'You'll lose your shilling.' Scuddamore leaned against the wall, stifling his yawn. 'I know that carter. Eck Milne's not as daft as you look.'
When the boys shouted obscene insults at the two constables, Duff roared at them to the amusement of the blonde woman who sauntered along the pavement.
'Ignore them, Duff,' Watters advised. 'If you react to every cheeky wee snipe, you'll be chasing your tail all day. Right, you lads can go back to the police office now or on to your beat, if it's your time. Keep away from the publics, Scuddamore. Remember that you're on duty.'
As the constables marched off, the jute cart rattled into a side street, taking its attendant boys with it. Only the woman remained, watching Watters and the still smoking mill at his back.
'That looks unpleasant.' The woman was in her mid-thirties, Watters estimated, with bright eyes in a face that was too weather-tanned to be fashionable and too fresh to belong to a mill hand. She looked on the verge of respectability, a woman whose social status Watters could not quite place, which made him slightly uneasy.
'It was a fire,' Watters said. The woman looked vaguely familiar. He sorted through faces and names in his head, trying to place her. She was not one of his regular customers, therefore neither a prostitute nor a habitual thief. No, Watters shook his head. He did not remember who she was.
'I can see that it was a fire.' The woman's English was perfect but with an unusual accent. She was certainly not from Dundee, but neither did she belong to any other region of Britain. 'Was anybody hurt?'
'Would you like anybody to be hurt?' Watters turned the conversation around.
'Good heavens, no.' The woman's protests were too forceful to be genuine, which further enhanced Watters' suspicions.
'You're not from these parts.' Watters began his process of enquiries that would eventually strip away any pretence from the woman.
'No,' the woman admitted frankly. Her smile was bright. 'I'm from the Mediterranean.'
'You're from the Mediterranean, are you?' Watters filed away the information, wondering at its accuracy. Who the devil is she, and how do I know her? 'What brings you to Dundee, Miss? Mrs?'
'Miss Henrietta Borg.' The woman gave an elegant little curtsey. Her bright smile did not fool Watters for a second.
'Miss Borg,' Watters touched his cane to the brim of his hat. 'What brings you to Dundee, Miss Borg?'
'A ship,' Miss Borg gave a little laugh, 'and the fortunes of fate. Do you have a name, sir?'
'Detective Sergeant George Watters.'
'I see.' Miss Borg's eyes widened in what Watters knew was only pretended surprise. 'You're a policeman.'
'I am,' Watters said. 'And now, if you would oblige me with your real name, we could get along much better.' He tapped his cane against his leg.
Miss Borg laughed. 'I see that I can't fool you, Sergeant.' She gave another little curtsey. 'I'll tell you next time. It looks as if you are in demand.' She nodded to the dark brougham that was slowing to a halt beside them.
The brougham's door opened before Watters could reply. 'Sergeant Watters!'
'Yes, Superintendent Mackay?'
'You've worked with nautical crime before, haven't you?'
'Yes, sir, down in London.' Watters guessed that he was not going home yet.
'Jump in, then. You could be useful.' Mackay looked curiously at Miss Borg. 'Or is this lady known to us?'
'No, sir, we were just passing the time of day.' Watters touched the brim of his hat again. 'Good day to you, Miss Borg. I'd advise you to try and keep out of trouble. Women who give false names tend not to fare well in Dundee.'
Miss Borg gave another little curtsey. 'Thank you for the advice, Sergeant Watters. I will bear it in mind.'
Miss Borg accentuated the swing of her hips as she strode into the fast-darkening street. 'That's trouble on two legs,' Watters said. 'We'll hear more of Miss Henrietta Borg, or whatever name she chooses to use.' He frowned as an old memory crept into his mind. 'Nautical crime, indeed; she reminds me of somebody I met on a ship, but it couldn't be. That was ten years ago.' Shaking his head, Watters slid into the brougham. 'What's to do, sir?'
'Murder.' Superintendent Mackay was a man of few words.
CHAPTER TWO: DUNDEE: SEPTEMBER 1862
Lantern light cast flickering shadows across the deck of Lady of Blackness as Watters stepped onto the weather-stained planking. 'What's to do?'
