The man looked over his shoulder to where a policeman was arbitrating between two brass-tongued harpies in dispute over a hat. “I own a jewellery business, sir. Constable Scrymgeour said I was to alert you if there was any gold watches handed in.”
Mendick nodded. Ever since he had asked the beat policemen to alert pawnbrokers and jewellers about his stolen watch he had been inundated with enquiries. They had all proved fruitless. “That is correct, pray come away from prying eyes.” He ushered the man up the stairway to his office.
“My name is Edmund Anderson, of Anderson’s the Jewellers of Reform Street. You may have heard of us? We advertise quite widely.” Anderson looked up hopefully and Mendick nodded.
“Indeed, Mr Anderson, your firm is well known. Your premises are opposite Mr Leslie’s crockery business.” Mendick dragged Sturrock’s chair across the room and waited until Anderson was settled before sitting down himself. “Now, what can we do for each other?”
“I had a gold watch handed in to me, Sergeant Mendick, but there was something not right about it, you see.”
Anderson plunged his hand deep into his pocket and pulled out a paper-wrapped packet which he placed on the desk. “Here it is.” Very slowly he removed the wrapping and placed the watch in front of him. “It’s a splendid watch, Sergeant. Craftsman made by Marshall of Edinburgh.”
Mendick picked it up and turned it around. The name Marshall was prominent on the watch plate alongside some evident scrapes. “Do you know who handed this watch in, Mr Anderson?”
“I have his name as Robert Roy Durward, Sergeant,” Anderson looked up warily, as if expecting Mendick to blame him for the name of his client.
Mendick looked more closely at the watch. “I see, Mr Anderson. And do you have any reason to believe that is not his real name? In my experience criminals tend to choose aliases that are more common, such as Smith or Jones, so they can merge with the crowd.” He looked up, frowning. “Robert Roy Durward, you say?”
“Indeed, Sergeant,” Anderson produced a small slip of paper, “we give our clients a receipt for their property. They hold half and we hold half and when they return they bring their half and the numbers match . . .”
“I understand. Thank you Mr Anderson.” Mendick pointed at the scrapes on the watch plate. “Are these significant?”
“That is the crux of the matter, Sergeant, you have it exactly!” Anderson beamed. “You see, it is quite common for clients to bring in second-hand watches they have purchased from pawn shops and require us to remove the old owner’s name and replace it with a new one. Sometimes they file off the old name themselves, gold is a soft metal, you see, and they believe they are saving themselves money although it takes me as much time and expense to clean up the mess they have made.” Anderson reclaimed the watch in tender hands and pointed at the scrapes.
“As you said, Sergeant Mendick, the name of the previous owner has been filed off the watch plate. But so has the watch number. You do know that all quality watches have their own number?” Anderson looked up to ensure Mendick was paying attention.
“I was aware of that,” Mendick confirmed.
“Well, my customer asked me to engrave his name, Robert Roy Durward, on the plate. I had hardly begun when I noticed the number was also missing. Marshall watches are unusual, because as well as engraving his number on the upper surface, he also engraves it on the underside.” He unfastened the watch plate and showed it to Mendick: “You see?”
“I see,” Mendick read the watch number. “Now, Mr Anderson, is there any way we can ascertain the previous owner of that watch?”
“Mr Marshall keeps a list,” Anderson said. “I took the liberty of writing to him as soon as I became suspicious and he informed me he sold it to a Mrs Charlotte Grant.”
“Thank you, Mr Anderson.” Mendick pushed the watch across the desk. He controlled his surge of triumph. “You keep hold of this just now. When is Mr Durward coming to pick his watch up?”
“Ten on Thursday morning,” Anderson stared at the watch as if it would explode. “Should you not keep it, Sergeant?”
“No, Mr Anderson.” Mendick pressed the watch into Anderson’s hand. “When Mr Durward arrives, you hand the watch over and leave the rest to us.” He rose from his seat. “That will be all just now Mr Anderson, we will be in touch.”
“That’s it then!” Sturrock slapped a hand on his thigh as soon as Anderson left the room. “That’s China Jim’s big mistake! He’s got greedy and now we’ve got him.”
