Dandy Gilver and an Unsuitable Day for a Murder

by Catriona McPherson

I crouched, reached out and managed just to grasp that arm. He shifted slightly, but I could not lift him clear; I could not hope to stop him dropping away. For a moment, I was almost decided to step onto the roof of the lift beside him, because I was sure I could feel a faint warmth through his sleeve and his arm moved so freely that I tried to believe it was not too late for me to help him. But then, as my hold slipped and I felt his cold hand and his icy fingers, stiffened like twigs and cracking as I clutched at them, of course I let him go.

  Instead, I pulled hard on one of the ropes, trying to bring the lift back up again, but I do not even know if it was the right one and however these matters were decided, wherever they were decided inside the machine, Mr Laming on the ground floor took precedence over me. I could only stand and watch the boy getting smaller, the outlines of his broken body hidden as the dark throat of the lift shaft swallowed him, even the knocking of his hand against the wall growing indistinct until I could no longer see the movement and could not pick out the sound of it from all the other notes in the tired old song of the lift on what must surely be its last journey now.

  I swung so fast down the six flights of stairs, hanging on to the banisters and wheeling past the landings, that I was dizzy by the bottom and staggering a bit as I burst out into the back of the Haberdashery Department. Over at the lift shaft, a middle-aged man in overalls under his coat looked up from where he was kneeling at an impressive toolbox and lifted his cap to me. A gormless-looking boy stood by him, who too doffed his cap. I noticed that both men wore black armbands.

  ‘Mr Laming?’ I said, trying not to gasp but still far from having enough breath to speak clearly. ‘Don’t touch the lift. Don’t do anything to it.’

  Mr Laming had got to his feet and was scratching the dome of his head, his cap pushed back as he stared at me.

  ‘Are you . . . ?’ he said but came up short of sensible suggestions.

  I took a good deep breath and spoke very calmly.

  ‘There has been a terrible accident,’ I said.

  ‘Poor Miss Mirren,’ said the gormless boy.

  ‘Today,’ I went on. ‘Someone has fallen down the lift shaft and I’m sure he’s dead.’

  Mr Laming and the boy both turned to look at the floor of the lift and then back at me.

  ‘Doon there?’ said the elder man. ‘For sure?’

  ‘Onto the top of the carriage,’ I said. ‘I just saw him. He’s on the roof. We need to get the police. I’ll ring them if you stand guard here.’

  His eyes narrowed a little at that.

  ‘Madam, pardon me, but—’ he said.

  ‘My name is Mrs Gilver and I’m a private detective,’ I said. ‘I was trying to find Mirren when she died and just this morning I was given the job of finding Dugald Hepburn too. I hope to God I haven’t.’

  But of course there was not a particle of me that doubted it. Mr Laming rubbed his face hard with one large and oily hand, rasping his stubble and leaving a dark streak across one cheek.

  ‘There’s a hatch,’ he said, pointing up at the roof of the lift carriage. ‘I’ll just take a wee keek.’

  I nodded. I needed him as an ally and he would be the better for seeing it with his own eyes, for not half-wondering if this were some kind of madwoman he was humouring. He closed up the enormous toolbox and lugged it into the lift, positioning it under a small, brass-edged panel I had not noticed before. Then he stepped up onto it and, reaching above his head, slid open a latch and very cautiously raised the trap-door. I think the fact that it rose at all set up doubts in him and I too suffered a pang of confused panic. Was not the body lying on that side of the roof, slightly curled around the rope where his cheek had grazed? Should not the hatch be weighted down, immovable?

  Mr Laming grabbed the edges of the hole and, with a little bounce, hoisted himself off the top of his toolbox and popped his head up into the darkness. He swore, just once, quite loud and echoing, and dropped back down again, stumbling to the floor and leaning back against the wall of the carriage. He took his cap off and stared at me.

  ‘Aye, that’s Dougie Hepburn, right enough,’ he said. ‘I’ll get this thing stopped and you away and ring the polis, hen.’

  ‘Again,’ I said, staring back at him. He bent and opened his toolbox once more.

