A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders

by Malcolm Archibald

  The mist was beginning to clear, wafting across the ruins of the church and retreating to the Gowrie Burn. Already there was a sliver of silver above the Tay as the sun crept up, and the darkness of the sky was changing to grey; the song of a solitary blackbird pierced the morning.

  “Now Jonathan will never be avenged!” Mrs Leslie writhed on the ground as she attempted to get closer to Old Andy. “Release me! Release me so I can finish the job!”

  “Justice has not yet been done!” Louise spoke through her anguish, and clutched her injured arm. Sarah nodded, chewing fervently on a piece of Old Andy’s flesh.

  “It shall be, soon.” Mendick controlled the shaking of his hand as he lifted Sturrock’s official staff. “Mrs Adam Leslie, Sarah Leslie and Louise Leslie, I arrest you all on the charge of murder.” He looked at Old Andy, bleeding within the confines of his bonds and added softly, “And cannibalism, God help us all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “So, tell me what it was all about.” Johanna stood with her feet sinking into the soft sand and tiny waves breaking around her ankles.

  “It is not a pleasant story,” Mendick said, “perhaps not for delicate ears.”

  Johanna lifted a stone and skimmed it across the water, counting the splashes, “Seven, eight, nine . . . if it is not for delicate ears, James, I suggest you do not mention it to any such. Now, tell me what it was all about, please.”

  Mendick saw the challenge in those green eyes and smiled. Here was no milk-and-water girl but a grown woman with a mind of her own. “As you wish, Johanna. You will remember that young Jonathan Grandison was a Greenman, a first voyager on Mr Gilbride’s whaling ship Rose Flammock. You painted his picture, together with the whaleboat crew. Iain Grant was the harpooner, and there was Robert Milne, David Thoms, Andrew Souter and David Torrie.”

  “I remember,” Johanna waved to John, who was running knee-deep in the water and laughing at the high, splashing spray. “I love it when he’s happy,” she said. “And I hate to think he will be going to school soon. Childhood is so short and so precious. We don’t make enough of it as parents, don’t you think?”

  “I never had the chance to find out,” Mendick said.

  “No, no, of course not.” Johanna placed her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, James. I did not mean to open old hurts. Pray continue.”

  “Before they left Dundee, Mrs Leslie, the mother of Jonathan Grandison by her first marriage, made the five members of the boat’s crew swear to look after her son. They all swore a solemn oath and she rewarded them with five sovereigns each. That’s good money for a sea labourer.”

  “I know, James.” Johanna gave her quiet smile. “I was not always married to a wealthy man.”

  They began to walk along the edge of the sea, hands touching slightly, and Johanna turning constantly to watch the antics of her son.

  “They sailed in Rose Flammock, in early spring of 1842, bound for the Davis Straits whale fishery. They were off Cape Farewell at the southern tip of Greenland when the master sighted a whale and sent out the whaleboats. As you know, Jonathan Grandison was in Iain Grant’s boat. All was fine for a while and then a fog closed in, as happens in those latitudes. All the whaleboats were lost in the fog.”

  Johanna stopped to lift an intricate shell and show it to John who looked for a moment then returned to his private world in the waves.

  “All of them were lost?” She asked. “But I know Alex Grant brought his back safely. He was a hero in Dundee.”

  “One boat was lost with all hands, one was picked up by another whaling ship and Grant brought his back to Rose Flammock after two weeks in the Arctic. He brought all the men back alive except Jonathan Grandison who had died of exposure.” Mendick darted into the waves and caught John as he stumbled. He held the small, warm body for a moment and then put the boy down, aware that Johanna was watching him very closely.

  “One minor detail was omitted, Johanna. Jonathan Grandison did not die of exposure, he was murdered and eaten by the other men in the boat.” Mendick waited for the words to sink in as he watched John splash away into the long surf.

  “There were rumours,” Johanna said at last, “but I did not want to believe them.” She was quiet for a while as they continued to walk along the beach. “That poor boy.” She looked towards John and Mendick knew she was vowing never to let her son go to sea. “Do you know how it happened?”

