A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders

by Malcolm Archibald

  “You look after these,” he ordered. “And don’t lose them. Examine the windows and doors.”

  Mendick took the lantern and opened the shutters to allow the flickering light from the gas lamps on Dock Street into the room. He knelt beside the hole, searching for footprints on the dusty floorboards or anything that the burglar may have dropped.

  “The windows were all locked and shuttered, Sergeant,” Sturrock’s boots thumped on the bare wood, “and the door is locked. There is no key and no mark of a forced entry.”

  Mendick looked up. “So the murderer did not break in, he either had access or he used a false key.” He rocked back on his heels and looked around. “He made it easy for himself, Sturrock. He lifted out the hearthstone and just sawed through the plaster, dropped the rope ladder and swarmed down, murdered the unhappy Mr Thoms, cooked himself a meal and came back.”

  “He was a cold fish then,” Sturrock said.

  Mendick stood up. “Now we have to follow the trail and catch him.” He handed back the lantern.

  Sturrock nodded. “Yes, sergeant. What will you do next?”

  “I will find out who owns this flat, and whether it was leased to somebody. I want to see the owner and the tenant, and there is obviously work going on in here. I want to speak to the tradesmen.”

  Mendick paused. What he really wanted was to catch the next packet boat to London with his prisoner, but that was not possible. He had to solve this murder first. It was no longer just a duty; the nature of the killing disgusted him and he had to apprehend the murderer. Dundee had caught him and now held him fast.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The interior of Bell Street Police Office was solid, unpretentious and cold, despite the false promise of the pale sun that peeped between the tenements opposite. A chill wind blasted through the slightly open window, it rustled the papers on the desk Mendick had been given and caused him to reach for his coat until he noticed Sturrock watching. Instead, he pretended to search in his pockets for his pipe, placed it beside him and looked up as Superintendent Mackay entered the room.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Mackay motioned for Sturrock to leave his chair and dragged it over beside Mendick. “All right, Mendick, we must discuss these coins.” Mackay carried the bag of money Mendick had found at the murder scene. With a brief nod to Sturrock, he placed it on top of Mendick’s desk. “I confess that the significance of these coins eludes me, and I implore your assistance. What can they mean, Mendick?”

  Mendick sighed. “I have been pondering the same question, sir.” Mendick emptied the bag on top of the desk and counted the coins. “There are twenty-nine shillings, and all with the same date: 1842. Some appear hardly used and others are worn. I am not sure if they are genuine or bit-faker’s forgeries.”

  “They are genuine, Mendick.” Mackay placed capable hands on the scarred surface. “Considering where and how they were found, I would imagine there is great significance here.”

  Mendick drew on his pipe. “I am intrigued sir. There are so many mysteries here that the whole thing is just a tangle. The murder was horrific but I cannot see why anybody would leave a bag of silver behind.”

  “Nor can I, Mendick. Twenty nine shillings is a good week’s wages for a skilled artisan.” Mackay looked through the coins again and frowned. “The murderer is leaving us a message here, but I’m blessed if I know what it can be.” He looked up abruptly. “Now listen Mendick, and you too Sturrock,” Mackay waved the constable closer. “What I am about to say must not go beyond these walls until I say so. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mendick said, while Sturrock looked suitably solemn.

  “There have been rumours for some time of a new force in the Dundee criminal classes.” Mackay said. “We became aware of this when some of the more notorious of our thieves left the town. They were scared of a man known only as China Jim.” Mackay stopped and repeated the name. “China Jim, and now we have this murder of unparalleled horror within an Oriental emporium.” When he looked up his eyes were like chips of granite. “I believe you know China, Mendick?”

  Mendick lowered the shilling he had been studying. “Yes, sir. I was with the 26th Foot through the China War.”

  Mackay nodded. “Is the number twenty-nine of any special significance there? Or is the date 1842 important to China?”

  Mendick shook his head. “I have never heard of twenty-nine being important sir, but 1842 may be. That was when the Chinese War ended.”

