A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders

by Malcolm Archibald

  Mendick followed, ignoring the comments from either side, the furtive attempts to trip him as he passed, the bottle dropped from above that crashed to the ground a second after he passed; such things were as normal in the London rookeries as in the unsavoury closes of Dundee. “Police! Stop right there!”

  As expected, his words only spurred the woman on. The click of her heels increased in volume and he was able to follow her with more ease into the stygian dark. The close merged into a junction with another, in a combination of poverty and run-down houses, but rather than jink back to lose herself in the crowds the woman ran straight down the steep slope and out into Fish Street.

  Mendick stopped to get his bearings. Although broader than the close, Fish Street was still a dark thoroughfare running almost parallel to the High Street, but nearer to the docks. The buildings stretched four storeys towards the sodden sky; crumbling tenements and town houses that had once belonged to the elite of Dundee but which were now abandoned to the lowest classes. In ones and twos and family groups, the wealthy families had fled the factory smoke of central Dundee and migrated to the cleaner air of West Ferry or the Perth Road.

  Down here, ragged people grouped in front of doorways, preferring the relatively fresh air of the squalid street to the foetid stench and overcrowding of the much-divided interiors of the houses. Eyes watched him pass, some shorn of hope, others bereft of interest, a few predatory, and one or two people shouted obscene insults but Mendick did not stop. The woman hesitated at the door of the Ship Tavern, wailed, lifted her skirt even higher and clattered past and down the street.

  “Here! Get back to your own bit!” A couple of gaunt youths, toes protruding from broken boots and knees from frayed trousers tried to block his path. He pushed them aside.

  “Go and find a job,” he advised roughly, knowing full well that such luxuries were scarce when trade was depressed and mills idle.

  The woman had stopped halfway down the street, a vague dark figure leaning against an abandoned cart. She glanced back, caught sight of him, swore and dived through the door of the nearest building.

  “Police!” Mendick ran down the sloping street. He mounted the two steps leading to the slightly inset front door, pushed it and grunted in surprise when it opened without a sound. There was the usual underlying stench of damp and decay, mingled with a more acidic, sharper smell that he did not immediately recognise. He heard the staccato click of hurrying feet and then thick silence. He stepped inside.

  The darkness was pitiless. Outside there had been the tang of sooty smoke and the scent of the sea, the grind of wheels on cobblestones, harsh voices and the raucous scream of seagulls. Here, silence closed like a clamp and the dark blocked all his senses. The woman had vanished as completely as if she had never been. Mendick raised his voice, “Police!”

  Emptiness swallowed the word. Cautious, feeling his way, he stepped forward, wishing he had the lantern that all beat constables carried. He knew he should call a halt now and return with reinforcements, but he also knew he could not retract as long as there was a chance of success. He had set himself the task of catching this woman in the green cloak, and that is what he would try to do.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the light he saw a flight of stone steps spiralling downward. He checked his inside pocket, felt the reassuring bulk of the pepperpot revolver, held his cane ready and descended, step by step until he came to another wooden door. Again it opened when he pushed and he walked in to the room beyond.

  A sudden flare of lights blinded him. “What the . . .?” He put his left hand over his eyes as he held the cane in front of him ready to repel any attack.

  “Are you Sergeant Mendick of Scotland Yard?”

  The voice was disembodied, coming from everywhere and nowhere. Mendick heard footsteps behind him, turned in time to see the vague shape of a man and then the door through which he had entered slammed shut. He heard the grate and draw of a bolt and looked around, blinking in the harsh light that held him like a rat in a trap. The simile was quite apt, he realised, for he was in a stone cellar with a vaulted stone ceiling. Intense darkness crowded beyond the pool of light, filled with the terrors of his infant self.

  “Who are you?” Mendick peered upwards into the dark as his voice echoed around the chamber.

  “Are you Sergeant James Mendick, of Scotland Yard?” The question was repeated.

  “I am Mendick, who are you?” Mendick looked around the chamber but the lamps above his head blinded him, he could not even see a shadow. “Show yourself!”

