A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders

by Malcolm Archibald

  “Pray tell me your name, sir.”

  The raised voice attracted the attention of others, and faces turned towards him. Some were merely inquisitive, others hostile, but all carried the unmistakable stamp of wealth, power and authority. Mendick allowed them to stare; he knew he would be speaking to them in the fullness of time.

  The man remained silent and Mendick repeated his question, this time adding an edge to his voice. “Tell me your name, sir, if you please?”

  “I am Gordon.” The man spoke as if he expected Mendick to recognise his name.

  Mendick did not. He nodded and raised his voice so that everybody within five yards could hear him. “I am investigating the murder of Robert Milne, Mr Gordon. I will be questioning every man here.”

  The faces became expressionless until a younger man gave a hesitant smile. “You are investigating the murder of whom, Sergeant? I don’t think I know the man.”

  “Robert Milne,” Mendick explained. “He was the night watchman who was murdered beside the curling stone store of this club. And you are, sir?”

  “I am Gilbride of the Waverley Shipping Company.” Gilbride’s suit was cut so close it emphasised the breath of his shoulders while disguising his lack of height. “Of course, he was the unhappy fellow down by the whaling yard. That was a desperate business, terrible.”

  Others added brief sympathetic noises before returning their attention to the curling.

  “A bad business, certainly,” Gordon agreed, “but obviously nothing to do with us, Sergeant. We are gentlemen. So I suggest you get about your business and let us get on with our game.”

  “Gentlemen or beggars,” Mendick said, “we are all subject to the same laws.”

  Gordon gave a mocking bow, “You have your duty to perform, Sergeant. I leave you to get on with it elsewhere.”

  “Is that you, Sergeant Mendick?” This voice was jovial enough and the man who bustled forward had his hand outstretched in welcome. “Good God, man, why did you not make yourself known at once? You remember me? Adam Leslie – you saved me from pickpockets on the London!” He raised his voice. “This is a tale worth repeating, gentlemen. Two flicks of his cane and two blackguards sent reeling. ‘Be off with you!’ he said, and sent them scampering away as if the hounds of hell were howling at their heels!” The handshake was warm and firm, the myopic blue eyes friendly behind their thick glasses. However nervous Leslie had seemed in the boat, he was in his element here. “Now, sir, what’s all this about a murder, eh?”

  The warmth of his welcome almost brought a smile, but Mendick merely matched Leslie’s grip. “You may have heard about the body that was found in the Arctic Whaling Company warehouse?”

  Leslie’s smile dropped away. “I did, Sergeant − terrible business, terrible. My wife was quite overcome: she fairly swooned away and poor Louise nearly had hysterics. Sarah had to apply smelling salts.” He shook his head and turned away to remove and polish his glasses. “It was some poor fellow named Milne, I believe? My clerks speak of little else, Sergeant. It was a shocking business. The newspapers are full of speculation: wild animals on the loose, packs of stray dogs, a madman in Dundee. They are saying all sorts of things.” He looked at Mendick with suddenly concerned eyes. “Is that why you are here, Sergeant?”

  Mendick nodded, “I am afraid it is, Mr Leslie. The body was found in the warehouse where this club’s curling stones are stored, so I fear I must make enquiries here.” He pitched his voice to carry to the other club members but most had returned their interest to the curling or their own business affairs. Only Johanna continued to watch him, her eyes curious as she cradled the curling stone as if it were her son.

  Leslie raised his hat, scratched his head with podgy fingers and asked. “Do you believe it was one of us, Sergeant?”

  “I do not believe anything, Mr Leslie.” Again Mendick spoke loudly so everyone present could hear. “I am merely investigating.” He allowed the murmur of discontent to die down. “I will see you one at a time in the clubhouse.”

