by Michael Sims
“And then I carried him all the way to the hole on my back, and I got a rope and I rolled it round him in good knots, and then I tied the rope to a good sized boulder, and I rolled him and the boulder to the bottom together! But tell me now,” he added, sinking his voice to a whisper, “how did he get up again? How ever did he get up again?”
Of course, this we can only surmise; the rope might have got damaged in the roll of rock and body down the bank, and remaining attached to the feet, had given below, and given until it allowed the unfastened part of the corpse to reach the surface, and then slackened more from the rock below until the feet also were able to find the surface. This is the most likely solution of the difficulty, for the rope, when the corpse was removed, was still found attached to both the body and the rock.
Dick the Devil was punished for his crime, but where and when, it is unnecessary for me to state.
James McGovan
(William Crawford Honeyman)
(1845–1919)
In 1873 a series of well-written articles began appearing in the People’s Journal in Edinburgh. Narrated by local policeman James McGovan, they recounted the everyday working life of a metropolitan detective. “McGovan” was known to be an alias, to hide the identity of the insider who was providing these fascinating, realistic, and drily witty behind-the-scenes accounts. The series was compared to the autobiographical books by an earlier Edinburgh detective, James McLevy, which had begun appearing in 1849.
Five years after McGovan’s series began, the first collection of cases appeared—Brought to Bay; or, Experiences of a City Detective. Other collections followed: Hunted Down, Strange Clues, Traced and Tracked, and a last one in 1888, Solved Mysteries. The next year the Publishers’ Circular proclaimed McGovan’s articles “the best detective stories (true stories, we esteem them) that we ever met with.”
McGovan’s realistic, straightforward approach—his lack of manufactured melodrama—can be seen even in his articles’ titles: “A Servant’s Heavy Trunk,” “The Wrong Umbrella,” “The Murdered Tailor’s Watch.” Many of his cases began with ordinary encounters on the Edinburgh streets. Readers glimpsed the detective’s easy camaraderie with colleagues and even with the small-time crooks he arrested one day and sought information from the next. In one story, “The Romance of a Real Cremona,” a grand ball provides enough confusing flurry to hide the theft of a musician’s violin. Dragged reluctantly into this affair, McGovan makes little effort to conceal his impatience with fanatical musicians: “Mr. Turner had a craze for buying fiddles which he never did, and never could, play upon, and I mentally placed him in the same position as a bibliomaniac, who would sell his soul to get hold of some old musty volume not worth reading, simply because it happened to be the only copy in existence.”
As he wrote this case, the author must have been smirking every time he dipped his quill into the ink, because he was actually a fanatical violinist himself. There was no James McGovan. The author behind the name did not work in a police department and never had. The stories were fiction. They were written by a violinist and orchestra leader at the Leith Theatre, who was also a writer and editor on the staff of the People’s Journal—William Crawford Honeyman, described by a friend as a small, spade-bearded, bandy-legged man who was seldom seen without his violin case. Born in New Zealand, Honeyman had grown up in Edinburgh, where he performed often and served as judge of many traditional fiddle contests. The books under his own name don’t sound likely to have generated the sort of income that the McGovan stories earned: The Violin: How to Master It and Strathspey and Reel Tutor, not to mention Scottish Violin Makers Past and Present. Fortunately for him and us, he was drawn to write fiction as well and bequeathed us stylish and amusing—and, in this case, somewhat horrific—entertainments.