  “Here I am, James.” A different voice mocked him and a woman slid into the periphery of the light. She stood still, hugging her green cloak close. “Oh, James! Don’t you want me any more? And I thought you liked me, too. After all, you followed me here.”

  She laughed again – without humour – her voice harsh as she stood at the edge of his vision, her pinched, slum-reared face lined with poverty, soured with hardship, scarred with her loathing of the world. “Aren’t you going to arrest me? Look! I’ll show you everything.” Tossing back her cloak, she reached to the front of her skirt, unfastened a hidden hook and allowed the material to fold back. The entire skirt opened and a rent in her threadbare petticoat allowed a glimpse of the white flesh of her thigh.

  Mendick grunted. “You are a common thief.”

  From the pocket down, the skirt was lined with fine canvas, so creating a large space that now held a variety of small articles, from a pair of shoes to a selection of cheap ribbons. The combination of cloak and wide skirt acted as a perfect disguise for this cache of treasure.

  “I may be a common thief, Sergeant Mendick, but I am running free as a bird, while you . . .” She pushed forward her right leg so her skirt fell back, and hauled up her petticoat. “You will be dead in twenty minutes, James, and so disfigured that even your own mother won’t recognise you.”

  “You vile harpie!” Mendick stepped forward but the woman slid away into the dark. There was the ominous thud of a door closing and then silence. Mendick thought of the mutilated remains of Thoms, Milne and Torrie, all found within half a mile from where he stood. He gripped his cane and felt for the butt of his revolver. He had no intention of dying down here, in some dark Dundee cellar.

  “Come on then, you blackguards!” He shouted.

  There was a curious grating, the sound more sinister in the dark, and a deep baying that raised the small hairs on the back of his neck. “Sweet Jesus!” A dog! Mendick felt his pulse quicken: these people were going to set a dog on him and he was trapped with nowhere to run. There were more sounds, the ominous pad of multiple sets of paws and Mendick knew there was more than one dog in this cellar with him.

  He had a choice: remain in the light where he could see whatever attacked him, and be seen, or retreat against a wall. If he remained where he was a dog could get behind him, best withdraw to the wall.

  “Who’s first?” If he was going to die, he would die game and neither China Jim nor anybody else would hear him cry uncle.

  “Come on you slavering bastards! Come on!”

  He transferred the cane to his left hand and rapped it on the floor, simultaneously hauling his pepperpot from his inside pocket. It was bulky and clumsy, but in a situation such as this he was glad of the five barrels. He had learned in the army that an enemy would often wait until the act of reloading before attacking and he had no desire to be caught out.

  Mendick waited for the sound of the animals. He heard the padding of their feet, one to the right, another to the left, and a third directly ahead. He swore. Three of them; if they all came at him he would have little chance. This was not how he wanted to die, mauled by dogs in a Dundee cellar. He kept his attention on the dogs. They were circling the chamber, occasionally passing through the pool of light, heavy and ugly and panting.

  “Are you China Jim? Am I speaking to China Jim?”

  “You are speaking to the last man you will hear before you die. You made a mistake in coming into
my territory, Sergeant Mendick.”

  “If you kill a policeman they will hunt you forever.” Mendick shouted. He could hear the dogs patrolling outside the circle of light. Their paws were heavy on the stone floor and their breathing was harsh.

  The first of the dogs burst into the pool of light and headed straight towards him with its head down and mouth agape. It was a bullmastiff, a massive man-killer that could rip him to bloodied shreds. Raising the pistol he shot it clear through the skull. The report was loud in the cellar and gunsmoke erupted in a choking cloud. The dog continued its run; he stepped aside and it slammed against the wall, bleeding and kicking but still alive.

  Mendick watched in sick horror as the remaining two dogs leaped on it, jaws working and for a minute there was a stramash of clashing jaws and terrible squeals. Mendick backed away, lifted his cane and peered around the chamber; if these dogs had got in, there must be a way out.

