A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders Page 7

  “You do realise China Jim will be more alert than ever once he realises we are actively searching for him?” Sturrock said as they breakfasted in Mrs Hunter’s Eating House in Fish Street. Mendick faced the window, watching the busy passage of people as Sturrock finished off a plate of oysters and liver.

  “That’s the idea,” Mendick said. “If he is nervous he may make a mistake and we’ll catch him.” He watched a carriage rattle past, the driver upright in his seat and the single horse obviously better cared for than some of the people in this town. There was poverty in Dundee, as there was in every British town, but there was money too. “How many broughams are there in Dundee?”

  Sturrock stopped, with a forkful of liver half way to his mouth. “I don’t know.” He said.

  “I want you to find out.” Mendick said. “I am assuming that Marmion and Oldbuck are one and the same person.”

  “That’s a very large assumption.”

  “Many criminals use an alias,” Mendick said, “and we have a seaman with criminal tendencies here.”

  Sturrock shovelled the liver into his mouth. “If you say so, Sergeant,” he said cheerfully.

  Mendick sighed and smoothed a hand over his face as twenty-four hours without sleep caught up with him. “Let’s see. We have a murder with a great many clues, but none of them make sense. A seaman who uses a ladder, a bag with 30 silver coins all dated 1842, a Chinese connection. Men who seem so ordinary nobody remembers what they look like, three mysterious small men, a man with two names and a murdered deaf man. Let’s try and reduce that list.”

  Sturrock looked up, tore a hunk off a loaf of bread and wiped the gravy from his plate. “How do we do that, Sergeant?”

  “We eliminate the impossible. You know Dundee better than I do. Now answer as accurately as you can. How many Chinese live in Dundee?”

  Sturrock grinned. “Hold up your right hand, Sergeant . . . go on, hold it up.”

  Mendick did so.

  “Now take away five fingers. How many do you have left?”

  “Why, none of course . . .”

  “Exactly. That is how many Chinamen live in Dundee.” Sturrock said. “I heard what the beggar fellow said, but I don’t believe a word of it. We can forget the Chinese triangle nonsense . . .”

  “Triad,” Mendick corrected.

  “Aye, we can forget that too. Believe me, Sergeant, if there were any Chinese triangles living in Dundee, we would know about them.”

  Mendick looked him up and down. “And how many people live in this town?”

  “Around 70,000 souls,” Sturrock said.

  “And you know them all?” Mendick asked. “Including the visiting lascar seamen and the Chinese cook who absconded from the ship from the East who slipped away one night and began a criminal organisation?”

  Sturrock frowned, “I never heard of any such thing. This isn’t London, Mendick. We know what happens here!”

  Mendick considered. He remembered Dundee well. Everybody knew everything and there were no strangers within the boundaries of the town.

  “So if there are no Chinese, Sturrock, then there is no China Jim, or at least not a Chinaman called Jim.”

  He stood up, threw a shilling on the table to pay for the meal and stalked outside with Sturrock striding at his side. Early morning rain had washed the dust from the streets and spring sunshine reflected from a hundred windows, casting shadows from the masts of a score of ships onto the bustle of Dock Street.

  “So maybe, rather than a Chinaman, we are looking for someone with a Chinese connection? Maybe we are looking for someone who trades with China?”

  Sturrock frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t think there is any Dundee trade with China.”

  “There may be no direct trade, Sturrock, but there may be indirect trade, perhaps via India or even America.”

  Mendick tipped back the brim of his hat and looked around. The docks were busy with men unloading timber from a newly arrived Baltic brig while a wagon heaped with unidentified bundles rumbled over the uneven cobbles. Carts and wagons crunched over the cobbles and the ubiquitous crowd of bare-footed children clustered around doorways, hoping for a chance to steal and run.

  “I want a list of anyone with even the most remarkably small connection with China, and I want to know what they were doing in 1842.”

  Mendick stood aside as the topmost bundle on a passing wagon slipped and crashed onto the ground, sending fragments of pottery cascading in a wide arc. Two women shrieked and grabbed hold of each other.

