‘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
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.
‘I doubt that fly’ll no last,’ he worried. ‘Mebbye I should have just left it be.’
‘Things never improve by neglect,’ was the cryptic response. ‘Go next door and be nice. It doesn’t come natural to Mulholland.’
Ballantyne did as he was bidden and some moments later the tall figure of the constable came out to join his inspector.
Mulholland looked down from a great height and shook his head.
‘You’ve a heart of stone, sir. That poor woman is grieving fit to burst.’
Having delivered that weighty remonstrance, the constable looked with a frown towards the door of Roach’s office, which had been left ajar.
‘Has the lieutenant gone?’
‘Uhuh.’
‘That’s a great pity.’
‘Why?’
‘I – he – asked me to remind him about something.’
‘And what was that?’
Mulholland spoke from on high.
‘Nothing to concern you, sir. Matter of communication. In the nature of a go-between.’
‘The function of the pander throughout the ages,’ McLevy muttered.
Back to business.
He clapped his hands together loudly as if to bring Mulholland out of a spell and spoke incisively.
‘I don’t doubt Mary’s grief to be genuine but I also know that she and Daniel were thick as thieves. She knew his every move.’
‘But the man’s dead, there ends the matter.’
‘What if he was a hired hand?’
‘Hired for what?’
‘That’s a good question.’
A silence followed. Then Mulholland leant over so that his face was, for once, level with McLevy’s.
‘Are you thinking … deliberate arson, sir? Oliver Garvie?’
‘Don’t raise your hopes, Mulholland.’
‘But why would he do that? The cargo has to be genuine. Certified so.’
McLevy sighed and nodded slowly.
‘Aye, I know. But while I still wonder, I shall continue to investigate.’
A murmur of voices indicated the advent of Mary and Ballantyne and McLevy spoke quickly before the door opened from the cold room.
‘Take her home, Mary. Play sympathy, lather it on, but when she is least expecting, look for an opening. You are in love and therefore somewhat glaikit but I am sure you noted that Mary couldnae wait to get out of her place.’
‘Of course I noted it,’ said Mulholland who had not.
‘You’d have thought the prospect of viewing her son’s burnt offering on the cold slab might have rendered her a wee bit reluctant, but no, she was out of that room like a shot. What does that recommend to you?’
‘There might be something in there she does not wish us to see,’ replied the constable berating himself inwardly for having to be led by the nose like this.
‘Exactly!’ advised McLevy. ‘So you look for an opening and if you find a thing, report to me at once. Any time. Night or day.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘On the case. Elsewhere.’
A nod between them.
‘It’s cruel,’ said the constable. ‘But I’ll do it.’
‘It’s a cruel business,’ replied McLevy as the cold room door opened, and Mary came forth holding Ballantyne’s hankie to her swollen eyes; indeed, as has been remarked, the boy was far too kind to be a policeman.
There was a burst of noise in the station as the evening shift of the Leith constabulary came pouring out of the cubby-hole, ready to confront crime wherever it raised its ugly head.
The noise and horseplay stilled abruptly when they became aware of McLevy looking in their direction.
But the inspector’s gaze was inward. Since this case had begun, he had the sense of an evil fortune, following him like a dark shadow.
Of late he had been reading his recent bookstall acquisition, one of Edgar Allan Poe’s short stories, ‘The Masque of the Red Death’, and this had stirred up some morbid fancies.
