whore from the previous night, but he hopped and skipped like a free spirit and lifted his voice in song.
‘Whit shall we do with a drunken sailor,
Whit shall we do with a drunken sailor,
Whit shall we do with a drunken sailor,
Earl-aye in the morning?’
She had watched the man skip onwards until the mists claimed him, and then finally returned to Bernard Street to be later told by her allotted spouse that he had decided to relocate the family to a house in Moffat on the borders. The children were still young enough to enjoy the delights of the countryside, Thomas Bouch had decided. No mention made of what she might prefer. No. The deed was done. His new secretary, Alan Telfer, would take care of all the details.
She protested. What did she know of the country? She loved the city.
Thomas, not yet a Sir by a long shot, frowned slightly, then turned and walked back into his study to think his great thoughts.
The secretary smiled.
What she loved was of no concern.
But, not any more.
She carried the tune now. Under her breath for the moment, though not for long.
She took another hefty gulp of whisky and sang quietly to herself.
‘Shave his belly with a rusty razor,
Shave his belly with a rusty razor,
Shave his belly with a rusty razor,
Earl-aye in the morning.’
Margaret was sitting in his armchair, leather, claret and cream insignia of the North British Railway which had now distanced itself from its former blue-eyed boy and his very efficient secretary who had most efficiently blown his brains apart in this very room while the portrait of Sir Thomas and one other present had looked down upon the act.
Two high stools, now bereft of the backsides of both men, huddled forlornly at the desk where some drawings lay, dusty, curling at the edges, abandoned.
She lifted her glass to the portrait of Sir Thomas, above her on the opposite wall. His eyes were not looking at her but then they never quite had, always found something more interesting a few feet to her side.
Where his secret was kept.
The glass was now empty and her mood swung to melancholy, transported back to a moment full of longing and shame, offer and rejection. One week past.
31 October 1880
Sir Thomas Bouch sat in the garden of Moffat house, his hair turned white, a mask of old age clamped upon his face. The living dead. Fifty-eight years old.
Margaret watched from the French windows as a leaf from one of the trees landed on this broken husk of a man, then, from his shoulder fell to the ground.
‘He has lost his reason,’ she said softly. ‘After the Inquiry. After the verdict. No sanctuary.’
McLevy, who had been observing from behind her in the room, did not tender ritual condolence.
‘Perhaps it’s for the best,’ he remarked.
‘Do you have any experience of madness?’ she asked almost idly.
‘I’ve had my moments.’
‘His, is a quiet insanity,’ she murmured. ‘His mind has … slipped. To the side. I hardly noticed it depart. He has found a more acceptable place to exist.’
‘Reality can be a bugger.’
She laughed and turned to face him.
It had been like this from almost the moment they had met, as if the truth must be seen for what it was, a bringer of pain and retribution.
‘I have never loved him, unfortunately. Not for a moment.’
‘Why marry then?’
‘My father admired him.’
‘And you admired your father?’
‘That sort of thing.’
Now it was his occasion to laugh, or a sound somewhat close to laughter, like an animal coughing up a bone.
The disturbance reached the ears of the man in the garden and Sir Thomas looked round. For a moment he gazed past his wife to the shadowy figure behind as if it might be death a’ calling, then his eyes shifted and he turned away to resume contemplation of empty hospitable space.
‘It was good of you to come.’
McLevy had looked past her to witness Sir Thomas stare in at them but Margaret did not follow his gaze. Her own was fixed upon him and
‘Whit shall we do with a drunken sailor,
Whit shall we do with a drunken sailor,
Whit shall we do with a drunken sailor,
Earl-aye in the morning?’
She had watched the man skip onwards until the mists claimed him, and then finally returned to Bernard Street to be later told by her allotted spouse that he had decided to relocate the family to a house in Moffat on the borders. The children were still young enough to enjoy the delights of the countryside, Thomas Bouch had decided. No mention made of what she might prefer. No. The deed was done. His new secretary, Alan Telfer, would take care of all the details.
She protested. What did she know of the country? She loved the city.
Thomas, not yet a Sir by a long shot, frowned slightly, then turned and walked back into his study to think his great thoughts.
The secretary smiled.
What she loved was of no concern.
But, not any more.
She carried the tune now. Under her breath for the moment, though not for long.
She took another hefty gulp of whisky and sang quietly to herself.
‘Shave his belly with a rusty razor,
Shave his belly with a rusty razor,
Shave his belly with a rusty razor,
Earl-aye in the morning.’
Margaret was sitting in his armchair, leather, claret and cream insignia of the North British Railway which had now distanced itself from its former blue-eyed boy and his very efficient secretary who had most efficiently blown his brains apart in this very room while the portrait of Sir Thomas and one other present had looked down upon the act.
Two high stools, now bereft of the backsides of both men, huddled forlornly at the desk where some drawings lay, dusty, curling at the edges, abandoned.
She lifted her glass to the portrait of Sir Thomas, above her on the opposite wall. His eyes were not looking at her but then they never quite had, always found something more interesting a few feet to her side.
Where his secret was kept.
The glass was now empty and her mood swung to melancholy, transported back to a moment full of longing and shame, offer and rejection. One week past.
31 October 1880
Sir Thomas Bouch sat in the garden of Moffat house, his hair turned white, a mask of old age clamped upon his face. The living dead. Fifty-eight years old.
Margaret watched from the French windows as a leaf from one of the trees landed on this broken husk of a man, then, from his shoulder fell to the ground.
‘He has lost his reason,’ she said softly. ‘After the Inquiry. After the verdict. No sanctuary.’
McLevy, who had been observing from behind her in the room, did not tender ritual condolence.
‘Perhaps it’s for the best,’ he remarked.
‘Do you have any experience of madness?’ she asked almost idly.
‘I’ve had my moments.’
‘His, is a quiet insanity,’ she murmured. ‘His mind has … slipped. To the side. I hardly noticed it depart. He has found a more acceptable place to exist.’
‘Reality can be a bugger.’
She laughed and turned to face him.
It had been like this from almost the moment they had met, as if the truth must be seen for what it was, a bringer of pain and retribution.
‘I have never loved him, unfortunately. Not for a moment.’
‘Why marry then?’
‘My father admired him.’
‘And you admired your father?’
‘That sort of thing.’
Now it was his occasion to laugh, or a sound somewhat close to laughter, like an animal coughing up a bone.
The disturbance reached the ears of the man in the garden and Sir Thomas looked round. For a moment he gazed past his wife to the shadowy figure behind as if it might be death a’ calling, then his eyes shifted and he turned away to resume contemplation of empty hospitable space.
‘It was good of you to come.’
McLevy had looked past her to witness Sir Thomas stare in at them but Margaret did not follow his gaze. Her own was fixed upon him and
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