The Mysterious Human Leg
The leg was found by some boys in a backyard off the Grass-market, and as it was wrapped in a newspaper they thought it was a piece of beef, and each wanted it all to himself. The one who ran off with it, however, and got away from all the others by his superior swiftness, had no sooner examined his prize in a safe place than he felt weak about the legs, and set it down very hastily and tottered off to get a policeman. Then the place where it had been found had to be shown, and was easily identified by some blood stains; and the leg was brought to the Central, and the boy also, for examination. It was the left leg of a man neatly taken off at the knee joint with a bevelled slash off the flesh at each side for overlapping purposes, which plainly pointed to the hand of a practised surgeon. The cause of the amputation was also plain, for the bone had been smashed and splintered beyond repair, as if by a bullet hitting it; but what was most puzzling was the presence of some dozens of common carpet tacks which had been propelled into the flesh and had remained there. The leg appeared to have been not many hours away from its original owner, so I naturally turned to the night policeman on the beat, whom I had to rouse out of bed for the purpose. I did not expect to get a clue of any kind, but I was surprised to get a very good one. The policeman had seen a man pass out of that close about three o’clock in the morning, and he had the idea that the man was a student who was sometimes sent to people who were too poor to pay a doctor. He did not know the student’s name or his address, but he described him as red haired and having a slight limp, as if one leg were shorter than the other. He had spoken to the student in passing, but though he had gone into the close he had not thought of looking over a low wall into the yard where the leg was afterwards found. It seemed to me very unlikely that a student would throw away a good leg undissected, so I was doubtful of a connection, but I went out to the front of the College on chance and watched every student who entered. About one o’clock a troop of them came up from the Surgical Hospital in Infirmary Street, and I instantly spotted one who answered the description perfectly. He was a frank-faced, gentlemanly-looking fellow, and was laughing gaily with a companion when I accosted him, so I expected to have no difficulty whatever.
“You are a medical student I think, and attend cases of the poor?” I began as I drew him aside.
“Yes, sometimes,” he said sobering down somewhat and summing me up on the spot as I could see.
“Were you at a case last night near the Grassmarket?” I continued.
“Are you a policeman in plain clothes?” he suddenly asked without replying to my question.
“Oh, well: something of that kind,” I answered.
“Well,” and he paused a little, and in the greatest good humour bestowed upon me a knowing wink, “I was not out last night at all.”
I was staggered, and I must have looked the feeling for his grin became broader, and he was moving off when I suddenly held up a hand and said:—
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” he smilingly answered.
“And you know nothing about a lost human leg?” I continued.
“Nothing. What about it?” he answered with tantalising coolness and such widely opened eyes that I felt sure that he was laughing in his sleeve.
“Oh, nothing, except that I should like to get hold of the rest of the leg and the man at the end of it,” I replied, feeling that he had the best of it. “He did not get a bullet through his bones for nothing, to say nothing of the carpet tacks. I suppose you cannot even explain the carpet tacks?”
“Quite out of my power, I assure you,” he beamingly returned, “Might I ask your name?”
“M’Govan—James M’Govan,” I responded, trying to look crusty, but not succeeding.
“Ah, I seem to have heard the name before—sort of detective or something, aren’t you?” he airily continued. “Well, mine is Robert Manson, and I lodge in Lothian Street, No. 30. I’m rather pressed for time just now, so good-bye,” and away he went quite undisturbed.
“The rascal knows all about it, but has made up his mind to keep the secret,” was my thought as I watched him disappear. “However, no one has lodged a complaint as to a bullet smash or a lost leg, so t
hings must develop a little before I can force his hand.”
For some days after this failure I took to haunting the Grassmarket district after College hours in the hope of meeting Manson on a visit to the former owner of the leg, but fully a week elapsed before my wish was gratified, and then it was in a curious fashion. I was coming down the West Port at an easy pace when I heard the sound of two men in dispute near the foot of the Vennel, and I crossed the street into the shade to have a look at them, when I was surprised to find that one of them was Manson and the other a pickpocket named Pete Swift. The student was swearing at the other roundly, and telling him to be off, but a whisper from Swift seemed to pull him up, for he at length took some money from his pocket and gave it to the thief, and then moved off along the Grassmarket and vanished.
As soon as Manson was gone I crossed the street and intercepted Swift as he was moving away up the West Port.
“What have you been about now?” I sharply demanded.
“Nothing, s’elp me bob!” he protested, trying to edge past.
“You were begging—I saw you at it,” I persisted.
