The Nice and the Good

Bira

Ducane had reopened in his mind the possibility that Bira

At the moment, however, it simply seemed impossible to find out anything more, he ruefully concluded, short of having Peter McGrath put upon the rack.

'There's a gentleman downstairs to see you, Sir. He says his name's McGrath.'

Ducane jumped. Fivey, who preferred not to enter a room if putting his head round the door would do, was leaning over, supported by the door handle, at an angle of forty-five degrees.

Even his moustaches admitted the pull of gravity.

'Where is he? I'll come down.'

'He's in the hall, Sir.'

As Fivey stood aside Ducane apprehended a curious and unfamiliar smell, a sort of piercing sweet-sour odour, which seemed to be emanating from his servant. He hurried past and out of its range. Fivey followed him down the narrow stairs droning Bony Chairlie's noo away half under his breath.

Ducane caught a quick glimpse of McGrath's orange hair and blue eyes. Then they were blotted out by the large form of Fivey who, sidestepping like a dancer, passed in front of Ducane, opened the door of Ducane's small drawing-room with a flourish, and turned the lights on. McGrath, no longer looking at Ducane, was staring at Fivey who was now leaning against the lintel of the door more in the attitude of a spectator than of one about to usher others into a room.

'Go in, please,' said Ducane.

McGrath passed Fivey, staring into his eyes as he did so and pausing inside the room to stare back at him. Fivey returned the stare. Ducane followed McGrath in and inhaled once more the sinister, slightly oily smell. Fivey fell rather than stepped away from the doorway and with a murmur of Weel ye noo come back again faded in the direction of the kitchen.

Ducane closed the door sharply. 'Rather a late hour for a visit, McGrath.'

'Who's he?' said McGrath.

'My servant.'

Mmm. Posh. Looks a bit of a weirdie though. Is there something wrong with him?'