“This is Tuesday and the collection is on Thursday. I will ask Mr Mackay to have the shop watched from this hour, in case this Durward fellow arrives before his time. We will be waiting, Sturrock, and we will follow him to wherever he lives.” Mendick leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I think you are right, he has made a mistake and we have him.”
“Durward: that’s Walter Scott again.” Sturrock shrugged, “he seems to be getting everywhere nowadays.”
“Walter Scott?” Mendick looked up, “What do you mean, Sturrock?”
Sturrock shrugged. “Those are two of Scott’s novels, Sergeant. Quentin Durward and Rob Roy; China has combined both into one name.”
Mendick grunted. “I can guess that Durward is another alias of Marmion and Oldbuck. And who do we know who likes Walter Scott?” Mendick answered his own question. “James Gilbride likes Walter Scott. The man with the damaged leg, the man who owns the ship on which the murdered men served, the man Marmion robbed.” He stood up slowly. “We have had him watched for weeks and he has not put a foot wrong but mark my words, Sturrock, he is connected to this in some way.” He hauled his pipe from his pocket and furiously began to thumb tobacco into the bowl. “I don’t think he is China Jim, but I think somebody is trying to make us believe he is. China is laying a false trail to Gilbride, and it is all to do with something that happened on Rose Flammock in 1842.”
“Do we remove the man watching Gilbride’s office?” Sturrock asked but Mendick shook his head.
“No, we leave him there to guard Gilbride rather than to watch him. He may be China Jim’s next victim.” Mendick scratched a Lucifer. “Things are unravelling Sturrock; let’s step out, man.”
Mendick pulled up the collar of his coat, jammed his hat further down his head and huddled deeper into the corner of the close mouth. The brief spell of warm weather had broken and an easterly wind threw a torrent of rain against the mud-coloured tenements of Reform Street. He had watched a slow trickle of people come in and out of the jewellery shop for the past two hours without any signal or message from Anderson. Disguised as an artisan, Sturrock worked on the broken door of a close opposite. Judging by the less-than-muttered curses that Mendick heard, the door would be all the worse for his attentions.
A young girl skipped past Anderson’s window, paused to peer in, pulled a face at Sturrock and ran away, giggling. Mendick watched her for a second and returned his attention to the shop. There had been a trickle of customers this morning. Of the three lone females, one had been an obvious prostitute in cheap finery and bouncing feathers, the others were probably wives who had sold their jewellery to raise money for household bills or drink. There had been a respectable-looking gentleman who checked both ways before sliding into the shop, so was probably buying something for his sweetheart and not his wife, and a courting couple, all glowing eyes and touching hands.
The man who walked down the street was so nondescript that Mendick barely noticed him. He would have merged into any crowd with ease. He was of average height and build, with clothes that could have belonged to a respectable servant or tradesman. Only his walk gave his profession away, the slightly rolling, swaying gait of a seaman that Mendick knew so well.
When he saw the seaman glance over his shoulder and slide into the shop, Mendick knew he was watching his quarry. His low whistle alerted Sturrock, who lifted a screwdriver in acknowledgement. Within five minutes Anderson appeared at the window of his flat, immediately above the shop and waved frantica
lly.
“For God’s sake, control yourself,” Mendick muttered, “else you’ll be taking off like a bird. You’ll have half the street watching!” He lifted a hand in acknowledgement: the insignificant man must be Durward or Marmion or whatever alias suited him this time.
It was another ten minutes before Durward emerged and slouched towards the High Street. Mendick followed a short distance behind on the opposite side of the road. He did not see Sturrock but knew he would be there. Mendick took the usual precautions of not looking at his quarry directly, of matching his footsteps so their feet hit the ground simultaneously and there was no distinctive click-clack of heels against paving stones for Durward to notice, and of looking around so he was aware of every side street and close mouth.
Durward walked quickly and did not look behind him but still Mendick remained at a distance and well out of his line of sight. When the seaman lingered to look in the Hammermen Tavern at the corner of the Overgate, Mendick hurried in front, stopped at a shop to buy a newspaper and only re-emerged when he saw Sturrock saunter past, whistling tunelessly.