  ‘Hector,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘You get away hame to your mammy. This is no place for you. Not today.’

  After a few false starts into stock cupboards and one nasty moment at the head of a basement staircase which dropped down from right behind an inward opening door, at last I found the corridor into the back offices and, there, a telephone. Even then though I fumbled and wasted time, because it seemed that the instrument was attached to some internal exchange with more buttons and levers than an ordinary telephone. I pressed and pulled them all in turn, with mounting panic, and must at last have hit upon the right combination because eventually a voice came down the line asking me for the number.

  ‘Police,’ I said. ‘As quick as you can.’

  ‘Isn’t that Aitkens’?’ said the voice, with deep suspicion.

  ‘Yes,’ I said louder. ‘We need the police here. And an ambulance too.’

  ‘Aitkens’ is shut today,’ said the exchange. ‘To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘Put me through to the police station this instant,’ I said and by now I was almost shouting.

  ‘But who are you to be in there when it’s closed?’ the girl said, a plaintive and insistent note creeping into her voice. ‘What’s going on there?’

  ‘Yes, all right, if you prefer it that way,’ I said. ‘I’m a burglar and I’ve broken into Aitkens’ and that’s not all. There’s a dead body here too. Perhaps I murdered him. What do you say to that?’

  ‘If I hear reports of a crime being committed while I’m properly carrying out my duties,’ she said, with a kind of prim boastfulness which made me want to reach down the telephone line and shake her teeth from her head, ‘I’m supposed to report it to the police straight away.’

  ‘Hallelujah,’ I said, and hung up hoping that the way I banged down the earpiece might have deafened her.

  There were no whistles this time; the first Mr Laming and I knew of the police arriving was when we heard the front door handle being rattled and fists pounding upon the glass. I hurried across the haberdashery floor and through the foyer towards the three large silhouettes waiting there and with some struggle threw back the bolts.

  I had been hoping for Constable McCann and dreading the inspector but I did not recognise any of these men I was letting in.

  ‘Dugald Hepburn has thrown himself down the lift shaft,’ I said. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  For just a moment they all stared at me and then the most senior of them, a sergeant I thought, stuttered into action.

  ‘Did you see it?’ he said, striding away from me. ‘This way, boys, back corner.’

  ‘No,’ I said, trotting after him. ‘I found him.’

  ‘Over here,’ called Mr Laming’s voice and, perhaps in response to some note they could hear in the way he said it or perhaps because they knew the man and knew he did not always sound that way, all three of them broke into a run. I sped up too but then from behind us I could hear thumping on the outside door again and I wheeled round.

  It was Alec, standing peering in at the door with his hands around his eyes making a visor. When he saw me he mimed enormous relief, clapping his hand to his chest, but before I had got the door open he had had time to register my expression and was worried again.

  ‘Dandy, what the hell?’ he said. ‘I’ve just come from the police station. I went to meet you, like we said, and you weren’t there and hadn’t been there and then three of them went pounding off and wouldn’t say where they were going. I thought something had happened to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I changed my mind. I came here – there’s a wake going on and— Oh Alec! It happened again.’

  ‘What—?’ he said and then we both turne
d towards the door as the light darkened. The inspector was standing there flanked by a pair of constables. He moved forward very deliberately, nodding to one of the men to lock the door behind him.

  ‘Your pal here was at the station looking for you,’ he said to me.

  ‘Inspector,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry – I don’t know your name. There’s been a horrible accident. Another one.’

  ‘Aye, and you reported it,’ he said.

  ‘Dugald Hepburn has thrown himself down the lift shaft. I saw him.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Alec. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t mean I saw him fall,’ I said. ‘I mean I found him.’

  ‘Again,’ said the inspector. ‘And what are you doing here?’

  ‘There’s a reception going on upstairs,’ I said. ‘For Miss Aitken. Just the staff.’

  The inspector nodded to his men and, apparently understanding, they made for the stairs.

  ‘Just the staff and yet you were invited?’ he said, returning his attention to me.

  ‘Now steady on,’ said Alec. I could tell that he was troubled but I could not follow what it was that was troubling him.