  “That’s one dog less, China! I hope you have a supply in reserve!”

  The squeals faded to a long drawn whimper then died altogether. There were a few moments of growling and sounds of tearing flesh and then that ominous padding again.

  “Mendick’s got a gun! He’s gone and shot one of the dogs!” That was the woman’s voice, harsh and ugly, as she was herself.

  “Douse the light!” That was a man’s voice. “Don’t let him see them!”

  “No!” The woman replied. “He’s fired his shot. They will be on him before he reloads and I want to watch.”

  Mendick thought of the three mutilated bodies and wondered if this woman had watched them die as well. He shook his mind clear and waited for the sound of the animals. He heard the padding of their feet, one to the right, the other to his left. If they attacked simulataneously he would have to fend off one with his cane while he shot the other.

  “Die slowly, Sergeant.” The female sounded less confident now. The grating noise sounded again and Mendick was left with the dogs.

  They prowled around, sniffing, aroused to savagery by the scent of blood. Mendick kept his back to the wall and moved sideways around the perimeter of the chamber. He stepped quietly, trying to make no noise, thankful the raw stench of dead dog would mask his own scent. The floor was stone slabs: cold, smooth and occasionally uneven. He stumbled and froze. Only the harsh breathing of the dogs broke the silence, and the rapid, sinister patter of their paws.

  The first came from his left, a bounding, snarling mountain of muscle and aggression and teeth that leaped through the darkness. More by instinct than intent, Mendick lifted his cane to meet it, just as the second dog came from the front. He fired again and the muzzle flash presented him with a tiny vignette of his position; he saw the dog in mid-leap, mouth wide and double rows of teeth gleaming, spittle drooling from its mouth, twin eyes pale and staring, then came the intense blackness of the after-flash. He heard the high-pitched yowl as the bullet connected, and the scuffled thump as the impact slammed it against the wall. But before Mendick could turn the final dog was on him.

  He lifted his cane, aimed for the gaping mouth and thrust as hard as he could. The dog moved, the cane bounced off bone and scraped along the fur of its muzzle. Mendick continued the push and the tip entered the dog’s eye. The animal howled, Mendick pushed harder, thrusting the narrow, lead-weighted end as far as he could and the dog broke away, yowling. Mendick pushed the muzzle of the pistol close to the dog’s neck and squeezed the trigger; the barrels rotated, the hammer rose and fell – nothing. The pistol had misfired. He tried again – nothing. The dog opened its mouth wider and emitted a snarl just as Mendick tried his final barrel. This time the pistol fired. The report was deafening and the dog staggered backward, howling and still alive. It faced him, the cane a hideous unicorn horn through its eye, and he jumped forward, grabbed the cane and pushed, working the lead-weighted end through the back of the eye socket and into the brain until the dog lay at his feet and he was gasping in reaction and the aftermath of fear.

  “He’s killed the dogs!”

  The woman sounded furious. She added a bevy of foul language.

  “Shut him in and let him rot!”

  The light was doused.

  Mendick swore. The darkness was oppressive, crushing him in its intensity. He backed against the wall, found the handful of cartridges in his pocket and fumbled to reload. The pepperpot was not the easiest of pistols to load, even in daylight, but in the dark and with hands still shaking, Mendick took a good three minutes. By the time he was finished his eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could see his surroundings.

  The chamber was rectangular with two heavy doors. It only took a moment for Mendick to realise both were locked, and a couple of trial pushes to ascertain there were bolts at the top and bottom; he could not get out that way. He felt around the wall, searching. If the dogs had got in, then there must be another way out.

  He stumbled into something and cursed softly. It was a barrel, waist high and heavy. This gloomy chamber had probably been a wine cellar so presumably this was full of wine. He moved on slowly, cautious in case the woman released more dogs.

  The stones were rough under his fingertips. He probed, searching for the gap he knew must be there, somewhere. He almost shouted in triumph when his hand slid into nothingness. The hole was set two feet above the ground and was just large enough for a dog but there was no alternative. Replacing his revolver in its holster, Mendick wriggled into the opening. He had no idea how long the shaft might be or if there were any bends, but, he reasoned, if a large mastiff could negotiate it, then so could he.