  The clubhouse was little more than a wooden hut a few paces from the side of the curling pond, illuminated by flaring torches and flanked by a group of men selling whisky and hot pies. Mendick stepped inside the open door and turned to watch as two new players placed their smooth chunks of granite on the ice and then stepped back. They laughed quietly as if unconscious or uncaring of the butchery only the previous night. Mendick was aware of breath clouding around cold faces, of men vigorously flapping their arms and ladies clapping kid-gloved hands together as they wished they were home in the warmth. When he shifted his head to the side he caught Johanna’s gaze on him, and the startling clarity of her green eyes. She held the look for a few seconds before slowly lowering her eyelids.

  Mendick could almost taste the wealth; it was in the scent of tailored clothes and the atmosphere of power, it was in the confident tones and movement of the players. There was something indefinable that marked these men apart from the mass of the population that crammed into the closes and tenements of the city spread out below. And yet, one of these successful, dynamic businessmen could well be the monster who had already murdered and feasted on two unfortunates. Most of these oh-so-respectable gentlemen were taller and broader than the average Dundonian, but evil could disguise itself behind a hundred cloaks. Mendick knew that Fate had made him an outsider, a man living on the precipitous oxymoron between respectability and chaos, protecting the one from the other, accepted by neither, distrusted by both. He could not allow himself to trust these men simply because of their position. He straightened, tapped his cane against the brim of his hat and looked around again.

  “Whenever you are ready, Sergeant.” Leslie was watching him, holding a nicky of whisky. He offered the glass to Mendick, who shook his head.

  Lifting his cane, Mendick crashed it half a dozen times against the side of the hut. One of the ladies gave a small scream but the noise effectively broke the concentration of the players and they turned to face him.

  “What the devil do you think you are doing, sir?”

  “You blasted roughneck. This is a gentleman’s club!”

  Raising his voice, Mendick bellowed above their protests.

  “Quiet! Now listen to me!”

  Unused to being spoken to in such a peremptory manner, the club members stared at him. He brandished his staff. “By the authority of the Queen I am going to ask every person here a few questions.”

  “What the deuce for, sir?” Gordon glared at him. “I have already told you not to waste our time. Be about your business or I’ll have your position!”

  “Mr Gordon, I warn you not to interfere in the workings of the Dundee Police.” Mendick pointed the tip of his staff at Gordon to alleviate any possibility of mistaken identity. The golden VR of authority reflected the torchlight. “We are none of us above the law, sir. You included.”

  “I am Gordon.” The man spoke as if his name should be enough to subdue a mere police sergeant.

  “And I am Mendick.” Mendick saw Johanna smile at that and cover her mouth with a gloved hand. “I am investigating two murders and you can be first to help me, Mr Gordon. Come this way, if you please.”

  “I am no murderer . . .” Gordon began, but Mendick opened the hut door and gestured. “This way, sir.”

  The interior of the hut was as stark as the outside. There was a small fireplace, a writing desk with an armed chair that Mendick appropriated as his own, two other hard-backed chairs and little else. Waiting until Gordon seated himself opposite, Mendick placed his staff on top of the desk and took his notebook from his inside pocket.

  “This won’t take long, Mr Gordon. At present, all I need to know is your whereabouts last night.”

  Gordon glared but responded. He removed his hat and placed it on the table. “I was at home,” he said, “with my wife.”

  “And where is home, sir?” Mendick had already begun to write Unicorn Cottage when Gordon replied.

  “Mandarin House.” Onc
e again, Gordon spoke as if he expected his address to be known.

  “You have two addresses, sir?” Mendick raised his eyes to hold the level bar of Gordon’s gaze. “I believe you also own Unicorn Cottage in Broughty Ferry.”

  Gordon snorted. “Unicorn Cottage belongs to my wife, Sergeant. It is hardly a place I would live. She uses it as a painting retreat during the day.” He spat out the word ‘painting’ as if it were an oath.

  “I see.” Mendick noted that down. “Is there anyone who can confirm you were at home last night?” Mendick tried to keep the sharpness from his voice.

  “Surely I am not a suspect?”

  Mendick ignored the outburst and repeated the question.

  This time Gordon replied. “My wife may confirm that, sir, and my servants, but I will see you at the devil before allowing you to subject them to this form of questioning.” A deep groove appeared between Gordon’s eyes as he glowered at Mendick.