  ‘Is there a doctor coming?’ I said. ‘I think he’s dead, but I can’t be sure.’

  ‘You said you didn’t see him fall,’ said the inspector.

  ‘I didn’t see him fall, but I touched him and he was warm. I’m sure of it. Well, not cold.’

  ‘And were you invited?’ the inspector said.

  ‘Don’t answer, Dandy,’ Alec said. I blinked at him. Suddenly he seemed to be very far away and rather smaller than he should be.

  ‘Not exactly invited, Inspector,’ I said.

  ‘Mrs Aitken told me you weren’t invited last week either. To the jubilee.’

  ‘Again, not exactly,’ I said, nodding.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ said Alec’s voice, sounding to me as though it were at the bottom of a well.

  ‘But along you came and “found” Mirren Aitken. Then along you came again today and now you tell me you’ve “found” Dougie Hepburn.’ He turned sharply away as someone came towards us through the archway.

  ‘It’s him all right, sir.’ It was one of the first three constables, looking rather green and with his voice wobbling. I gave him an encouraging smile; I was feeling rather green and wobbly too. ‘Dead as dead can be. About two hours I’d say, from the state of him.’

  ‘And when did you slip off to take your medical degree?’ said the inspector, spitting the words out. ‘Get Dr Stott. And escort this gentleman back to the station. I’ll want to speak to him.’

  ‘I’ll come with you, Alec,’ I said, and I was aware that my lips felt rather peculiar as I formed the words.

  ‘Don’t you move, lady,’ the inspector said, and with those brutal words, so harshly fired at me, finally I began to make sense of what he was saying and Alec’s protests and the strange sensation of my lips and legs knowing better than my brain what was happening to me.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ I said, faintly. Alec put out a hand of restraint, because of course this was no way to be speaking to the man. ‘You can’t seriously . . . what are you . . .’

  As I saw the dim foyer grow even dimmer and felt the air around me begin to roll past with a rushing sound, the last thing I heard was that ugly voice, uglier than ever.

  ‘Oh, that’s right! Treat yourself to a wee swoon, why don’t you?’

  I came round with a dull headache and a feeling of nausea just short of making me check my surroundings for suitable containers. Then memory flooded in and I sat bolt upright, headache sharper, nausea gone. I was still in Aitkens’ foyer, sitting on one of the taxi chairs just inside the door. Alec and the inspector were gone and one of the second lot of constables, the ones I had thought of as the inspector’s henchmen, was standing firmly planted in front of me, his face quite impassive under his hat.

  I made as if to stand but he stopped me with a practised gesture, formed I suppose to keep motorists out of busy street junctions but just as effective at keeping me in my chair.

  ‘You’re to stay put till the doctor gets here and has a wee look at you,’ he informed me.

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘It’s perhaps not a bad idea. I don’t make a habit of fainting, you know.’ At that I remembered the inspector’s last words and a surge of fury gave me back every bit of the vigour which had temporarily deserted me.

  ‘Here he’s now,’ said the constable as a man let himself in the front door. ‘Doctor!’ The doctor hurried towards us, frowning. ‘This . . . witness fainted and the boss wants you to give her the all-clear before we shift her.’ I blinked at his choice of words but before I could answer the doctor was upon us. He was a harried-looking sort who held himself at a forty-five-degree forward angle as though using gravity to keep himself moving at the pace he had set. He peered at me.

  ‘Fainted, eh?’ he said. ‘You saw the body?’ I resented the implication but it seemed easier than trying to explain and so I nodded. ‘And how are you feeling now?’ he said.

  ‘Quite well, thank you,’ I said. This was the answer I had been brought up to give and it came out of me without prompting.

  ‘Fine, then,’ said the doctor and he turned and propelled himself towards his real business at the back of the store. The constable and I watched him go and then caught one another’s eye.

