The fat man seemed to find some comfort in this notion and his terrible grief was perhaps assuaged by the thought that he would now be the sole owner of the shipping firm.
Just the world of commerce.
‘What about this then?’ said McLevy signalling the tall figure of Mulholland to stand aside and reveal upon the wall a word scrawled in blood.
All comfort fled. Walter’s eyeballs pitched up to the word on the wall, his mouth opened but no sound emerged.
Then he fainted forwards to thud onto the floor with a reverberation that paid homage to his avoirdupois.
For a second there was silence as the three policemen gazed down at the recumbent body.
McLevy finally addressed Ballantyne.
‘That is whit we call in the trade, constable…a heavy dwam. Out for the count.’
22
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
LEWIS CARROLL,
Arthur Conan Doyle was three sheets to the wind.
A nautical term whose derivation he had discovered from experience and maritime lore to be a square sail out on the lash because its control ropes are flapping in the salty gusts.
The previous year in a quest for glorious adventure and some necessary financial gain, he had enlisted as a ship’s surgeon aboard an Arctic whaler, the sailor’s jacket and cap from which he still wore with pride.
He had come of age at 80 degrees north latitude, then days later watched and taken part in the grisly ritual of mother seals being shot, the little ones’ brains being bludgeoned with spiked clubs; heigh-ho for a life on the ocean waves.
In perhaps unconscious expiation for this bloody slaughter he had managed to fall into the icy waters five times, surviving, however, in better condition than the seal cubs. Heigh-ho.
He had learned to hold his own with drink and hard brawling both at sea and in the Lerwick taverns, but this day had begun early with some fellow students to celebrate his friends attaining passes in their recent exams.
The revels had continued till he found himself strangely alone in the nether regions of Leith.
His companions had been scattered astray in the various taverns from the Royal Mile to the Shore in descending order of good vittles and beer but now only Arthur remained, full of beans and ready for anything.
Witness him swaying slightly in the gathering gloom of early evening in a most insalubrious part of the docks.
Doyle was large and tough enough in appearance that no-one would have marked him as easy prey, but from the side a few watched and wondered if he might be tempted by a nymph of the pave into the wynds and there summarily relieved of the contents of his pocketbook.
However, any approach was held in suspense when the frail notes of a beautiful song sounded like a summons to love in the dank, dampening air.
Notes only, but Doyle’s mind supplied the words.
‘Flow gently, Sweet Afton
Amang thy green braes.
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee
A sang in thy praise.’
They floated in the mildewed firmament of the old harbour, an invocation to the kind of tenderness that was noticeably absent in the denizens lurking by the shadows.
The young man took a deep, steadying breath and licked his lips where the moustache curled.
Could he, by chance, have stumbled upon the most vital clue of all? Was the purloined music box calling to him for rescue as a fair maiden has every right to do?
The quavering melodic strain was issuing from a small weather-beaten tavern that crouched like a gnarled goblin at the end of a row of buildings.
The sign above proclaimed this to be the Foul Anchor and it more than lived up to the name.
Doyle walked with measured tread towards the dirty windows and peeped through, tipping his old naval cap back for better viewing.
It was a strange sight within. The tavern was almost empty, save for two men huddled close together at a back table with a barman behind the counter, but in front of them, on the bare boards in shabby finery, were three weird harpies dancing to the music, eyes half-shut, fingers trailing in the air.
Their gaudy clothes proclaimed them women of a certain profession or at least the two elder had been at one time and the other on the far cusp of whoredom.
And yet their faces were rapt and seraphic, lost in the dance as the melody played on.
‘Thou stock dove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen
Ye wild whistly blackbirds in yon thorny den
Thou green crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair.’
It is a tribute to the art of Robert Burns that he had produced such sweetness and dreams of forgotten innocence amongst these lost souls.
But it left Conan Doyle with a problem. The chances of two music boxes playing that particular tune were a thousand to one. If indeed it was Muriel’s precious gift how could he reclaim it from the dragon’s castle?
How would Sir Lancelot, or even the young Lochinvar, handle this situation?
Inside the Foul Anchor, Seth Moxey watched his ladies dance and smiled to see such fun.
‘Are they no’ beautiful?’ he observed. ‘I’ll stick the man who says otherwise.’
Samuel Grant nodded assent but his guts were churning inside. The Moxey gang were cut-throats to a man and woman, dance or no dance. Life was cheap to them, and Samuel, if he played his cards wrongly, might pay the forfeit.
‘Do you have the brooch?’ he asked quietly.
Seth grinned, the wide gaps in his teeth in no way at odds with his lank scalloped hair and the scar that ran down the right side of his face.
‘I sold on the rest but kept this as per requestit. But, it’ll cost ye,’ he replied, waving at his good lady, Agnes Devlin, who had supported him with her earnings these many years but now was more for skulduggery, being possessed of a sharp wit for the possible criminal chance. Of the other two, Sadie Shields could still turn a penny but Jennie Martin had also seen better days.
‘How much?’ asked Samuel with a dark frown.
Seth took the brooch out from his pocket and laid it carefully upon the table.
‘Five pun’, take or leave.’
‘That’s robbery!’
‘Ye hae that correct, Silver Sam.’
Seth roared with laughter while Samuel boiled with indignation.
‘If it hadnae been for me –’ he began.
An evil smile from the man opposite stopped him in his tracks.