  “Indeed, sir. Now do you know of anybody by the name of Marmion or Oldbuck?”

  Gordon grunted and shook his head. “I am sure I do not, sir.”

  “You may have met them some years ago,” Mendick said.

  Gordon snorted. “I have never encountered such names in my life, sir.” Gordon lifted his hat and pushed back his chair.

  “Mendick rolled his staff so the VR pointed at Gordon. “Pray remain where you are, sir. I will inform you when I have finished. Now, does the name China Jim mean anything to you?”

  “China Jim?” Mendick saw a slight smile appear on Gordon’s face before he replied. “No, I do not know that name.”

  Mendick watched his reaction. “And do you know of any Chinese people living in Dundee, or elsewhere?”

  Gordon paused before replying. “No, sir, I do not.”

  “And do you have any business connections with China, sir?”

  The pause was even longer. “I have been fortunate enough to have made sufficient money not to have to indulge in business at all, Sergeant.”

  “Your home is Mandarin House, sir. That is a Chinese name,” Mendick pointed out.

  “I like the term, Sergeant,” Gordon said.

  Mendick nodded. “I see, sir. Then that is all for just now, Mr Gordon. Thank you for your cooperation. I will be speaking with your wife shortly to have her confirm your statement.”

  “You shall do nothing of the sort, sir!” Gordon leaned forward in his seat.

  Mendick held his gaze. “I shall, sir and if you attempt in any way to interfere with the workings of the law, I shall put such restraints on you that even you will not appreciate. Now, please ask the next gentleman to come in.”

  The club members entered one after the other, truculent, unhelpful and arrogant, and after two hours Mendick was utterly weary. He looked as the door opened again and Mr Gilbride limped in. He sat down carefully and stretched his leg out before him.

  “A riding accident, Sergeant,” he explained, as Mendick raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “When was that, sir, if I may enquire?”

  “I had a tumble about six weeks ago, Sergeant. I was racing a point-to-point from the summit of the Law to Kilpurnie in the Sidlaw Hills and my horse decided to stop, while I continued.” When Gilbride grinned he looked very young.

  “So you are less active than normal,” Mendick noted. “Are you still able to climb stairs or ladders?”

  “I climb with care,” Gilbride said, “but I will heal in time.” He began to explain the extent of his injuries until Mendick stopped him.

  “I am sure it was very painful, sir. Now could you tell me where you were on the evening of the 23rd March, pray?”

  “I shall have to check, Sergeant,” Gilbride frowned, “what day was that, now?”

  “It was a Friday,” Mendick reminded quietly.

  “Of course, the 23rd March.” Gilbride looked up quickly. “We had some trouble that day. One of my vessels was due to sail out on the evening tide but the boys refused to sail on a Friday; some superstition or other, and I had to go down and speak to them.”

  “You were at the docks then on the 23rd. Do you have anybody to verify that, sir?” Mendick made a note to check the tides and the shipping movements that day.

  Gilbride eased his ankle a little. “I have, Sergeant. The master and entire crew of Evelyn Berenger: that was the vessel involved.”

  “Are they still in the harbour, Mr Gilbride?”

  “They will be on their way to the Greenland Sea now, Sergeant.” Gilbride seemed to find the question amusing. “But if you want to check, they will be back in August or September, perhaps October. It all depends how successful the fishing is.”

  “I see, thank you. And last night sir? Where were you last night?”

  Gilbride retained his smile. “I was working Sergeant, I was paying suppliers and sending letters to old customers and new. Business is dull just now and one needs to use every artifice in order to keep afloat.”

  For a second a shadow darkened his eyes and Mendick thought of the recent Chartist troubles and the desperate poverty in the wynds and closes. If even a successful shipowner and businessman such as Gilbride was feeling the pinch, times must be hard indeed.

  “Is there anybody who can verify that, sir?”

  “I am afraid not, Sergeant. My staff finished at seven, while I was in the office until half past ten.” He smiled again. “You may just have to take my word sir, as a gentleman.”