'There's a blasted body in my hold; that's what's to do.' The man looked as battered as his ship, with his nose broken and twisted to starboard. The white line of an old scar crossed his barely shaven jaw.
'And who might you be?' Watters asked.
'I might be anybody, but I am Captain Murdo Stevenson. This is my ship.'
'Show us the body please, Captain Stevenson.' Superintendent Mackay did not waste time.
'It's in the hold,' Captain Stevenson said. 'Or rather, it's all over the bloody hold. Follow me, gentlemen.' Leading them to a length of knotted rope that stretched from an open hatch to the dark depths below, Stevenson raised his voice to a bellow. 'Bring me two lanterns!'
Without waiting for the light to arrive, Stevenson swarmed down the rope.
'I'll go next.' Mackay followed with barely less skill than Stevenson had shown. Watters descended last, plunging into a darkness that was relieved when a saturnine seaman lowered a pair of lanterns.
'Here's the body.' Captain Stevenson led them to the furthest corner of the hold, where the bouncing light of the lanterns scared away scurrying rats. 'What's left of it after four months at sea.' He pointed downward at the smeared remnants of a man.
'He's been flattened.' Watters looked down at the corpse. 'It looks like every bone in his body had been broken. What happened?'
Captain Stevenson grunted. 'Ask his maker for I'm blessed if I know. We found him here, squashed beneath hundreds of bales of raw jute.'
'I see.' Watters looked around. 'So we don't know if the jute killed him or if he was already dead when the weight of the cargo crushed him.'
Superintendent Mackay nodded. 'Exactly so. This might be murder or a simple accident. I'll leave you to it, Watters. Give me a report of your findings. Don't waste too much time over it.'
'Yes, sir.' Watters looked upward as Mackay swarmed up the rope. 'Could you arrange for the body to be taken ashore? I'd like the surgeon to have a look at him.'
'I know the procedure, Sergeant,' Mackay spoke over his shoulder. 'And Watters, don't forget that you are on volunteer duty tomorrow afternoon.'
'No, sir, I won't forget.' Watters restrained his oath. He had no enthusiasm for his position as a sergeant in the Eastern Division of Dundee Volunteers, which was a further encroachment into his time. However, with the current apprehension that the French might flex their military muscle at Britain's expense, Watters knew it was his duty to don the Queen's scarlet. Besides which, as his wife Marie reminded him, the money came in handy.
'Has the body been moved, Captain Stevenson?'
'No, Sergeant. It's exactly where we found it.'
'I see.' Watters knelt at the side of the corpse. 'Do you have this unfortunate fellow's name, Captain? Was he a member of your crew?'
'I don't know who he might be,' Stevenson said. 'He was not one of my men.'
With the dead man's pockets stuck together with dried blood, Watters had to cut his way in to prise them apart. He questioned Stevenson as he worked. 'Is it normal for strangers to roam around your ship when she's in dock, Captain?'
'It is not. I have a ship's husband who should prevent any strangers from boarding.' Stevenson did not sound pleased, but whether at the questions or the disruption to his routine that the body caused, Watters was not sure.
'Is your ship's husband still on board?' Watters slipped his hand inside the dead man's trouser pockets. They were empty.
'He lives on board,' Stevenson said.
'I'll speak to him in a few moments.' Watters checked the inside of the dead man's jacket. Also empty. 'How many of a crew do you have?'
'Twenty-four.' Stevenson was abrupt. 'Do you want to speak to them all?'
'Yes, I do. Are they all on board?'
'No.' Stevenson shook his head. 'My lads are either at home, drinking away their wages along Dock Street, or with some bobtail in Couttie's Wynd.'
Watters felt along the waistband of the dead man's trousers. There was no money belt or anything else. 'What is the makeup of your crew? Where are they from?'
Captain Stevenson was evidently annoyed by all of the questions. 'It's a typical south-Spain crew. As well as my Dundonians I have the usual Scowegians, Lascars, North Sea Chinamen, and a couple of Americans avoiding their country's troubles.'
'I want their home addresses,' Watters said.
'You'll have to ask the owners about that,' Stevenson said, 'or the boarding master for I'm blessed if I know.'
Watters grunted again. He should have known it would not be easy.
'Who are the owners?'
'Matthew Beaumont and Company,' Captain Stevenson said. 'It's a wholly owned Beaumont ship.'