  “Find out what David Thoms was doing in 1842 and keep looking for Marmion and Oldbuck. He might have been on a deepwater voyage.” Mendick watched the carter sweep up the mess, with the gang of young boys and girls hovering around the tail of the cart waiting to swoop. “Maybe even to China.”

  “It all seems to hinge on China,” Sturrock said.

  “China and the sea,” Mendick agreed. “Now. Mr Mackay posted you to me because of your local knowledge, so do you know that woman?” He nodded at the woman in the green cloak who kept pace with them step for step on the opposite side of the road.

  Sturrock shook his head. “She’s not known to me,” he said.

  “She’s been following me for some days now. I think we should bring her to the office and ask her why.”

  Mendick turned as he heard footsteps behind him, to see a tall and evil-faced constable with a white scar running down the left side of his face. Mendick remembered him touching the pillars at the entrance of the police office.

  “Is this the man Mendick?” The policeman addressed the question to Sturrock, who nodded.

  “Aye, this is Sergeant Mendick of Scotland Yard and the Dundee Police.”

  “Aye, that’s the fellow.” The constable touched the brim of his hat in hurried salute. “Wee Donny says you’ve to come at once.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mendick looked to Sturrock for a translation.

  “Constable Deuchars is trying to say that Superintendent Donald Mackay requests your presence, Sergeant, as soon as is convenient.”

  “Aye.” Deuchars glowered at Sturrock. “That’s what I said. Donny’s in the Arctic. There’s been another murder. There are bits of some bugger all over the place.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mendick thought there was always something sad about a workplace empty of people, and the Dundee Arctic Whale Fishing Company yard was no exception. He glanced around. Tall and slightly sinister, the shining copper boiling vats dominated everything in this long yard that stretched from the Seagate to Dock Street. It was littered with pieces of whaling equipment and thick with the lingering putridity of stale, boiled blubber. Despite the size of the yard the only building was the warehouse, situated a good fifteen yards from the Seagate entrance. Although only a seagull’s call from the centre of Dundee, the yard seemed a bleak and lonely place.

  “In here,” a white-faced constable opened the great door of the warehouse.

  There was no need to be directed to the corpse. It lay like a pile of raw meat and coiled intestines on the centre of the floor. Blood pooled all around and formed little rivers that ran along between the flagstones.

  Mendick did not walk immediately to the body. Instead he paced the floor and looked around as a rising wind rattled the door against its frame and howled around the outside of the warehouse. He looked up, the fine weather had not lasted long and March was making up for its temporary smile with a roaring fury that battered for entry to the charnel house in the whaleyard. The interior of the warehouse was stark. Four oil lamps cast bouncing shadows on stone walls that rose to a timber-framed slate roof. Bloody footsteps around the body were small and many.

  “More than one person involved then,” Mendick said. “Three people, I think?”

  “Hitchins saw four at the Candle Lane murder,” Sturrock reminded him.

  The Police Surgeon had arrived at the same time as Mendick. He pursed thin lips as he saw the bloodied pile of human body parts. “Good God!
I’ve never seen the like!” He looked at Mendick. “You must be the Scotland Yard man. I am Dr Webster.”

  “That’s the second atrocity inside a week, Doctor.” Mendick shook his hand. “Is Dundee always as dangerous for its inhabitants?”

  Webster looked away. “This is normally a quiet town, Mendick. Murders are quite a rarity here.”

  “So I see.” Mendick moved closer, leaving Sturrock to stand against the wall, white-faced and shaking. This body had been spread-eagled on the ground and had been emasculated and eviscerated, with slices of flesh cut from the thighs and buttocks. Clothes were laid in a neat pile on the floor, slightly away from the congealed blood, and there was a small linen bag placed on the chest.

  “Has anything been moved or touched in here?” Mendick prodded the body with the tip of his cane.

  The white-faced constable swallowed hard. “Nothing, Sergeant.”

  “Very good,” Mendick lifted the bag, opened the drawstring and looked inside. The silver sheen of shillings was not unexpected. He lifted the top coin.

