Fall From Grace (6 page)

The walls and ceiling of the warehouse were blackened by the fire but had stood firm. The wooden beams had absorbed, over the years, enough moisture from the sea and windswept rain, to render them proof against consuming flame.

The body had not been so lucky. It had lain under a pile of scorched debris, until discovered by the workmen brought in to sweep the site lest more combustion be lurking, ready to burst once more into destructive action.

Oliver Garvie looked down at the scrambled mess of something once human, and sighed.

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t come too near.’

He had met and escorted the policemen through the ruins of the fire leading them to an unsavoury tangle of flesh and bone, the scorched putrid matter peeling from the emerging skeleton. It was curled up in a foetal position, lying on its side, what was left of the face contorted, jaws open in a silent scream.

McLevy dropped to his knees and peered at the corpse, whistling a Jacobite tune under his breath,

‘Charlie is my darling, the young Chevalier.’

The inspector was in his element, oblivious to the stench from the near carbonised flesh and the gruesome picture presented. He pored over the details of the body like a housewife picking out a good piece of meat for the table.

Above him, Garvie and Mulholland eyed each other. It would seem that there was no love lost between them, and they made an odd contrast.

Oliver was very much the man of fashion and cut, even in this sad wreckage, an impeccable figure. His single-breasted frock coat was of a smooth dark material, fastened only with a top button to reveal the silk, silvery waistcoat below. To complete the upper body ensemble, a patterned cravat nestled at the neck of the fine-combed cotton shirt of such dazzling whiteness that might even match the hue from the imagined nightgown of Emily Forbes.

His hair was a glossy chestnut brown that fell in waves towards his left eye; the trousers were discreetly striped, hanging to the bottom of the heel of his boot, and all in all, especially taking into account the heavy sensual mouth which hinted at an aptitude for the boudoir, he presented a formidable proposition.

Through gritted teeth Mulholland would have to admit, given the fact the man’s father owned a succession of butcher’s shops, that Oliver Garvie exuded a certain
beefy
charm.

The constable on the other hand, was more of a
bony
proposition, only too conscious of the rough material of his police uniform the collar of which chafed against his long neck, and the fact that, however hard he pulled at them, his wrists dangled out from the sleeves as if he was some sort of half-witted farm boy.

There was also the matter of his helmet with its little metal nipple at the pinnacle. Given its positioning on his great stature, it looked, in the words of his Aunt Katie, ‘like a pea on top of the Mountains of Mourne’.

All this had instantly flashed between them while McLevy whistled.

Garvie spoke down to the inspector, ignoring the tall figure beside him. His tone had the self-assured drawl of a man at ease in his class and social standing, though far from content with the situation in which he found himself.

‘I’ve been here since first light. We found him not long ago. Buried, you see.’

Garvie dabbed at his brow with an immaculate white handkerchief, which he replaced with a flourish into the sleeve of his jacket so that it hung out as if the bold Oliver were a Restoration dandy.

Mulholland stepped past and his nose wrinkled as the stench of the corpse rose to meet him.

‘It’s a wonder you didn’t smell him out,’ he said.

‘Twenty thousand pounds’ worth of top-quality cigars creates quite a smokescreen,’ Garvie observed wryly.

‘Really? I don’t use the things.’

‘A decent cigar is the mark of a true gentleman.’

He smiled at Mulholland as if to take away any hint of disparagement in the remark, but the sting remained.

It is said that if stabbed by a bee, the best resource is to maintain a still quality in order that the insect may therefore withdraw its barb. If the spike breaks off, the bee will die. Allow it to retract the same and buzz about its business, then not only will it live on to serve Mother Nature, but you will suffer less pain.

That is what they say.

Mulholland’s lack of motion however had less to do with enlightened self-interest and more the demeanour of a man wondering where best to plant his large bony fist.

The inspector had part-registered this sniping exchange whilst, like the bee, going about his business.

Having examined the corpse from head to what were left of the feet, he had unearthed one worthy-of-note fact, moved off to find something else of equal interest, and judged it a propitious moment to bring all this nonsense to a halt.

Time for Mulholland to earn his corn.

‘Constable, pass me your scientific opinion on these, if you’ll be so gracious?’

He displayed the first find which he had teased out from under the body, a squat chunk of metal burnt black, with a hole from which some charred fragments of wood protruded.

‘What’s left of a hammer, I would say,’ averred the constable.

‘On the nail. And this?’

The inspector pointed towards an object that had also been buried in the debris, not far from the body.

Mulholland’s nostrils flared at the prospect of displaying his deductive prowess as he moved away from the immaculate Oliver to examine the indicated field of study.

He squatted down, scrutinised, and then pronounced.

‘The flames have fused it all together but, to my mind, this residue before us, is composed of glass and metal segments from an oil lamp.’

The inspector nodded a slow agreement and the constable, with the merest of glances back towards Garvie, raised his voice to make sure that every word was being registered by the cigar fanatic.

‘The aforesaid pieces are near enough the corpus for us to draw certain conclusions.’

‘Conclude away,’ said McLevy whose mind was already moving in another direction.

Auld Clootie
. A childhood name for the Prince of Darkness. Jean Scott who had raised him like her own son always warned him to beware the cloven hoof. The right foot of the corpse was twisted and split, but he suspected that the fire had not caused such injury. Medical examination with luck would confirm this and he would therefore have a name with which to conjure.

‘We have observed before entering the building, that the lock on the door was forced, possibly the hammer coming into play,’ continued Mulholland, as if delivering a lecture to the hard of hearing and slow of wit, ‘a clumsy botch of a job. It would seem the thief carried on this ill-conducted
modus operandi
, dropped the lamp, and inadvertently indulged in self-immolation.’

