The Fireraisers

by Malcolm Archibald

  'It is,' Watters said. He was not sure if he liked Mrs Foreman or not. She certainly seemed to like him. 'We're making progress,' he said. 'Slow and steady.'

  Mrs Foreman's eyes widened. 'Have you arrested the murderers?'

  'Not yet,' Watters said. 'We did arrest a group of fire-raisers. Murderers? Do you think there is more than one?'

  Mrs Foreman nodded. 'Yes, indeed, Sergeant Watters. There is the murderer of Mr Caskie and the murderer of that unfortunate man in the boat.'

  'Ah,' Watters said. 'We have not yet had the good fortune to make an arrest.'

  'Never mind.' Mrs Foreman patted Watters's thigh. 'Don't give up hope. If you want to talk things over, I am sure I have some ideas that may interest you.'

  'Thank you.' Watters forced a smile. Sometimes he would prefer to be hunting a pickpocket through the most noxious closes in Dundee than trying to manoeuvre the social niceties of the supposed elite.

  Beaumont eased up, bowing to Mrs Foreman. 'I must ask for Sergeant Watters's attention, Mrs Forman. It is duty, I'm afraid.'

  'Oh,' duty must come first.' Mrs Foreman eyed Watters archly over her fan. 'Pray don't mind me, Mr Beaumont.'

  'Sergeant Watters, I know that I have asked you to be relieved from looking after Amy. I am afraid I have one more task for you if Superintendent Mackay agrees.'

  Watters took a deep breath. He had hoped to return to normal policing. 'Of course, Mr Beaumont.'

  Beaumont smiled. 'It is only a simple shopping trip, Sergeant.'

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: DUNDEE: NOVEMBER 1862

  Standing at the corner where High Street met Reform Street, Watters slanted his low-crowned hat over one eye. The new Sharps revolver was a comforting weight inside the pocket of his coat. He preferred his old faithful Tranter, but Mr Beaumont had presented him with the Sharps as a personal gift for dealing with Varthley, so it would feel impolite to use anything else. It was a new design, being patented in 1859, with four barrels that slid forward with each shot, and at only four-and-a-half inches long was easily concealed. He was not too happy about the lack of a trigger guard, but his trials in the courtyard of Broughty Castle impressed him with the accuracy of the pistol at close range.

  Watters swung his cane, lifted his hat at Amy as she and Elizabeth Caskie sauntered past, laden with a basketful of unnecessary purchases, and watched them stroll along the elegant Georgian terrace of Reform Street. He shook his head as the combined width of their crinolines forced other pedestrians from the pavement into the horse-muck of the road. Trust Amy to use all her charm as she smiled her thanks to each be-spattered gentleman. Elizabeth wore a fashionable, loose red jacket that showed support for Garibaldi, the Italian patriot, although Watters thought the man little better than a bandit.

  Watters grunted as Elizabeth hurried past the ready-made clothing at J P Smiths; she would never dream of buying anything ready-made, so Amy had to follow her example. They lingered far longer outside the display window of W. Neill's where the latest London fashions were on show, but Elizabeth guided Amy into Henderson Brothers, who boasted a new stock of satin hats by Ashton. Watters shook his head; he could see more of Mr Beaumont's hard-earned money being spent in that shop.

  More critical to the case, however, were the far more considerable sums Mr Beaumont was spending on that mysterious ship in Rogers' Yard. Three more times Watters had tried to gain admission to the yard, and three times the watchman had fended him off, saying that without an actual crime to investigate, Watters had no excuse to enter. His attempts to gain information from Mr Beaumont had failed, so he was left frustrated. Every hour that passed decreased the time he had to solve the case, and here he was, still babysitting children.

  One unwelcome possibility nagged at Watters's mind. Was it possible that Mr Beaumont was lying to him and playing a double game? Watters's informants had told him that Bulloch, the man who purchased ships for the Confederate Navy, was back in Dundee, while Beaumont was secretly building a ship for a mysterious foreign buyer. Was Beaumont in league with the Southern States? That would certainly give a reason for the abolitionists to target him, as well as casting serious doubts on his morality and gentlemanly ethics.

  'Sergeant,' Duff must have stood on his toes to pass the height test for the Dundee Police, although his breadth of shoulders was equal to the tallest of men. In his civilian clothes, he looked more like a middle-weight prize-fighter than a police officer.

