A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders Page 13

  “Yes, sir,” Mendick wondered if Mackay blamed him personally for the outbreak of mayhem in his town.

  Mackay leaned forward in his chair. “Catch China Jim, Mendick, and catch him while there are still some people left alive in Dundee.” His Caithness accent became more pronounced as he held Mendick’s gaze. “Do I make myself understood?”

  “You do sir,” Mendick agreed.

  “I want to see you back in here in fifteen minutes, Mendick, with a full record of what you have achieved.”

  “Yes, sir, a full record.” Mendick’s salute was not entirely ironic as he left the office.

  “Wee Donnie seems a trifle upset,” Deuchars had obviously been listening at the door. He did not appear concerned as he stuffed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with a huge thumb. “I think we had better catch this blackguard, Sergeant.”

  “So we continue as before,” Mendick felt a wave of weariness wash over him. Thus far his investigations had got him nowhere, he had only reacted to China Jim’s crimes and had not succeeded in preventing a single one. He walked across to his own office, stood in the doorway and put an edge to his voice. “I want the boys reminded about that carriage. I want every brougham stopped and searched, and the driver and occupants questioned and noted.”

  Sturrock looked up from his notebook and frowned. “There could be a score of broughams in Dundee; you might alarm a completely innocent man . . .”

  “What is more important, Sturrock,” Mendick lowered his voice, “alarming an innocent man and perhaps catching a murderer, or being concerned about such things and having that innocent man murdered?” He lifted his hat and cane from the coatstand. “Sometimes it is necessary for a police officer to be less than pleasant to get the job done.”

  Sturrock nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “And now, I am looking for a coach.” Mendick jammed the hat on his head.

  Deuchars looked up, “Yes, Sergeant, but what about the Superintendent? He expects a full report from you.”

  “The Superintendent can go and bless himself.” Mendick marched out of the room.

  Freshly painted in green and gold, the sign hung proud on the outside of the Nethergate office and workshop:

  Walter McLauchlan, it proclaimed, Dundee’s Premier Coachworks: Makers of Carriages, Two and Four Wheeled Dog Carts and Gigs.

  Mendick tapped his cane against the wide door and stepped inside. He entered a cobbled courtyard with a litter of timber and wheels, busily sawing and hammering workmen, a watchful collie dog and the inevitable cat that sat on a pile of wood shavings, overseeing everything. In the corner, two men were busy painting a completed coach.

  “I wish to see Walter McLauchlan.”

  “That would be me.” McLauchlan was of middle height, with neat whiskers that matched his grey eyes. His handshake was firm.

  Mendick showed his official staff and came straight to the point. “My name is Sergeant James Mendick and I am seeking information about a brougham.”

  McLauchlan narrowed his eyes. “Do you want me to build you one? They don’t come cheap.” He gave a slight smile.

  “Not on my wages.” Mendick noticed the collie come closer but it appeared friendly enough to be ignored.

  “Nor on what this yard brings in,” McLauchlan said sadly. “Come into the office, Sergeant.” He led the way through the yard, stopping twice to give advice to young apprentices. “You’ll be asking about that China Jim fellow, I suppose?”

  McLauchlan’s office was nothing more than a wooden shed with a plank desk and two chairs, but there was a small stove on which sat a battered kettle, and his tea was strong and sweet and welcoming. “Right, Sergeant, tell me what I can do for you.”

  Mendick removed his hat and lowered himself into a chair. “We think that China Jim uses a brougham to travel about Dundee.”

  “Aye, I can believe that.” McLauchlan nodded slowly. “I’d pick a one-horse fly myself but I can see the advantage of a brougham. It has a tight turning circle, you see.”

  “That would be useful in Dundee’s narrow streets,” Mendick agreed. “Do you have a list of your customers?”

  “We don’t need a list for broughams,” McLauchlan said. “We’ve sold two, one to Mr Gordon of Mandarin House and one to Mr Gilbride of the Waverley Company.”

  “Gordon and Gilbride?” Mendick smiled. Both were suspects so this piece of information did not help him in the slightest. “Are you the only coach manufacturer in Dundee?”

