The Unbelievers by Alastair Sim Page B

forfeit.”
    Blast, thought Allerdyce.
    The crowd booed. The farmer stepped into the ring to retrieve the Staffordshire. He seized the rat with a leather-gloved fist and crushed the life out of it.
    â€œThat wasn’t a fair fight!” shouted the soldier. “That was a dirty rat!”
    â€œHe’s standing up, sir,” whispered the sergeant. “I think there’s about to be trouble. Better try and apprehend him now.”
    The policemen slipped out of the benches and went over to the bar. A handful of other customers were making their way to the bar too, but most of the crowd stood behind the soldier and his mates, who were arguing with the master of ceremonies to get their bets back.
    The white-haired jowly man had nearly reached the bar when McGillivray seized his shoulder from behind. He turned to face Allerdyce.
    â€œAre you the Duke of Dornoch, going by the alias of Mr Willie Burns,” asked Allerdyce.
    As Allerdyce waited for an answer his heart sank. Surely the Duke couldn’t have sunk so low, his eyes glazed, his mouth half-open with stinking breath, phlegm caked in the bristles of his unshaven chin?
    â€œSir, I must ask for an answer. The whereabouts of His Grace is a matter of substantial concern.”
    The man opened his mouth as if to speak, exposing the rotting black stumps of his teeth, then threw up gently over his chin and threadbare frock-coat.
    â€œNot our man?” asked the sergeant.
    â€œDon’t think so. Let’s just check with the barman.”
    The man staggered as McGillivray propelled him towards the bar.
    â€œDo you recognise this man?” asked Allerdyce.
    â€œNever seen him before, sir,” said the barman. “I’ll have him thrown out if he’s bothering you.”
    â€œNo. It’s all right. Would you recognise a Mr Willie Burns?”
    â€œCertainly sir. A most sporting gentleman. I thought he’d have come to Tiny’s bout but there’s been no sign of him.”
    There was a shout from the pit and Allerdyce looked round to see that the master of ceremonies had been pushed to the floor and the soldiers were holding him down while the punters recovered their money. The man with the shovel was coming up behind the crowd. As Allerdyce watched, he started to lay about the crowd with the spade to try and reach the prostrate MC.
    â€œCome on,” he said to McGillivray, “I think we’re finished here.”
    The policemen left the vomiting drunk leaning against the bar and slipped back out along the corridor, having to push themselves against the wall as the doorman rushed in to join the trouble. As they reached the darkness of the courtyard they could still hear the mayhem behind them.
    Warner was waiting, smoking a cigarette.
    â€œIs that all your fault?” he asked, nodding towards the arena.
    â€œNo,” said Allerdyce, “it’s a purely sporting disagreement.”
    â€œGlad to hear it.”
    â€œSo where do you suggest we look next?”
    â€œJust follow me.”

Chapter 6
    They went back through the vennel into the narrow street and turned right, towards the river. After a few minutes they found themselves standing on The Shore.
    Allerdyce looked up and down the cobbled, dimly-lit street. Warehouses stood darkly in the night at either side of the stagnant tidal river which formed Leith’s inner harbour. The darkness was interspersed with bright light from public houses, from which he could hear shouting and singing, and the feeble glow from the windows of the tenements which were crammed in beside the warehouses. The tide was out, and he could see the dark silhouettes of small ships resting on the tidal mud, their masts tilting at crazy angles as the boats leant against the harbour wall. He thought they looked like creatures out of their element, like the fish he’d seen caught by rod and line which were left to flail and suffocate in the poisonous air.
    The stench