The Unbelievers (19 page)

I can't save him until I've found William Bothwell-Scott's daughter, he thought, and may I have the strength and skill to do that.

In the meantime, he knew what he had to do. Leaving the prison, he walked down to the Union Bank in George Street. He withdrew ten gold sovereigns and walked down Dundas Street to the artisans' houses where McGillivray's family lived.

Turning into McGillivray's narrow street he saw, again, children playing on the cobbles. A ragged boy looked up from his marbles.

“It's him!” he heard the boy shout. The children dispersed, some of the running indoors, others standing sullenly on the doorsteps of their houses.

He walked on, feeling the absurdity of his fear of running the gauntlet of a handful of children. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck, between his collar and his hat, and turned round. None of the children looked as if they'd moved but, putting his hand to his neck and feeling hot blood, he knew one of them had thrown a stone. Wiping the blood off his fingers into the lining of his coat pocket he went on towards McGillivray's house.

He pushed his way up the front path, brushing away the damp sheets which hung heavily from the washing lines, and rapped on the door. After a moment McGillivray's wife opened the door, wearing a clean white apron.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I want to help you and your family while Sergeant McGillivray's suspended from the force.”

“You? You want to help after you've had Hector put in prison? You'd have him hanged but you want to help?” She gave a dry laugh.

“I'm sure everything will be sorted out soon, but I expect you could do with some assistance in the meantime.”

She put her hands on her hips.

“You're beneath contempt, Mr Allerdyce. You shove my man into jail after all he's done for you then you want to feel less guilty so you come down here and say you want to help. You're worse than Inspector Jarvis. You can go to the Devil.”

“I thought maybe you could do with some money to tide you over.”

He held out the little velvet bag in which the bank clerk had put the sovereigns. She appeared to hesitate, looking first at his face and then at the bag, before snatching it from him. She felt its weight in her hand, opened the bag, and looked inside. She turned it upside down, let the coins pour out onto the path, and spat in his face.

“We'll only accept help from our friends. Now go away!”

“Please, I want Sergeant McGillivray be cleared as much as you do. Please let me help you.”

“Judas!” she hissed. She pushed him back and slammed the door in his face.

He stood, dazed, feeling the glob of spit run down his cheek. Looking down at the golden coins in the dirt, he wondered whether he should pick the coins up and stick them through the letterbox.

McGillivray's woman opened the door a chink.

“Go away!” she shouted. “Rot in hell!” She slammed the door shut again.

He turned and walked back down the path, wiping his cheek with his handkerchief.

The children were still watching, silently, from the front yards of their houses. He walked past, looking neither to left nor right. As he reached the end of the little street he felt another sharp blow on his neck, but didn't turn. I don't blame them, he thought, but I know who I do blame. It's Jarvis who wants to destroy us, and I won't rest until I've confounded him by finding out who really did kill the Dukes of Dornoch.

Waking up next to Margaret, Allerdyce felt terribly alone.

He looked, in the feeble light that struggled through the curtains, at her sandy-gold hair falling in tangles on the pillow and her thin shoulder, turned against him, rising and falling under the white lace of her night-dress with the rhythm of her breathing.

They'd each been up twice in the night to check on Alice. He'd only slept shallowly, troubled by images of McGillivray in his cell and imagining himself taunted by a gang of children chanting ‘Traitor! Traitor!' at him.

Margaret sighed gently and shifted her body slightly, pulling the bedclothes around her.

Have I made myself a stranger to her, he thought? I'm lying here in an inner agony that I can't tell her about. It's not fair on her to make her bear my troubles when she's still not as strong as she should be and when she's been wracked with worry about Alice.

He thought about Antonia. Just a few weeks ago he could have confided in her, as he had for years since Helen's death, but something had changed. It wasn't just Antonia's coldness when he'd last seen her. Something more profound had happened over that night and day when he and Margaret had nursed Alice back from the margins of death. Where previously he'd justified his continuing to see Antonia by telling himself that it was all right since it was no longer carnal, he now felt that the relationship was wrong. He belonged here, in his marriage to Margaret. His friendship with Antonia was wrong because it took his attention away from Margaret and because he could never tell her about it. It was an adultery of the mind, if not of the body.

And yet, and indeed because of that relationship, Margaret felt like such a distant creature. She lay there in her restless sleep dreaming dreams he couldn't even guess at. He didn't know her thoughts, and he knew his own were utterly alien to her.

Perhaps I'd feel closer to her if we still made love, he thought, but she's been too weak since Stephen was born. Or maybe that's just an excuse covering up my own distance from her. Margaret sighed again and turned around. Her face was now only a couple of inches from his, and he could feel her soft breath and see, in the three-quarters darkness, the pale outline of her cheeks. She stretched an arm out from under the bedclothes and laid it over him.

