Fall From Grace

were falling victim.

However the fog makes useful ghosts of us all; he had used the play of light and dark as the warning lamps of the ships shone fitfully in the gloom, to cloak his maritime pursuits.

The boat was a bustle of activity, preparations for departure getting under way, sailors busy at their appointed tasks, cargo being made fast in the hold below and some passengers already on the quay gathering to bid farewell to loved ones because though primarily a cargo ship, the Dorabella had some berths free for those folk bound for South America.

The following was McLevy’s reasoning.

Oliver Garvie had used this ship to bring in his dubious consignment of cigars, and no doubt had more than a passing acquaintance with captain and crew.

Even if the couple had so far managed, these three days, to hide in Edinburgh away from Jean Brash’s battalion of street keelies and spies, they would eventually need to make a break for what they considered freedom.

What better transport than the Dorabella?

Of course, after brutally beating Hannah Semple to earth they could have taken an early-morning train to London or such because Scotland would be too hot for them with the twin forces of Sin and Justice breathing down their necks, but no one of their description had been seen at any of the main stations.

No. And in fact the ship itself might even have been a safer place to hide out before fleeing the country because it was an encapsulated world safe from prying eyes.

Whatever the case, the best chance of catching the buggers was to board the vessel a touch before departure and it also justified his solitary expedition. If he arrived with a flotilla of constables, the malefactors would be spirited away and hidden while he was still arguing the toss about boarding the ship.

As McLevy inched his way on the slippery deck past the bustle and motion in the gathering murk, he caught a glimpse of what must be the captain under one of the ship’s lights.

The man was rapping out staccato commands in what the inspector presumed to be some sort of Spanish lingo; he was a short swarthy fellow, heavy eyebrows, drooping moustache, gold tooth agleam, and resembled a pirate rather than some trustworthy mariner.

To McLevy’s prejudiced eye the whole crew might as well be travelling under skull and crossbones, so he resolved not to get wrongsides of them.

He inadvertently clanged his foot into an empty iron bucket, cursed it under his breath for a betrayer then praised it as a guide because it caused him to swing round and see a doorway, red lamp above, where the strong light from within held its own with the fog.

Hopefully this was intended to show the arriving wayfarers passage to their cabins and McLevy, trusting that if seen he would be mistaken for such, ducked inside and was lost from sight.

He descended a narrow flight of steps to an equally narrow corridor, which split in two directions.

From the left passage came the far mumble of voices, and, as he strained his ears, the inspector could make out unmistakable cadences of Lingo Espana.

Better swing right then.

There was a tightness in his gut and he found it difficult to breathe; he was now in the bowels of the ship, or if not the bowels then one of the large intestines, and McLevy experienced an unpleasant claustrophobic frisson; like a piece of waste product passing through.

Also he could feel a movement under his feet as if he were walking on the skin of some prehistoric monster.

That would be the sea.

He was a creature of dry land.

The corridor took a sharp left and there was his destination, a row of cabin doors each already open to await occupation.

Except for the one at the end where the portal was firmly closed.

A sudden yowl behind startled him near out of his wits but it was only the ship’s cat come from nowhere, a large ginger tom with one ear flattened by feline warfare.

‘Bugger off,’ the inspector hissed. ‘Bathsheba wouldnae give you a second glance!’

The cat strolled back down the corridor, tail stiffly aloft at the perceived insult and McLevy made his way to the closed door.

He tried the handle but it held.

McLevy put his eye to the keyhole, looked through and saw that luckily the key had not been left in the lock; in addition to that, the aperture also provided the sight of a naked female backside in motion with the ship.

He averted his eyes and produced a set of lockpicks he had once confiscated from a premier exponent of their craft but mysteriously forgotten to hand in at the station.

As McLevy inserted the delicate instruments, one after another to manipulate the perfect fit, his ear pressed against the door and witnessed the voices within.

A man and woman. Tones subdued but sharp.

‘For God’s sake put some clothes on.’

‘Why should I? I have nothing to wear.’

‘You have your gown.’

‘It is creased and filthy, as are my underthings.’

‘Wash them. As I did mine.’

‘Liar. You borrowed from the sailors. I cannot do that.’

‘You’d be surprised what sailors wear.’

The sweat ran down McLevy’s face as he felt, at last, one of the lockpicks click softly into place. He did not enjoy confined space, it brought back memories of when he was a wee boy in a locked room and, as his mother lay dead in a recess, the walls had begun to press in upon him.

He had howled like a wolf and Jean Scott, their neighbour and his salvation, had knocked upon the door and called through, ‘Jamie, I cannae get in if you cannae get out.’ He had found the key, unlocked the door and she had held him close while the hot scalding tears ran down his face till he thought he would drown in them.

Another click. Not long now. Just as well, his ear was getting sore.

That bastard captain, he took my jewels.

Not all. You wear a pretty necklace.

You gave them like a coward!

We had to pay for passage.

What if he wants the rest? What if he cuts our throats and throws us in the sea?

This question was never answered because at that moment McLevy sprung the lock, the door flew open and he was upon them, revolver levelled.

Rachel Bryden and Oliver Garvie, one naked the other not but both the worse for wear, love’s dream transformed into bickering cabin fever.

He was in crumpled shirt and trousers, unshaven, she in her skin, which fitted well enough.

Rachel’s face, a sight that McLevy found it best to concentrate on, was blotched and sulky; the enclosed cabin where they had obviously been holed up for days judging by the mess, remnants of food and litter of bedclothes, stank of various stale odours some of which it was better not to identify.

Both of their mouths were open but thankfully as yet no sound emerged as he swiftly closed the door.

He spoke quietly, no need to frighten the horses.

‘Miss Bryden, Mister Garvie; a pleasure to meet you once more.’

He inclined his head solemnly towards Rachel.

‘I would be obliged if you could dress yourself ma’am. We have an appointment with justice.’

Garvie was looking at him as if he could not believe his eyes.