A Sink of Atrocity: Crime in 19th-Century Dundee

by Archibald, Malcolm

  The first week of July 1824 was also busy. It started with a footpad attacking a mason and grabbing his week’s wages and his coat, and continued when two men assaulted a woman near Trade’s Hall. In the latter incident a passing gentleman chased the muggers before the watchmen arrived. There was also an ugly riot in Chapelshade. This last was fairly serious, with a couple of young men badly injured and a gang of thugs rampaging down Dudhope Wynd. The watchmen kept well out of the way.

  There are a couple of obvious trends in this catalogue of crime from the 1820s. The first was that the watchmen were struggling to cope, and the second was that the ordinary Dundee people were neither overawed nor frightened by criminals. When the opportunity arose, they did their bit to help. However, they were unhappy at the performance of the official guardians of the law.

  Early in December 1823 thieves placed a ladder against the wall of the New Inn Entry in the High Street, scampered up it, drew up the window sash of the writing offices of John Ogilvy and Son, smashed one of the shutters and snaked in. The fact that they robbed the offices of a few pounds and about twelve shillings’ worth of stationery was less important than the fact that the whole affair took place only a few yards from the beat of the local watchmen.

  Charlies Under Pressure

  Some Dundonians believed there were four watchmen in the High Street, and their image was of a group of idlers who lounged in the piazza, the covered area in front of the Town House, gossiping and taking snuff for the bulk of their watch, pausing only to shout out the hour as the clock struck and then return to their seat on the Town House stairs, safe and snug behind their lantern. In reality there were only two watchmen for the entire High Street. From ten at night until six in the morning, one man would patrol from the offices of the Dundee Bank at Castle Street to the English Chapel at Nethergate, a beat that took half an hour. The second man worked the north side of the street and the luckenbooths. Neither beat included the New Inn Entry, so the watchmen could only have interfered with the robbery by neglecting their duty, to the detriment of the subscribers who paid their wages. It is significant that no robberies took place in the shops and offices these men patrolled. However, that same week, a gentleman was wending his uneven way homeward when he saw a watchman sleeping beneath his lighted lantern. Removing the lamp, the gentleman used it to find his way home but discarded it in the street so as the watchman could later find it.

  As 1823 slid into 1824, the situation in Dundee did not improve. Crime continued to dominate the night-time streets. The first week in February saw a thief rob a house in the Lower Chapelshade despite the entire family being home; a footpad badly beat a pedestrian in Lochee Road; and a man assault a woman in the Overgate and then, for reasons known only to himself, jump into a well. A compassionate Dundonian crowd rescued him. Even worse was the pack of men who set their dogs on a lone woman walking at the back of the Law. She escaped but her clothes were ripped to shreds. The second week saw a girl robbed in the Cowgate and a number of attempted break-ins. On Saturday night in the Murraygate thieves bent aside a metal security bar across a shop window, tore open the wooden shutters and got inside. After rifling the place they left through the front door. As so often happened in Dundee, though, a passer-by chased them, but they escaped in the labyrinth of closes and lanes behind the Murraygate. It was little consolation to the shop owner when some of his property was later found concealed in a Wester Craigie haystack.

  The same night in the Chapelshade a dog chased away a robber from a fleshers’ shop, while in Castle Street a hopeful thief climbed up a lamppost to the second-floor window of Mr Aitken’s warehouse. He managed to smash the window, but when the shutters held, he was heard to say, ‘Damn it – it won’t do,’ and retreated in defeat. In Barrack Street, a thief used a crowbar to break into Scott the watchmaker’s. When the brand new steamboat George the Fourth was on fire at the West Protection Wall, the thief wandered down to watch the fun, but in the confusion he dropped his booty, which was recovered from the sticky mud of the dock. On the Monday night a man dressed as a seaman robbed Keiller’s the confectioner’s, but the watchmen did succeed in rounding up seven young men who were causing trouble in the streets.