“Begging? I never begged in my life!” he cried, looking as indignant as a clerk might look if accused of soiling his hands with manual labour. “Ye know that.”
“I saw you get the money, so come along,” I firmly answered, getting out the handcuffs, but he had a particular reason for disliking arrest just at that moment, and he made a bolt to get away, and, as I had to throw out the hand with the bracelets, he got an ugly bruise over the temple, which bled freely all the way to the Central, and caused him to lodge a complaint of having been treated with unnecessary violence. When he was searched, however, I began to have a dim idea of the nature of his crime, for in his breast pocket I found a letter addressed to a Mrs. Graham in Pitt Street, bearing an unobliterated stamp, and which was written in a strain not usually adopted when addressing a married woman. The letter began with “Dearest Nelly,” and was signed “Your loving Bob,” and was as like that of a lover addressing his sweetheart as any letter could be. The letter appeared to have been torn open with a rough hand, and was considerably soiled through being for some time in Pete’s dirty pocket. When it was brought out Pete pulled on a stagey look of surprise to convey the idea that we had placed it there by some very clever conjuring.
“Where did you get this letter?” I said. “Is it your own?”
“Blest if I ever clapped eyes on it till this minute,” he solemnly protested. “Must ’a’ fallen into my pocket out o’ some winder. Them things is al’ys flyin’ about.” And while we laughed consumedly Pete kept on a demure look of owl-like solemnity which would have done credit to a Judge at a murder trial.
“It doesn’t belong to you then?” I continued.
“Certainly not,” he said with a virtuous look. “I can’t write.”
“You can read,” I sceptically remarked, “and I think I’ve seen you write your name. This letter seems to have been intended to be posted, but perhaps was intercepted. Letter-stealing is a very serious charge.”
Pete winced at the hint, and coughed uneasily.
“Then I hopes you’ll get the villin that put it into my pocket,” he anxiously remarked.
“Maybe we’ve got him already,” I cheerfully responded. “Any idea who wrote it?”
Pete had an appreciation of humour when the joke came from himself; he was as dull as ditch-water when it was levelled at him, so he assumed a stolid look and said:—
“Not the least.”
“It might have been written by a student,” I suggestively remarked.
Pete started painfully and eyed me with great concern. “Perhaps his name is Robert Manson,” I continued. Pete’s face grew sickly in hue, and he asked leave to sit down—he evidently wished, now that it was too late, that he had said nothing.
“But it will be easy to find that out by asking Manson himself,” I calmly added, as Pete’s silence grew painful. “Perhaps it has been a case of blackmailing.”
Pete still had no reply to make, and so he was marched off to the cells till I could discover what he had been about. Students are noted for keeping late hours, so I had no scruples in making direct for Manson’s lodgings in Lothian Street, in which I found him comfortably seated, smoking after his supper and studying a book at the same time. He seemed quite surprised on recognising me, but quickly recovered and offered me a chair.
“You did not tell me the strict truth the other day,” I casually remarked as I took the seat. “I called here immediately after and learned that you had been called out the night before to an urgent case.”
“Ah, indeed!” he said, affecting to make a powerful effort at recollecting his professional engagements. “Quite possible. I have so many calls of the kind. This is my last year at College.”
“You took your amputating instruments with you,” I pursued, “and also some chloroform—the landlady smelt it as you went out.”
“Very likely,” he musingly responded. “Have a cigar?” I took the cigar, and he hastened to help me to light it.
“I suppose you did nothing wrong, that you have any interest in concealing?” I said, at last.
“Oh dear, no—a doctor can’t afford to do that,” he firmly answered. “I never do anything wrong.”
“Indeed, then you’re an exception to most men,” I laughingly observed. “Is it a professional secret?”
“Hem—well—yes, something of that kind,” he cautiously answered, puffing hard at the cigar; “but, to tell you the truth, I wish now I had never gone out at all that night.”
“You don’t say so?” I exclaimed, trying to look astonished. “After complications?”