He wondered whether it would be wrong to make love to her now, whether she was too fragile still, whether he'd simply be taking advantage of her to satisfy a need. He reached over and embraced her, pulling her gently towards him.

He was surprised that she responded by pressing her body closely to his. He could feel her ribs under his hands, her small breasts pressing against his chest. She put her face to his and kissed him. As he responded, she turned over on her back.

“Please, Archie,” she whispered, “I've waited too long for you to come back.”

As they made love she kissed him and ran her hands down her back. He thrust gently, imagining her body to be made of some fine porcelain. As he came, he realised that for the first time in years he had made love to her without either Helen or Antonia's image coming into his mind once.

Perhaps there was a part of his life where, at last, he could act without betrayal.

For the first time, Allerdyce mounted the front steps of Dalcorn House alone. The Ducal flag drooped at half-mast in the damp chill of the day. The drizzling coldness seemed to seep its way through the seams of his coat and he shivered as he thought of McGillivray facing the lottery of justice. With no solid alibi, and every good reason for revenge, it was practically certain that a jury would convict him, if he had to face a trial.

The Brigadier's erect, dead penis stuck in Allerdyce's memory, though. If it was simply the result of rigor mortis – and the police surgeon had suggested that was possible – it didn't do anything to change the case against McGillivray. If, however, it had been engorged at the moment of death – and Mackay had said this was possible too – it seemed inconceivable that McGillivray had been engaged in some unnatural act with the Brigadier. It suggested a woman, and God willing this interview would help him to find her.

A footman showed Allerdyce into the large sitting-room where he'd met the Duke's valet twice before. He stood in front of a little table with a gilded snuffbox and a silver cigarette box. There was no fire in the grate, and the room was nearly as chill as the damp outdoors. They must have turned the radiators off between Dukes, he thought. As if they needed to save a few pounds.

After a few minutes Warner came in, dressed immaculately in his dark suit and winged collar. He stood in front of Allerdyce.

“What do you want now, Inspector?”

“Sit down Warner.”

“I said, what do you want? I've told you everything I can.”

“Don't play the fool with me. Sit down and tell me the truth.”

The valet hesitated then sat down at the other side of the table from Allerdyce. The Inspector stood, looking down on him.

“Unfortunate isn't it, Mr Warner, to lose two Dukes so quickly.”

“What are you suggesting, Inspector, do you think I did it? After all the help I gave you? I didn't and I can prove it.”

“I'm not sure that I believe you Warner.”

“Come on, Inspector. I'm no murderer.”

Allerdyce looked around the opulent room, with its profusion of paintings and ornaments.

“You must be a little bit underemployed, Mr Warner. No Duke in residence and no-one to keep an eye on what you're up to.”

“What are you insinuating, Inspector?”

“Nothing. Only trying to imagine what you might be doing to fill your time and earn some money.”

“Just stop there, Inspector. I'm not up to anything. I'm still getting paid since no-one's dismissed me yet, and I'm hoping that if the new Duke decides to move here he'll keep me on. The mad photographer bloke.”

“You mean The Honourable George Bothwell-Scott QC.”

“Yeah, him. So don't go getting any notions that I'm up to something. I'm earning an honest living.”

“Is that right, Warner? So let me ask you one simple question. Does the name Augusta Mitchell mean anything to you?”

“Shit.” Warner fiddled with his fingers and looked away, towards a portrait of a former Duchess.

“Well? Is that a yes, Warner?”

“I can't say anything, Inspector. The family would kill me.”

Allerdyce looked down at the valet, who avoided his gaze. I'll beat it out of you if I have to, he thought.

“Somebody's killing them, Mr Warner, and I need to find Miss Mitchell. I think she may know something that would help us. You surely don't want to obstruct a police enquiry?”

“I'm sorry, Inspector. I swore I wouldn't say anything. They'd stop at nothing if I did.”

Allerdyce picked the snuffbox off the table and slid it into his pocket.

“You know, Mr Warner, a suspicious man would wonder what the servants get up to when there's no master around. Maybe picking up some money he might have left lying around? Maybe stealing some valuable trinkets that they think nobody will notice? I think they'd be particularly suspicious of a servant who'd done time in prison if, say, a valuable snuffbox with the Duke's arms on it appeared in a pawn shop.”

“You bastard.”

“So tell what you know about Augusta Mitchell. It's five years in prison for theft if you don't.”

Warner sighed. He took a cigarette from the silver case, lit it, inhaled deeply and coughed.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Was William Bothwell-Scott married to Miss Mitchell?”