“Step out, Sturrock, I will follow you.” Mendick said and lagged behind, keeping Sturrock in sight as they headed west to where the High Street merged with Nethergate and then onto the more open prosperity and fine villas of the Perth Road.
Durward became more cautious when they reached these more spacious and quieter surroundings. He paused twice to look behind him, and Mendick signalled for Sturrock to disappear up one of the side streets while he again took over the lead position. They passed the splendid Airlie Place and the seaman turned left and hurried down Roseangle with its detached villas and on to the open space of Magdalen Green. He stopped much more often to turn and peer around, now stopping every ten or twenty steps. Mendick swore softly, either Durward was becoming nervous because he was getting close to his destination or he suspected he was being followed.
Spotting a small thicket on his left, Mendick stopped and pretended to light his pipe. He signalled for Sturrock to take over his position and then hurried on. He overtook Durward on the opposite side of the road, paused to check the time on the cheap metal watch that had replaced his own and lengthened his stride as if he had just realised he was late for an appointment.
A hundred yards past the entrance to Magdalen Place, Mendick stopped again and looked back. The street was empty: Durward had cut off somewhere. He cursed and doubled back, to see Sturrock striding down Magdalen Place.
“I’ve lost him,” Mendick admitted. “I thought he saw me so I overtook him, but I think he took fright and ran.”
Sturrock shook his head. “He went into the servant’s entrance of one of the houses at the top of Magdalen Place.”
“Well done, Sturrock. Which house?” Mendick stood in the shadow of a tall tree, looking up the short cul-de-sac.
“Juniper Lea,” Sturrock pointed it out, “that’s the one . . .”
“I know Juniper Lea,” Mendick said. He remembered the bumbling, slightly nervous Adam Leslie with his dominant wife and the two daughters. “I know it very well indeed.” Was Durward China Jim? Was Durward using the Leslie’s house as a base for his murders?
“Should we go in and arrest him?” Sturrock reached inside his coat for his staff.
Mendick shook his head. “Not yet. We know where he is. You keep guard over the house just now, but don’t be seen.”
“If he leaves, should I follow him?” Sturrock asked.
“Most assuredly, but if he does not leave, then I will call in person by-and-by, and I won’t be seen either. I think Mr Durward may have more than just a watch for us.” Mendick produced his pipe, turned his back against the rain and stuffed tobacco into the bowl. “That is Adam Leslie’s house, Sturrock, and a more charming gentleman never drew breath.”
“Is he China Jim?” Sturrock asked
Mendick applied a Lucifer to his tobacco and puffed it to a red glow. “I do not know,” he said truthfully, “but I will admit to being surprised if he is. At present my money is on some third party who Durward works for. Durward is a seaman who appears to have some grudge against Gilbride.”
Sturrock examined the street of beautiful classical villas. “Maybe Leslie doesn’t know that his servant works for China Jim? This is hardly the environment I would expect to find a murderer, Sergeant. It is most eminently respectable.”
“Wickedness can hide under the most benign front,” Mendick retorted, “and the smile of the devil deceives all who are unaware.” He puffed out aromatic smoke that merged with the rain. “I would not be at all surprised if China Jim is preparing to rob Mr Leslie and our good Durward is his method of access into the house.” He pointed the stem of his pipe at Juniper Lea. “But I do not want the servant, Sturrock. I want China Jim and tarry-jack here will be the key that locks him securely in the condemned cell.”
The afternoon rain gave way to an evening of cloud that drifted in from the Tay and wrapped grey tendrils around the gardens and houses of Magdalen Place. Mendick walked in the shadows of the garden walls, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound and his grey jacket and trousers making him indistinguishable in the gloom. He stopped opposite and slightly short of Juniper Lea and saw that the windows appeared unlit. Either the family were early bedders or they had already secured the internal shutters for security.
