Fall From Grace

though it covered a fair amount, the white of her throat glowed like a beacon in the dark.

‘The maid,’ she answered, taking a deep breath of excitement, causing the peignoir to part a little and reveal an equally frilly white nightgown above the neckline of which was a hollow curve of collar bone and below that same neckline a seductive mound that mercifully was more of a hint than a declaration.

‘Rolled her eyes?’ he replied, tearing his from this inflammatory scene.

‘She said a tall handsome man had been conducted to my father, then I knew it was you, then I sneaked up the stairs to listen at the door.’

‘You were listening?’

‘Naturally!’ she responded with a flash of temper showing in her eyes. ‘It would concern me and why should I not take part?’

‘And what did you hear?’ Mulholland asked with a deal of concern.

‘Mumbles. Nothing but mumbles.’

Emily made a little moue of disappointment, breathed in somewhat deeper and moved closer.

He could discern her fragrance clearer now, it would be cologne, women often used such or it might just be natural.

Mulholland hadn’t been in such close proximity to Emily before, except in his dreams and then they were married so she could lie on the sheets with dilated eyes and no one would think the worse of him, but he suddenly realised with a jolt of panic that they were in her bedroom and if Robert Forbes found him here then he could kiss goodbye to the fair Emily plus possibly his job as well.

Certainly his prospects of promotion.

Constables on a case were not to be discovered in the sleeping quarters of the daughter of the house.

‘I better be on my way,’ he muttered. ‘I have crimes to unravel, Emily.’

She giggled and looked around the room that, as far as he could make out, was draped with all sorts of femininity.

‘But it’s cosy in here,’ she murmured.

‘I’m not all that sure about cosy.’

She leant forward so that her head almost rested on his manly bosom, her hair flowing unpinned and loose.

And there’s another warning signal.

‘So,’ she queried softly, ‘what were you talking to father about?’

Arson and cigars were not obviously a response that would fit the bill.

‘I can’t tell you.’

Was it his imagination or had something rustled up against his kneecap?

‘I think I know.’

Her mouth parted slightly and the faintest odour of oil of cloves reached his flared nostrils.

‘Do you?’ he sniffed.

‘And I think I know his answer.’

‘You do?’

If she got any closer she’d feel the engagement box bumping up against her or something of that sort.

‘He said,’ breathed Emily, ‘you must wait.’

‘He did say that. His very words.’

Mulholland suddenly felt more in command of the situation but that could be undone at any moment.

‘And will you?’

‘Till the morning.’

She laughed, took a step back and he let out a long shuddering breath of relief. Dilation is all very well in dreams and that applied to swelling also, but in reality they were dangerous as hell.

‘You’re very droll, sir.’

‘That’s me,’ he muttered.

She moved in close again.

‘You mustn’t lose heart. My father thinks I am a creature of whims, but I am more than that.’

‘I’m sure you’re not less,’ replied the constable, hoping that this made sense.

‘Everything comes to he who waits.’

‘Does it now?’

‘Everything.’

There was a soft pressure against his arm and he didn’t dare look down to see what was causing such, all he knew is that if he had his restrainers to hand he would have slapped them on her.

‘Is this a whim?’ he questioned.

‘What does it feel like?’

Something was caught in his gullet but he couldn’t cough it up, not at this juncture.

There was a thud from upstairs as the study door opened and closed. They both tensed, but the steps crossed over the landing above and then another door opened and shut.

However that was sufficient for Emily; like many a young girl she gloried in her power to bewitch the opposite sex but a father’s footfall broke the spell.

‘You had better leave,’ she remarked primly.

‘The wisest course,’ came the croaky response.

He opened the bedroom door and peered cautiously out before setting off down the corridor; the last thing Mulholland desired to meet was the dumpy maid with the rolling eyes.

As he prepared to slip out of the front door, she called softly after; a little annoyed that he had not paused for a last lingering glance back at her glowing form.

‘Martin?’

‘What is it?’ he hissed; this girl would have him boiled in oil if she didn’t keep her silence.

‘If the worst happens,’ Emily whispered, striking a telling pose, ‘we can always sing duets together.’

‘I’ll have to clear my throat first,’ was the terse retort and with that he disappeared into the night.

27

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you’ll find him

THOMAS MOORE,

The Minstrel Boy

Dundee, 28 December 1879

The tall gaunt figure was wreathed in the spirals of tobacco smoke, like a mountaintop showing above the mist. He prepared to open his mouth and let rip, Sabbath or not a man had to work. God would understand as he did all things.

This public house down by the waterfront was of the lowest sort, in fact more of a drinking den to which the authorities turned a blind eye since it gathered most of the riff-raff from the city under the one roof and left more respectable places free from their unwanted presence.

Of course the fact that the mill and foundry workers had been forced, after a strike of protest, to accept a cut of 5 per cent in wages and a simultaneous increase of working hours, then, when the strike was broken, many of them being laid off for their pains, might possibly have had some hand in swelling the ranks of destitution and poverty but it had at least brought the working practices into line with England.

That must have been of great comfort to the Scots.

And so aided by the cheapest beer and rough spirit men drowned their sorrows, and watched with glazed eyes while the self-styled Premier Poet of Dundee, William McGonagall, thrust a bony right leg forward and launched into verse.