15
The breezes and the sunshine,
And soft refreshing rain.
JANE MONTGOMERY CAMPBELL,
McLevy meanwhile was cursing himself and the precipitation as he trailed a certain quarry through the drenched and sodden streets of Leith.
After a most unsatisfactory meeting with Robert Forbes where the adjuster had not only confirmed the certification for warehouse cargo to be genuine but informed McLevy that the claim was already forwarded to head office with his stamp of approval, the inspector’s efforts to hint at possible arson were met with a blank stare.
Where was the proof?
When McLevy promoted the identity of Daniel Rough and his incendiary inclinations, he was met with an even blanker stare. Setting fire to a building was one thing, setting fire to yourself was surely carrying the process to an extreme.
And where was the proof?
Forbes spoke mildly enough but the look in his eyes suggested that he thought the inspector’s mind might need some adjusting never mind the claim.
McLevy had slunk down the stairs from the Providential Insurance office feeling like a fool, only to run into Mulholland’s beloved Emily coming up the selfsame steps to visit her father. Her eyes had widened as she twitched her skirts aside and shrank against the wall as he grunted a good evening to slouch his way past.
The cheerless evening matched perfectly with his mood, dank and clammy, with the rain beating down monotonously like a minister’s sermon.
But then as he walked along Great Junction Street with a dampness spreading through his right sock to remind him that the hole in the boot needed mending, whom should he see? Unaffected by weather, debonair under umbrella, a long cigar raised to fleshy lips, none other than the bold boy, Oliver Garvie.
He sauntered along as if it were the height of summer, a pleasant smile on his face and the inspector, on an impulse, followed like some humble retainer who had to maintain a certain distance between himself and his liege lord.
A stray dog ran out from one of the alleys and began barking viciously at McLevy.
He did not care for dogs especially wee snippy ones that might cause a mark to turn and see the cause of such a racket but, no, Garvie turned into Bonnington Road and went on his merry way.
McLevy contented himself with a well-aimed stone to send the animal yelping into the darkness and followed on.
The road led past the Rosebank cemetery where Jean Scott was buried and he berated himself for not having visited her grave for a while to bring some flowers to the only woman he had ever put his trust in, and for a moment he was a wee boy looking up at her as she unwrapped a parcel and said …
The memory had warmed McLevy strangely and he began to recover his spirits.
When Garvie turned into McDonald Road and flipped the cigar into the gutter, his shadow darted forward, picked up the butt and sniffed. Good quality. How many slaves had died to produce a leaf so fragrant and so fine?
McLevy was acquainted with McDonald Road but it was not one of his haunts. A respectable enough and therefore to his mind uninteresting thoroughfare, the tall buildings housing a deal of rented accommodation.
Garvie approached the door of one of the buildings, skilfully avoided a heavy drip of water from the leaking roof-gutter above, produced a key, inserted same in lock, and vanished from view.
The inspector moved into a doorway opposite to shelter from the elements, and pondered the situation.
He knew for a fact that Garvie’s domicile was in the New Town, what was the dashing Oliver doing with a key that fitted a lock that opened a door in Leith?
The inspector checked the front windows for any sign of illumination but none came. The house was dark and had a faintly neglected air as if it had been left out in the rain. A lodging home of sorts, he would wager, where articled clerks and bank apprentices removed their stiff collars with a sigh and dreamed of a polished wooden desk between them and the rest of the world.
A desk with their name upon it.
McLevy’s stomach rumbled and he realised that he had, as usual, forgotten to replenish that particular cavity since the drappit egg at the Old Ship.
Which seemed years ago; in fact the whole day was like an eternity besieged by deluge and memory.
The street was deserted; anyone with any sense would be dry and cosy indoors like Oliver Garvie.
Yet, what was the bugger doing here?
At the warehouse when he had faced squarely on to the immaculate Oliver, he noticed that despite the swagger and confidence presented, a telltale little tic had pulsed at the side of the man’s left eye. Of course it could have been tiredness, a mote of dust, but it also could have been a sign of something suppressed. Guilt, for instance.
And as much as McLevy sifted and analysed the material of criminality, evidence uncovered, a suspect past, the hard facts of implemented death, the grind of the streets, the cold slab and the interrogation room, he also put great store in these fragments of impression and thin slices of intuition that brought him home by a different path.
But where had all this brought him?
The downpour stopped suddenly and, in the silence, amidst the drips that continued to fall from the slates and drain pipes, he heard carriage wheels approaching from the opposite end of the road.
And there it was, drawn by two horses he recognised and driven by a giant figure he recognised also as Angus Dalrymple.
A decent blacksmith once, but now his twin daughters hammered out sin on the anvil of the Just Land while he was both coachman and guardian to Jean Brash.
Who stepped out of the coach, opened the door of the same house and slipped inside.
The carriage drove off. McLevy, if he had been able to see his own countenance, would have roared with laughter.
The mouth, half open, lower lip protruding like a fish, a look of puzzled disbelief slapped across his face.
But few of us can see ourselves.
He closed his mouth and, while his mind raced with questions, ignored the queasy feeling in his belly.
Jean also had a key to the place, eh? An assignation, a partnership, or both?
No hesitation, in like a whippet, so was this a long-standing practice?