  McLauchlan waved his mug. “I am, but there are plenty in Edinburgh and Glasgow. Anyway, maybe your China Jim fellow bought a coach privately and did not have it made for him.”

  “That is always possible,” Mendick said. “What colour were your coaches?” Mendick asked. “The one we are looking for is dark blue or black.”

  McLauchlan opened the door and gestured with his cup to the coach the men were painting. “There’s one there, dark blue. All of ours are dark blue because it’s the most popular colour this season.”

  Mendick nodded. He recognised the brougham with its elevated driver’s seat. “Thank you.” Replacing his hat, Mendick flicked the brim with his finger. “You have been of some assistance. And the tea was most welcome.”

  Now he was back to Gordon and Gilbride. Gordon, the one-time opium trader who had lied to him about the night of the second murder and Gilbride, with the sore leg that made it impossible for him to slide down ropes, and the strong Walter Scott connection. The trail just led in small, pointless circles.

  “They’re like smoke,” Deuchars grumbled. “China Jim, the seaman with a hundred names and that woman in the green cloak all just vanish when they please.”

  “They’re not like smoke,” Sturrock said. “Maybe that old beggar was right. They are like ghosts. They’re spirits, that’s what they are.”

  “They’re solid bone and flesh,” Mendick hardened his voice. “They are here, hiding amongst us and I want them. Check every stable for that coach, and that includes private as well as public. Note every brougham. Note everything.” Yet despite himself he remembered the uncanny way China Jim had manipulated the police and vanished. His identity was unknown even to the criminal classes. They only knew how to fear him, as he had feared his master as a child.

  His world was restricted to the circumference of a flue, the exhausted slumber of end-of-work and the cringing acceptance of his master’s belt.

  “Faster you wee bastard! There are two more to go after this one.”

  The memory brought goose pimples to his spine and for a terrible moment the ranting face of his old Master merged with his mental image of China Jim. Mendick shook away the thought and concentrated on reality, but the fear remained to gnaw at his consciousness.

  Blue broughams joined China Jim in Mendick’s mind as he spent the next few days walking Dundee’s streets, following coaches and checking stables. He listed every brougham he found, lost some in frustrated chases and compared his list with that of Sturrock. It was a Wednesday evening when he called his small team and they sat around his battered desk, sipping at vast mugs of tea as they reviewed their progress.

  “There should be a registration system for carriages,” Deuchars grumbled as they copied out their piecemeal notes, “so we can just look it up when we need it. They do it for ships, so why not coaches?”

  “It would make things easier for us,” Sturrock agreed, “but the people would never stand for it. Maybe the continentals would do something of the sort, but we value our freedom higher than that.”

  “So what do we have so far?” Deuchars asked. “Six broughams. I had no idea there were so many in Dundee. You know about Gordon’s and Gilbride’s, of course?”

  “Both men I would not trust the width of the street,” Mendick said. “And the others?”

  “That leaves four: the merchants Josiah Scrymgeour and Walter Rennie, one that’s lacking wheels and one owned by Farquhar Jamieson, the ship master.” Deuchars finished.

  “A ship master? H
ow can a ship’s master afford a private carriage? This bears some investigation. Has he ever been to China?”

  “I have no idea,” Sturrock said. “I know Jamieson though, he’s master of Bride of Lammermoor and he’s been at sea since December. He’s somewhere between here and Quebec.”

  “Damn and blast!” Mendick banged his palm on the desk top. “Every possible lead goes nowhere!” He walked to the window, stood with his back to it, pushed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and applied a Lucifer. He enjoyed this first pipe of the evening best, when the day’s work was behind him and the ease of the night was ahead. “We have spread the word we’re searching for China Jim. We have a permanent watch on Mandarin House and Gilbride’s office in Whale Lane. We have men noting every dark brougham they see and who the owners are. But what have we discovered?”

  Sturrock sat back in his chair, his legs stretched before him and his churchwarden pipe emitting blue smoke. “We’re making progress, Sergeant. These things take time.”

