She seemed to be looking into the distance behind him, her lips pursed so tightly he could hardly see them. He looked intently at her but she didn’t speak. Her arm was shaking and he could hear her slight, rapid breathing. He leant in close, and felt the warmth of her breath on his face.
“Go on, Josephine, please go on.”
“I’m sorry, Arthur, I don’t think I can.”
“Please.”
She hesitated an instant then continued, looking down at the floor.
“What happened next was horrible beyond my power to describe it, Arthur. Your brother took my standing up as an opportunity to pounce and catch me off balance. He pushed me against the wall and pressed himself against me. I tried to beat at him with my feeble strength but he pressed his face against me and tried to kiss me. I kept struggling and turning my face away but he grabbed my chin in his vice-like hand and held it while he kissed me and told me that he loved me, his other hand roving over my body and even over my bosom.
“I tried to cry out to the maid but he stifled my scream with his hand and then with another forced kiss. Arthur, I felt utterly soiled and violated.
“That wasn’t all. As he was kissing me he started to undo the buttons on his trousers. I felt paralysed, Arthur, rigid with fear. The assault and degradation I feared from him was so inconceivably awful that my mind was overwhelmed and I doubted my power even to scream, even if I could release myself sufficiently for that.
“I believe God gave me words to save myself at that moment when I feared the very worst. George stopped kissing me for an instant, and I whispered the words that came into my mind from Providence. ‘Too soon,’ I said. ‘Too soon. Your wife’s spirit is here and says it is too soon.’
“Those words seemed to calm him. He let go of me and said he was sorry he had been so rash, that our souls were rushing to join themselves before our minds were ready. He left, with a promise to return before long.”
Arthur felt as if he had, himself, been assaulted. He had been plunged into a horror blacker than he had known possible. The last of his brothers had proved to be the worst, in his unspeakable evil against the best of women. He wanted to get up and go straight to his wretch of a brother and punch him, as hard and repeatedly as his strength would allow, until he lay broken on the floor. But, for now, he had to steel himself to be calm and pastoral to his wretchedly abused cousin. He spoke words which he prayed would help her.
“You did no wrong, Josephine. I can offer no apology for my brother, though. He has behaved with a wickedness I had not thought possible.”
Josephine was weeping again.
“I feel so soiled, Arthur. I acted so weakly. I should have had the moral strength to dissuade him. The guilt is mine too.”
“No, no, Josephine, the guilt is all his.”
“Do you not think me contemptible?”
“No, Josephine. I love you. I love you with all my heart as the best and bravest of women.”
He was shocked to hear himself speak the words he had, till now, only dared to think. He shivered with a fear that, like his brother, he was assaulting her with an unwelcome love.
She reached out and laid her hand on his.
“I love you too, Arthur, as my strength and guide and comforter.”
At any other moment, he would have been overwhelmed by a rush of joy at hearing her speak frankly of love. But, now, the spark of joy was extinguished instantly by a stronger, darker force.
Hate.
What George had done went beyond forgiveness. Forgiveness was too cheap. It would be a moral failure if Arthur didn’t accept his duty as a man, and make sure that George was punished. He deserved to be shot like vermin.
He felt his soul hardening into steel as, in his mind, he buckled on the armour of retribution.
Chapter 26
Allerdyce kept looking round to see whether he was being followed. Perhaps one of Jarvis’s men was tailing him, as he led them towards another suspect. To his relief, there didn’t seem to be anyone on his tail. He’d taken precautions – coming back from Bavelaw he’d taken the cab to Ravelrig Station and then got off the train at Haymarket, where he was less likely than at Waverley to meet anyone he knew. He’d not gone back into the Police Office before setting off to walk circuitously to Stockbridge. To avoid a chance encounter with any beat constables he’d taken the shadowed path in the deep gorge of the Water of Leith, which emerged back into the light barely a hundred yards from his destination.
Danube Street.
He’d promised himself, as Alice struggled for life, that he’d never come here again, but fate had dragged him back within days. As he pulled the doorbell he felt a heavy sickness in anticipation of another betrayal.
