And see ye not yon braid, braid road,
That lies across the lily leven?
That is the Path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the Road to Heaven.
BALLADS,
McLevy watched as Margaret Bouch picked her way down the curving cemetery path, her slight figure cutting through the rain like a shark’s fin. Everyone else had quit the brow of the hill, save for three figures under a black umbrella observing her passage.
The Fates perhaps? Best keep eyes peeled for Atropos, the one who brandished the scissors for cutting the thread of life, or was that who was on the approach?
These eleven months ago, when she had opened the door to disclose her husband and his private secretary, the men had been bowed, heads together, over the drawings of the projected crossing for the Firth of Forth, the foundation stone of which had already been laid. It was an undertaking which would make Bouch’s previous achievement, the Tay Bridge, seem mere child’s play.
A panoramic photograph of that same bridge, upon the wall behind his desk, had towered above them all. Taken on a sunny day.
The images and conversation of the encounter raced through McLevy’s mind as he watched the widow walk towards him; her figure flickered before his vision like a magic lantern show as a shaft of pale ruined sunlight broke through the clouds for a brief moment to light up the sheets of heavy, driven raindrops.
Sir Thomas Bouch had been bearded, his eyes wide set, face impassive, the grey hair at the side of his head rising like cherub’s wings. He had to his credit 300 designed miles of railway track and had built more bridges than any man of, or in, his age.
Flying high.
Alan Telfer shaved close, a thin face, pale eyes. In the Vatican he would have been private secretary to one of the Monsignors, carrying mysteries inside a scarlet sleeve.
There was also a military air to him, a straight back hinting at generations who had rushed into the cannon’s mouth to die for king and country.
Here, his fanaticism had fixed itself upon one object only.
Both men had seemed oddly uninterested in the murder, as if it had happened in China.
They had been asleep, heard nothing, and would be grateful when this disturbance was over. There was much work to be done.
McLevy had been conscious of under-currents as deep and treacherous as the winter confluents of the River Tay itself.
Dark forces swirling over a bed of mud, sand and stone.
When Telfer had suggested that that the old man had in some way provoked the inconvenience of his own death by blundering in the worse for drink and grappling with the intruder instead of raising the alarm, Margaret Bouch drew in her breath as if struck to the core.
Seeing McLevy register this, the secretary, with a sideways flick of a glance and a faint dismissive smile, consigned such reactions to female irrationality and misplaced emotions. Her response had been a sudden gleam of hatred in the dark eyes, which then disappeared like lightning swallowed up in a storm.
Sir Thomas, on the other hand, had seemed to have no emotions at all. His whole being appeared to have withdrawn to a loftier plane, where great enterprises were being structured in the high reaches of his mind.
All grist to the mill.
A comical aspect had been unwittingly added to the situation when Mulholland joined the party; all five crammed within the small airless study.
The constable stood beside Margaret Bouch, nearly one foot and a half of height between them, and for a second there was a glint of humour in her eyes as she stared up at the lanky frame of Mulholland before she met McLevy’s gaze and schooled her features back to dutiful serenity.
A blast of rain in his face brought McLevy back to the present moment. Perhaps he should walk up the cemetery path to meet the woman halfway. That’s what a gentleman would do. But would a gentleman be lurking under a tree in the first place?
Better stand his ground.
Back to the grist.
The maid had contributed little save an ill-disguised desire to find further acquaintance with the constable in an unofficial setting, but Mulholland was somewhat sniffy about romance with kitchen maids.
When McLevy had asked the company if anything was missing from the house to support the idea of a possible burglary and also perhaps provide him with something more positive to go on than an uncommunicative corpse, Alan Telfer assured him that everything was in place.
It would seem that the investigation, hardly yet begun, was deadlocked. However, the inspector had remarked upon something.
Arranged on a long shelf running along the side of the study were the various awards and plaques that Sir Thomas had garnered during his so far meteoric career. Not at all a prideful display, the shelf somewhat tucked away in a recess, but the arrangement was disposed in orderly fashion and the inspector’s sharp eye had noticed a gap in the assembly.
When he had brought it to the man’s attention, Telfer was honour bound to agree. A silver candlestick, part of the gifts bestowed upon Sir Thomas when given the Freedom of the Ancient Burgh of Dundee. It was missing. No longer to hand. An oversight on the secretary’s part.
Had it by any chance been inscribed? Indeed so: ‘31st of May, 1878. To Sir Thomas Bouch from the grateful Burghers of Dundee.’
The inspector’s first clue. He had not known then that it would lead him eventually to the mouth of hell.
A voice broke in on these ramblings.
‘You might have joined us on the hill,’ said the lady of the house.
Margaret was now standing in front of him and though garbed for deep mourning, was fashionably enough sculpted into her attire, the tiny waist, a dimension with which he had been granted some unexpected experience, accentuated by the sweep of her coat. She looked like a little doll, all dressed up for the funeral, bearing the weeds patiently enough but dying for a change of costume.
She would be the dancing lady to McLevy’s hardy tin soldier, both perishing in the flames.
‘I prefer to observe from distance,’ he replied.
‘From distance. How like the thing.’
She crooked her elbow and laid right hand upon her waist in an oddly provocative gesture. Behind the veil that hung from her daintily perched hat, the gypsy eyes looked him up, and looked him down. Behind the veil.
‘Ye resemble a bee-keeper,’ he remarked.
She laughed suddenly but there was a harsh edge, so much unspoken, she thought, so much water under the bridge. For instance, a moment in a room in Moffat when he had jammed his hat upon his head and ran for dear life.
Yet, why was he here, Margaret wondered?
Hope springs eternal.
With a swift incisive gesture, she threw back the veil to reveal her face, high cheekbones marble white amid the November gloom in a landscape of tombstones.
‘And you look like …’ she began.
Margaret collected and arranged her impressions as if seeing him for the first time.
A heavy-set man with thick stubby arms; the hands small and strangely feminine possessed a grace of movement that contrasted with the rest of his constitution. The legs short, the feet small also, but planted firmly to