Oliver Garvie offered an elegant correction.

‘Immolation tends to mean sacrifice, often accompanied by the sprinkling of water. The word you may seek is … incineration.’

A snort of laughter from McLevy brought a pink tinge to Mulholland’s cheeks and the tips of his large ears glowed red. As the constable began to straighten up, the inspector addressed Garvie in loud cheery tones.

‘Whatever the word, he set himself off into a fine wee funeral pyre. A stinking charry mess. Even unto the … bones of his feet.’

His laughter rang through the hushed quiet of the warehouse and a few of the workmen turned round to see what was so amusing about a dead body.

Oliver’s features darkened, though when he spoke it was pleasantly enough, no need to descend to the other’s level.

‘Drollery aside, inspector. I would remind you that I have paid a considerable sum of money to import this cargo and you, the police, exist to protect respectable society.’

McLevy pursed his lips and nodded as if impressed by this judicious reprimand, then offered a response.

‘Respectability aye strikes me as to resemble an overcoat. When you’re cold you wear it all the time and when the heat takes you? It is left at home. On the peg.’

The mask of buffoonery was cast aside and, in its place, a cold implacable stare informed Garvie that the man before him was not impressed by rank or station.

But the importer, while possessed as his enemies might attest of many faults, did not lack nerve.

‘I have suffered great loss and grievous financial damage,’ he said evenly. ‘All I seek is justice.’

For a moment McLevy looked intently into the face opposite and seemed to find something there, which brought a bleak smile to his face.

‘That’s my speciality,’ he replied. ‘High or low, rich or poor, I’ll bring it down on you.’

This sounded more like a threat than a guarantee but Garvie held the inspector’s gaze.

‘What are your conclusions, so far?’ he asked.

‘Fire is the very devil.’

A response that held a wealth of implication, and, depending upon your conscience, could provoke a variety of reaction.

Oliver Garvie loved the gaming tables and could bluff with the best of them. He produced a rueful smile.

‘It does tend to burn the fingers,’ he said.

Mulholland had been watching this rally with close interest. Whether the inspector was taking the constable’s side, was, as usual, difficult to fathom, but McLevy had a secret up his sleeve. After all this time, trailing the man in and out of scrapes that would try the patience of Saint Peter, from low disgusting taverns to the high treacherous reaches, he could recognise the signs. The inspector was up to something.

Then his attention shifted and his heart jumped. Could this be possible? And if so, was Fate dealing a card from above or below the deck?

9

Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown,

Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON,
Maud

A figure had appeared at the open door of the warehouse, silhouetted in the frame by the cold November light. The man wore a top hat, with a stout cane to hand and in his other he held a small case.

His whole being radiated a flinty moral probity, the unmistakable embodiment of Presbyterian rectitude.

Robert Forbes. Father of Emily. Here in official capacity no doubt as an insurance adjuster, but holding within that stiff demeanour the capacity to let Mulholland soar like an eagle with hopes high and an eye for the main chance, or crunch him under-foot like a snail.

The constable slithered up behind McLevy but just before he could whisper his tidings, Robert Forbes’ voice rang out in the comparative silence of the warehouse.

‘What are these men doing here?’

For a moment Mulholland thought Forbes referred to the inspector and himself and, despite the desperate dictates of love, bristled a little. They were policemen. There was a dead body. They belonged together like liver and bacon.

Then he realised that Forbes was aiming his remark at the workmen who were, in a somewhat desultory fashion, heaping some of the burnt timber up against the wall.

For the first time, Oliver Garvie appeared to lose a portion of composure.

‘Mister Forbes. I had no idea, sir.’

‘No idea of what, sir?’

‘That you might come in person.’

Robert Forbes walked into the warehouse and moved towards them, the small black case held firmly in front of him like a buffer against the negligence of chance.

He had obviously registered the presence of the policemen but concentrated his gaze upon Garvie. When he spoke it was in low measured tones, but there was a nip of remonstrance in the air.

‘These men must cease their labour at once,’ he said.

Garvie waved over to the workmen who were only too glad to call a halt and await the outcome arising from the deliberation of their betters.

The insurance adjuster gave the floor of the warehouse a swift appraising glance then shook a stern head.

‘Interfering with evidential artefacts can affect the outcome of a claim, Mister Garvie. I assume, since your policy is with the Providential, that you will be making such a demand?’

‘Unfortunately, I fear that is so,’ replied the bold Oliver, seeming to perspire a little.

‘Then you would have done better to ensure that nothing was remotely disturbed until the arrival of an inspecting authority.’

‘My thought entirely!’ boomed McLevy.

Forbes favoured the inspector with the briefest of nods then fixed his gimlet-eyed stare once more upon Garvie who realised that some explanation might be in order.

‘There was fear of a secondary fire and, of course, I wished to find out if any of my goods were recoverable, but it was hopeless.’

He raised his arms disconsolately, and then let them fall to his side.

‘All gone. Up in smoke.’

‘I understand your motive, sir,’ said Forbes dryly, ‘but the outcome is to be deplored. However the damage is already done, let us hope it is not irreparable.’

Although Mulholland was gloating inwardly at the apparent discomfiture of Oliver Garvie, he was also conscious of the fact that one day he might also be standing before Forbes to make a claim. Not a prospect to be relished, judging by the acerbic manner of the adjuster.

Perhaps Forbes would be easier over a daughter’s hand, or perhaps, as the constable feared to be the more likely outcome, the man would be a damned sight harder.

Robert Forbes had remarked a small ledge where he might carefully lay his case and, while doing so, issued further instruction.

‘If you would be so kind, Mister Garvie, to inform your workmen that nothing is to be further tampered with until I have finished examination, I should be obliged.’