‘You went into the study and looked around, what could you take to make up for the wrongs committed? And there was the candlestick, what better? Inscribed to Sir Thomas who gets all the credit for your labour, the crime fits the insult, eh?’
Dunbar nodded his appreciation of McLevy’s grasp of the subtle under-currents to this event while Mulholland, who would be an important witness at trial, trained his large pink ears towards the two men, side by side, all friends together.
McLevy carried on with his reconstruction in a soft mesmeric tone, which his superior Lieutenant Roach would have found hard to recognise and alarming to witness, like a wolf lying down with lambs.
‘Out you came, into the hall, quiet as a mouse, and there in front of you was Archibald Gourlay, the butler, another quiet man. Face to face. In from the street while you were busy about your righteous task, a wee bit shaky on his feet, whisky on his breath, the drink is a terrible thing, eh Herkie?’
For a moment Hercules Dunbar hesitated, and then nodded assent.
‘He was puggled, right enough.’
‘A terrible thing, the drink.’ The inspector bowed his head in the sorrow of wisdom.
Mulholland also bowed his head but it was to hide the light of triumph in his eyes. They had him now.
Or had they?
McLevy continued, his voice quiet and reassuring, as if impending death was to be a pleasant surprise.
‘And of course a man as strong as you would not dream of doing harm to a man as old as that, no. Not smash his head with a candlestick as the constable was daft enough to suggest but perhaps, by accident, you wished to escape, he stood in your way, you gave him a wee gentle push, is that the way of it?’
‘Aye,’ said Dunbar slowly. ‘Jist a wee push.’
‘And down he fell?’
‘Over his own feet.’
‘A terrible thing, the drink. A man of his age should know better, eh?’
‘Dangerous, right enough.’
McLevy and Dunbar nodded together, wise beyond their years, and Mulholland tried not to catch the suspect’s eye lest it break the spell.
‘So, one minute he was there before ye, and the next?’
McLevy held up his hands palms outward as if to ward off unwarranted accusation.
‘Out of sight. Down the stairs. Arse over elbow.’
He laughed heartily as though no harm had been done, a comical event, like Humpty Dumpty falling, like the old man who would not say his prayers; Dunbar laughed also but then a strange look came into his eyes.
‘Not down the stairs,’ he said slowly. ‘I left him in the hall. On his arse right enough. But … in the hall. It was me went doon the stairs. I ran like hell. Then, out the window.’
The inspector’s eyes narrowed; either the man had realised he was about to hang himself or the invented structure did not fit what had actually taken place.
He kept his tone pleasant, try again.
‘Well that’s a puzzle Herkie, because I found him at the bottom of the steps.’
He forbore to add, ‘With his head split open, because you crashed something into it, you murderous evil snaffler.’
Try again. One step at a time. Tie him in with a silken cord, the rope can arrive later.
‘Maybe what transpired. He followed you. On the stairs. Grabbed at you. Called out. Made a big noise. You shoved free, a wee push. Down he fell into the scullery. You left him there. Sitting. On his backside. Like you said, eh?’
Dunbar shook his head promptly and McLevy knew he had lost the man.
‘No. He didnae say a word. Ever. Jist sat doon wi’ a bump. I left him sitting. In the hallway. Looking at me. His mouth was open. But he didnae say a word.’
‘What about his head?’ asked an exasperated Mulholland who also knew that their hard work was all in vain and as his Aunt Katie would have said, ‘You can lead a horse to clear water but what if the creature is devoid of thirst?’
‘It was fine,’ came the stolid reply.
‘Not a great big wound in it, then? Full of the joys of spring, was he?’
This irony from the constable was wasted on Dunbar.
‘He was fine,’ was the answer.
‘Fine?’
McLevy suddenly stood and kicked away the chair so that it skittered across the room to crash into the wall, much in the manner of Big Nosed Kate.
‘Fine?’ he roared.
Mulholland jumped off the table so that he was on the other side of the suspect, who had begun to realise that perhaps everything wasn’t so fine after all.
‘Full of the joys of spring, eh?’ the constable repeated.
‘No’ exactly,’ responded Hercules who was beginning to relish this despite the tremor of fear in his guts.
‘Looking at you, was he?’ McLevy came in from the angle, a savage glint in his eye.
‘Right enough.’
‘So he would know your features? Face to face, you said.’
‘I didnae say that, you did.’
‘You did not contradict me. Face to face!’
Dunbar judged it a wiser course to stay silent. The constable wasn’t quite sure where the inspector was heading so he contented himself with looming menacingly.
‘So, he would know you from before?’
‘Before?’
‘When you banged upon the door to claim your miserable just demands, you were taken to Alan Telfer, you claim. Who answered the door? Who looked at you? Who led you through the house to meet the secretary?’
‘The auld man,’ Dunbar finally muttered.
‘Archibald Gourlay was his name,’ said McLevy. ‘The butler, a man about his lawful pursuits.’
‘And he would recognise you!’ Mulholland had caught on to the line of question and they would try to keep the man bouncing between them till he betrayed himself.
‘It was dark in that hall,’ was the defiant response.
‘Darkness be buggered!’ bawled McLevy. ‘He would know you from before, rouse the household and inform Alan Telfer, that the man who’d come to visit previous was the man who’d robbed the house, right left and centre.’
‘You couldn’t let that happen,’ Mulholland interjected.
‘One old man could put you in the jail, one man only, and to save your worthless soul, you smashed him down,’ the inspector accused.
‘With the candlestick,’ cried Mulholland in triumph. ‘I was right all along!’
‘I didnae use such,’ Dunbar asserted indignantly.
‘Then what did you use?’ demanded McLevy.