  “Eighteen forty two,” he said. In case of coincidence, he checked a handful. All had the same date.

  “We have a madman on the loose, Sturrock,” he said.

  “And a cannibal,” Sturrock said quietly.

  The oil lanterns gave sufficient light to see the plate of cooked meat that stood on the long wooden table which took up an entire wall of the warehouse. The ashes of the fire on the ground were cold, but when Mendick stirred them there was a faint red glow that quickly died.

  “This unfortunate fellow was killed during the night, then.” He looked at the surgeon. “Do you have a more precise time for his death, Doctor?”

  Dr Webster probed a finger into the body and felt the muscles of the arms. “I would estimate around midnight, Mendick, to judge by the stiffening of the limbs.”

  “He was killed in a similar fashion to David Thoms in Candle Lane,” Mendick raised his voice. “Do we know the identity of the victim?”

  “He’s – he was – Robert Milne.” The white-faced constable did not look at the horror spread-eagled on the ground.

  “How do you know that? Is he known to the police?” Mendick signalled for Sturrock to take notes.

  “This is my beat, Sergeant. I used to speak to him most nights.” The constable glanced at the body and away again.

  “And your name is?” Mendick asked.

  “Abbot, Sergeant.”

  “All right, Abbot, take your time now, lad. Don’t think of the body, the man is dead and that is all there is to it. Just answer my questions as best you can. Do you know what Mr Milne’s occupation was?”

  Abbot took a deep breath. “He was a night watchman.”

  “Where?” Mendick stepped away so Abbot did not have to look at the mutilated body.

  “Here,” Abbot said. “He watched the whaleyard.”

  “That was providential for the murderer,” Mendick looked up. “And you are the beat constable? Tell me what happened.”

  Abbot looked about ready to collapse but he pulled himself erect. “I checked the door every half hour and it was securely locked. I normally see Rab – Milne – when he comes out for a pipe, but not last night. When the day watchman arrived he found him like this, all cut to pieces.”

  “So either the murderer had a key, or picked the lock.” Mendick said. He tipped back the brim of his hat and looked around. The ground was bare. “What is this place normally used for?”

  Abbot swallowed hard. “It’s used to store barrels of blubber when they’re unloaded from the whaling ships and before it’s boiled into oil.”

  Mendick nodded. That would account for the smell. “Is there only one entrance, where the barrels are loaded and unloaded?”

  “Just the one,” Abbot confirmed.

  “I see,” Mendick pointed to the furthest corner, where a green painted door carried a notice that stated: Private: Keep Out. Property of DCC.

  “What the devil does DCC mean?” He strode across and tried the door. “Who has the key for this, Abbot?”

  “Rab – Milne – would have,” Abbot could not look down at the body.

  Sighing, Mendick went through Milne’s clothes. His silver watch and chain were still intact and there was a handful of loose change and a single key. He had not been robbed and there was nothing else. “There is only one key here.” He tried the key in the outside door, it fitted perfectly. “Has somebody told Mr Milne’s wife?”

  “He was unmarried,” Abbot said.

  “That is a mercy. It is always hard for those left behind.” Mendick stepped to the interior door. The key fitted that door too, so he pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was empty save for a pile of stones, each one about half the size of a man’s head, carefully shaped and polished and with a handle on the top.

  “Curling stones,” Sturrock had followed him in. “DCC must be the Dundee Curling Club, they will use this room for storage.”

  “Curling stones?” Mendick touched the nearest with his boot. “Why keep chunks of granite behind lock and key?”

  “These stones are valuable property, Sergeant. Look,” Sturrock lifted the nearest stone and tested it for weight. “This is blue granite from Ailsa Craig, the very best. The stones come from all over the place: Ailsa Craig, Perthshire, some are even made from Greenland stone . . .”

  “I don’t care where they come from,” Mendick stopped him.

  Sturrock shrugged. “Sorry, Sergeant. The DCC is a remarkably prestigious organisation.”

