David Ashton - End of the Line

Senga had left happily enough, only pausing to inform Roach that the first book for the society’s perusal would be Wuthering Heights , a tale of tragic love, which she felt resonate to her very bones.

Most of this Roach reported, omitting the reading society references, and Mulholland had left for MacDonald Street with his large ears burning red, the cause of much simple-minded amusement to both his superiors as they contemplated his looming predicament.

The constable had so far refused the sugar biscuits, accepted a cup of tea and was now awaiting elucidation.

The bird let out a frustrated cheep, and with a little cry Senga arose, crossed over and pushed a few crumbs through the thin bars of the cage.

‘I have named him Archibald,’ she murmured. ‘After my first husband.’

‘How many have you had?’ Mulholland asked curiously.

‘Canaries?’

‘Husbands.’

‘Only the one,’ she replied taking no offence at what might be deemed an intrusive question. ‘I had high hopes for Count Borromeo but. .’

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.