  'Don't say that too loudly in public,' Watters said.

  'Sorry Sergeant.' Duff did not moderate his voice. 'Remember that you told me to watch Rogers' Yard for anything strange?'

  'I remember,' Watters said patiently.

  'I saw a strange, foreign gentleman coming out of Rogers' Yard,' Duff said. 'I followed him until he went into Russell's Royal Hotel on Union Street.'

  Progress! 'Thank you, Duff.' Watters nodded down the street. 'I'll leave you to watch Miss Amy and Miss Elizabeth. What was this strange, foreign gentleman like?'

  'He was a tall fellow with fancy clothing and a foreign-looking moustache.' Duff hesitated. 'I know all the local businessmen, and he wasn't one of them.'

  'Thank you. Watch the ladies.'

  Twirling his cane, Watters tried to look like a man without a care in the world as he sauntered towards Russell's Hotel. A casual knock at the clerk's desk and the exchange of a shilling for five minutes with the hotel register allowed him to peruse the names.

  'Emmanuel Smith, merchant, London.

  'Otto Frankel, flax merchant, Hamburg.

  'Captain David James MacPherson, shipmaster, Inverness.

  'Alain Dumas, traveller.'

  Of the four visitors, three could be instantly discounted. Emmanuel Smith and David MacPherson were obviously British subjects, while Otto Frankel would presumably be visiting one of the German companies based in Dundee, either Jaffe Brothers or Moore and Weinberg. That left Alain Dumas, a name which Watters thought sounded French, and a man who had conveniently left out his address. There is that French connection again. Perhaps this affair is about France after all and not America. For a further sixpence, the clerk gave Watters a brief description. 'A tall man, very elegantly dressed, with a flowery weskit and check trousers. He spoke with an unusual accent too.'

  'Do you recall anything that Mr Dumas said, sir?'

  The clerk spread his hands until Watters rattled the coins in his pocket. 'Mr Dumas said he had not got time to spare as he wanted another trip around the town.'

  Watters rattled his silver again. 'What sort of trip?'

  'That I could not tell you, Sergeant.' The clerk's smile suggested that he had more information.

  Watters put another shilling on the table and slammed his hand on top. 'You could not tell me, but I wager you know somebody who could.'

  The clerk's gaze did not waver from Watters's hand. 'Yes, Sergeant. Mr Dumas asked for our cab again.'

  'And?' Watters moved his hand sufficiently for the gleam of silver to show between his fingers.

  'We have an arrangement with a Hackney driver,' the clerk said. 'He parks outside the hotel, and we send him customers. You see, that way, we provide a service for our clients. Mr Dumas was out all morning and came back to…'

  Watters was outside the hotel before the clerk finished speaking. 'Halloa, you!' He hailed the driver of the Hackney that waited outside.

  'Yes, sir?' The driver was younger than Watters had expected, a freckle-faced, tousled-haired rogue with a ready smile.

  'Have you had a busy morning?' Watters asked. 'I hear that you dropped off that French fellow.'

  'French was he?' The cabbie seemed eager to talk. 'I knew he was some kind of foreigner. He had me all over the place.'

  Watters passed over the shilling the desk clerk had eyed so avariciously. 'I wager he asked you to show him the Royal Arch and the docks. Foreign visitors like that sort of thing.'

  The cabbie accepted the coin and touched a hand to the brim of his hat. 'Why, thank you, sir. You're wrong though. He was
a decent enough chap for a foreigner, good tipper, but he's not had me at the Arch. He had me out to the Ferry and the big hooses, and then he wanted me to take him to Rogers' Yard.'

  'Which big houses?' Watters thought that he already knew the answer.

  'Mount Pleasant; you know, Big Man Beaumont's, by West Ferry?'

  'I know it,' Watters agreed. He felt a mixture of despair and elation. Mr Beaumont was indeed involved with this Frenchman. Did anybody tell the truth in this modern age?

  'Aye? Well, the gentleman that the foreign fellae hoped to find was not there, so he had me drive out again, away out to Pitcorbie House and back by the docks.' The cabbie shook his head. 'You should have seen the traffic at the docks! A convoy of coal wagons was jammed in that narrow entrance to the docks. What with the Camperdown Dock not being opened yet, all these lighters unloading in the Tay, and the traffic here building up all the time, it's a nightmare driving a growler in this town. Time the council did something about it, I say.'