  The shaft was of smooth stone and had possibly been created for rolling kegs or barrels to the basement. Mendick inched upward, using his elbows and knees for leverage as he fought the steep incline. Twice he cursed as he heard the stonework scrape against the watch in his fob pocket: he valued that above all his few possessions.

  The air stank of foetid dog. He gagged and ignored the stone that tore his clothes and scraped the skin from his elbows and knees. After a few moments the incline increased and he was slithering up a steep slope. He looked ahead but saw only darkness. For a moment he was a child again, climbing a flue for his master, but he shook away the memory and moved on, feeling for invisible handholds in the dark.

  The passage ended abruptly. Solid darkness engulfed him and he could not tell where the stone ended and the foul air began. Mendick probed with his free hand, feeling wood rather than stone blocking his path. This must be the door. He pushed without effect, ran his hands around the edge, unable to find either hinge or handle. For a second he felt frustration and fear building inside him. He was trapped, unable to escape and unwilling to return to that dungeon with its dead dogs, there to wait until China Jim saw fit to release him.

  He forced himself to think rationally. The dogs had come this way, so the door must open; if it had been intended for rolling down barrels there would be a simple catch. No! It was not a catch. He remembered the grating sound that had perplexed him. Rather than a hinged door, it was a square piece of wood set within two vertical slides.

  Mendick braced himself against the sides of the chute, pressed against the door and exerted upward pressure. The door moved, very slightly. He kept pushing, wincing at the noise he made. He was so close to the door it screamed rather than grated, a noise that set his teeth on edge. He stopped, put one hand on the butt of his revolver and waited. Nobody came. He continued, pushing the door up, inch by noisy, painful inch. The darkness beyond the door was intense, the silence forbidding. Finally he was able to haul out his pepperpot and wriggle through to fresher air.

  He landed on a wooden floor and lay still for a second, listening. There was no sound, he was alone in a dim room. He stood up, stumbled slightly and moved towards a thin vertical bar of light that shimmered from somewhere to his left. As he had hoped, the light came from the slight gap between two ill-fitting shutters. He fumbled for the catch and hauled them open. The bustle of the night-time street was welcome − the high
chatter of women, a drunken laugh, the rumble of wheels on cobbles as a cart lurched past. Mendick checked his watch. It had been less than an hour since he followed the woman in the green cloak into this house, although it seemed far longer.

  He looked out through the tiny windowpanes and saw rain cascading onto Fish Street, only one storey below. He had escaped the dogs and the cellar; he had light and he was free. China Jim had thrown his dice and lost, now it was his turn. China Jim had made a big mistake in revealing his address.

  Mendick grinned. He would get a few hours sleep, borrow some uniformed policemen and turn this house upside down. Somewhere in this building would be a clue to China Jim’s identity, and now the attempted murder of a policeman was added to his list of crimes.

  The blackjack crashed off his skull so suddenly he had no chance to look round.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  He was flat on the floor, unable to move, looking at a collection of legs and feet. Six legs; there were three people then. He tried to rise, reached for his revolver and saw a foot casually kick it away from him.

  “So what do we do with him now?” The man spoke as if there was gravel in his throat.

  “Take him out to sea and dump him.” The voice was so muffled that Mendick knew he would never be able to identify it again.

  “It would be easier just to shoot him,” the gravel-voiced man said.

  “No,” the muffled voice came again. “Any fool can shoot a man. I wanted him ripped to shreds by the dogs but that can no longer be, so I want him to vanish without trace. Make sure there is nothing on him that can be identified.”

  “His face will identify him.” That was the female with the harsh gutter voice.

  “Not after the fishes have been at him,” gravel-voice said. “They go for the eyes first and then the soft flesh.” His laugh echoed around the room. “Within two days he will be half gone. Within a week he will be a skeleton.”