  Mackay nodded. “Of course. Perhaps there is a Chinaman who resents us winning that war and who has come to Dundee to take his revenge?” He tapped his fingers on Mendick’s desk and looked up. “What kind of Chinaman would do that sort of thing? What sort of man could do that?” He looked away for a moment and took a deep breath. “I understand they have criminal gangs in China, Mendick?”

  “They do, sir,” Mendick agreed.

  Mackay stopped tapping. “Have you ever heard of the Triads?”

  Mendick wondered if Mackay had ever been a gambler, the way he played his cards one at a time, never revealing the full strength of his hand until the final play. He looked up slowly. “Yes, sir, but I do not believe they have any reason to operate outside China.”

  “Tell me of the Triads, Mendick.” Mackay said.

  “I am no expert, sir. We did not have much to do with them.” Mendick began.

  Mackay held Mendick’s eyes. “Tell me what you do know of them, Mendick.”

  Mendick lifted his pipe and began to stuff tobacco in the bowl. He dredged his memory for the little he knew. “There are many different Triad groups sir. They began as secret societies dedicated to getting rid of the present Manchu dynasty that rules China. The Manchus are foreigners, you see, from Manchuria, and many of the Chinese want the old Ming dynasty back.” For a second he was back in the humidity of Chusan, with fever decimating the ranks of the 26th and the men muttering of mutiny. He remembered the nerve-wracking patrols outside the town and the terrible fate of the men captured by the Chinese.

  “Carry on, Mendick. They began as secret societies, you said? And what are they now?” Mackay was listening intently, his eyes fixed on Mendick’s face.

  Mendick pulled himself back to the present and concentrated on the Triads. “Some triads are still politically minded, but many are mere bandits or thieves. Although some are depicted as Oriental Robin Hoods, in reality they just terrorise the countryside. The ones we met had a slogan—Plunder the rich to relieve the poor—but I cannot recall much relief given.”

  Mackay grunted. “Were they pleasant people?” He gave a wry smile, “Would you introduce them to your mother?”

  “I never knew her sir, so I cannot say.” Mendick refused to venture on that dark walk of his own history. “But the Triads were not pleasant people. There was one occasion when a whole mob of Chinese captured two of our lads. They stoned one to death there and then and gave the other to the Triads. The Triads locked him in a bamboo cage so small his face was pressed against his knees, and took him around the villages so they could torment him. Other Europeans they captured were stripped naked and crucified. When a bunch of pirates boarded the ship Black Joke they murdered the crew except for one man. They cut his ear off and stitched it in his mouth . . .”

  Mackay held up a hand. “All right Mendick, that is enough now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mendick nodded. He tried not to think of that terrible campaign in China, but when the images returned it was hard to shake them away.

  “We have an increasing amount of Oriental trade, Mendick, and I am fearful that this China Jim and other such people are now operating in Dundee.” Mackay’s mouth hinted at a smile. “It was no accident you came up here to pick up Thatcher, Sergeant. I spent quite some time searching the police forces of Britain for a criminal officer with knowledge of China. The accidents to my men just provided the excuse.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mendick did not know what else to say.

  Mackay continued. “I am anxious
to resolve this abominable affair.” He glanced around the dim, cool room. “You may have Constable Sturrock here to assist you and I will send along Constable Deuchars whenever he can be spared from his other duties.” He rose from the chair. “If the general populace learn the details of this outrage, Mendick, there will be an outcry. I am depending on you to use your utmost exertions to find this China Jim.”

  “I will do my best, sir.” Mendick looked up as a constable carried in the rope ladder which he dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Another young constable placed a small wooden box on the desk with only slightly more care.

  “That is all the evidence from the scene,” Mackay turned away, straight-backed and alert as a hungry bird. “I will leave you to it then. Catch me this Chinaman, Mendick.”

  Mendick watched Mackay leave the room. He stuck his pipe in his mouth and leaned back in his chair, wishing he had never come back to Dundee.

  “Get up there, you little dog, and get it swept.” The words came out of nowhere, an ugly reminder of his childhood and he shivered. He could almost smell the soot.

