End of the Line - short story-TPL Read online

She sighed, pushed more crumbs through to the bird which seemed to have perked up a bit. Mulholland, despite the fact that he and McLevy appeared chalk and cheese to the world at large, had picked up during the years an intuitive ability from the inspector that his normal mode of ratiocination might deny and realised that the woman was deflecting her attention so that she could disclose what otherwise might be difficult face to face.

  So he spoke gently, like a soul of discretion.

  ‘Mistress Murdison. You remarked to the lieutenant that you had . . . recollected something?’

  She stuck her finger into the cage and Archibald hopped up upon it to chirp encouragingly.

  ‘Count Borromeo . . . was not without his blemishes,’ she said.

  Mulholland waited. Fresh complexion, candid blue eyes that betrayed no trace of the fact he spent most of life up to his neck in mayhem.

  ‘I myself enjoy the smallest sip of sherry,’ Senga avowed. ‘But the Count was a whisky man. And it altered his disposition.’

  ‘In what fashion, ma’am?’

  Archibald hopped back onto his perch and defecated briskly. Better out than in.

  ‘He became prone to . . . rough usage,’ Senga replied.

  Mulholland stood up. It felt suddenly awkward sitting down, and perhaps he might look more protective.

  She took a deep breath and then, like an ardent lover, spilled out all over.

  ‘As I told you and the inspector, the Count would never discuss his past life. He would always say . . .’

  Here she affected an Italian accent.

  ‘We have the present, Senga my amore – who needs the past? Oh – he could be so romantic!’

  Mulholland felt an obscure shaft of what he hoped wasn’t jealousy shoot through him.

  Men are such strangers to themselves.

  ‘When he wasn’t being rough and ready?’ he ventured.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered simply. ‘But I was filled with the most intense curiosity and one day I . . . peeked into his room and caught him unawares.’

  Senga bit her small teeth down upon the lower lip as if to cause herself pain.

  ‘He had been drinking and didn’t see me at first. A small black case was open before him and he . . . was looking at the contents with a . . . strange smile upon his face. Then he saw me and . . . flew into a dreadful rage. Threw me out from the room. In my own house. It was . . . disconcerting.’

  The word seemed oddly inadequate for what was obviously passing through her mind, and she shivered.

  ‘No trace of such a case either on the train or in his room. Mind you it was a cursory search.’

  An official response from Mulholland, who had returned to police persona.

  The woman said nothing. She had not expected the revelations would cost her so much hidden pain.

  The constable realised that the foreign emotion had not been jealousy but pity. And compassion is of little use to a practising policeman.

  ‘I thank you for this information, Mistress Murdison, and regret any . . . vicissitudes you may have suffered.’

  To this formal statement, Senga nodded, and unconsciously her hand crept up to massage the ribs just under her breast. She turned and looked directly at Mulholland, her eyes dark with memory.

  ‘We shall draw a veil over that.’

  The canary let out a sharp cheep and the woman turned away to gaze once more into the cage.

  ‘He’s still hungry,’ she remarked softly. ‘Men and their appetites.’

  * * *

  The bed lay at an angle as if passion had shunted it askew and Mulholland crouched low beside it, trying the uncovered floorboards with his penknife to see if there was a loose fitting. All he had brought up so far was a load of dust and the thought that the timid maid had a lot to answer for as regards avoidance of domestic duty – he then sneezed explosively to prove the point.

  ‘Gesundheit,’ said McLevy cheerily, as he pulled out the last of the sideboard drawers and felt carefully into the aperture for hidden knobs or panels that could conceal a hidey-hole.

  This time he had the bit between his teeth and if necessary he would tear the ceiling down. Something was crying to be discovered, he felt it in his water.

  ‘The boards are untouched,’ Mulholland coughed.

  ‘Roll up the carpet then.’

  ‘Can you not help?’

  ‘I,’ the inspector announced from on high, Mulholland being on his hands and knees, ‘am searching out secret and subtle regions where one might plank a leather case.’

  The constable sneezed once more.

