Fall From Grace

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.