  Mendick glanced outside for a moment, noting the forest of chimneys that punctured the dimming sky. God, but he hated this place.

  “We have two main suspects,” Mendick said, “the first being James Gordon the Chinese opium trader. He’s top of our list, but what could have been the motive for murdering these three men, and in such a barbarous manner?”

  “Perhaps they were rivals?” Sturrock hazarded.

  “Gordon is a wealthy property owner, Milne was a night watchmen, Thoms a pawnshop proprietor and Torrie a recruit and an ex-seaman.” Mendick shook his head. “They were not business rivals. They could hardly have been love rivals either. Gordon has a beautiful wife and would not associate with the type of woman that Thoms or Torrie would know.” He shrugged. “Second is George Gilbride of the Waverley Whale Fishing Company.”

  Sturrock removed the pipe from his mouth. “Gilbride is one of the most respectable gentlemen in Dundee.”

  “There are three things that give rise to suspicion about him,” Mendick said. “One: he has a bad limp and claims it was a riding accident. Men with bad legs cannot climb down a rope, they would need a ladder−”

  “Might as well arrest half the cripples in Dundee then.” Sturrock broke in, but Mendick stopped him with a lift of his hand.

  “Two: he is a whaling ship owner and Milne was found in a whale boiling yard.”

  “He worked there−” Sturrock said.

  “Three: our invisible seaman of the many aliases always chooses a character from Scott’s novels as a false name, and Scott is Gilbride’s favourite author.”

  “So, after three murders we have two people who may possibly have been involved,” Sturrock said. “I have always thought Gordon an arrogant sort of fellow ever since he arrived in Dundee, but a murderer?” He shook his head. “No. I can’t see it. Why? He’s already as rich as Croesus. Why should he want to butcher people? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You are correct,” Mendick agreed. “This case is all about reason: what was the reason for murdering these men, and what was the connection between them? There must be one. The method was the same, and we have the coins with the date 1842.”

  “So we are looking for a connection between a seaman turned soldier, an ex-seaman who owned a shop and a night watchman?” Sturrock shrugged. “I cannot think of any, except for the fact two had been at sea, but so have half the men in Dundee.”

  Mendick frowned. “Including me,” he said. “You said ‘ever since he arrived in Dundee,’ when would that be?”

  Sturrock exhaled smoke. “Let’s see. It was at least four, maybe five years ago. Yes, about five years, say 1844.”

  “Two years after the date on the coins, then.” Mendick began to pace the room. “Have we any news of Marmion or Oldbuck, Sturrock? A description, perhaps?”

  Sturrock shook his head. “No, Sergeant. The man who arrested him has left the force and nobody else knows him at all. He was just an itinerant sailor.”

  Mendick grunted. “Itinerant sailors do not suddenly turn into housebreakers. They may be drunken rioters or steal a bottle of whisky from a toll house, but going to all the trouble of manufacturing a complex rope ladder?” He turned to look out of the window, “There is more to our sailor man than meets the eye; a thief, yes, but . . .”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Sturrock pressed more tobacco into his pipe “but do you know what he was caught stealing?”

  “Not until you tell me,” Mendick said.

  “I only found out this afternoon,” Sturrock opened his notebook. “He was caught leaving the office premises of the Waverley Company with documents – wage sheets, crew lists, articles – no money or valuables.”

  Mendick shook his head. “Who in the devil’s name would risk their freedom to steal rubbish like that? This whole case makes no sense at all. Nothing adds up.” He reached for his hat. “I think I will have a little walk to see our beggar friend. He knows more than he says. I want you to trace the history of the murdered men. See where they were in 1842.”

  Darkness was falling when Mendick lifted his Chesterfield and pulled it on. As usual the pepperpot was clumsy in his inside pocket but he felt safer carrying it. He passed the stone columns that marked the door of the police office, placed his battered hat on his head and strode towards the docks. Already the atmosphere of the town was changing as the honest bustle of the day dimmed into the hidden scurry of the night. Around him the flicker of gas lanterns illuminated the main thoroughfares, with the unseen masses huddled in concealing darkness. Somewhere in those shrouded wynds and lanes there lurked a monster and his policeman’s instinct told him that there were depths he had not yet plunged. As he paced towards Dock Street he looked around, mentally reviewing his pitifully thin list of suspects.