Antonia’s maid opened the door.
“Oh, Mr Allerdyce, we weren’t expecting you. I’m sorry, Miss Antonia is engaged.”
He took out his warrant card and showed it to her.
“Police business. It can’t wait.”
“I’ll let her know. Come in.”
He sat down, as so often before, to wait in Antonia’s parlour. He tried to ignore a shout of male anger and the running of heavy steps down the stairs, and the slamming of the front door.
Antonia entered in her dressing gown, her blonde hair streaming down on her shoulders. She smiled weakly at Allerdyce.
“Not a social call, I gather, Archibald.”
“No. I’m sorry. Police matters.”
“Well then, we’d better speak here. More suitable for this sort of business than the boudoir, I think.”
Antonia stood by the window, the light streaming through her hair. As he looked at her, and at the parlour with its upright piano, its potted palm, the dark silk wallpaper with its pattern of vines and grapes, and the canary in its cage, he was irresistibly reminded of Holman Hunt’s The Awakening Conscience. Antonia, though, looked like a stronger, more difficult, person than the kept woman, with her core of innocence, in the painting. Antonia’s posture was erect, and her gaze firm. The floral scent of her perfume couldn’t fully mask a musky, more carnal smell. In the unforgiving daylight the fine lines radiating from her eyes and mouth spoke of fixity of purpose rather than laughter.
The image of McGillivray’s bare, whitewashed cell came into his mind as he looked at the over-decorated parlour and he wondered what the sergeant was doing at this moment – picking oakum in silence in his cell, trudging drearily round the circle of the exercise yard, or, perhaps, being beaten discreetly by some inmates in a quiet corner of the prison while the warders turned a blind eye. He felt ill. It isn’t Antonia’s conscience that’s the problem, he thought. It’s mine.
“So, Archibald,” said Antonia. “To what do I owe the privilege of this unusual visit?”
“I’m looking for a lady by the name of Augusta Mitchell. I was directed to enquire after her at this address.”
“Well, you won’t find her here, Archibald.”
“The name clearly means something to you, though.” He hated himself for having to adopt his assertive, investigatory tone with Antonia.
“Of course it
does. It’s my mother’s name.”
“Your mother?” He felt a dizziness as inevitability closed round him. “And where is she?”
“Gone, Archibald.”
“Gone where?”
“Dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
Antonia sat down. As she sat he couldn’t avoid a glance at the beautiful curve of her pale breasts. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her and he looked away, cursing his weakness.
“You’ll appreciate, Archibald,” she said, “that mention of my mother causes me some upset. She died in quite distressing circumstances. Do you have a particular reason for your enquiry?”
Allerdyce paused.
“It’s in connection with a murder investigation.”
Antonia laughed, mockingly he thought.
“Well, I don’t think my mother can honestly be a suspect, Archibald. I buried her ten years ago.”
“I still need to know some details of her life and relations. I’m sorry.”
“An unhappy subject, Archibald. May I know the subject of your investigation?”
“The murder of William Bothwell-Scott, Duke of Dornoch. And also of his brother, Brigadier Sir Frederick Bothwell-Scott.”
“I should have known.”
“I recall that you said, last time we met, that the Duke’s name had some unhappy associations for you.”
Antonia paused before answering, looking Allerdyce directly in the eye.
“Yes. William Bothwell-Scott was my father.”
Damn, thought Allerdyce. He felt like he’d been hit with a hammer. It’s true. Like it or not, she’s at the centre of all this. And if she is, so am I.
“Did you know him?”
“He used to visit from time to time. He’d rented a secluded house for my mother out in the Pentlands where he could visit her secretly.”
I know, he thought, but I’m not going to tell you that I know.
Antonia continued.
“Of course, he didn’t say he was my father. I was told to call him Uncle Bill. My mother made up a story that my father had gone to India as a missionary and got sick and died, and that Uncle Bill was his brother who was helping to look after us.