Warner drew again on the cigarette and exhaled before answering.

“The Duke never told me so, but I'd heard the stories below stairs. Some of the older servants remembered when the Duke had been a student he'd been sweet on the new governess. They'd liked it well enough at the time – it made him a bit better-tempered for a while. There was a story that he'd run away with her and maybe got married, but no-one could prove it.”

“No stories about a child?”

“No.”

“So you want me to believe that all you know is servants' rumours?” Allerdyce took the snuffbox out of his pocket and examined it. “You're going to have to do better than that, Warner.”

“Not quite.” Warner's eyes darted as if he thought someone was observing them, and he leant closer. Allerdyce smelt the tobacco staleness of his breath. The valet continued.

“I once had to run an errand for the Duke, about ten years ago. Before he got married.

“I'd been working for him for nearly two years, and he seemed to trust me as much as he trusted anyone.

“He'd withdrawn a large amount of cash, in notes, from the bank. He gave the money to me with an instruction to take it to a house some miles out of Edinburgh, up in the Pentland Hills. He said it was something he couldn't be seen to do himself.”

“Where was the house?”

“Bavelaw Lodge. Up beyond Balerno. Anyway, I went into Edinburgh and hired a cab to take me out from there. That way nobody could know I'd come from Dalcorn.

“I'll admit, Inspector, that I was curious to see how much money was in the leather doctor's bag that the Duke had given me. Not to take any, you understand, just curiosity.”

“I'll try to believe you.”

“He'd taken it all out in relatively small notes – nothing bigger than a fiver. I supposed it would attract attention if the person he was giving the money to tried to cash a hundred pound note. So it took me ages, sitting in the back of the cab, to count it all out.”

“And?”

“There were five thousand pounds there, Inspector. A lifetime's income for an ordinary man. I was staggered, and I did wonder briefly what my own life could be like with that sort of money in my hands. I'm an honest man, though, and I wouldn't have touched it.”

“Of course not, Mr Warner. Especially with your police record.”

“Ungenerous of you to mention it, Inspector. I reckoned that sort of money must be a pay-off to someone dangerous and I started to worry about what sort of men I was going to meet at Bavelaw.”

“And who were they?”

“I'm getting to that, Inspector. The cab went up this long road into the hills – nothing around us but heather, bog and the odd clump of trees. I couldn't help thinking how easy it would be to dispose of a body up there – just dump it in a bog and no-one need find it for thousands of years. At last the cab turned into a driveway which led between thick conifers for fifty yards or so before coming to a white house, hidden from everything by the trees.

“I can't tell you how surprised I was when the door opened. The girl must have been about twenty years old. It's an image that'll stay with me for life, Inspector, that beautiful blonde woman, dressed all in white like a bride or a saint. I can see her slim white hands now, her waist gathered-in with a white ribbon, and her perfect bosom. Her skin looked warm and soft to the touch, her rosebud lips were slightly parted, and she looked passionate and angry.”

“Most attractive, Mr Warner.”

“Don't mock, Inspector. If you'd seen her you'd never have forgotten her.”

“So what happened?”

“She said I was expected. She said that her mother was too unwell to see anyone, but that she had what my master wanted in exchange for the agreed payment. She handed me an envelope, took the bag with the money, and said that that concluded her mother's entire dealings with my master. She told me to tell the Duke that he was released from all obligations towards her mother except for the obligations of decency and morality, and that she prayed that the hounds of conscience would chase him mercilessly until he found his special place in hell. She bade me good day and shut the door.

“The envelope wasn't sealed. Maybe she wanted someone to know what was inside, before it was destroyed. Anyway, I felt I was owed some sort of explanation of what I'd just seen, so I opened it and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside.

“It was in French, but I could make out well enough what it said. It was a marriage certificate, issued under the authority of the Mayor of Paris, confirming the marriage of William Bothwell-Scott and Augusta Mitchell on the 17
^th
of July 1832.

“I gave the envelope to the Duke as soon as I returned. He opened it, checked the contents, and put both the envelope and the certificate into the fire. That's where my involvement ended.”

“You should have told me this before, Mr Warner.” Allerdyce felt his hand tighten on the sharp corners of the snuffbox. “I should still have you arrested for obstruction.”

“I've told you now, Inspector. And if the family ever find out I'm finished. I can't do any more for you.”

“What about the telegrams, Mr Warner? Didn't it occur to you that maybe the peculiar telegrams the Duke used to receive, up to the one which immediately preceded his death, may have been sent by Augusta Mitchell or her daughter? Mightn't they have been trying to extort more money from him?”