  “I do now,” Mendick said. “The boat was completely cut off from the ship, the men could see only the fog, and when that cleared they were surrounded by brash ice with some bergy bits – like small ice floes – and no sign of the ship anywhere.”

  Johanna watched as John ran after a small flock of oyster-catchers, clapping his hands. The birds lifted, piping at him, flew a few yards and returned to the beach. “They are so innocent at that age, aren’t they? How old was Jonathan?”

  “He was fourteen,” Mendick said. “Just a boy.”

  “Just a boy.” Johanna watched her son and Mendick knew she was picturing him in an open boat out in the Arctic, surrounded by icebergs.

  “I asked Old Andy and Durward, or Andrew Couper as his real name may be, what had happened and they both gave me their versions of the story. They were not quite the same, but close enough. After a few days the men were losing hope, they were suffering from frostbite and hunger. They decided they should kill and eat one of their number in order to save the lives of the others.”

  “And Jonathan was chosen?” Johanna asked.

  “They drew lots,” Mendick said, “but it was fixed and Jonathan lost. According to both men he cried and pleaded for his life, but they held him down. They stripped Jonathan and ate the flesh from his thighs and . . .” Mendick looked at Johanna. “Well, they murdered and ate him.”

  “So my friend Iain Grant was not a hero then.” Johanna looked sad. “He was such a gentleman, too.”

  “Perhaps we all have some measure of darkness within us,” Mendick said. “But we do not realise it until we face real danger. When Rose came back to Dundee most of that boat’s crew left the sea. Only Iain Grant continued, but the secret remained until Durward found a job as Leslie’s coachman and handyman. He had not known Jonathan was Mrs Leslie’s son of course, she had changed her name after her second marriage.”

  Johanna waded into the sea and picked up John. She carried him onto the beach and held him as they walked. “That must have come as a huge shock to them both.”

  “I expect so, but Durward got drunk one night and told what was really a shipboard secret. Mrs Leslie sent him into Gilbride’s to find the addresses of the boat’s crew and . . . ” Mendick shrugged, “once she discovered the truth, she planned her revenge on the men who had, in her mind, betrayed and murdered her son.” Mendick watched as Johanna held John even closer and kissed him on his forehead.

  “And Durward helped?” Johanna walked on, her feet in the sea and her arms wrapped closely around her son.

  “He did. He found the men, Sarah Leslie rendered them senseless with chloroform and all three Leslie women butchered them.” Mendick pulled out his pipe and stuffed tobacco into the bowl. He watched a brig batter its way past the sandbars with half a dozen hands struggling along the yards and wondered how best to ask Johanna his question.

  “So where did China Jim come into it?” Johanna put John back on the sand and watched him scamper away towards the oyster-catchers.

  “China Jim was Mr Leslie: Adam James Leslie. He was not involved in the murders at all.” Mendick said. “When he married Mrs Leslie, he moved into her house. He was a small crockery merchant and he could not make enough money to keep her and her family in the style they were used to, so he turned to crime. In his case crime meant whisky smuggling.”

  “It’s sad,” Johanna said. “A sad story.”

  “All murders are sad,” agreed Mendick. “They are always sordid, horrible affairs, usually involving people who just can’t cope with their lives or who have too much to drink.”

&nb
sp; They turned around and headed back to Unicorn Cottage, the sun glinting silver from the sea and highlighting the fields of Fife. Johanna reached out and took hold of his hand. Her grip was strong. They did not look at each other but he was aware of every movement she made, every slightly-emphasised swing of her hips, every turn of her head and every loose strand of her hair. He measured every step of their journey, sick with the bittersweet, agonised pleasure of her company yet knowing it might be the last time he ever saw her.

  They reached the gates of Unicorn Cottage and he had to speak.

  “Johanna,” the words were stilted in his own ears. “I have something to ask you.”