  'You're right.' Watters could not have cared less about the traffic congestion in Dundee, but the news that Dumas had followed Beaumont to Pitcorbie was vastly interesting.

  The cabbie was still speaking, 'Now I've got to pick up that French fellow again at Rogers' Yard in an hour, bring him back here, and then get back out to the Ferry this evening for some other fellae!' The cabbie's mock disgust ended in an abrupt grin. 'Good money, though, sir. He's paying me 2/- the hour, so your tip is an extra. The bairns will eat well this Sunday!'

  Watters tipped the cabbie another shilling, wondered what Marie would say about this profligate expenditure of their money, and handed sixpence to the hotel clerk.

  'I hinted at a shilling,' Watters said to the clerk. 'The other sixpence is waiting if you follow my instructions.' Telling the clerk what he wanted, Watters strolled upstairs. He knew that Amy and Elizabeth were safe with Duff. If Dumas was coming back to Russell's, it was best to wait here and see what he was like.

  Settling himself in the hotel's smoking room, Watters lifted a newspaper. The content seemed never to alter. There was news of the war in America, Garibaldi, the French exploits in Mexico, and an unseasonal cricket match between the Albert and Broughty Ferry Cricket Clubs. Watters scanned columns about police raids on shebeens, the Jessie McLachlan murder trial, the search for the Honourable Peter Turnbull, who had disappeared leaving colossal gambling debts, and the United States Navy boarding the British steamship Gladiator.

  'Gladiator!' The name echoed Watters's thoughts. He glanced up to see two tall men standing with their backs to him. One answered the description of Dumas, with checked trousers beneath a thigh-length coat, but rather than Mr Beaumont, the other was William Caskie. The two sank languidly into the deep armchairs that were set on either side of the comforting fire, sipped at brandy-and-water, and drew deeply on long cheroots.

  'That affair of Gladiator,' William Caskie repeated, 'has rather put the cat among the pigeons. It reminded us all exactly what sort of government we are dealing with.'

  Watters hurriedly re-read the article. It seemed that Commander Wilkes of the United States Navy had sent a Thomas Stevens to board the British steamer Gladiator off the coast of Bermuda. Only when the escorting Royal Navy warship, HMS Desperate, had cleared for action had the American backed off. It was the latest in a series of incidents that had seen United States warships clash with British ships on the high seas, but one in which cutlasses had been rather vigorously rattled.

  'Which is why we must act together in this struggle.' Dumas was all profile as he waved his cheroot in emphasis, but his accent was from the Confederate States of America rather than France. 'Britain needs cotton; we have cotton. Your people in Lancashire are starving without our trade!' Dumas leaned forward to add weight to his points. 'Why, sir, you could have a civil war in your country under the pressure of distress and unemployment, and all because you choose to remain neutral in this affair. An affair, I need not remind you, in which one antagonist remains your friend, while the other attacks your ships on the high seas.'

  Watters shrunk deeper behind the broad wings of his armchair, burying his head further into the newspaper.

  'I could not agree more,' William stroked the small imperial that decorated his upper chin, 'which is why I am building Alexander MacGillivray even as we talk.'

  I am building? I? Watters presumed that Alexander MacGillivray was a ship. Was every businessman in Dundee having vessels built this season? Or was Alexander MacGillivray the vessel at Rogers' Yard?

  Watters listened as William Caskie continued. 'Until recently, the Federal Navy was poor; there was no real difficulty for blockade-runners to evade their patrols. But now, the Federals have more vessels and are becoming more professional, so your ships also have to improve.'

  Watters realised that there was an ornate mirror on the wall to his left. He had only to shift sideways to obtain a view of Dumas and Caskie.

  Mr Dumas stirred uncomfortably in his seat but still managed to blow a perfect smoke ring that shivered in the air before dissipating. 'You may be correct, Mr Caskie. I'll grant that the blockade of the Southern ports is tighter now than hitherto.'

  'Indeed. However, Mr Bulloch, who I know intimately, has been working hard to rectify the deficiency. He has ordered vessels built in both France and with John Laird on the Mersey. Correct?' When Caskie raised his glass to signify that he required a refill, a flunkey hastened to his side. At that moment, Caskie looked every inch the businessman.