  ‘Count your blessings,’ McLevy said sardonically, slamming the last drawer back into place and turning his attention once again to the wardrobe. ‘At least the widow woman is out on the rampage – your virtue is safe.’

  In fact Senga had declared to Mulholland that the thought of McLevy rummaging once again and more extensively through the cavities of her house was more than she could bear, and besides there was an emergency meeting of the reading society to attend.

  ‘She’s not that bad,’ the constable muttered, peering at one cracked board which might hold some promise.

  ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

  ‘I never had a tune.’ Mulholland pried at the floorboard but it stayed stubbornly where it belonged. ‘Just because a woman has a flighty mentality doesn’t mean she can’t suffer in the heart.’

  This was addressed to his inspector’s backside, the other half being wedged in the bowels of the wardrobe.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ came the muffled response.

  ‘I think Senga Murdison had a painful time with Count Borromeo.’

  ‘Maybe she enjoyed it.’

  Mulholland gave up on the cracked board. ‘I’ll try the other carpet.’

  ‘You will not. Come here a second.’

  The constable stood up somewhat wearily and crossed to where McLevy had partly emerged from the wardrobe, a triumphant lupine grin upon his face.

  The inspector wrenched back the door to let the maximum light in and pointed to what had been uncovered when the expensive shoes had been hauled away to lie in an untidy pile at the other side.

  The exposed wood on the bottom corner had some faint scraping marks as if the covering might have been prised up at one time.

  ‘I cannae reach. Fall short. You try.’

  Mulholland stretched out a long arm and poked his penknife into a crevice, then levered up the panel.

  The wood creaked for a moment and then slowly came away enough for the constable to hook in his fingers and pull the whole base up.

  McLevy dived into the recess and emerged with a small black leather case in his tight grip.

  ‘Abracadabra!’ he exclaimed, fingers already prising at the lock. It did not budge. ‘Allow me your knife,’ he requested Mulholland.

  ‘That’s against the law.’

  ‘We are the law.’

  He took the knife, slid it into the lock and twisted lightly. It sprang apart with remarkable ease.

  ‘Sometimes,’ McLevy remarked judiciously. ‘I feel that God is on my side.’

  ‘That must be a great comfort to Him,’ retorted the constable, as the inspector hauled back the lid to reveal the contents.

  ‘Papers,’ Mulholland observed. ‘Nothing but papers.’

  McLevy’s eyes were gleaming like a porcine wayfarer that had just stumbled on a field of truffles.

  ‘Aye – but deep within,’ he breathed. ‘Buried treasure, constable.’

  He stuck both hands into the pile, brought some up to his nose and sniffed hungrily.

  ‘Buried treasure, and we will take it to the station for deep examination.’

  He then shoved the papers back inside, clicked the lock in place and frowned at Mulholland.

  ‘Whit is the hour?’

  ‘Late enough to sin,’ replied Mulholland.

  McLevy jerked his head towards the door.

  ‘Come on. Before we dig into the plunder I have one more des
tination in mind. If God is truly on my side, our luck may hold.’

  With that cryptic observation he was on the move and opening the door at speed.

  ‘What about the room? Look at the state.’ Mulholland remonstrated but he was also in motion.

  ‘The maid can do it. Or the lusty widow. Men make a mess, women clear it up!’

  These inappropriate words echoed in the air as the inspector disappeared, followed by Mulholland.

  The room was left in silence. Clothes scattered, doors gaping, bare floorboards scuffed and dusty.

  Rough usage.

  Ransacked.

  * * *

  The Just Land was in full swing, the fiddler sawing energetically as the magpies wheeched and swirled in the arms of a bunch of newly qualified medical students.

  Not all could afford the service but Jean was willing to bend the rules a little; after all these were her future clients, and as their practices grew larger so would their pocket books.

  It is often so with the medical profession. The ills of humanity are their meat and drink.

  The main salon was awash with vigour and Jean’s blood was coursing in sympathy. Things were usually much more staid when it when their fathers were in situ.

  That thought almost made her laugh out loud, but this was arrested when Hannah approached with a scowl upon her face that did not betoken glad tidings.