  Her smile was as beautiful as ever, with that little dimple forming at the left side of her mouth. She raised her eyebrows. “I know. You’ve been thinking about how to say it,” she allowed her eyelids to dip, “whatever it may be.”

  Mendick closed his mind to the memory of Emma lying in her deathbed. “When I go back to London,” he said. “I’d like you to come with me.” He held up his hand as Johanna began to speak. “Now, hear me out please, before you say anything.”

  “Carry on,” Johanna looked out to sea. She kept her hand tight in his.

  “You are in a loveless marriage, Johanna, married to a man you hardly ever see, yet alone speak to. He ignores young John here. I would be with you every evening unless I was on duty, and I would be as good a father to John as I could be.” He saw her slowly shaking her head, her smile more wistful than he liked. “It would not be perfect, Johanna; I do not make as much money as Gordon, and I never will, but I do love you . . .” he stopped as she placed two fingers on his lips.

  “Hush, James. Please. You are only hurting us both.” She was shaking her head, “I will make this short, James. I cannot go back to London with you.”

  “Johanna,” Mendick saw the deep sadness in her eyes reflecting his own. Pain tore horizontally across his chest. “I will take good care of you and I am growing fond of the boy.”

  “No, James.” Johanna said again. “You are correct in a lot of what you say. Gordon and I do not love one another. I do believe you love me. I truly do, James, and I know you would be a good husband.”

  “But?” Mendick said, “you are about to say, ‘but,’” he forced a smile.

  “I am,” she said, “and it is a large ‘but’.” She placed her hands on his arms and swivelled him around to face John. “There it is. John. My son.”

  “John?” Mendick frowned, “I will look after John. I like the little tyke. There’s no ‘but’ there, Johanna.”

  She was shaking her head again, with that soft, twisted smile he had learned meant bad news. “Yes, there is, James. What you propose is beautiful, but it is not practical. Please, please, James, think about the practicalities here . . .” For an instant her face fell and he saw deep pain in her eyes, “Oh, God. I hate being practical sometimes,” then the smile masked her sadness once more. “James, as a police sergeant, how much will you earn . . . no. Don’t tell me you might make lieutenant some time. I know you have the capability, but how long would that take? Five years? Ten?”

  “Perhaps five,” Mendick agreed cautiously.

  “In five years John will be ten. Gordon will send him to school in two years time. That will be hard for John and hard for me, but it will prepare him for the best possible start in life. That’s what money does, James.” Johanna watched her son. “I will do anything for him James, anything to make his life secure, and that takes money. With Gordon he will go to the best schools, get the best education and inherit a great deal of wealth, property and position.”

  Mendick felt the tear in his chest deepen. “I see.” He looked away.

  “James . . .” she put a soft hand on his chin and turned his face towards her. “Please try to understand. Don’t hate me, James.”

  “I could never hate you,” Mendick tried to smile. “Of course I understand, your son means everything to you.”

  Johanna nodded slowly. “When you told me about Jonathan I pictured John in that situation . . .” she sighed. “With Gordon’s money behind him he will never know danger, or real fear.”

  “And us?” Mendick said, “What about us?”

  She gripped his hand again, squeezed it hard and slowly withdrew, allowing her fingers to drift away from his. “There can never be an ‘us’, James.”

  The pain twisted inside him. A broad band that compressed his chest and tore him apart from the inside. He did not want a life without Johanna: he could not face the world without hearing her gurgling laugh or seeing the flick of her hair across her face, or the sway and roll of her hips or the steel wisdom of her eyes. And yet, even as he fought the agony, he knew that same practical wisdom had gone right to the heart of the matter and found the truth. John was central to her life and Gordon could give him a better future than he ever could.