'Oh?' Watters looked up. That was two incidents concerning the same company in one day. He did not believe in coincidences. 'Thank you, Captain. I'll have a look around the hold. When I come on deck, please have the ship's husband ready for me.'
'There's nothing to see down here,' Stevenson said.
'I want to know why this poor fellow was here in the first place,' Watters said. 'And I want to know if the cargo was lowered on him while he was sleeping or if he was already dead when the cargo was loaded.'
Stevenson nodded. 'If you let me know when you're finished, I'll fetch the husband and any other of the crew who may turn up.'
Watters lifted the lantern and examined the body. In all the score or so of investigations into suspicious deaths in which he had been involved, the cause of death had been apparent. In this case, bales of jute had crushed the man so that Watters found it impossible to tell if the injuries had been caused before or after death.
'I hope the surgeon can see something I can't see.' He looked at the neck and throat for signs of a knife wound and checked the shirt for the same. 'No, it's up to the surgeon now. Now, my unfortunate fellow, why on earth were you down here?'
Leaving the body where it lay, Watters lifted the lantern and paced around the hold talking to himself. You've no money. Were you an unlucky stowaway? Your clothes are good quality, too good for a tarry-jack; are you a gentleman down on his luck?
All the time Watters spoke, he was investigating the hold, looking for anything unusual. He stopped and sniffed at a familiar acrid smell. What's this? Crouching down, he rubbed his hand along the rough planking of the deck, feeling the coarse grains under his fingers.
Watters pursed his lips. I see. He scooped up a pinch of the grains and folded them inside his handkerchief. I see, but I don't understand. Lifting the lantern, he carried it carefully to the centre of the hold before taking out his notebook and pencil. After writing a few notes, he returned to his scrutiny of the hold, eventually lifting a couple of items. He examined them before putting them in his pocket. There is more to this case than a drunken man falling into the hold or a brawl gone too far. We have something of interest here.
'I'm coming up, Captain!'
Captain Stevenson stood at the break of the poop with a surprisingly elderly man at his side.
'You'll be the ship's husband,' Watters said.
The elderly man nodded. 'That's right, sir.' His voice was hoarse.
Watters poised his pencil. 'I'm not a sir. I am Sergeant Watters of the Dundee Police. What is your name?'
'James Thoms, sir, but everybody calls me Piper.'
'Right, Piper, tell me about that body in the hold.'
'I don't know anything about it, sir, not until we unloaded the cargo and found it.' Piper's hands fiddled with the ends of his coarse canvas shirt.
'Where was the vessel loaded, Piper?'
'Calcutta, sir.'
'Call me Sergeant. Who was in charge of the loading?'
'Mr Henderson, sir, the mate.'
That made sense. The master was in overall command, decided on the course and made the big decisions, while the mate was in charge of the day-to-day running of the vessel. 'I'll speak to Mr Henderson later. Did you see anybody come on board this vessel when you were in Calcutta?'
'No, sir. Nobody came aboard except the crew and the dock workers who loaded the cargo.'
'Sergeant, not sir. Do you think the deceased was one of the dockers?'
'No, sir, Sergeant.' Beads of sweat formed on Piper's forehead. 'The dock workers were all Lascars, sir. That is natives of Hindustan.'
'Of course,' Watters nodded. 'You could not watch everything all the time.'
'No, sir.' Piper looked guilty as if Watters expected him to remain awake and alert twenty-four hours a day. The nervous sweat was dripping from his face.
'Did you delegate anybody to take over when you were off duty?'
Piper nodded vigorously. 'Mr Henderson took over, sir.' He looked pleased to pass the responsibility to the mate.
'Did you check the hold before the loading began?'
'No, sir. There was no need.' Piper glanced at Captain Stevenson as if to confirm his words. 'Nobody ever goes down there.'
Watters wrote in his notebook. 'Thank you, Mr Thoms, and thank you, Captain Stevenson. I'll leave you in peace now. If you can think of anything, please let me know. Send a note to the Police Office on West Bell Street.' Watters checked his watch. Marie would be wondering where he had got to.
As he walked out of the dock, past the Royal Arch, Watters saw the woman silhouetted against the bright glow of a gin palace window. Henrietta Borg was in animated conversation with a man in a bowler hat with a feather thrust through the band.
