A Carriage For Lochee E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In Sergeant George Watters' next case, the Dundee policeman finds himself dealing with local susceptibilities and international intrigue.

Already involved in closing down a spate of illegal drinking dens in Lochee and Dundee, Watters is ordered to solve a murder and theft of a carriage from an influential Lochee merchant. His investigations take him to a family of tinkers and a group of Russian dissidents, as well as back to an incident that occurred in the Crimean War.

Together with his partner, Detective Scuddamore, can Watters tie up all the ends in this confusing case?

A riveting historical mystery, 'A Carriage For Lochee' is the sixth novel in Malcolm Archibald's series of detective novels set in 19th century Dundee, Scotland.

Leseprobe

A CARRIAGE FOR LOCHEE

DETECTIVE WATTERS MYSTERIES BOOK 6

MALCOLM ARCHIBALD

CONTENTS

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Appendix One

Appendix Two

About the Author

Notes

Copyright (C) 2022 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For Cathy

This book is dedicated to the good people of Lochee

“There is hardly a crime committed or a riot perpetrated but that may be referred to the intemperate use of ardent spirits and then mostly in the night time.”

Dundee Police Commission, February 1834.

“The police are at present actively engaged, endeavouring to stamp out a giant evil in the village (Lochee), in the shape of shebeens. It is considered that these illicit traders are in a very great measure to blame for the alarming and ever-increasing amount of Sabbath drinking here. We wish the police every success in their work.”

Dundee Courier, Thursday 23 September 1869

PRELUDE

RIVER ALMA, CRIMEAN PENINSULA, RUSSIAN EMPIRE

20th September 1854

The morning breeze had stilled, allowing the sun’s heat to beat down on the Allied army as they leaned on their rifles and lit their pipes. The men had marched steadily since landing at Kalamita Bay on the south coast of the Crimean peninsula. The pick of the French and British armies, they were sixty-three thousand strong, less the hundreds who had already fallen out with sunstroke, cholera, and exhaustion.

They halted at the downward slope that led to the River Alma. The Russians waited on the opposite bank, occupying the Heights of Alma, confident of their strength. The enemies faced each other in all the panoply of nineteenth-century warfare, the British in scarlet and bearskins, kilts and gold braid, the French in blue and red. Forty thousand strong, the Russian army stood in solid ranks of grey-coated infantry, with thousands of cavalry, including the feared Cossacks, and battery after battery of artillery. They waited in a seemingly impregnable defensive position, looking down at the exhausted, cholera-ridden allies. After nearly forty years of international peace, the nations of Europe were once again at war.

As both sides waited for orders, a strange hush fell, broken only by the ripple of the water and the rustle of a breeze through the riverside brushwood. The British and French soldiers saw the task before them and knew they faced a stiff fight. They would have to descend a steep slope, ford the river and attack uphill, all the time under murderous fire from artillery and massed musketry.

More than one British soldier pointed to the crowd of civilian spectators who sat on a specially erected stand. The sun glittered on raised opera glasses and highlighted the gay colours of women’s dresses while top-hatted dignitaries smoked cheroots and discussed the coming battle.

“Would you look at that?” Captain Charles Ogilvy of the 42nd Highlanders, the Black Watch, said. “The Russkies have brought a horde of women to watch the battle.” He focussed his field glasses on the stand. “They look like aristocrats by their bearing and clothes.”

“The Russian commander, Prince Menschikoff, must be confident of victory,” Lieutenant Robert Menzies replied. “We’re providing entertainment for the wives and mistresses.”

Further down the ranks, Private Ian Craig of the same regiment stamped his boots on the hard ground and nodded to his rear marker, Private William Tosh. “Here we go, Wullie.”m

“Aye,” Tosh sucked on an empty clay pipe. “My first time in battle.”

“Mine too,” Craig admitted. “If the Russkies kill me, take my kit, Wullie, and write home to my folks.”

Tosh grunted. “I’ll do that, and you do the same for me. Watch! Here’s Sir Colin!”

Commanding the Highland Brigade, Sir Colin Campbell lifted his voice to speak to his officers. “This will be a good time for the men to get loose half their cartridges.”

