Fall From Grace (10 page)

‘What may that be?’

‘Also in drink. He has a penchant for setting things alight.’

‘A theftuous pyromaniac?’

‘You may describe him so,’ said McLevy. ‘To his mother, Mary.’

12

Then bring my bath and strew my bed,

As each kind night returns,

I’ll change a mistress till I’m dead,

And fate change me for worms.

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER,
Against Constancy

Rachel Bryden gazed up at the corniced ceiling, smiled with almost perfect malice and threw her naked limbs into the shape of a star.

‘Does she lie like this?’ she asked.

Oliver Garvie pursed his lips thoughtfully.

‘A touch more decorum,’ he replied.

She adopted another pose that left even less to the imagination.

‘This perhaps? How does that please you?’

For a moment he was tempted to tangle up with her once more, catch the quickness of her breath as she slid round him like a snake, a sinuous lustful snake, but then he slowly shook his head.

‘We’ve indulged sufficient my dear, even for the keenest appetite. Best return to your gainful employment.’

She had prepared a sulk but his words brought her to laughter, and she quit the bed to begin dressing, donning her boots in an admirably business-like fashion.

‘That old bitch Hannah Semple stuck a razor to my throat this very day.’

He smiled. ‘All the more reason not to be late.’

‘I want revenge.’

‘We shall have it.’

She shook the dress over her head then turned in order for him to lace her up.

‘This is the very best game.’

‘But a dangerous one,’ he murmured.

Indeed he had a picture in his mind of a circus performer juggling with Chinese swords that flashed in the lights as they spun high then fell back towards the man with increasing speed, the blades sharp and unforgiving.

‘A cool head. Hot blood can wait.’

She leant back against him and his arms squeezed her cruelly till she gasped agreement.

‘We shall have all the fun in the world when the game is over,’ he said, spinning her away to complete the transformation, by donning her outdoor coat. For a moment she had her back to him, and when she turned, he was looking at a respectable young woman of modest beauty.

‘Will you see her again?’ she asked demurely.

‘Of that I have no doubt.’

‘Why?’

‘Part of the game.’

She laughed and his mind flashed back to the first time he had seen her in the Just Land.

He had accompanied a group of wealthy businessmen, one of whom he was cultivating in particular for some urgently needed investment, and sat to the side in an armchair as the champagne flowed, the magpies laughed, and the ties of matrimony loosened.

From his vantage point he watched a willowy young creature walk down the stairs from the rooms above, holding on to the arm of some old dotterel who had no doubt been duped into imagined vigour, walk the man to the door, tenderly see him out, then turn with a look of complete and cold disdain upon her face. Their eyes met and he smiled to see such sport.

She smiled also without the slightest trace of being disconcerted and, as big Annie Drummond who overflowed the piano stool but had fingers as delicate as the cream puffs she loved to devour, launched into a version of ‘Going home with the milk in the morning’, the creature walked back towards him and stood as if for his appraisal.

‘No fool like an old fool,’ he said.

Her pale blue eyes usually so evasive fixed upon him.

‘I don’t pay for love,’ he continued.

‘Then I’ll supply you for nothing,’ she replied.

The die was cast. Two souls twinned in selfish contemplation without a moral scruple between them. And all else followed on.

It was she who suggested that he pay court to Jean Brash who luckily had not been on hand that night to see him at the bawdy-hoose.

No, he would meet her under more respectable surroundings and Rachel knew exactly where that might be and the way and means to intrigue her mistress.

He was eager enough to accept the challenge. It kept the woman from seeing what was happening under her nose and gave Rachel a secret to nurse, an advantage to hold that was so necessary to her character.

And how could he refuse the dear girl? It was her very own secrets that fuelled the present exploit, a means of escape that was also very necessary. For both of them.

A train whistle sounded in the distance but the dead in Rosebank cemetery were not in the mood for travel.

‘You had better leave,’ he said.

Rachel gazed at him. He was still stark naked and she now clothed. His body was fleshy, like a butcher’s boy, but sleek and oily to the touch.

She was the client and he the whore.

A thrill of power ran through her and she flicked at the nipple of his chest with her forefinger. His lips parted slightly but he seemed much at home in his natural state, unlike all the other men she’d ever known.

On impulse she ran her mouth up against his, tongue darting in and out like a snake then glanced down and giggled to see the result of her labours.

‘Go and earn your corn,’ he said, though his voice had thickened slightly. ‘Not long now.’

‘Not long now,’ Rachel repeated.

The door shut. And she was gone.

Garvie pursed his full lips and blew out a little breath. A bead of sweat ran down from his hairline in defiance of the season.

‘She’ll be the death of me,’ he muttered, then grinned suddenly, walked to the window and pulled back the curtains to gaze out at a sea mist that was beginning to cover the scene before him, spreading out from the direction of the docks. To confirm the fact, a fog-bell sounded faintly in the distance coming from the lighthouse at the end of the West Pier.

Everything was in hand. All papers and documentation for the claim had been sent for the considered judgement of the insurance adjuster.

Robert Forbes.

Twenty thousand pounds.

Oliver opened the window and shivered as the dank air made contact with his skin. What did he have to fear?

Everything was in hand.

Including Jean Brash.

Must remember to get the sheets changed, he thought; women can smell each other a mile off, not that Rachel minded, she was devoid of jealousy. Like himself.

Not like that dolt of a constable, green to the gills because Garvie had flirted a little with a compliant Emily Forbes at one of the musical soirées; basically a cattle market for eligible bachelors where hopeful daughters of even more hopeful parents displayed their cultural and other wares. All for sale.

Emily was a child. Not worth the pain.

Everything was in hand, yet two separate images clicked into his mind.

One, the black charred corpse.

