23
The stag in limpid currents with surprise,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise.
AMBROSE PHILIPS,
When Mulholland was a young buck, the grand game to play had been Nettle Little Nelly. All the boys would sit round in a solemn circle and an empty bottle with a feather stuck in its neck was carefully spun. The unfortunate to whom that feather pointed when the bottle stopped, was the designated Nelly and would be taken to a slope then hurled down the bank into a huge patch of stinging nettles.
It was then the unfortunate’s task to ascend the slope and either break his way through the ring of boys above or drag someone off the rim and throw the other down in exchange of place.
This rarely happened due to the advantage of terrain and so the victim of this merry ritual would eventually collapse, legs, arms, hands and face covered in painful blisters from being repeatedly propelled back into the hurtful inferno below.
He would then either, as forfeit, have to eat dried cow dung or kiss the ugliest girl in the village.
Simple country pastimes.
Mulholland, being the tallest, was the self-appointed spinner of the bottle and had perfected the art to such a degree that the feather always pointed in another direction.
Never at himself.
He often felt sorry for the victim.
But not this time.
He looked across at Oliver Garvie who had just lit up a representative of what would be the very bone of contention, to blow a trail of high-grade smoke across the room towards the glowing fire. It mingled with the hot fumes of some equally high-grade coal then wafted up the chimney.
The constable had refused the offer of coffee, a smoke, a place to park his backside or any other blandishments and stayed standing, maintaining a watchful silence while the other had made himself at home.
Mulholland had a vision of the bold Oliver, naked as an ape, flying through the air toward a clump of nettles.
The man had evinced no surprise on whistling his way in through the front door to find the grim figure of Mulholland crouching in the hall like some sort of tricoteuse under the guillotine waiting for a head to fall. After dismissing the old retainer, who went off to have his hot toddy, Garvie most cordially invited the constable into his study and sat in a large burgundy-coloured leather armchair, feet splayed out, body satiated, a smile on the full lips, the very embodiment of languid ease. Soon change that, thought the constable.
The opulent red velvet curtains had been pulled shut; the wallpaper was also of a burgundy hue and the leather binding of the many books upon the high shelves shone with a self-satisfied air.
A large painting above Oliver’s head distracted Mulholland for a moment, it being a goddess or nymph of classical outlines; his betting would be a goddess, nymphs being on the slender side and this was a hefty specimen. Furthermore there was much of her to be seen, the only covering being some wispy bits of chiffon, as she reached up to a branch where Cupid, by the looks of it, was dangling out a red apple.
The son of Venus had a crafty smile on his face and Mulholland was troubled by the notion that someone he was counting on might have other irons in the fire.
He wrenched himself away from the sight, also realising that he was postponing the prosecution of a suspect because his motives were not purely for the sake of justice and that McLevy would be hopping mad when he learned of this action.
But that was the inspector’s hard luck.
All is fair in love and war.
Oliver blew out a smoke ring and watched it waver in the air before disintegrating.
Mulholland took a deep breath and thus began, going for the jugular.
‘Cheap cigars masquerading as finest leaf and you collect a vast sum for a very small outlay. Good business, Mister Garvie.’
For a moment Oliver was stock still at this blunt accusation, then he roared with laughter.
‘And how am I supposed to have accomplished all this, constable?’ he replied in apparent good humour.
Another deep breath and this time it was Mulholland jumping off the edge of the cliff.
‘You hired Daniel Rough to fire up the warehouse, probably bribed the watchman to cry off sick, we’ll question him again. The crates were solid enough, the contents false, and the fire knows no difference. A clever plan, but it got a wee bit spoiled when your hireling … incinerated as you were so kind to point out to me.’
Garvie blinked as if he was having difficulty following this accusatory harangue.
‘Daniel Rough? I don’t know of such a person,’ he replied lazily, lifting his cigar for another puff.
‘Back of Devlin’s tavern. That’s where you gave him the nod.’
This time Garvie blinked for a different reason, then he frowned as if trying hard to follow the train of thought.
‘And this is the fellow who was incinerated, eh?’
‘Up in flames. As you are now.’
Mulholland hauled the cigar box out of his deep pocket, flipped back the lid and stuck it under Garvie’s nose.
Oliver sniffed and pulled a face.
‘Dear me. Poisonous weed, eh?’
‘Stinko D’Oros. Cheap and nasty. I have a witness who will swear that the warehouse was full of these things and that this was a part of the cargo from the ship
‘A witness,’ murmured Garvie, so far unruffled. ‘And who might that be?’
‘Reliable enough. Mother of Daniel. A fine upstanding woman.’ But Mulholland though he strove for firm and measured tone, was suddenly seeing Mary Rough’s far from impressive figure in the witness box, with a defence advocate tearing into her.
‘And how, if I may ask, did she acquire these Stinkos as you call them?’
‘She was there at the time,’ muttered the constable.
‘While the son was engaged in firing the place?’
‘That is correct.’
‘To hold his hand no doubt.’
Mulholland had no answer to offer save shoving the cigar box back into his pocket in case Garvie tried to steal the vital evidence.
The constable wondered if he should throw in the handkerchief stuffed up the sleeve of the man at Devlin’s, but, in fact, Garvie was not sporting it in such a fashion at this moment and somehow what had appeared another nail in the coffin of proof at Mary Rough’s humble dwelling, lacked evidential penetration in these surroundings.
Oliver stubbed out his own cigar and chuckled to himself as if mightily amused.
‘Forgive me. A box of cheap cigars and the word of a thieving old woman. I don’t see that unleashing the full weight of the law upon my sinful head. Do you?’
‘The whole investigation will begin again,’ the constable replied sternly, sticking to his guns. ‘Piece by piece. All your affairs gone into. Piece by piece.’
‘I have nothing to hide.’
‘Then you have nothing to fear.’
Garvie rubbed his fingers together to rid them of the shreds of tobacco, then levered himself out of the chair with a certain animal grace and began to walk around the room much in the manner of an advocate.
‘And what is my motive in all this?’ he flung over his shoulder as he admired the voluptuous goddess who still
