End of the Line Read Online Free Page A

needed a sensitive soul,
comme il faut
, a soul of discretion, which, in her opinion, effectively ruled out McLevy.
    And Roach as well, it would seem, though she imminently welcomed him to the embrace of the reading society of which she and Mrs Roach were founder members. The lieutenant had flexed his jaw at this prospect and finally managed to shovel the woman out of his office with a promise that the soul of discretion would be winging her way as soon as he inserted his size-twelve boots within the station.
    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.
    â€˜I have named him Archibald,’ she murmured. ‘After my first husband.’
    â€˜How many have you had?’ Mulholland asked curiously.
    â€˜Canaries?’
    â€˜Husbands.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I myself enjoy the smallest sip of sherry,’ Senga avowed. ‘But the Count was a whisky man. And it altered his disposition.’
    â€˜In what fashion, ma’am?’
    Archibald hopped back onto his perch and defecated briskly. Better out than in.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜
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.
    â€˜When he wasn’t being rough and ready?’ he ventured.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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