  Sturrock stomped across to Mendick and lifted the first rungs of the rope ladder. “This is a lovely piece of workmanship,” he said. “It was certainly not just cobbled together by an amateur, but I have never heard of a burglar using anything like this before.”

  “Nor have I,” Mendick looked closely. “The rungs are of pine, I think. One side is plain and the other side painted green. It looks as if the maker took the wood from something else, a box perhaps, in order to make it.”

  Sturrock looked and nodded but said nothing.

  “And the rope has been cut from smaller pieces and spliced together, see? It’s not new rope, it’s discoloured. So that was taken from somewhere else and not bought new for the ladder, either.”

  Sturrock nodded, “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Somebody has gone to a lot of bother to make this,” Mendick said. “Look at these knots. That is a round turn and two half hitches: used for tying a boat to a mooring ring or a piling. It is a maritime knot. This ladder was made by a seaman.” Mendick looked up. “Do you know of any burglars in Dundee who used to be seamen?”

  Sturrock shrugged. “Dundee is a busy port, Sergeant. There are thousands of seamen here and lots of them end up in the police court, mainly for petty stuff.”

  “I am not interested in drunken brawls or riot,” Mendick said. “I want theft or burglary. Check the court records, Sturrock and see what you can find. I don’t want a youngster either: an experienced seaman made this ladder.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Sturrock took a note.

  “Now, let’s see what else we have here.” Mendick tipped open the box. The saw and chisels rattled onto the desk, along with a single silver shilling. He checked the date. “1842 again,” he said, and placed the coin with its brothers inside the bag. “This one must have fallen out when I kicked the plate.”

  “Do you know what that means, Sergeant?” Sturrock lifted the bag. “You now have thirty shillings.”

  Mendick nodded. “Thirty pieces of silver, Sturrock. The price paid to Judas Iscariot to betray Christ.” He stuffed the pipe back in his mouth and bit hard on the stem. “We may have found a motive. It would appear that Mr Thoms betrayed somebody very badly. If we can find out whom, we may have found this China Jim fellow.” Mendick spread the coins over his desk and hoped for inspiration. “That is something else to check, Sturrock. See if Thoms had any Chinese connection apart from his Oriental Emporium.”

  Sturrock smiled, “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Is something amusing you, Constable?” Mendick looked up from the desk. “Tell me what, pray?”

  “I was smiling at the thought of a Chinese connection, Sergeant.” Sturrock said. “I have never seen a Chinaman in Dundee in my life.”

  “It’s not who you have seen that matters, Sturrock. It’s who Thoms saw.” Mendick scooped the coins back into the bag. “This case just gets more complex by the minute, what with Chinamen and seamen and bags full of shillings.”

  Sturrock grinned to him. “It is certainly an intriguing case, Sergeant. I’ve never seen a murder like this before.”

  “Really?” Mendick was in no mind to be charitable. “What kind of murders do you usually deal with, Constable?”

  Sturrock looked away. “This is my first.”

  “Well, if you are a very fortunate policeman, this will also be your last. Murders are always dirty, sordid, unpleasant affairs. The stench of death and despair lingers forever.” Mendick stopped himself, “Have you discovered who owns the flat above Thoms’s shop?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Sturrock lifted a ragged scrap of paper from the top of the desk he had commandeered. “It’s a woman called Johanna Lednock.”

  “You have her address?”

  Sturrock nodded. “Unicorn Cottage, down in the Ferry − that’s Broughty Ferry, Sergeant.”

  “I know Broughty Ferry, constable.” Mendick reached for his hat and cane. “All right, Sturrock. Call us a cab and take me to Miss Johanna Lednock.” He touched the rope ladder with his foot. “She might be able to explain this beautiful piece of craftsmanship.”

  An easterly wind whipped the tops off the grey rollers in the Firth of Tay and lifted a haze of spindrift across the exposed sandbanks. Mendick stepped out of the cab, threw the driver the one and sixpence fare and shivered. He had grown used to the comparative warmth of the south and now the climate of eastern Scotland seemed cold and raw to him. He tapped his cane off the door of the cab, “Come back for us in an hour,” he ordered, and looked over to Unicorn Cottage.