  Mendick grunted to show his opinion of prestigious organisations. “Thank you for that information, Sturrock. Since this key also fits the warehouse door, every member of this club is a suspect, however prestigious they may be. If they have access to this room, rest assured I will be talking to them.” Mendick glanced around. “You will continue to search for China Jim and these other men. Have all the beat constables question their informants about anything Oriental. And Sturrock, contact every other major police office in the country and ask if there have been any similar murders. Check as far back as 1842.” Mendick rapped his cane off the table. “I have some enquiries to make and a curling rink to visit. Step out, man.”

  Mendick coughed softly, so as not to disturb the concentration of the players. All around him the crowd was watching as Sir John Ogilvie, the club president, squatted upon the crampit and lined up his curling stone. The carriages of the players crowded the road that coiled up the Law to the curling ponds at Stirling Park, with most coachmen gathered in a patient huddle, smoking their pipes companionably. One nondescript man sat on the driving seat of a gig, reading avidly with his tall hat pushed back on his head. Mendick ran his gaze across each man, looking for the familiar signs of guilt but the faces were anonymous and he dismissed them as perpetrators of so-far undiscovered crimes.

  Instead he concentrated on the players. These were the elite of Dundee: the linen barons, shipowners and merchants who knew little, and cared less, about the seething poor in the wynds and closes; these were the men who owned the chimneys he had once swept. Mendick watched them at play and wondered if one hid behind the alias of China Jim.

  Scattered like butterflies among the monotony of dark-clothed men, a handful of women provided both distraction and colour. Presumably the wives of the merchants, they watched through bored eyes, clapped gloved hands together for warmth and spoke quietly, the condensation of their breath forming little grey clouds as they walked. Mendick narrowed his eyes when one of the women met his gaze; she was straight-backed with a wisp of auburn hair across her left eye. Alone of the women, she carried a curling stone, but with such casual grace it was obvious she was no mere spectator. She watched the progress of this particular match with keen interest. Only when she waved did Mendick allow himself to smile. He had not expected Johanna Lednock to be here.

  He looked away. He had no time to admire women, however attractive. He had a job of work to do. One or more of these people could be his murdere
r, a monster hiding behind a facade of respectability. He could not afford the distraction of Johanna. As Ogilvie lined up his stone, Mendick looked down the steep hill and over the town of Dundee where the hazy light of late afternoon was already waning, street lights were being lit and smoke from a thousand chimneys congealed above the grey slates of tenement roofs. Beyond was the silvery streak of the Tay dotted with the pin-pricking lights of ships.

  “Go on, Ogilvie,” a man encouraged, and others gave sycophantic cries of agreement as the club president aimed, swept forward his arm and released his stone.

  “That’s a beauty for the final stone of the end!” someone yelled.

  Mendick understood enough about curling to know that each game was termed an ‘end’ so this was an important moment. He watched as Ogilvie gave his wrist a subtle twist to impart draw to the stone which roared across the ice with the sweepers slithering in front, wielding their besoms frantically as they brushed away any loose particles of ice that might impede its progress.

  One section of the crowd cheered as Ogilvie’s stone crashed into that of another player, sending it spinning aside and out of the scoring area.

  “Well done, Sir John!”

  Ogilvie’s stone continued, scraping across the ice to land within the centre of the three circles, side-by-side with a squat piece of blue granite.

  “That’s Johanna Lednock’s Ailsa Craig beauty,” someone pointed out, as the rest of the spectators shouted their triumph when it became apparent that the two stones were exactly level.

  “It’s a tie between Ogilvie and Johanna.” The speaker looked up and caught Mendick’s gaze. “And who the devil are you? You are not a member.”

  “The name is Sergeant Mendick of Scotland Yard.” Mendick flourished his official staff. He examined the man. Middle aged, he tried to conceal his lack of height by standing erect, his weather-beaten face thrown into shadow by the flaring torches that lit the match, his dark waistcoat and trousers contrasted with the starched white of his shirt. His head was tilted back and his gaze held that of Mendick, unyielding. This was a man used to getting his own way.