  Johanna was right, and in that moment Mendick realised he was more like China Jim or Mrs Leslie than he had realised. While Adam Leslie hid his criminal activities behind the façade of a respectable businessman, and Mrs Leslie concealed her abominations by playing the mother and wife, he was guilty of courting another man’s wife whilst acting as a guardian of law, order and justice. Many people pretended to be something they were not and in each case the motive for deception was similar. Adam Leslie turned to crime out of love for his wife and family. Mrs Leslie murdered and cannibalised out of a warped love for her son, and he – James Mendick – loved and would always love a woman he could never have.

  He watched as she walked away from him, straight-backed and proud. She entered Unicorn House and did not look back and Mendick held the dream as long as he was able. Johanna would always be with him, locked inside his memories, but his life was one of duty, not tenderness. Life, he knew, could never be that kind. If he held onto that dream he would only hurt himself.

  With her pennant sagging in the July heat, the Dundee Perth and London steamer slogged to her berth in the Thames. Sergeant James Mendick of Scotland Yard jerked his handcuffs so that his prisoner walked beside him. “Back home, Thatcher; say hello to London. You’ll soon be on your way to somewhere even sunnier.”

  “Bugger you, Mendick.” Thatcher rattled the handcuffs. “There’s not a jail in Van Diemen’s Land that can hold me.”

  They stepped onto the quay and pushed through the crowds. It was good to be back in London. Although his memories of Dundee no longer festered, Mendick thought of Johanna and tried to ignore the new tearing ache within him.

  “Mendick?” The man was in civilian clothes and his large nose betrayed French ancestry. “You managed to get back then.”

  “Restiaux,” Mendick shook his hand. “Good to see you again.”

  “I have something of yours,” Sergeant Restiaux fished in his pocket and produced a silver watch. “I took it from a seaman on a smuggling sloop.”

  Mendick held the watch secure. “Thank you, Restiaux, I value this. Emma gave me it.” He fell into step beside Restiaux with Thatcher stumbling between them. The steamer would be returning to Dundee soon, back to Johanna.

  For Cathy

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Iain Flett and staff of Dundee Archives for their help in searching through the police records, the staff at the Central Library Dundee for their patience while I read through hundreds of Victorian newspapers and Rhona Rodger and Fiona Sinclair of Dundee Museums and Art Galleries for allowing me to sift through the whaling journals in Barrack Street. Also, I would like to thank Clare Cain of Fledgling for her incredible patience in editing this book.

  Malcolm Archibald was born in Edinburgh and holds a history degree from Dundee University and a Masters in Urban History from Dundee University. Malcolm has worked as a lecturer and in historical research as well as in a variety of other jobs.

  He writes mainly historical fiction with the occasional venture into folklore and believes that history should be accessible to everyone. A winner of The Dundee Book Prize 200
5, he has published several novels with us. Among the most notable are Powerstone, Mother Law and The Darkest Walk. Malcolm lives in Moray with his wife Cathy.

  Books by Malcolm Archibald

  www.malcolmarchibald.com

  Bridges, Islands and Villages of the Forth: Lang Syne Press, 1990

  Scottish Battles: Chambers, 1990

  Scottish Myths and Legends: Chambers, 1992

  Scottish Animal and Bird Folklore: St Andrew Press, 1996

  Across the Pond: Chapters from the Atlantic: Whittles, 2001

  Soldier of the Queen: Fledgling Press, 2003

  Whalehunters, Dundee and the Arctic Whalers: Mercat, 2004

  Whales for the Wizard:Polygon Press, 2005,

  Dundee Book Prize 2005

  Horseman of the Veldt: Fledgling Press, 2005

  Selkirk of the Fethan: Fledgling Press, 2005

  Aspects of the Boer War: Fledgling Press, 2005

  Mother Law: A Parchment for Dundee: Fledgling Press, 2006

  Pryde’s Rock: Severn House, 2007

  Powerstone: Fledgling Press, 2008

  The Darkest Walk: Fledgling Press, 2011

  A Sink of Atrocity: Crime of 19th Century Dundee: Black and White Publishing, 2012

  Glasgow: The Real Mean City: True Crime and Punishment in the Second City of Empire: Black and White Publishing, 2013