  ‘Right,’ I said, tucking my feet under me in preparation to stand. ‘Thank you for waiting with me, young man. And do pass on my thanks to the inspector. It was most thoughtful of him to ask the doctor to have a word. Now, can you tell me where Mr Osborne went when he left us so that I can . . . What is it?’ The constable had begun shifting his feet and was darting glances at me as though not quite able to look me straight in the eye.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, Mrs Gilver,’ he said, fumbling at his pocket or his tunic belt; I could not quite see. ‘But it’s my orders and I cannae help it.’

  ‘Help what?’ I said, but then I saw what he had been fumbling for; they glinted as they swung free, the two solid rings bright with polish and the chain between them sparkling. I stood up and looked him straight in the eye, pleased to see that he cringed a little under my gaze. ‘Your inspector,’ I said, in a voice I will never cease to be proud of summoning at such a moment, ‘is an oaf and a bully and since you choose to emulate him, I expect you will go far. But your mother will be ashamed of you for this and rightly so.’ Then I turned, very slowly, and keeping my eyes locked on his as long as I could.

  ‘It disnae have to be behind you,’ he said, in a mournful voice.

  ‘No, no!’ I said, rubbing it in hard. ‘I would hate the inspector to suspect you of chivalry.’ And I thrust my hands upwards, wrenching my shoulders horribly. Silently, he clicked the handcuffs closed about my wrists and then guided me to the door and out onto the street, where a small knot of onlookers, attracted by the commotion, were well rewarded for their wait; a thrill which was almost a shriek ran through them at the sight of me. I kept my chin very level, resisting the temptation either to bow my head or to stick my nose in the air, and stepped into a waiting motorcar. It was no mean achievement, what with having no hands to help and with my legs weak from rage and fear, but I made it and I slid onto the seat, crossing my legs at the ankles and letting my shoulders rest lightly against the seatback as the driver started the motor and we pulled away.

  At the police station, minutes away down the High Street, I began to shake and I had to clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering for I half-suspected that I would be thrown into a cell and, trying to picture it, I could not decide which would be worse between the prospect of being all alone behind bars in a little cell of my own or of being cast into a crowd of the sort of women I thought might be there already.

  In the end it was not so bad as all that; perhaps Dunfermline did not possess those sorts of women anyway. I was taken straight from the motorcar into the type of little room I had seen before in my few visits
to police stations; a bleak enough place, furnished with three hard chairs, one very plain table and an empty waste basket, but at least it had an ordinary door with a handle, no bars, no shackles and no grilled window to the street through which my loved ones would have to feed me titbits to keep me alive. (My imagination had soared away from all controls during the short trip and had left me somewhere between Marie-Antoinette and the Pankhursts for pathos and hopeless damnation.)

  I was given a disgusting cup of dark brown tea and was left alone to stare at it for almost an hour until the inspector opened the door, entered and sat down opposite me.

  I pushed the cup towards him.

  ‘I’m finished with this, thank you, Mr . . . ?’ I said, but I did not succeed in making him angry. He was used to insolence from his captives, I supposed. ‘Now,’ I went on. ‘You’ve been very clever and if this is the sort of nonsense the Fife Constabulary go in for, I’m sure you’ll be due a medal at the end-of-year party, but it’s gone on long enough. Ask me what you would like to know and then be kind enough to telephone a taxicab for me. I don’t feel up to walking to the station, as I’m sure you can appreciate.’

  ‘I’ll give you this,’ he said, ‘you didn’t go straight to the county.’ I frowned. ‘Your pal’s been dropping names like autumn leaves, threatening me with every top brass that ever walked a golf course.’

  ‘My good man,’ I said, ‘– since you won’t introduce yourself properly to me – you are being so ridiculous that I begin to suspect some political motivation. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve discovered rabble-rousers where I’d least suspect them. But let me say this as slowly and clearly as I can.’

  ‘I have a few questions for you, Mrs Gilver,’ he said, opening a notebook and unscrewing the cap on his pen.

  ‘I am a detective,’ I went on, ‘brought here last week by Mrs Ninian Aitken to help find her missing granddaughter. Your surgeon decided that the girl died by her own hand and I was in full view of the Provost, Lady Lawson, and Mrs Aitken herself when it happ—’

  ‘What is your full name and address, first of all?’