  There were more personal assaults, too: footpads robbed a man in the Murraygate; a man attacked a woman at Peep o’ Day; and in the Kirk Wynd a gang of thieves stole a watch from a man. When the victim recognised one of the thieves, the watch was discarded.

  Too Dangerous to Interfere

  Sometimes the watchman was in the right place at the right time, but he still did not help. Such a situation arose at the end of May 1824, when a watchman in the Meadows saw a group of men surround a lone woman and knock her down. Rather than going to her aid, the watchman merely watched, as he was afraid he might be the next victim. A month later a gang attacked a helpless drunk in the Wellgate. Again the watchman thought it too dangerous to interfere, but instead loosed his dog, which scared off the attackers. Nevertheless, the security of the innocent in Dundee could not depend on a dog; every year it was becoming increasingly obvious that the current system of watchmen required a drastic overhaul.

  Given the propensity of the people of nineteenth-century Dundee to take care of their own affairs, it is hardly surprising that they should take measures to protect themselves and their possessions. While some were rumoured to carry weapons, in February 1824 the people in the Murraygate banded together to hire four watchmen exclusively for their own property. The Advertiser of 4th March 1824 claimed that the previous week had seen ‘assault, shop breaking and petty theft … in every quarter of the town’. The same newspaper said there was not enough room to print all the crimes, and added that some shops had employed night watchmen.

  The Dundee Police Act

  On 24th June 1824 a Police Act for Dundee received the Royal Assent. The Act covered lighting, cleansing, paving and crime prevention, including the establishment of a new jail. It was a holistic approach to the organisation of the town and included extended boundaries, westward as far as the Blackness Toll, northward to Clepington and eastward to Mayfield. The River Tay was a natural boundary to the south.

  Within these enlarged boundaries, the new Dundee police force began their task of reducing crime. They retained the system of watchmen, but added a day patrol and a night patrol. A Police Court was also established, sitting at ten o’clock every morning. The judges were all men of authority and presumably of common sense, if perhaps lacking in legal knowledge. They were the Provost and the magistrates, the Dean of Guild, the sheriff and his substitute. These men dealt quickly with the petty offenders, imprisoning for up to sixty days or fining up to a £5 limit, but any serious offences were passed to a higher court, with the worst offenders being held in Dundee’s jail until the next Circuit Court.

  The Police Act did not remedy all Dundee’s ills, however. There were not enough police, not enough watchmen and the areas on the fringes or just outwith the boundaries were badly lit and without the benefit of a law officer. But it was a start, and the newly-formed police force prepared to walk their beats and make the streets safer for the respectable citizens of Dundee.

  6

  The Unsolved and the Strange

  The Great Railway Robbery

  Mr Andrew Cunningham of Carlogie House was an eminently respectable man. As the factor of the Right Honourable the Earl of Dalhousie, Lord Lieutenant of the County, he was responsible for ensuring the Earl’s estates ran smoothly and the rents were collected on time. It was a responsible job with many benefits, including first-class travel on the railways. Yet at the end of 1866 Andrew Cunningham was at the centre of perhaps the biggest mystery to hit nineteenth-century Dundee and one which was discussed the length and breadth of the British Isles.

  Towards the end of December 1866, Cunningham collected £1862 in rents from the Panmure Estate. He rolled the money, mainly in £100 notes, into a single bundle, tied it securely and placed it in a travelling bag. On the morning of Thursday 27th he slung th
e bag over his shoulder, left Carlogie House and took a coach to the railway station at Carnoustie. He stepped into a first-class carriage. It was just after half-past eleven and he intended to place the money safely in a Dundee bank.

  There were two gentlemen already seated in the carriage and they asked him, quite politely, if he would mind if they smoked. He said he did not mind and they filled their pipes and began to smoke. The next thing Mr Cunningham knew, the guard at Dundee was shaking him awake, the gentlemen had gone, his travelling bag had been moved and all his money was missing.

