Fall From Grace

She had once led a life of crime, never been caught, claimed to have mended her ways, that desperate necessity had been the root of her knocking lumps out of the law, but he knew her to have a network of informers on the street and once a thief, the habit sticks.

Had she returned to felonious activities?

Had she ever left them?

What in hell’s name were she and Garvie up to?

And, most importantly, why was he standing here like some gowk in the street?

He launched himself across the road and hurtled down a narrow side alley which he had noted earlier, the ground under his feet treacherous and slippy, the faint light from a street lamp revealing that the side wall which enclosed the garden or back green, was too high for him to scale.

Part way down was a wooden door, rusty and firm-locked, but if he could just get his foot on the handle and lever himself up? He cursed Mulholland’s absence; the constable’s height was invaluable at moments like these but he would be lost in love’s dream or sookin’ up to the lieutenant – aghh!

Somehow, McLevy managed to get a hand on the rough surface at the top of the wall and haul himself up so that he sat astride.

Below him were what looked in the gloom like some sharp-thorned and inhospitable gorse bushes, no point in dropping to earth and anyway he had good vantage from here.

And, what was on offer?

Most of the curtains at the back of the house were drawn but there was one lighted window and standing framed as if for a photograph, was Oliver Garvie.

The man was looking sideways at something.

A woman moved into the frame. Jean Brash, bonnet and outdoor coat already removed, red hair flowing, fingers busy at the top of her gown. Garvie reached out a hand and moved the dress aside to display the top of one bare shoulder.

As he caressed that, she threw back her head to expose the throat.

McLevy’s groin was killing him, the wall was wide and he was sitting atop like Humpty Dumpty.

The woman was desperate, no doubt about it, she grabbed at Garvie and hauled him in to nuzzle at the bottom of her neck.

Things went from bad to worse.

This was terrible. McLevy wanted to shout out, that’s quite sufficient! But the words stuck in his gullet and anyway he was an investigator, an observer, an eye-witness.

Garvie stopped suddenly and moved to the window to mercifully blot out the sight of Jean Brash unbuttoned. The man looked through the glass and McLevy instinctively ducked down. When he glanced up again, the curtain was drawn and the play was over.

Two shadows flickered for a moment by candlelight, two silhouettes which fell to earth and disappeared from view.

That left McLevy on a damp wall, with only the night and an empty belly for company.

16

It was a lover and his lass,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,

As You Like It

Lieutenant Roach was not a happy man. Indeed he rarely approached that blissful state and possibly would not have been familiar with the feeling, unless it was a moment from his golfing memory where he had skimmed his gutta-percha ball on to the water hazard of a small dam and watched in astonishment as, instead of sinking, the ball had skipped over the water like a spring lamb, touching the surface at least three times before coming to land on the green. At that second, Roach knew the strange trembling in his heart of momentary joy.

But that was then, and this was now. A small side room of the Freemason’s Hall in George Street, where, the worshipful meeting of the lodge over and the sowing of seeds amongst his fellow members as regards the perfidious conduct of a certain chief constable in the President’s Cup carried out with scrupulous nicety, he had decided to place the suit of Constable Mulholland in front of Robert Forbes.

They were both still dressed in Masonic regalia, the silver sashes adding a layer of formality to the occasion.

Forbes sat at the end of a long table and Roach, not wishing to seem invasive of the man’s territory, found himself at the other extremity so that he was forced into speaking rather loudly, as if selling wares at the market.

So far the insurance adjuster’s face resembled that of a man staring at a blocked water closet.

Roach took a deep breath and tried not to bawl down the distance between them.

‘The constable does not lack culture.’

‘I’ve heard him sing.’

Mulholland had a reasonable tenor voice. He and Emily had performed some duets together at a musical evening chez Roach. The lieutenant hated these soirees but his wife was in her element, weaving romance like a spider’s web.

‘His promotion prospects are … reasonable.’

‘Seems diligent enough.’

‘More than that.’

‘Nothing wrong wi’ steady.’

‘No. But, it makes him sound rather dull.’

‘Vanity is not welcome in my house.’

Roach was beginning to feel obscurely annoyed with his petitioning role and the granite responses spearing up the table towards him.

He found an unexpected dignity and firmness of tone; perhaps it was the Masonic carvings in the surrounding wood panelling which provided the support.

‘Mister Forbes I am not quite sure how I ended up as advocate for the constable’s case but here I am, and I require from you, like Solomon, a judgment.’

This comparison to the great Israelite, who, though initially a wise ruler, was brought low by idolatry and fleshly inclination, brought Forbes snapping to attention.

‘A judgment?’

‘As regards his honourable intentions towards your daughter – what are his prospects?’

The succinct question produced an equally concise reply.

‘Poor. Emily is too young. She does not know her own mind. Or heart.’

Roach nodded. In a strange way, he was growing into the function he had reluctantly assumed.

‘I would agree with that. But perhaps … in years to come?’

‘It would be many years.’

‘The young man may believe that your daughter is worth waiting for.’

‘He may wait. But what of her?’

‘She has, I am told, expressed some … fondness?’

The forefinger of Robert Forbes began to tap upon the table, indicating a mite of agitation within.

While the man tapped on, Roach observed him with a professional eye. A widower of some three years’ standing and well enough presented. The eyebrows were somewhat tufty and the face though not exactly pudgy had some flesh to spare but his posture was erect and his hair carefully combed to conceal an incipient bald spot at the back.

A small man. But he carried himself like the church elder he was and the darting restless eyes missed nothing.