  Dumas appeared even more uncomfortable than he had a minute before. He leaned closer to Caskie. 'You are discussing things that should not be voiced abroad, sir. We know that there are Federal agents in this city. They could be in this room even now.'

  'Nonsense.' Lifting himself up, Caskie glanced around the room. Watters shrunk behind his newspaper. 'There are no other Americans in this room, Mr Dumas. I know the cut of their clothes, by God!' He settled down again. 'All of Britain knows about Mr Bulloch's connection with Frazer, Trenholm and Co of Liverpool and his efforts to raise a Confederate Navy. Many of us applaud him. We know of his success in running the blockade with Fingal. We know he purchased Alabama and Florida.' Caskie permitted himself a small laugh. 'That is the ships, not the states. We all know that every yard on the Clyde is busy building blockade runners for the Confederates.' Caskie rattled off a dozen names, counting each on the long fingers of his left hand. 'There is Rothesay Castle, Falcon, Flamingo, Ptarmigan, and Evelyn. There are few secrets among businessmen, Mr Dumas, whatever governments may believe.'

  Caskie sipped at his drink. 'We also know that Bulloch hopes to build a powerful squadron that can challenge the Federal Navy toe-to-toe, or yardarm-to-yardarm.' He allowed himself another brief laugh while he stroked his imperial. 'We are well aware that Bulloch hopes to build a fleet of ironclad rams that would reduce the Federal vessels to matchwood. Is that not so?'

  Dumas placed his brandy onto the mahogany-wood table with enough force for the contents to spill. 'Mr Caskie! These are state matters. They should not be discussed here!'

  Caskie gave a lazy kick to a log that hung out of the fireplace. A shower of sparks fluttered upwards. 'As you wish, Mr Dumas. These new rams will not be completed until at least May of next year, and they will indeed be formidable. However, Mr Rogers assures me that my vessel will be finished in a matter of days.' He leaned closer. 'And will perform better than either Laird's or the French vessels.'

  Mr Rogers? Watters nodded. The mysterious ship at Rogers' Yard was indeed Alexander MacGillivray then, with William Caskie involved in the building. One piece of the puzzle clicked into place. But where did Beaumont fit in?

  'How will your ship perform, sir?' Despite his evident discomfort, Dumas gave a small smile. 'I would like to know more about this famous warship of yours, but pray, sir, moderate your tone.'

  Watters turned a page noisily and lay back, pretending to settle into sleep.

  It appeared that Dumas was not inclined to tell Caskie that h
e had already viewed his vessel. Did he not trust his business associate?

  'Alexander MacGillivray combines the best of both worlds,' William Caskie boasted. 'The finest Southern naval designers drew up her plans, which were then improved by Rogers's own men. She is iron built by Scottish engineers, who are undoubtedly the most advanced in the world, and she is faster and more manoeuvrable than any warship currently afloat.'

  'You laud her greatly, Mr Caskie, but please explain further.'

  Watters heard the alteration in William's voice as he began to describe his ship. 'She is long and narrow for speed with bows like a clipper but with the addition of a ram. Her masts are cut low to prevent her being sighted at sea, with the simplest of rigging, as we use in the Dundee whaling industry. She has a turtledeck forward to shrug off any waves that break on her. And her engines! You know that Dundee leads the world in marine engineering, with our whaling ships breaking the ice…' Caskie laughed again, louder, in admiration of his own play of words, 'in modern machinery. The Clyde pioneered the marine compound engine, where steam passes through first a high-pressure and then a low-pressure cylinder, but Dundee has improved on even the Clyde's methods.'

  'Tell me more.' Dumas leaned forward on his chair with a notebook in his hand. 'Tell me of the advantages this engine has.'

  Watters wished he could also take notes. He hoped he could remember the gist of the conversation.

  'Ah!' Caskie placed his brandy glass on the fireplace. 'The compound engine can reduce the rate of coal a vessel uses by around a third. Think of that! A steamship that can operate on long-haul routes or a warship that hardly needs to refuel! I'll give you an example…' it was clear that Caskie was embarking on a favourite topic as he quoted facts and figures, all of which Dumas carefully noted down. '…and there was Bogota, who had consumed 38 hundredweight of coal every hour, but with a compound engine, reduced that to 19 hundredweight. Randolph Elder, another Clydeside firm, is poised to supply the Royal Navy with these compound engines, so that says everything.'