  ‘Mistress, there’s a commotion in the garden,’ she announced.

  ‘Are the students getting frisky?’

  ‘No. They’re well dug in.’

  Hannah sought to emphasise the burgeoning quandary.

  ‘Your peacocks are howling blue murder!’

  Enough to set Jean off and running. ‘If they are harmed in any way!’

  ‘Aye, well,’ puffed Hannah as she followed on. ‘It’s no’ my fault, I’m just the messenger.’

  She caught up just as her mistress threw open the back door. The wind was howling and the dark profound.

  ‘Should we not call for Angus?’ Jean wondered.

  ‘I dinnae ken his whereabouts and I have my cut-throat in place.’

  Sure enough, the blade of the old woman’s razor, an implement with which she was, in her own words, a dab hand, gleamed dully in the dim light of the lantern that was always kept by the back door.

  Jean picked up the light and grabbed a heavy piece of stick always kept there in case of predators or recalcitrant clients.

  ‘Come on!’ she said, and they sallied forth out into the howling wind.

  Raised voices, curses and muffled shouts led them through the darkness towards the source of the commotion, and despite her initial bold spirits, Jean felt a surge of trepidation – what was out there in the void?

  ‘Black as pitch,’ muttered Hannah, clutching her razor.

  The wind dropped suddenly and Jean raised the lantern high. Its flickering rays revealed one man sitting upon another man with a third man hauling at the back of the recumbent and pinioned body.

  ‘James McLevy! What’re you doing in my garden?’

  ‘Sitting on your coachman while Mulholland gets the cuffs on,’ was the measured reply.

  ‘He won’t . . . come quiet, Mistress Brash,’ Mulholland panted.

  ‘Nae wonder, wi’ that weight on him,’ Hannah growled, as with a loud click the restrainers were put in place and Angus was hauled up to face his mistress.

  ‘I had a wee notion Angus might try an escape out the back this night,’ McLevy smiled. ‘And I got lucky.’

  A large bag stuffed with clothes lay to the side and it was obvious that the coachman had been trying to run off to begin a new life.

  Possibly in Aberdeen.

  Jean drew a deep breath. ‘Angus Dalrymple, what’ve you got to say for yourself?’

  ‘I was feart tae tell ye, mistress,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘I was feart.’

  ‘That makes a lot of sense,’ said Hannah.

  The inspector then coolly informed Jean that he had enough on Angus to bring him in with a possible attendant charge of assaulting a police officer. Sure enough, during the fracas, one of the giant’s flailing fists had connected with McLevy’s nose and a large trickle of blood had spilled its way down over his mouth and chin.

  It gave him on oddly sinister appearance, like that of a vampire, but was small consolation to either Angus or the mistress of the Just Land.

  Jean nodded acceptance of the proposed incarceration and equally coolly informed the inspector that if he or that lanky Irish specimen were found in her grounds again without permission, she would let loose a volley of small-shot at them to the effect that they’d be picking the pellets out of their backsides for years to come.

  The constable tried to absolve himself but was informed by Hannah that he was well and truly implicated.

  As McLevy left with the small black case hanging loosely from his hand, he called back a piece of advice.

  ‘Be careful, Jean. Such a firing implement has a terrible kick.’

  ‘I’ll brace myself,’ she said grimly.

  Mulholland shrugged apologetically, shoved Angus out with one hand and picked up the man’s big travelling bag with the other. The giant had said nothing more.

  The wind whipped up again and the peacocks began caterwauling. Joining them out of the darkness came the sound of James McLevy as he gave voice to a Jacobite air:

  ‘Charlie is my darlin’, the young Chevalier.’

  ‘He works all hours, that man,’ Hannah commented.

  Jean’s face was set in stern lines. ‘I asked Angus once more how he had accrued the twenty pound and he maintained the racecourse story. A lie.’

  ‘And now he runs out on us. Guilty over something.’

  To this shrewd point, Jean nodded.

  ‘One thing in the stupid big bugger’s favour. No matter how I twist and turn him, McLevy has an abiding interest in justice. He will not bend the law for easy conviction.’