  The police created a picture of the theft. The two gentlemen were seen boarding the train at Arbroath, and at Broughty Ferry a lady tried to enter Cunningham’s carriage. She found the door locked and called the guard but when she saw Cunningham sleeping heavily on the seat with his legs sprawled across the floor and the place reeking with smoke she decided to find another carriage. There was no sign of the other gentlemen. The next stop was West Ferry Station, and an entire party entered the carriage. There was the merchant Peter Stewart and his lady, together with Charles Smith of Bartley Lodge, Broughty Ferry and his female companion, and they had to step across the recumbent form of Cunningham to reach their seats. They noticed that he was sleeping very deeply and after failing to wake him at Dundee they asked a guard to run for a doctor. Nevertheless, they did manage to wake Cunningham before the doctor arrived, and thought his face was slightly distorted and his eyes fiery and slightly protruding.

  The Arbroath to Dundee section of the Caledonian Railway ran straight beside the coast, with no diversions. The stations were only a few miles apart, and there were only a few minutes between each. The two gentlemen must have somehow rendered Cunningham unconscious, robbed him of the money he was carrying and changed carriages, unseen, all in the short eight miles of line between Carnoustie and Broughty Ferry.

  Once he was awake and as recovered as it was possible to be, considering he had just been drugged and robbed of a great deal of his employer’s money, Cunningham caught a cab and travelled with Mr Smith and a guard to the office of Shiell and Small, the Earl of Dalhousie’s agents in Dundee. Cunningham informed the police, and the Procurator Fiscal was soon involved. By this period the police were adept at using the telegraph and they contacted their colleagues in Edinburgh, Glasgow, Perth and some of the larger English towns. Banks, both in Dundee and elsewhere, were warned to be aware of strange customers with £100 notes; the numbers and banking companies were known and circulated and the police began their investigations.

  They interrogated the guard at Barry, one and three-quarter miles down the line from Carnoustie, but he had not seen anybody leave the train – but then again, he had been busy packing game into the luggage-van for a few minutes, so somebody could have slipped past him, or changed compartments. The guard at Monifieth, three miles and eight minutes further on, was more helpful, for he was certain nobody had left. After that it was two and a half miles and five minutes to Broughty, where Cunningham had been awakened.

  The police inquiries continued. They unearthed a witness, a friend of Cunningham’s who had seen his head at the carriage window at Barry, but the carriage door was locked and Cunningham did not appear to notice him. It seemed entirely possible that at that early stage, just three rattling minutes from Carnoustie, the gentlemen thieves had knocked him out and stolen the money. Other people spoke of a pair of ‘suspicious-looking men’ who travelled from Broughty Ferry to Arbroath on the Wednesday, the day before the robbery, and it was supposed that these were the same men who were in the carriage with Mr Cunningham on the Thursday. Various people in Arbroath remembered the two strangers who had visited the Alhambra Music Hall on Wednesday and bought tobacco in Keptie Street. These strangers had also asked the time of the Dundee train. One of the men had carried a meerschaum pipe and they were the last passengers to board the train at Arbroath. It was also interesting that nobody had bought a first-class ticket from Arbroath, so possibly the two men were second-class passengers who sneaked into a first-class carriage.

  There were many theories about the robbery, but most seemed to agree that the gentlemen had used some form of drug to knock Cunningham out. However, the people who entered the carriage afterward smelled only ordinary tobacco smoke. It was considered possible, if unlikely, that the fumes of tobacco had been enough. It was more likely, people speculated, that a drug such as opium was used, with the apparently weak smell hidden behind the stronger scent of tobacco. Rumours and speculations abounded: Cunningham had thought the smoke smelled strange; Cunningham had been knocked out with chloroform; Cunningham had been knocked out with opium; Cunningham had merely fallen into a deep sleep and the two so-called gentlemen had taken the opportunity to rob him. A letter published in The Scotsman pointed out that chloroform left a distinctive aroma, while administering it needed the co-operation of the victim. Somebody else said it would be impossible to knock somebody out by smoking opium without the smoker also being affected and yet a third person said that Indian hemp would most likely have been the drug used.