“Well, no, not in the case—that went all right,” he gloomily answered; “but I lost some papers that night, or had them taken from me, of no use to any one but the owner, of course, but still such as I should rather have in my own possession.”
“Some record of experiments, no doubt,” I said, helpfully.
“Em—well, no,” he answered, a little in doubt of me.
“Diploma maybe?” I continued.
“Oh, bless you, no—haven’t taken that yet, but expect to at the end of the session,” he hastily returned.
“Accounts, maybe—or letters?” I gently insinuated.
“Em—well, yes—something of that kind,” he uneasily faltered.
“Nothing that I could get hold of for you, I suppose?” I suggested.
“I’m afraid not—it’s too well guarded,” he gloomily answered, “but I would do anything for you if you could get it. The fact is, Mr. M’Govan, it’s a love letter, and one to be understood only by the lady to whom it was addressed.”
“Most love letters are of that description,” I sadly observed. “I used to write them once, so I know; to the callous outsider they are pure drivel.”
I waited for him to say more, but he was fidgety and suspicious, and remained silent, so at last I said:—
“Are you afraid of a breach of promise case?”
“No; a breach of peace would be more likely,” he grimly answered.
“Oh!—her father object?”
“No, no—she has no fathers—she’s an old sweetheart, that’s all.” I looked at him fixedly, and then said:—
“Do you mean that she is old, or that she was once your sweetheart?
“Once my sweetheart,” he answered, flushing slightly.
“And now a widow, eh?”
“N—n—no—she’s not a widow yet,” he slowly admitted, and he signed drearily as if he wished she were.
I lay back and whistled aloud.
“Then you’ve been making love to another man’s wife,” I said at last.
“It would look like that to anyone who didn’t under-stand,” he hurriedly returned. “She and I know better.”
“Imphm—they always say those things!” I dryly observed. “You seem to be in a tight place.”
“Condemned tight!” he impressively rejoi
ned, with a painfully troubled look. “If I once get out of this fix I’ll never get into another.”
“Well, I think I can help you out of the mess on two conditions,” I quietly said at last, taking pity on him.
“Good!—I knew you were a good soul. I agree to them,” he eagerly responded.
“The first is that you promise never to write to the same lady again, or to try to see her while she has a husband.”
“Oh, I agree to that; it’s really not safe, and scarcely right,” he readily assented.
“And the second is that you tell me all about that amputation case. I have the leg, but want the other end of the man who owned it.”
“And you’ll get me the letter without the possibility of it reaching her husband?”
“I will.”
“Then it’s a bargain!” he said, in profoundest relief. “All I know about the business is that I was called up at one o’clock in the morning to see a man with a smashed leg. I was promised a sovereign to remain secret and the money was paid down before I started for the place. The man who came may have been a garroter or a house-breaker, for he had gallows bird written all over his face, and I took care to leave my watch and spare cash at home and to keep one of my amputating knives open and ready in my overcoat pocket. He said the leg might have to be cut off, so I took some chloroform with me. I have been sent to several cases among the poor down in the Grassmarket and the West Port, so I suppose they knew my address through that. Well, when we got to the Grassmarket my guide asked me to let myself be blindfolded, and I consented, and I was then led, so far as I could guess, to a house in the West Port, where I found my patient lying. He was a strong man, but he was weak enough with pain and loss of blood, and I saw in a minute that the leg had to go, and gave him the chloroform with the assistance of my guide, and soon had the leg off. I made a good job of it, considering that I worked almost alone and with a bad light, and then I asked for the leg as an extra perquisite, and took it away wrapped in a newspaper and hidden under my coat. I was again blindfolded and taken back to the Grassmarket, where my guide suddenly left me. When I snatched off the bandage I guessed the cause of his haste, for not far off was the night policeman, and I ducked into a close-mouth till he should pass; but in a little he came poking along shining his lamp in on me, and I got scared and threw the leg over a wall, and walked boldly out before him and got away home.”