“Aye,” Tosh said knowingly. “Sir Colin wouldnae allow that unless he knew we were going to fight.”

Craig nodded. “There will be empty beds the night and women weeping in the Overgate.”

At half past one in the afternoon, the French began the battle with an attack on the Russian left flank and shortly later, the British launched their frontal assault. The Light and Second Division led the British advance, and then the Highlanders and Guards of the First Division eased down the slope and crossed the Alma River.

“Good luck, Wullie,” Craig said as they reached the far bank. The sound of Russian cannon and musketry greeted them, interspersed with the screams of wounded men.

“You too, Iain.”

The officers gave crisp orders, and the Black Watch formed up and began to march up the slope, where the Light and Second Division were already heavily engaged with the enemy. Russian cannons were busy, firing roundshot and deadly grape into the British ranks, tossing men aside, killing, wounding, and maiming.

Owing to the challenging ground, the three Highland regiments, the 42nd Black Watch, 93rd and 79th, advanced in echelon, one regiment following the next.

“Come on, lads,” Captain Ogilvy shouted. He glanced behind him, seeing his company’s tall bonnets and dark tartan kilts and nodded in satisfaction. He was doing what he had always wanted, leading his fighting Highlanders into battle.

“The Lights are getting it hot,” Craig said.

“It’ll be our turn soon,” Tosh ducked as a stray cannonball rushed overhead. “Remember what Sir Colin said. Be steady and fire low.”

The Russian artillery had pounded the Light Division. Craig and Tosh saw the piles of red-coated dead and wounded where roundshot and grapeshot had done their work. A breath of wind blew away some of the gun smoke, revealing the horror and carrying the terrible sounds of wounded men.

“Jesus!” Craig blasphemed.

“Don’t look,” Tosh advised. “Follow the officers!”

“Ignore the shine, boys,” Ogilvy had heard the men’s comments. “Look to your front and remember who you are! We’re the Black Watch!”

To the onlookers, the Highlanders seemed to glide up the heights as they advanced in line. It was not as easy for the soldiers as they slithered on pools of human blood and peered into the smoke ahead. As they reached the Light Division, the Black Watch formed into fours and passed through the battered ranks, with the Russian artillery now targeting these strange-looking soldiers.

The men of the Light Division watched the kilted Highlanders pass.

“Let the Scotchmen go on; they don’t know what they’re going to get.”

A young soldier, trembling from shock, raised his voice in a high-pitched shriek. “You’re madmen! You’ll all be killed!”

“Form line!” Campbell ordered as they passed the Lights. In an unbroken double line, the Black Watch ascended the steep, broken slope, intersected with sudden gullies and isolated rocks.

The Highlanders marched on, stumbling, sliding, cursing, and holding their Minie rifles in calloused hands. The Russian artillery fired, the sound like ragged thunder, and the Black Watch saw five columns of Russian infantry in front. They were tall men in long, drab grey coats, some in linen forage caps and others wearing black leather helmets with brass badges. Two Russian columns loomed menacingly close, the Sousdal and Kazan Regiments, with the men’s long grey coats flapping against their legs and their faces round and white.

“Fire and advance!” Campbell ordered.

“Come on, boys,” Ogilvy ordered. “You heard Sir Colin!”

In common with the other Highland regiments, the Black Watch had been trained to fire while marching. They advanced, firing, as the front rank of the closest Russian column knelt, and the leading few ranks opened fire. Craig saw Campbell’s horse fall under a Russian bullet, and the general immediately transferred to one of an aide-de-camp’s horses.

“Sir Colin doesn’t look pleased with that,” Craig said.

“It’s a shame for the horses,” Tosh grunted. “They shouldn’t have to fight.”

The Highlanders marched through a curtain of acrid smoke from their Minie rifles, steadily advancing towards the Russian columns. The men of the Black Watch were aware of the 93rd and 79th behind them and saw the Russian officers with drawn swords keeping their men in order.

“These Russkies aren’t happy,” Craig said.

“Good!” Tosh gave a fierce grin. “Let’s make it worse for them!”

As the Highlanders drew closer, the Russians began to waver.

“Get ready, boys,” Captain Ogilvy shouted. “They’re breaking!”

