where the statue of a ram celebrated the town’s reliance on the wool trade.
The ram, however, had no ears. It had arrived that way and the sculptor, according to legend, committed suicide because of that omission.
Like Alan Telfer. A suicide of omission.
Margaret had been witness to so many things.
After the inspector had scuttled off like a frightened rat, she had walked to the French windows and called her husband’s name. He had best come in. It was cold out there.
Sir Thomas had risen, turned, and looked at her like a dumb animal, a thread of mucus finding its way from his nose down on to his shirt front.
A mute and suffering animal. Like herself. Something they could both share.
Thomas Bouch died the next morning from a heavy cold, which had plagued him for all of that month.
He had no will to resist death.
For the faults in design, he was entirely responsible.
For the faults in construction, he was principally responsible.
For the faults in maintenance, principally if not entirely responsible.
That was the final verdict of the Court of Inquiry.
And it killed him.
Rain, rattling on the window brought her once more back to the here and now. She rose from the armchair, walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. It was dark outside, the street lamps throwing light upon the hunched figures of the passers-by and the wheels of the carriages spraying devious spouts of water from the torrential downpour, which was lashing on to the cobblestones.
Margaret nursed the whisky glass against her body and looked out into the night.
At least at the cemetery, she had the last act. She had laughed in the inspector’s face and left him to the wind and rain.
He desired her. She knew that. He was a coward to his own heart.
She would find another, a sailor perhaps.
Damn that crow.
15
The breezes and the sunshine,
And soft refreshing rain.
JANE MONTGOMERY CAMPBELL, Hymn
McLevy meanwhile was cursing himself and the precipitation as he trailed a certain quarry through the drenched and sodden streets of Leith.
After a most unsatisfactory meeting with Robert Forbes where the adjuster had not only confirmed the certification for warehouse cargo to be genuine but informed McLevy that the claim was already forwarded to head office with his stamp of approval, the inspector’s efforts to hint at possible arson were met with a blank stare.
Where was the proof?
When McLevy promoted the identity of Daniel Rough and his incendiary inclinations, he was met with an even blanker stare. Setting fire to a building was one thing, setting fire to yourself was surely carrying the process to an extreme.
And where was the proof?
Forbes spoke mildly enough but the look in his eyes suggested that he thought the inspector’s mind might need some adjusting never mind the claim.
McLevy had slunk down the stairs from the Providential Insurance office feeling like a fool, only to run into Mulholland’s beloved Emily coming up the selfsame steps to visit her father. Her eyes had widened as she twitched her skirts aside and shrank against the wall as he grunted a good evening to slouch his way past.
The cheerless evening matched perfectly with his mood, dank and clammy, with the rain beating down monotonously like a minister’s sermon.
But then as he walked along Great Junction Street with a dampness spreading through his right sock to remind him that the hole in the boot needed mending, whom should he see? Unaffected by weather, debonair under umbrella, a long cigar raised to fleshy lips, none other than the bold boy, Oliver Garvie.
He sauntered along as if it were the height of summer, a pleasant smile on his face and the inspector, on an impulse, followed like some humble retainer who had to maintain a certain distance between himself and his liege lord.
A stray dog ran out from one of the alleys and began barking viciously at McLevy.
He did not care for dogs especially wee snippy ones that might cause a mark to turn and
The ram, however, had no ears. It had arrived that way and the sculptor, according to legend, committed suicide because of that omission.
Like Alan Telfer. A suicide of omission.
Margaret had been witness to so many things.
After the inspector had scuttled off like a frightened rat, she had walked to the French windows and called her husband’s name. He had best come in. It was cold out there.
Sir Thomas had risen, turned, and looked at her like a dumb animal, a thread of mucus finding its way from his nose down on to his shirt front.
A mute and suffering animal. Like herself. Something they could both share.
Thomas Bouch died the next morning from a heavy cold, which had plagued him for all of that month.
He had no will to resist death.
For the faults in design, he was entirely responsible.
For the faults in construction, he was principally responsible.
For the faults in maintenance, principally if not entirely responsible.
That was the final verdict of the Court of Inquiry.
And it killed him.
Rain, rattling on the window brought her once more back to the here and now. She rose from the armchair, walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. It was dark outside, the street lamps throwing light upon the hunched figures of the passers-by and the wheels of the carriages spraying devious spouts of water from the torrential downpour, which was lashing on to the cobblestones.
Margaret nursed the whisky glass against her body and looked out into the night.
At least at the cemetery, she had the last act. She had laughed in the inspector’s face and left him to the wind and rain.
He desired her. She knew that. He was a coward to his own heart.
She would find another, a sailor perhaps.
Damn that crow.
15
The breezes and the sunshine,
And soft refreshing rain.
JANE MONTGOMERY CAMPBELL, Hymn
McLevy meanwhile was cursing himself and the precipitation as he trailed a certain quarry through the drenched and sodden streets of Leith.
After a most unsatisfactory meeting with Robert Forbes where the adjuster had not only confirmed the certification for warehouse cargo to be genuine but informed McLevy that the claim was already forwarded to head office with his stamp of approval, the inspector’s efforts to hint at possible arson were met with a blank stare.
Where was the proof?
When McLevy promoted the identity of Daniel Rough and his incendiary inclinations, he was met with an even blanker stare. Setting fire to a building was one thing, setting fire to yourself was surely carrying the process to an extreme.
And where was the proof?
Forbes spoke mildly enough but the look in his eyes suggested that he thought the inspector’s mind might need some adjusting never mind the claim.
McLevy had slunk down the stairs from the Providential Insurance office feeling like a fool, only to run into Mulholland’s beloved Emily coming up the selfsame steps to visit her father. Her eyes had widened as she twitched her skirts aside and shrank against the wall as he grunted a good evening to slouch his way past.
The cheerless evening matched perfectly with his mood, dank and clammy, with the rain beating down monotonously like a minister’s sermon.
But then as he walked along Great Junction Street with a dampness spreading through his right sock to remind him that the hole in the boot needed mending, whom should he see? Unaffected by weather, debonair under umbrella, a long cigar raised to fleshy lips, none other than the bold boy, Oliver Garvie.
He sauntered along as if it were the height of summer, a pleasant smile on his face and the inspector, on an impulse, followed like some humble retainer who had to maintain a certain distance between himself and his liege lord.
A stray dog ran out from one of the alleys and began barking viciously at McLevy.
He did not care for dogs especially wee snippy ones that might cause a mark to turn and
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