  Mendick did not smile, but he resolved to ask the beat constable if there had been a light at Gilbride’s office window. “Could you give me the address of your office, sir?”

  “Whale Lane, sir. I am the managing owner of the Waverley Whale Fishing Company . . .”

  Mendick cut him off with gesture. “Yes, sir. Mr Milne’s body was found in the whale yard of the Arctic Whale Fishing Company, is there a connection?”

  “Good God, no!” Gilbride shook his head. “We are rivals, sir. We have no connection whatsoever.”

  “I see. Thank you, sir. I may have to speak to you again, but I have your address. I presume you do not intend to leave Dundee in the near future?” Mendick touched his fingers against his staff so it rolled slightly and the tip, with its gold crown and the VR letters, reminded Gilbride exactly with whom he was dealing.

  When Gilbride nodded and left, Mendick completed his notes and barely looked up when the door opened once more and somebody sat gracefully opposite him.

  “I suppose you wish to ask me questions as well?” There was music in Johanna’s voice, and her eyes danced over Mendick.

  “I do, if you have access to the storehouse key.” Mendick had to suppress a smile.

  “I have the same access as any other member,” Johanna had no reservations about smiling at him.

  “In that case, I have some questions for you, Mrs Gordon.”

  Johanna dropped her smile, sat upright in the seat, held Mendick’s gaze and nodded. “Please continue, Sergeant Mendick.”

  Mendick wanted to say it was unusual for a woman to be a member of a curling club as well as owning property, but duty came first. “May I enquire where you were last night, Mrs Gordon?”

  “I was at home, Sergeant.” Johanna said gravely.

  Mendick nodded. “With your husband?”

  When Johanna frowned, there was a little pucker between her eyes and a small groove formed at the side of her mouth. “My husband was at home also, Sergeant.”

  “You were together then.” Mendick said. He waited for confirmation, but instead Johanna hesitated and shook her head. She looked up with her lips pressed tight together and her chin thrust slightly forward.

  “We were not together, Sergeant. I live in Unicorn Cottage and he lives in Mandarin House.”

  “I see.” Mendick thought it best not to pursue that line of enquiry at present. Mrs Gordon looked close to being out of temper with him. “Now this may sound a strange question, Mrs Gordon, but please bear with me. Does either of these names mean anything to you: Robert Marmion
or Jonathan Oldbuck?”

  Johanna frowned, “Marmion and Oldbuck? Now there is a strange question for a Criminal Officer! Of course I know these names, but what on earth have they to do with your investigation? What was it? Murder by literature?” Her laugh was not quite in keeping with the serious nature of the discussion but Mendick found it welcome nevertheless.

  “I do not understand . . .” Mendick began.

  “You don’t read much, do you? Those names are from the books of Walter Scott. He wrote a poem called Marmion, and Jonathan Oldbuck is a character in The Antiquary.” Johanna was smiling, shaking her head. “Is this some sort of game?”

  “If it is,” Mendick said, “it is being played on me. I had not worked out the Walter Scott connection.” He looked at her with approval. He had admired her looks and was attracted by her personality, now he had to add respect for her learning and quick intelligence as well.

  “Can you tell me more?” Johanna’s eyes widened.

  Mendick would have loved to tell her everything but duty forbade. “These names are alibis of possible suspects,” he said.

  “And as all these names are from Walter Scott’s books,” Johanna said, “they may have a connection?”

  “That is possible,” Mendick said. “But we have to investigate further.” He watched her smile, “When curling and painting palls on you, perhaps you could join us in Scotland Yard.”

  When Johanna smiled, the left corner of her mouth lifted. “All my spare time is taken up by my son,” she said.

  Mendick noted that one thought of her son had altered Johanna. Her eyes had softened, with small creases at the corners. “Of course, but you would be a great asset to the force. Now, I am afraid I must ask more questions. Do you have any connection with China, or know any Chinamen?”

  Johanna shook her head. “No, Sergeant. Save for my husband’s previous business connections, I have no connection to China. I have never been to China and nor do I have any intention of going there. From what I have heard it sounds like a terrible place, full of disease and poverty.”