  With humanity’s amazing gift of hindsight, some people in Arbroath began to remember they had thought the gentlemen a bit suspicious even before they boarded the train, so between them and the guard and Cunningham himself, a description of the supposed robbers was created. They were somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five and one had a black moustache.

  The robbery gave rise to some interesting conversations and letters to the press. While some thought that smoking should be banned on trains, or at least only permitted in selected areas, others took the opportunity to complain about the filthy state of the first-class carriages, which, they said, showed the quality of people who travelled first-class in that degenerate age. Somebody else pointed out that, despite having a population of around 100,000, Dundee had only four detectives who spent most of their time in court or trawling through pawnshops for stolen property, and they had little time for detecting. Another letter spoke of the danger of travelling so fast – up to sixty miles an hour (or a little faster than the speed of a racehorse at full speed) – and with the passenger knowing he may ‘be dashed to pieces in any second’. The same anonymous letter-writer gave his opinion that the first-class carriages on the Dundee and Arbroath Railway were ‘private dens for insult, robbery and murder … without a possibility of detection’.

  Cunningham collapsed several times during the day following the robbery and within a short time the Great Railway Robbery became a major talking point. Apart from Cunningham himself, nobody had seen his two fellow passengers, not even the station masters at Monifieth or Barry. If the men had changed carriages, other travellers would have noticed them. Nor did they leave the train at Broughty Ferry, where two boys, a woman and a man disembarked. Instead the thieves seemed to have vanished, along with Cunningham’s money.

  As he recovered from the effects of the presumed drug, Cunningham remembered little things that might have been significant. He said he sat nearest the door, facing the engine and immediately when the train started, one of the gentlemen stood up to look out of the window. Cunningham believed that the man locked the door then. There was a certain factory on the route that he had no recollection of passing, so he thought he was unconscious very soon after he boarded the train.

  The Great Railway Robbery was never solved. It gives rise to a host of questions: If the two travellers had planned the robbery, how did they know which carriage Cunningham would pick, for they were on the carriage first? How did they manage to knock out Cunningham in such a short time, and to where did they disappear? And how did such a man come to be robbed by two gentlemen in a first-class carriage on a busy line with stops every few moments, and no witnesses? These are questions to which there has never been satisfactory answers.

  Either the perpetrators were experts in their profession, or very lucky that Cunningham walked right into their predatory hands.

  The Ghost of Baltic Street

  Sometimes there were strange hap
penings that must have left the police confused, but which had aspects that showed the underlying feeling of fairness in Dundee. At the beginning of 1826 there were rumours there was a tall white ghost in Baltic Street. There had been a few reports, including one from the local watchman, who perhaps should have known better than to repeat such things. Not surprisingly, given the period, people were becoming a little nervous, although the more sceptical tended to scoff at such sightings. And then on the first Monday of February, a woman dressed as a man strutted drunkenly up the High Street. The police watched her, and when she tried to barge into a pub, they arrested her.

  There was a scuffle when the police tried to put their prisoner in a woman’s cell, but they succeeded, and in the Police Court next morning she was identified as one Elizabeth MacDonald from Aberdeen, who had only been out of jail for a few days. Still in her male attire, she was sentenced to four days for disorderly conduct, but by this time the rumour had spread that she was the ghost. A crowd waited for her appearance, but must have been disappointed to see only a rather scruffy woman dressed in a man’s cast-off clothing.

  Rumours of the ghost continued, however, spreading from person to person and no doubt being inflated with every pint of beer. On the following Monday there was a disturbance in Broad Close. An Irishman had struck his wife in the street and a number of witnesses had rushed to defend her. Within a few moments the Irishman was at the centre of a yelling mob, which stripped him of his coat, shoes and trousers and was inflicting its own brand of justice when the police rescued him. As they carried him away, the mob followed, chanting, ‘The ghost! The ghost!’