Rather than attempt the squeaking gate, Mendick climbed up onto the wall, swore as he cut a hand on the broken glass protecting the top and dropped into the Leslie’s garden. He lay amidst a clump of fuchsia, listened to the immediate silence and the distant rumbling of the city and then crept closer to the front door. The haar thickened, blown in by a soft wind, and when he heard the jingle of harness and the clip of a horse’s hooves he slipped close to the front door and hid around the corner of the house. He watched the gig lamps throw their beam of light onto the street and highlight the intertwined initials on the gate.
“Halloa!” A bulky man jumped down from the driver’s perch and shouted at the house. “I said halloa there!”
One of the shutters behind an upstairs window opened and the light from the room glowed yellow. Voices sounded faintly from inside with only Mrs Leslie’s sharp tones discernible. “See who that is, James. Take the gun.”
The door opened and James the driver stood, a lantern in his left hand and a large pistol in his right. He peered at the cab parked at the bottom of the garden, but rather than shout and further disturb the respectable neighbourhood, he walked down the drive in his black coat, with his seaman’s gait telling its own story and the pistol held ready. Mendick nodded. James and Durward were one and the same person. Durward was the faceless man who could merge with a crowd: a human chameleon.
“Halloa!” Sturrock bellowed for the third time as James gestured with the gun to keep him quiet. “Is this where Isiah MacPherson lives?”
“No, it is not! Be off with you, you scoundrel!”
Under cover of this diversion Mendick slipped inside the open door. He remembered the layout of the house from his previous visit and headed downstairs, unlocked a broom cupboard at the foot of the stairs, stepped into the darkest corner and waited for the house to quieten down.
He heard the murmur of voices, footsteps passing and re-passing his hiding place, heard the impatient tut of Mrs Leslie, a muttered “I must speak to Mary about locking doors,” and the faint snick of the key turning in the cupboard lock and then the drum of feet on the stairs. There was the rattle of a door opening, a click as it shut and Mendick remained still; w,iting. A few moments later he heard the sound of a horse and the grind of wheels on gravel; the family had left the house. He was alone inside a locked cupboard in Juniper Lea and all the night was before him.
Mendick reached for his outsider, a pair of thin-jawed pliers which he inserted into the keyhole and used to grasp the butt of the key and turn it until the lock clicked. He pushed the door open. He was at the beginning of a short corridor with three closed doors, two had keys still in their locks.
The first door opened to an unused bedroom. Mendick checked quickly: a box bed with a straw mattress and a pitcher and ewer on top of a cheap wooden chest. The chest was empty, the floorboards screwed in place and there were no hidden corners in the room; this room held no interest for him. The second door had no key visible, Mendick guessed the maidservant was inside and moved on. The last door opened to James’ room.
Mendick took the key and entered the room. It was a mirror image of the first room with a similar box bed and chest, this one obviously inhabited, with covers on the bed and the chest decorated and carved with the initials A. C. Mendick frowned. Who was A.C? Was that another alias for Durward or perhaps even the man’s real initials?
He lifted the lid. The chest contained the usual knick-knacks and souvenirs collected over years at sea. There was an assortment of clothes, a seaman’s knife and a leather belt. A carved whale puzzled Mendick for a moment before he realised its possible significance. He held the whale in his hand, closed his fist and breathed out slowly.
It was a piece of scrimshaw: baleen from the whale’s jaw, carefully shaped with a knife into the likeness of a whale. Durward had been a Greenlandman like Iain Grant, yet his name had not been on any of the crew lists; at least not under any of the aliases that Mendick knew. Mendick shrugged. Every year hundreds of Dundee men went whaling in many different ships. Durward may never have sailed on Rose Flammock in his life, but somehow, he suspected that he had, and in 1842.
There was nothing else of interest in the room. Mendick looked in the bed, under the bed and felt the straw mattress. He checked the floorboards for signs of tampering; he checked the walls for hidden compartments but found nothing. There were no housebreaking tools, no store of stolen watches, nothing to incriminate Durward. In a fit of frustration, Mendick lifted the chest and turned it upside down, hoping for a false bottom, but once more he found nothing. The chest was simply a chest.
A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders Page 23