'Miss Borg!' Watters lifted his cane in salutation and hurried forward. A boisterous crowd of seamen and prostitutes exploded from the public house around Borg, and then she was gone. Had she been watching Lady of Blackness? Had she been watching him? Or was her presence here merely another of these coincidences in which Watters did not believe? Swinging his cane at an imaginary golf ball, Watters thought that this case might be interesting.
CHAPTER THREE: POLICE OFFICE: WEST BELL STREET, DUNDEE
Superintendent Mackay looked up as Watters entered the office. 'Have you brought your report, Sergeant?'
'Yes, sir.' Watters handed over a small sheaf of papers.
Mackay surveyed the documents with distaste. 'Give me a brief rundown, Sergeant. Please tell me the death was an accident, and we can forget the whole thing.'
Watters remained standing a foot from Mackay's desk. 'I don't think it was an accident, sir. Some factors make me suspicious.'
'You are a cynical and suspicious man, Watters. That's what makes you such a good policeman. That is why I approved your request for a transfer from Scotland Yard.'
'Yes, sir. Thank you.' Praise from Mackay had to be handled carefully. It was usually a precursor to some unpleasant duty.
'Give me the details.' Mackay leaned back in his seat with his clear Highland eyes fixed on Watters. His fingers slowly tapped on the desk.
'The first thing was the position of the body, sir. It was spread-eagled with the left leg at an unnatural angle, as if the man had fallen down the hatch.'
'Perhaps he did.'
'No, sir,' Watters shook his head. 'If the fellow had fallen, he would have been directly under the opening, or at most only a couple of feet away. The body was a good five feet from the edge of the hatch, nearly touching the bulkhead; that's the internal wall of the ship, sir.'
'I know what a bulkhead is, Watters.'
'Yes, sir. I think that somebody pushed the poor fellow over the edge, knocked him out, or killed him when he was inside the hold.'
Mackay sighed. 'That poses two more questions, Sergeant. Why was he inside the hold, and why did somebody wish to kill him?' Mackay's fingers increased the speed of their drumming.
'Yes,
sir,' Watters said. 'I might have a clue as to why he was inside the hold.'
'Tell me.'
'I found this on the deck of the hold.' Watters unfolded his handkerchief and allowed the powder to form a neat little pile on Mackay's otherwise pristine desk.
Mackay poked at it curiously. 'That is gunpowder.'
'Yes, sir. Also, there was this.' Watters placed two lengths of fuse beside the gunpowder.
Mackay sighed and leaned back in his chair. 'Give me your theory, Sergeant, if you please.'
'I can only think of one. Somebody was trying to place an explosive charge to sink the ship.'
'I tend to concur.' Mackay's fingers were now beating a tattoo on the desk. 'The question is: Why? Why sink a jute ship?'
'That I could not say, sir.' Watters hesitated. 'If it happened at sea, I would suspect an attempt to scuttle the vessel for insurance money, but not in port and not with explosives. That would be too obvious. Besides which, Mr Beaumont is a respectable businessman with no need to do such a thing. His company appears to be one of the healthiest in Dundee.'
Mackay nodded. 'Carry on, Watters. You have given this some thought.'
'I don't know if the dead man was placing the gunpowder and fuse or if he found somebody with the explosives and was killed for his trouble.'
'It's a bit of a conundrum then,' Mackay said. 'What is your opinion?'
'I would suspect the former. If our man was killed preventing an attack on the ship, I can think of no reason his murderer did not continue with his plan.' Watters consulted his notebook. 'I have spoken to the shipmaster and ship's husband, and I have a list of the crew with the addresses of any local men.'
'You'll be interviewing them, I expect?'
'Yes, sir, and there's more.'
'Oh, there would be with you involved, Watters.' Mackay sounded weary. 'What else, Sergeant?'
'Matthew Beaumont owned the ship, sir. He also owned the mill on Brown's Street that was on fire, and that was his second fire within a few days.'
Mackay's fingers recommenced their tapping. 'It's a long way from Calcutta to Dundee, Sergeant, unless you are suggesting an international attack on Mr Beaumont?'
The Fireraisers Page 2
