44
On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.
LORD BYRON,
Constable Mulholland and Miss Emily Forbes walked down the hill with a decent enough distance between them. Not hand in hand by any means and if there were a brushing contact of sleeve upon sleeve, the uneven quality of the paving stone would surely stand count for that.
They had made rendezvous at a teahouse where he watched indulgently as she, a trifle greedily it must be said, munched her way through two large slices of Dundee cake, followed by a marzipan concoction. That was fine by Mulholland; he disliked marzipan intensely.
After that, their footsteps had led them, as they wandered at random, to the high reaches of Leith, where they were both enjoying the light April breeze and pale spring sunshine. A perfect day to be young and, if not at once in love, Cupid might yet be lurking in the rhododendron bushes, arrow sighted.
Emily cast a sidelong glance at the tall figure of Martin Mulholland, for such was his Christian name.
The constable was a fine height, his feet were big which was always a good sign, and his voice was true.
They were considering a duet, a song of Burns, to wit ‘My love is like a red, red rose’ … not an easy melody but Mrs Roach thought that since Mulholland already had some acquaintance with the tune, it might encourage the young man to rise above himself.
Emily was all for that.
She wondered what her father would make of the constable. There was no doubt of his serious mind and steady disposition but policemen were often in contact with the lowest part of humanity, and might this not somewhere, in some osmotic fashion, cause a degree of corruption?
Mulholland, for his part, had suddenly recognised (his mind wandering with his feet) that the road down which they so happily perambulated, though respectable enough in itself, had within and upon it one house which he hoped to slide past without incident. Gently does it.
Emily’s young bosom trembled in appreciation of the fresh air and Mulholland was put in mind of a saying of his Aunt Katie’s.
‘I have my eye on you, Mulholland!’
The constable sighed, his worst fears realised as a harsh, derisive, and most vulgar shout rent the air and Emily grasped on to his arm for protection.
They both witnessed, through the gates of one of the houses, a large white face leering most inappropriately. The man’s stubby teeth were bared, more than a few gaps visible, and his hair seemed to be standing up on end.
‘You owe me a drink this night in the tavern and don’t you forget it!’ the fellow bawled.
‘Who is that awful man? He seems to know you, Martin!’ gasped Emily. ‘Is he insane?’
‘No. He is my inspector,’ replied Mulholland grimly. ‘This is his idea of a prank.’
‘A
‘Haggghh!’ with this last roar the man then turned and ambled back to where a red-headed woman sat at a table in the middle of a rather splendid rose garden.
Mulholland knew the house behind that garden only too well and prayed that Emily did not.
‘But surely?’ her eyes narrowed. ‘Is that not … a house of ill repute? I have heard it said. A blot on this nice neighbourhood. Is that not so, Martin?’
‘There is the odd rumour,’ said Mulholland steering her rapidly down the street, though she would glance back.
Emily, like many of her sex and breeding, was both fascinated and repelled by the prospect of depravity.
‘But what is your inspector
‘It’ll be some sort of official visit,’ muttered the constable. ‘Now let us leave this scene, Emily, for there is nothing to be gained at this juncture.’
However, she was like a dog with a bone.
‘But what goes on in that house, Martin?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never set foot in the place myself.’
This was not strictly true but now was not the time for explanation.
He swept her round the corner, pausing only to shoot a vicious look rearwards to where the man in the garden, now seated, waved cheerily in farewell.
Thus the young couple departed to search out a better world and James McLevy turned to watch contentedly as Jean Brash poured him out his first and freshly brewed cup of best-quality coffee that day.
‘You’re an awfy man,’ she observed.
‘I like tae keep him on his toes,’ was the blithe response.
He sniffed the aroma of the coffee and frowned in concentration. ‘I can smell palm trees,’ he said gravely.
‘Lebanese. A dark grinding.’
He lifted his cup. ‘The mysterious East.’
She raised her cup in reply to his toast. They drank.
McLevy sighed. This was as near heaven as he would ever get.
Jean watched him through lowered lids, she did not cleave to direct scrutiny. Although he had leapt up quick enough when he spotted Mulholland on the street, he was looking tired. His eyes were sunken, and that animal ferocity, never far away and so much part of his nature, seemed at a low ebb.
She remembered the moment so long ago when he lay on the tavern floor, with Henry Preger about to kick his face into pieces. She had winked at the spreadeagled young constable, in provocation or in sympathy who knows, but McLevy came off that dirty planking like a madman.
Jean often wondered if that beating had not contributed to Preger’s death some years later. Along with the arsenic the man had unwittingly ingested.
No matter. Preger had been an evil vicious swine. He had put her out on the streets scarcely a bairn, and abused her as pimp, lover and partner.
That night he had met his match in McLevy, and, in Jean, his nemesis.
As the inspector slurped his coffee, she further considered.
Indeed there was a madness to McLevy which the fraternity recognised and respected. He was mortal enemy, but he also shared a wild spirit. Hers, in particular.
Though if she ever broke the law to achieve a wicked end, he would have her in the cells quicker than a judge’s spurt.
But he’d have to catch her first. He knew it. And she knew it. This moment, though, they could appreciate each other for what they were. Coffee hounds.
The whores were giving the bawdy-hoose a springtime clean, their shouts and laughter echoing from inside. A series of thwacks shook the air where Francine, heavy cane to hand, knocked hell out of a dusty carpet laid across the washing line while Lily knelt at her feet, making a crown of daisies.
‘Strong arm, that girl,’ the inspector noted.
‘Years of practice,’ Jean replied.
The giant Angus, scythe to hand, was lopping through a thicket of tall thistles. All grist to the mill.
His daughters, the Dalrymple twins, each to a window, shook out some white sheets. It was a sight to behold.