  Set back a garden’s length from the edge of the beach, it was built of light sandstone, tall and solid, the roof complete with an impressive cupola and large windows facing the sea.

  “What’s this woman’s name again?” Mendick asked. He watched as a three-masted ship dipped into the swell, rose again and tacked with the wind. The sails descended in a cloud of canvas. God, he wished he was on board her, away from the bitter memories of Dundee.

  “Johanna Lednock,” Sturrock said.

  Mendick pulled the black iron bell and was surprised at the speed with which the door opened. The maid was young and her black uniform clean and neat.

  Mendick responded to her quick curtsey with a nod. “I am Sergeant Mendick, at present with the Dundee Police. Could you tell your mistress I would like a word?”

  The servant showed them into a light and airy room with tall windows overlooking the Tay and walls covered in pastel oil paintings of scenes and people. Mendick glanced around and walked straight to the fire that sparked in the hearth. “Now that is a welcome sight!”

  “Oh, make space for me!” The woman rushed through the door and stood close beside Mendick, holding out both hands to the fire. “It’s freezing out there! I do so wish summer would come. I know winter has lovely crisp days but I do dislike the cold so.” Green eyes laughed at him. “You must be the sergeant?”

  “I am Sergeant Mendick . . .”

  “Oh good,” the woman, looked at her hand, shrugged and held it out. “I do apologise about the stains but I have been painting you see.”

  Mendick grasped her hand. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss.” He fought to restrain his smile. “You are cold,” he said.

  “That’s why I am pushing you away from the fire,” the woman had already eased herself to take most of the heat. “Excuse me,” she stopped for a moment to lift a small boy who had followed her into the room. She balanced him on her hip with the ease of long practise. “Now what can I do for you?”

  Mendick glanced at Sturrock, who shrugged. “I am waiting for the mistress of the house, miss . . .” he looked to the boy who was cuddling in to the woman’s shoulder. “Am I to understand you are the governess?”

  “Good heavens, no! I don’t have a governess for my John. I am perfectly capable and more than willing to look after him myself.” The woman held his gaze, her eyes were very clear. “I am Johann
a Lednock.”

  “My deepest apologies, Ma’am; I meant no insult−” Mendick began, but Johanna silenced him with a shake of her head.

  “How can thinking of me as a governess be in any way an insult?” Johanna waved away Mendick’s apology. “Now, Sergeant. Is it that terrible business in my Candle Lane properties you want to ask about?”

  “Properties? Do you own both the shop and the flat, Mrs Lednock?” There was no wedding ring on Johanna’s finger but the presence of the child was surely proof of marriage.

  “Mrs Gordon,” Johanna corrected easily. “Lednock is my maiden name although I use it most of the time.”

  “Is there still a Mr Gordon?” Mendick asked.

  “Very much so,” Johanna told him. “David is very much alive and kicking. Really Sergeant, I am very surprised you do not know him. He is one of the most successful merchants in Dundee.”

  Mendick ignored the implied reproof. “Perhaps I should speak to him then? Is he the owner of the properties? Does he deal with the leases and the tenants?”

  Johanna allowed the boy to slide to the ground but retained hold of his hand. “No, Sergeant Mendick. I am as capable of looking after my property as I am of looking after my own son.” There was no mistaking the steel in her eyes, “Are you determined to insult me today?”

  Mendick ducked his head in an apologetic bow. “Indeed not. In London it is a bit unusual for a married lady to own property, obviously Dundee is different. Or you are special in some way.” Mendick looked to Sturrock for help, but the constable was admiring the pictures on the wall.

  “I can’t imagine why you should think that,” Johanna’s brows began to draw together and there was a tiny curl at the corner of her mouth.

  Mendick decided to move on as quickly as possible. “Could you tell me what was being done to the flat above the shop, please?” He signalled for Sturrock to take notes.

  “Oh, I have workmen in there making the place habitable for the next tenants.” Johanna gave the workmen’s names to Sturrock, who scribbled them down.