Major-general Colin Campbell, a veteran of many wars, knew instinctively that the time had come. He raised his hat to order a charge.

“Here we go, boys!” Tosh roared. “Get right into them!” The Highlanders fixed bayonets and ran forward with a cheer that rose above the thunder of guns. Faced by the glittering bayonets of three regiments of kilted Scottish infantry, the Russians set up a tremendous wail, broke, and ran.

“Chase them, boys!” Ogilvy yelled.

When they reached the ridge’s summit, the Highland Brigade halted and reformed into line. Before them, the Russian infantry was in full retreat.

“Volley fire, boys!” the officers ordered, and the Black Watch fired controlled volleys into the disorganised mass. Many Russians halted to return fire, even as British bullets created havoc in their fleeing ranks. General Campbell waited until the Russians were at extreme rifle range before ordering a bugler to sound the ceasefire.

As the clamour of combat faded, Craig and Tosh viewed the battlefield. As well as the moaning, screaming wounded, there were discarded pieces of uniforms, muskets, canteens, dead horses, caissons, and even a picnic basket.

“Here! Look at this, Wullie!” Craig lifted a women’s parasol from under the wooden platform erected for the Russian aristocrats to view the battle. He opened it and paraded for a moment until Tosh pointed at something bouncing towards them from the French positions.

“Ian!” Tosh lifted his rifle. “What in the name is that?”

“It’s a fancy chariot!” Craig said. “He’s got lost, surely!”

The carriage swayed across the rough ground, the driver wielding his whip like a madman in his efforts to escape from the victorious allies. As the highlanders watched, the vehicle hit a bump, the traces snapped, and the horse galloped to freedom.

Tosh fired, with the bullet screaming above the driver’s head. The man looked over his shoulder, saw the two kilted Highlanders advancing with powder-smoke-blackened faces and fixed bayonets, screamed, leapt from his perch, and fled for his life.

Craig lifted his rifle but lowered it when the carriage door opened, and a woman jumped out. “It’s a lassie!” he said.

“Two lassies,” Tosh corrected as a second woman emerged from the carriage.

The first woman glanced at the Highlanders, said something inaudible to her companion and pushed her back into the carriage.

“What’s she doing?” Craig asked.

“Escaping,” Tosh said as a Russian horseman galloped from the wreckage of his army with two spare horses. He helped the first woman up, and then the pair sped away. The second woman emerged from the carriage, took one look at the Highlanders, hesitated, lifted her skirt, and ran, screaming. Behind her, the carriage rolled to a halt on the rough grass.

“What the devil will we do with this thing?” Tosh asked, eyeing the gold leaf on the black and white coach and the coat of arms on the door. “It’s not the Dundee to Perth stage, that’s for sure.”

“Maybe I should look after it, men,” Captain Ogilvy appeared behind them. “I doubt it would fit in your barracks.”

“It might fetch a few guineas in a Dundee pawn, sir,” Tosh said, tracing the gold leaf with a calloused finger.

Ogilvy nodded. “It might at that, Tosh, but it would be the devil of a job to get it there!” He produced a couple of sovereigns from his pocket. “There you go and be thankful for small mercies!”

“Thank you, sir,” Tosh saluted and marched away, with Craig at his side.

Ogilvy scratched his head and looked at the carriage. “Tosh was right. What the devil am I going to do with you?”

CHAPTERONE

LOCHEE, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1869

Detective Sergeant George Watters glanced upwards, where shifting clouds part-obscured the scimitar moon. He grunted, for he had hoped for more light, and checked the time on the sadly battered watch that Marie had given him on their tenth wedding anniversary. Watters valued that watch and smoothed his fingers across the maker’s name. Benson was a quality watchmaker from London. Marie must have paid a packet for you. He waited until the minute hand moved to the number ten.

Ten minutes short of midnight.

“Are you ready, boys?”

Detective Constable Scuddamore nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.” With his immaculately groomed side whiskers, straight nose, and cleft chin, Scuddamore considered himself the most handsome man in the Dundee police force. Watters knew he notoriously tried to avoid situations that might endanger his looks. However, here he was, crouched outside a filthy alley in the village of Lochee, about to raid a shebeen where the inhabitants could prove highly violent. Scuddamore sighed, checked the staff in its long pocket and prepared for trouble.

