Trick of the Light

‘It is superstitious drivel,’ Roach retorted, but was aware of the ground underneath his feet shifting as ’twere in a sandy bunker at the mention of his wife who was, in truth, intent upon dragging him shortly to some society cabal on the subject. For some reason arguing with his inspector often had this effect; the man instinctively perceived a weak point and then poked it with a sharp stick.

McLevy adopted a mild, even more irritating tone.

‘There is a measure of scientific doubt, sir. And while science doubts, we must all hold our breath.’

‘I shall hold my breath for no-one. The pernicious influence of spiritism is creeping round this city like a pestilence. Like some sort of…Catholic plot.’

‘Oh, you blame the Pope, do you?’

‘I would not be surprised,’ expostulated Roach, who suspected his inspector of ultramontanist leanings; no- one knew where McLevy worshipped, if he did so at all, and the man was known to whistle seditious Jacobite airs to boot.

‘I had no idea.’

‘Had not of what?’ asked Roach, who was beginning to lose the thread.

‘That the Spider of Rome was weaving this web.’

Roach took a deep breath.

‘Our country is founded upon the decent God-fearing bedrock of Protestant Christianity, McLevy. Undermine that, and anything can happen.’

‘So, in the defence of your realm,’ said McLevy, his tone changing of a sudden to reflect the angry contempt he felt within, ‘you would hammer in upon a glaikit wee boy who seeks to rid himself of the brand our deeply compassionate Lord has seen fit to burn upon his face?’

For the second time that day Mulholland felt the ground swallow him up but, strangely enough, though a muted hiss escaped from Roach’s lips, he did not respond in a fashion the constable would have anticipated.

‘It is not our task to question the ways of the Deity, inspector,’ he replied firmly. ‘And, I would remind you, thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.’

‘That’s between him and me,’ was the equally obdurate response.

Roach, in his lieutenant’s garb, was an immaculate assembly of straight lines and knife-edge creases. He had a long snout of a nose, dry skin and irregular snaggled teeth that were the bane of his life.

A crocodile in uniform.

He was half a head taller than his inspector who, despite the mild late-October weather, was muffled up in his heavy coat looking like some bad-tempered winter animal newly emerged from its lair.

Just leave it, Mulholland begged silently of McLevy. While you’re still at the races.

But no. Too much to hope.

‘If Ballantyne chooses to delude himself that some mysterious magnetism can change the workings of his body cells and leave him with a skin to match the purity of his innocent intentions, then good luck tae him.’

For a moment McLevy’s voice thickened and Mulholland guessed the cause to be either bile or sentiment. He hoped sincerely it was bile; the idea of his inspector having finer feelings was an alarming one.

‘It’s his delusion,’ went on McLevy, his eyes shifting to where Ballantyne sat disconsolately at his desk, trying to impose order onto what indeed was an irredeemable mess. ‘His delusion, and he is welcome to it.’

Roach narrowed his slightly bloodshot eyes.

‘What the Lord lays upon us, we may not avoid. His mercy is infinite. His burden is heavy.’

McLevy sniffed, and then, with a mercurial change of mood, grinned savagely as a random thought struck home.

‘Anyway, ye should have let him finish the job.’

‘And why, pray?’

‘Because had he done so to no effect, it would have proved that the forces of the occult could hold no sway with the malediction of a Presbyterian Almighty.’

The inspector let out a wild whoop of laughter.

‘Now Ballantyne will be in doubt for the rest of his life. You have created the opposite of your intent. Jist like God.’

What Mulholland found bewildering was the way these two went from one level to another.

‘That is close to sacrilege, James,’ said Roach quietly. ‘The pagan in you rises.’

‘It’s near Halloween,’ came the reply. ‘I’ll be dancing at the bonfire.’

Before Roach could muster a response to this profane assertion, there was an altercation of sorts at the station desk and, having had little satisfaction from Sergeant Murdoch who had his inert domain there, a young man strode towards them.

He was almost as tall as Mulholland but broader of frame, wearing what looked like an old sailor’s coat with brass buttons; he wore a naval cap of sorts, set at a rakish angle tipped to the back of his head. The fellow was fresh complexioned, open faced, with a thick walrus moustache, obviously an attempt to add gravitas to the twenty-two-year-old countenance chosen for its domicile. His eyes protruded slightly, almost fish-like, pale blue, but they had a fierce directness of purpose.

He committed himself to Roach, totally ignoring McLevy who stood aside in mock deference, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Indeed there was something childlike and disarming about the whole presentation before them, a brash young boy caught inside a giant’s body.

‘Are you in charge here, sir?’ he asked, the voice a little higher-pitched than the frame would warrant.

‘There may be some who would dispute such,’ replied Roach, dryly, ‘but that would seem to be my function.’

The young man blinked a little at this, and looked round all three policemen as if they were in disguise.

‘I am here to report a crime,’ he announced finally.

‘You’ve come to the right place then,’ said McLevy.

‘No denyin’ that,’ added Mulholland.

Roach, of course, at this point, should have handed the case to McLevy and walked off to gaze at the portrait of Queen Victoria that hung in his office, comforting himself with the thought that both his sovereign and the Supreme Chief Constable in heaven would find no fault with their loyal servant, but some imp of perversity seized him and so he stood there as a member of the silent trinity.

It is the habit of policemen when they are in any way uneasy – as Mulholland was with the roasting he was expecting from his inspector, Roach with the realisation that the persecution of Ballantyne had unearthed a streak of cruel intolerance in his nature that he had himself suffered from greatly under the rigid edicts of his long dead father, and McLevy with inappropriate ribald images still surfacing from his dream – that they will displace the emotion in accusative form upon the first member of the general public unfortunate enough to swim within the murky depths of their oceanic authority.

And so they stood. Not one regarding the other, all focused on a stranger in their midst.

 ‘Whit’s that in your poche?’ said McLevy out of the blue. He had noticed a suspicious bulge to the right side of the stranger’s reefer jacket. ‘No’ a revolver I hope?’

The young man looked down at the pocket and frowned; this encounter was not turning out the way he had seen it in his heroic imagination. He plunged his hand into the deep recess of the garment and brought out the suspicious shape.

‘A cricket ball,’ he declared.

‘Ye indulge at the cricket?’ asked McLevy, as if it was a sign of anarchist leanings.

‘I play cricket, football, hockey, swimming and rugby,’ was the proud response.

‘What about golf?’ queried Roach.

‘A splendid pastime.’

Roach nodded approvingly but McLevy was not yet finished with his line of enquiry.

‘I’ll wager ye also try your skill at boxing?’

A look of surprise flashed into the stranger’s eyes.

‘I do.’

‘Last night I’ll be bound.’