And two, the moment when that police inspector had laid out the prospect of justice before him. The fellow’s eyes for a moment resembled those of a wolf and Oliver had found the examination oddly disconcerting. Just as well he played the cards. A poker face is a useful acquisition.

McLevy had a reputation. No mercy, high or low. Best keep out of the man’s way as much as possible.

Oliver Garvie gazed out once more. The outlines were getting blurred. Just how he liked it.

13

Ah, my little son, thou hast murdered thy mother!

SIR THOMAS MALORY,
Le Morte D’Arthur

A howl like a soul in torment rang through the station, coming from the direction of the cold room, bringing Roach speeding out of his room and causing Constable Ballantyne to wince in sympathy.

‘What in God’s name is going on, constable?’

Ballantyne’s mark of birth pulsed an even deeper red, a sure sign that the young man was suffering some shred of compassion. Roach, on the other hand, looked much the same as usual. Buttoned up against raw weather.

‘I think it might be a mother’s grief, sir.’

‘Mothers?’ said Roach. ‘What have mothers to do with anything?’

Another howl sent him to the cold room door, which he cautiously opened to peer inside.

Three figures stood frozen, as if arranged in a tableau for a photograph or some painting by one of these French realists that were starting to infect the world with their hellish visions.

The Decay of Death
, or some such dross.

Roach observed an old woman, both hands up to her head, mouth open. McLevy stood beside, eyes fixed upon her, not a shred of fellow feeling on his face, and Mulholland, on the other side of the cold slab, held the sheet in one hand as if he was about to perform some magic trick as opposed to uncovering a twisted, blackened corpse.

Mary Rough looked down at the body and the words finally found their way out of her rigid, clenched mouth.

‘Oh, my poor wee lamb, oh my God, he’s putrid burnt!’

Another heartrending wail caused Roach to flinch; he signalled at the inspector to come out and closed the door hurriedly.

McLevy gave Mulholland the nod to cover up the cadaver and scrutinised Mary as she put her head back into her hands and sobbed quietly.

Yet, when they had visited her in Horse Wynd, where she kept a single room in one of the closes, he had been struck by a certain evasiveness in her reaction to their queries.

I havenae seen him for days. A wild spark but a good boy. What has he done, now?

He’s been playing with fire, Mary.

Burnt himself to a crisp, ma’am.

Oh, god grant not. Not my wee boy, not my darling son!

The flames make no allowance. Darling or not.

But, how could it be?

Maybe somebody tipped him the word. To do a chore.

Whit kind of chore?

Break into a tobacco warehouse, ma’am.

And maybe it wasn’t the only chore. A wild spark, eh?

I don’t follow, inspector.

Are you sure of that?

I am.

And is that all you have to say?

I know nothing, inspector.

You will come with us to the station cold room. And view the body.

God grant it’s no’ my wee boy. God grant it so
.

But all God had granted was his usual, now you see it now you don’t. Good and evil men were dying all over the world for no discernible reason. There’s nae justice.

Mary took her hands away from her face to find McLevy’s eyes drilling into hers. She may have been relying on some leeway as the broken-hearted mother but, from the looks of the inspector, there was little of that on offer.

‘Fire is the very devil, eh Mary?’ he said. ‘And your son dined out on flames.’

‘When he was a wee boy,’ she sniffed plaintively, ‘ye couldnae let him near the candles in the chapel. Aye jabbing away at them.’

Most of the problems in Ireland started in chapels as far as Mulholland was concerned.

‘But this wasn’t an enclosure for such jiggery pokery, ma’am. It was full of tobacco.’

‘If he was in drink, he’d aye want a wee puff.’

‘But not a warehouse. That’s a
big
thing.’

McLevy smiled at her like a wolf inviting the rabbit for tea.

‘A very big thing. And not his previous style.’

Mary’s legs started to shake and she swayed as if to topple on to the crackling that remained of her son.

There was another sharp rap at the door; the unseen lieutenant was champing at the bit.

‘Shall I fetch you a chair, ma’am?’ offered Mulholland, eager to demonstrate his Protestant compassion.

The inspector stopped at the door to throw Mulholland a complicit look, before offering meagre condolence.

‘Don’t hold back on your sorrow, Mary. Mulholland here will keep you company.’

A low moan came in reply and he quit the scene.

Roach was hopping from one foot to the other as McLevy emerged, the lieutenant had his lodge meeting to attend and carefully rehearsed allusions to the stratagems employed in a chief constable’s trouser pocket would come to nothing if he was late for the gathering.

‘What is going on, McLevy?’ he inquired with some asperity as Mary let out a further long bellow of grief from the other side of the door. ‘I attend enough opera with Mrs Roach, I don’t need it in the station.’

‘We have identified the burnt felon,’ replied McLevy, adopting a formal tone. ‘One Daniel Rough. That is his mother you hear, mourning her son.’

‘Entirely proper,’ said Roach. ‘Anything else?’

‘Just … a wee thing.’

‘Such as?’

‘The crime does not fit the man.’

‘Fit?’

‘He was a low thief. These are high stakes.’

Roach received a whiff of where McLevy was heading and didn’t like it one bit.

‘What are you implying?’

‘Me?’

McLevy spread his arms wide, the picture of injured innocence, and Roach glanced at his timepiece then cursed silently. Nip this in the bud.

‘Oliver Garvie is a respected businessman whose father’s meat pies are renowned throughout the city; and if, by any remote chance, there is anything awry with the events of the fire Robert Forbes will find it so, he is meticulous to a fault, is that not the case?’

‘Indeed he is, sir. Grinds exceeding small.’

‘Neat and tidy, inspector. Leave it that way.’

So saying, Roach thrust his hat upon his head and fairly hurtled out of the station, hauling open the outside door. A blast of cold air signalled his departure and Ballantyne shivered as the stream hit home.