End of the Line by David Ashton Page B

‘The police surgeon will want to justify his existence.’
    A complicit nod and Mulholland was out the door, leaving McLevy to work his rough magic.
    The inspector let the silence rest for a moment and then in remarkably gentle tones enquired if there was something on his superior’s mind.
    Roach hesitated and then, encouraged by the obliging look in McLevy’s eye, while realising of course that it was a ploy to get him to sanction the investigation, spoke man to man.
    â€˜Mrs Roach has joined one of these newfangled . . . reading societies,’ he confided. ‘Books.’
    â€˜Ye mean Edgar Allen Poe,
Murders in the Rue Morgue
and such like?’ was the eager and spurious response.
    â€˜No. Female exponents. Such as the Bröntes.’
    â€˜Aha!’ the inspector exclaimed. ‘And whit like are their literary emanations?’
    â€˜Long,’ said Roach. ‘And to my mind somewhat morbid, but that is not the problem.’
    McLevy resisted temptation. All things come to he who waits. Silence is golden.
    The lieutenant took a quick shifty look up at Queen Victoria before confiding further.
    â€˜Mrs Roach has asked me to join the group. I would be the only man.’
    McLevy chewed at his lip to indicate deep thought.
    â€˜I am pit in mind o’
The Bacchae
,’ he opined. ‘I would stick tae golf.’
    The door opened and Mulholland returned to announce that the cadaver was en route.
    â€˜Well, lieutenant,’ boomed the inspector. ‘Shall we take up the case?’
    Roach nodded. His mind was clear, the words crisp.
    â€˜Proceed on two fronts,’ he directed. ‘Find this ginger giant and also determine everything you can about the corpse. The more you discover about a dead body the more reasons emerge for it attaining that condition.’
    He had scarce finished the sentence when, with a cry of approbation and promised obedience, McLevy shot out of the door, closely followed by the constable, before their superior could change his mind.
    Roach sighed and attempted to recall the plot of
The Bacchae
. He had a vague memory of a man up a tree surrounded by a pack of howling females. Very Greek.
    * * *
    The police had struck lucky. A bang on the door of the lodging house – a timid maid about to go shopping, the housekeeper out, McLevy bluffness personified, Mulholland all Irish charm – and they had been shown to the man’s room where they might root around to heart’s content.
    This they had done. The general inspection having produced nothing, the inspector was now nosing in the wardrobe while Mulholland sifted through the tall chest of drawers.
    â€˜Socks of finest silk,’ the constable announced.
    â€˜Shoes of finest leather. Cashmere suits!’ said the awed McLevy. He sniffed at the label. ‘Exclusive. Saville Row. The man was a spender.’
    They had ascertained from the maid that the fellow had been there for a month and was the sole lodger in the house, but there was not a shred of document here to tell them one thing more as regards identity; the letters from the train – investment prospectuses from various companies replying to an obvious enquiry – were no help.
    â€˜A man of mystery,’ the inspector concluded. ‘Whit was he doing here, Mulholland?’
    As if in answer, a female voice cooed in the ether.
    â€˜Roberto?’ it fluted through the door. ‘Are you decently attired?’
    The portal opened and a woman of some certain years, hair newly coiffured, tightly corseted with bosom athrust to show generous inclination, tripped in.
    Her mouth was a little slack, and grew slacker at the sight before her.
    â€˜Who are you?’ she asked.
    â€˜Policemen. At your service,’ stated Mulholland.
    â€˜Where is Count Borromeo?’
    â€˜He is – I’m afraid – dead, ma’am,’ the constable assured her solemnly.
    The mouth sagged further, though the