  They fell silent. A burst of merriment from inside signalled that someone somewhere was having the time of their youthful existence.

  ‘Come on, Hannah,’ Jean said, ‘back tae the grind.’

  * * *

  Lieutenant Roach, at his desk, leafed through the papers from the black case as McLevy, Mulholland and Queen Victoria gazed down upon him.

  There was an air of justified and grim satisfaction to the inspector, though it was tinged with a certain nagging doubt. His nose was also still throbbing.

  A policeman is never completely happy.

  ‘The fellow was no more Italian than neeps and tatties,’ said McLevy. ‘Fergal Dunphy was his real name.’

  ‘Irish, lieutenant. A Kerryman, no less, from his passport,’ Mulholland assured solemnly.

  Roach shot the constable a look to indicate he was quite capable of reading a passport for himself.

  He continued to leaf but McLevy, as well, could not resist further dissertation.

  ‘All documents, his diary and garnered newspaper clippings, a record of crime as long as your arm!’

  ‘Bigamy, sir. And seduction,’ added Mulholland.

  ‘Specialised in rich widows and susceptible young women in service.’

  ‘Some of these letters would break your heart.’

  ‘Would they indeed?’ muttered Roach – it was like having the recording angels for company.

  ‘Last port of call was Newcastle,’ pontificated the inspector. ‘Woman of a certain age swindled out of her dead husband’s hard-earned cash.’

  ‘Came back to squeeze the last drops!’

  ‘Wrote about it in his diary. Gloried in it!’

  Roach picked up the aforesaid journal, then put it back down again for later perusal.

  ‘And so returning with his ill-gotten plunder,’ he remarked, unwittingly joining in the heightened exchange, ‘the malefactor met his fate on the late-night train.’

  The lieutenant almost idly picked up a letter and waved it at them. ‘N
o doubt in the eyes of many he deserved to die, but who, if I may ask – killed him?’

  McLevy frowned. It was a good question.

  ‘Angus Dalrymple tried to escape last night. In the cells now and we’ve hammered at him but . . .’

  The constable summarised the results so far.

  ‘All we got out of the man is that he was not asleep as he claimed, only said that to deflect suspicion. He got woken up by the collector for his ticket and there he was in the compartment with Borromeo, the fellow boasting about his coming nuptials, loud as hell, no manners at all and drunk as a lord.’

  Mulholland ran out of steam and McLevy suddenly raised his head as if he’d just been stung.

  ‘And so?’ prodded the lieutenant.

  ‘According to Angus,’ the inspector said slowly, as though his mind was elsewhere, ‘when he left the train at Waverley, the fellow was alive and snoring fit to burst.’

  ‘What about the money found on Dalrymple?’ asked the lieutenant astutely.

  ‘Claims he won it on a horse. A fiction of course but . . .’

  Now it was McLevy’s turn to stop. Both policemen looked somewhat deflated.

  ‘Neither of you seem particularly convinced of his culpability,’ said Roach, with some asperity. ‘Pray tell me why?’

  ‘I can smell guilt,’ muttered McLevy. ‘And he’s hiding something. But not murder.’

  Mulholland took up the theme. ‘Angus has hands like a navvy’s shovel. Break the man’s neck like a twig but not . . . the garrotte.’

  ‘The police surgeon confirmed this to be the cause of death – slow strangulation from a twisted ligature,’ McLevy added. ‘A thin strip of cloth or leather snaked in from the back. Does not fit the man’s style.

  ‘Perhaps he did it to throw you off the scent?’ Roach suggested to his inspector.

  ‘That would take intelligence,’ McLevy growled. ‘We battered at him for hours but he stuck to his story. It just does-nae fit. I wish it did. But it doesnae fit.’

  Silence fell. Roach looked at the letter he was holding.

  ‘Dear me,’ he murmured. ‘Listen to this. I will have to leave service because of my condition. Please honour the pledge you made to me. I beg of you. I will make you a good wife but do not leave me in disgrace. I could not bear the shame should my father find out what I have done. Yours in desperation and love, Christina P.’