“Ready, Sergeant,” Detective Constable Duff was the opposite of Scuddamore. Short for a policeman, he was villainously ugly and, with broad shoulders and mighty muscles, could stand toe-to-toe in a prizefighting ring. He flexed his knuckles and thought of Rosemary sleeping peacefully at home.

Behind the plain-clothed detectives, eight uniformed constables gripped their long wooden staffs, stamped their boots on the unpaved ground and waited for Watters’ orders.

Watters rechecked the time, watching the minute hand hovering on eleven. He snapped shut the lid and tucked the watch into his waistcoat pocket. “Right boys, follow me!”

Duthie’s Wynd was long and narrow, with a dog-leg bend in the centre and a sweet scent that Watters recognised as whisky. The moment Watters stepped past the wynd entrance, he heard raucous singing and a high-pitched screech.

“Holy Mary, it’s a banshee,” Constable Halloran said and crossed himself.

“No,” Scuddamore corrected. “Just a drunken woman. We’ll have none of your superstitious nonsense here, Halloran.”

Watters paused as he found a man face down in the central gutter and checked to ensure he was still breathing.

“He’s as drunk as a lord and passed out,” Watters said. “Leave him until later.” He hurried to the dog-leg bend with his men pounding behind him. The tenement on the right was three storeys high, with no lighting and a strong smell of alcohol drifting from an open window. Watters heard more laughter and bursts of drunken singing, with some voices raised in anger.

“Duff! Stay here with two men and stop anybody who tries to escape. Scuddamore, take two men to the back entrance to the close!”

Watters would have preferred to have Duff’s muscles with him as he mounted the worn stone steps two at a time, but the broad detective was the most effective stopper in the force. The noise was louder here, with the sweet smell of whisky strong in the confines of the close. A woman screamed, a man swore, and Watters stopped at the middle door of the second floor.

He banged on the door as his four uniformed constables gripped their staffs and tensed themselves.

“Dundee Police!” Watters roared. “Open up in there!”

When the noise continued unabated, Watters tried again, with the same result.

“Let me, Sergeant,” Constable MacHardy said. When Watters nodded, MacHardy stepped back, lifted his foot, and smashed his boot against the door. The lock burst open, and Watters was first inside, swinging his cane and shouting.

“Dundee Police! I am Sergeant Watters of the Dundee Police!”

MacHardy followed, yelling, “Lochee Police!”

About twenty people crowded the two-roomed house, men, women, and children. Most were singing drunk, some were fighting drunk, and a few had collapsed on the floor in near paralysis.

“Who are you?” A red-faced man leered at Watters. “I dinnae ken you.”

“I am Sergeant Watters of the Dundee Police,” Watters repeated. “Who runs this shebeen?”

“I do,” the red-faced man said. “How?”

“You’re breaking the law,” Watters said. “This house is an unlicensed outlet selling alcohol on a Sunday, contrary to the Forbes Mackenzie Act.”

“Bugger your Forbes Mackenzie Act,” the man said and swung a meaty fist at Watters.

Watters ducked, lifted his cane, and cracked the lead-weighted end behind the man’s ear, knocking him to the floor. Before the man recovered, Watters dragged his arms behind his back and screwed on his D-pattern handcuffs. All around him, the constables arrested the most truculent of the crowd and checked the identities of the remainder. The noise rose to a crescendo and then dropped away. One woman was violently sick on the floor.

“Do you want us to arrest them all, Sergeant?” MacHardy asked.

“No,” Watters said. “Only the known thieves and troublemakers. Take the others to the foot of the close, give them a warning and let them go.” He tapped his cane on the head of the man he had felled. “This is the fellow we want. The others are unimportant.”

MacHardy smiled. “Maybe so, Sergeant, but we’ve got a fine collection of rogues and blackguards here. Two prostitutes and known thieves, one habitual pickpocket and a brute wanted for assault.”

Watters grunted. “Well, MacHardy, you’re the local Lochee man here, and I’m glad we helped clean up your village. Take your blackguards to your South Street station lockup but leave this man for me.” Watters nudged his prisoner with the side of his foot. “You! What’s your name?”