  Well, China Jim, I’m after you now, and if you’re in Dundee then I will find you, no matter in which noxious close or salubrious suburb you hide.

  He jammed his hat further down his head, gripped his cane, lengthened his stride and strode along, his footsteps ringing on the paving stones of the High Street. He watched a brougham as it whirred in front of him and noted the driver who stared at him over a lean shoulder. The face was not familiar, it could have belonged to anybody; an anonymous man in a bustling city, but it was a brougham and he must check.

  “Hey!” Mendick raised his cane, “Dundee Police! Stop!”

  The brougham neither slowed down nor increased its speed. It continued along the street with the gas lights reflecting from the glossy paintwork of the body and the blurred yellow spokes of the wheels. Mendick shouted again and watched in frustration. He gave an ironic smile and muttered “There is never a policeman when you need one.”

  He strode downhill through the dark streets. After spending hours on administrative work and attempting to piece together evidence that seemed to have no relevance to anything, he needed some exercise and it was always useful to see the town at night; he might catch a drift of conversation even before he reached Hitchins.

  He passed a trio of spinners returning blank-faced and exhausted from the mill, and glowered at a striding sweep with two climbing boys trailing at his side. As always, he examined the Master sweep, wondering how he treated the youngsters, but moved on, heart-sick, as he fought the memories. The lights of small shops flickered as shopkeepers tried desperately to drum up custom from people who had barely enough to keep from starving. There was a group of young would-be pickpockets hanging around, hopeful for a victim. With luck they would find nobody tonight for he was not in the mood to chase children, or to see their tousled heads barely above the bar in the court.

  The sudden prickle at the base of Mendick’s skull alerted him. It was more than instinct; a combination of knowledge and experience that warned him something was wrong. He stopped at the corner of Reform Street and the High Street, thrust his cane under his arm and struck a Lucifer. As he pretended to light his pipe he looked around as nonchalantly as possible, disregarding the group of promenading females and the ba
ttered butcher’s dog cart. He heard a commotion − the raised voice of an indignant man, the shrill denial of a woman, the patter of scurrying steps on the paving, but with so many people milling around he could not see who was involved.

  “Stop, thief! Police!” The words were familiar, he had heard them a thousand times in his life, and if the Dundee accent was different to that of London, the meaning was just as clear. “Stop that woman!”

  There she was – a lone female with a wide skirt and a voluminous dark green cloak – trying to find anonymity amongst a gaggle of strollers. The woman looked at him and recognition was instant and mutual. He did not know her name but she was the woman who had been dogging him for the past few days.

  “Here, you!”

  Mendick stepped forward and the woman lifted her skirt to mid-calf and ran. He followed, crossed the High Street with its buzzing traffic, dodged a cursing carter and looked around. The woman hesitated for a second beside the pillars of the Town House, glanced at him and disappeared down a narrow close that ran southward towards Dock Street.

  If he had still been a beat officer he would have sprung his rattle to summon assistance, but a criminal officer carried no such device. He knew he should not get involved, he should wait for help, but by the time he did so the woman would have vanished into the labyrinth of closes and medieval alleyways that criss-crossed Dundee behind the main streets. He had to follow, it was his duty.

  “Stop that woman!” He rattled his cane against the wall and thrust into the darkness, breathing the familiar stench of poverty and decay.

  The victim had followed, an undistinguished man half-seen in the gloom. “Catch her, she’s a thief!” Mendick ignored him. He did not need any support.

  Voices murmured all around and shadowed forms shifted in the dark. The quick, rough Dundee accents mingled with the longer vowels of Ireland to create an echoing cacophony between stone walls that wept foul water. Mendick stopped and listened for the click of footsteps. If the woman was clever she would ease into one of the side doors and remain still, invisible in the dark, but no, she was still running, the sound of her boots fast and sharp in the whispering dim.