The heart is a small thing, but desireth great matters.
It is not sufficient for a kite’s dinner, yet
the whole world is not sufficient for it.
FRANCIS QUARLES,
Emblems
Now he stood in Bernard Street and shivered. Though it was a still night, the cold sea air carried enough salt crystals to sting the skin.
McLevy resolved to walk down to the Leith docks; perhaps he would hazard another mug of coffee at the Old Ship, and while he thus perambulated let some random intuitions flow through his mind.
So, he walked.
That house was full of secrets; they ran to and fro like rats beneath the floorboards.
Telfer had evinced a weird passion in the defence of Sir Thomas, as if they shared the grandeur of creation together, as if he were the keeper of the flame.
Guardian of the other’s soul and reputation.
Like a faithful dog snarling to protect its master.
Against what?
The jealousy of small minds or something more substantially material?
And how far would Telfer proceed to shield Sir Thomas?
What about the blind eye?
Was it not Admiral Nelson who had first turned such a thing at the battle of Copenhagen?
McLevy shook his head at this collection of dog-eared insights and moved towards the practical.
In the morning he would squeeze the truth from Hercules Dunbar if he had to stretch him on the rack.
But what of the inspector’s own secret? While he was engaged with Telfer, was a part of his attention not casting round for other movement in the house?
Dainty feet a’ tapping.
The dancing lady to his hardy tin soldier.
And was that perhaps the reason he had divested himself of Mulholland, not that the constable needed much divesting; was it in order that should a meeting contrive itself with the lady of the house, the inspector could embrace the principle, two is company but three are one too many?
As he neared the docks, McLevy reflected, perhaps with some relief, that, of course, she would be back in Moffat by now. On the borders. Stealing sheep.
The image of Margaret Bouch in her plaidie, sneaking up on an unsuspecting lamb provoked him to a harsh cough of laughter that echoed in the silence, causing the woman who was sitting on one of the iron bollards of the Inner Harbour to swivel round.
The sky was clear, the stars were out and a crescent moon smiled aslant in the cold, salty night.
The stray beam of a nearby street lamp caught the high cheekbones and, even at this distance, he could discern the gypsy eyes weighing him up like a slaughterhoose attendant would an Aberdeen Angus.
‘Whit are you doing here?’ he blurted out.
Margaret Bouch laughed, a silvery sound like manacles clinking in a holding cell.
‘I’m looking at the ships, inspector. Surely that is not against the law?’
He muttered something under his breath then trudged over to glower down at her.
‘This is no place for a respectable woman.’
‘Perhaps I am not respectable.’
Her small, gloved hands lay quietly in her lap, the dark outdoor coat was wrapped round her like a soft fur and for some reason he was put in mind of Bathsheba, the cat.
McLevy cast a quick wary glance to left and right, but this part of the harbour area was uninhabited, possibly because the taverns were situated further along the old quayside at the Shore and the graving docks behind them had no ships laid up at present.
He sat on another bollard close by hers, leant forward, clasped his hands together and puffed out a breath that took the form of smoke in the cold night.
‘Where’s your bonnet?’ he asked suddenly.
She reached down beside her, picked up the hat she had discarded to feel the air on her skin, shook it at him as if it were a tambourine, and then replaced it on the ground.
That took care of that, then.
‘I’ve just left your house,’ he said.
‘It is not mine,’ she replied dryly. ‘And you are welcome to it.’
They both looked over towards the Old Docks where the small lights on the various masts glowed like Jack o’ lanterns, flitting in and out of sight as the ships rocked gently in the waves.
A few creaks and plashes occasionally disturbed the silence but, for the most part, it was as if the whole scene were an artist’s rendition.
Two figures in a world that held its breath.
‘I may have my hands on the killer of your butler,’ remarked McLevy in the stillness.
‘I am pleased to hear that.’
‘The candlestick stolen from your husband might well be the weapon of destruction.’ McLevy smacked his lips together as if tasting the crime. ‘Though that is still a matter of debate. It might have just been a push, a thin skull and a sharp edge. Fragments of blood and bone on the stairs but the candlestick was wiped clean. Pity that.’
She made no answer and he warmed further to the theme.
‘But even if the implement were covered in blood, we cannot yet compare or identify the type. Science has not advanced thus far. But it will. One day. I have no doubt.’
‘Must we talk of murder?’ she remarked quietly.
Without that subject the inspector seemed a trifle lost for words. He shuffled his feet together like a little boy and whistled tunelessly under his breath.
Margaret shot him a look and he stopped whistling.
‘I thought you were in Moffat?’ he muttered, somewhat aggrieved.
It would seem as if the nuances of the night were somewhat beyond McLevy’s ken. Will o’ the wisps, crescent moons, mysterious women on iron bollards, all wasted on a man whose only concerns seemed to be geography and homicide.
‘I have had to remain here in order to recruit some domestic staff for Sir Thomas,’ Margaret replied evenly. ‘And I have been helping Mister Gourlay’s family with the funeral arrangements.’
‘See now? We’re back to murder!’ he responded with a gleam in his eye.
She shook her head though there was an unwilling smile, tugging at the corner of her mouth.
‘Are you expert in funerals then?’ he asked.
‘My parents died in quick succession,’ she replied crisply. ‘One acquires a facility.’