“Bugger off, Bluebottle!”

Watters kicked him harder. “That’s not your name. Try again.”

“That’s Sean Kelly,” MacHardy said. “He’s known to the police.”

“Is that right, Kelly?” Watters asked.

“Yes, damn you. I’m Sean Kelly!”

“Save Kelly for me,” Watters said to MacHardy. “The rest you can book and hold or warn and release.” He grabbed Kelly’s hair and hauled him to his feet. “Up you get.” Watters caught a constable’s eye. “Halloran! Take this man into the close and look after him until I want him!”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Halloran grabbed Kelly by the shoulder. “Come with me, Kelly.”

With the house cleared of all its occupants, Watters called up Scuddamore and Duff and began a thorough search.

“I want proof that Kelly used this place as a shebeen,” Watters said. “Not just a few bottles or Kelly could claim he was celebrating his birthday.”

They had not long started when Duff shouted across, “Here we are, Sergeant! A cashbox full of money!”

Watters stepped over. “That’s a start,” he said. “It’s not definite proof, though. Kelly could hold his wages in a cashbox.”

The cashbox sat on top of a small table, and when Duff moved it, he found a small notebook underneath. “Sergeant!” He opened the book. “A list of names and figures.”

“That’s better, Watters said. “Put it with the cashbox. We’ll take both to Bell Street and count it there.”

“In here, Sergeant,” Scuddamore called from the second room. “I’ve found two barrels!”

Both barrels sat snug against the back wall, one larger than the other. A simple tap fitted into the side of each.

“You’re the expert, Scuddamore. What do you think?” Watters asked.

Scuddamore lifted a cheap glass tumbler from the dozen that littered the room and wiped it with his handkerchief. “This had better be the good stuff,” he said and held it under the tap of the smaller barrel.

When he opened the tap, a clear liquid poured into the tumbler. Scuddamore sniffed at his glass. “Whisky,” he said, “of a sort.” He tasted it carefully and gasped. “Kill-me-deadly,” he said hoarsely. “Straight from the still. I doubt it’s matured more than two weeks.”

“Peat reek?” Watters asked. Peat reek was illegally distilled whisky.

“Undoubtedly,” Scuddamore said and placed the glass on the floor without tasting more of the content.

“Are you not going to finish it?” Duff asked. “You’re a drinking man, Scuds.”

“I’m a drinking man,” Scuddamore said, “not a born bloody fool. That stuff would rot your liver.”

Watters hid his smile. “Try the other barrel, Scuddamore.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore lifted his glass, emptied the contents onto the cold embers of the fire and held it under the tap. He allowed a finger’s width of the barrel’s contents to dribble into the glass and closed the tap. “This looks worse,” he said.

“Go on, Scuds,” Duff encouraged.

Scuddamore sniffed the contents, grunted, and tilted the glass to his lips. “Jesus Christ!”

“Watch your blasphemy!” Duff warned.

Scuddamore ejected the contents of his mouth into the fireplace. “Christ turned water into wine, but even he couldn’t make that filth palatable.”

Watters nodded. “We’ll take it away and find out what it is,” he said. “And more importantly, from where it came. We have to discover who supplies this poison.” He glanced around the room. “Well done, lads. I think we have sufficient to convict Kelly and close this place down.”

“One shebeen less, then,” Duff said, “and about a hundred to go.”

“It’s a start,” Watters told him.

CHAPTERTWO

Lochee boasted a small police station in South Road, with a dozen uniformed officers who did not appreciate the influx of plain-clothed detectives from the parent office in Dundee. The man in charge, Inspector McLeod, wore a bandage on his right hand and glowered at Watters but did not interfere as he interviewed Kelly. Constable MacHardy hugged a mug of tea, listening to everything Watters said as Duff stood behind the prisoner.

“Well, Mr Kelly,” Watters sat opposite the truculent prisoner. “We have arrested you for running a shebeen, an illegal drinking den. We have also charged you with selling alcoholic drink on a Sunday, contrary to the 1853 Forbes Mackenzie Act, and resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.”

Kelly said nothing, with his lip curled in a sneer.

“We found one keg of illicit whisky and one cask of methylated spirits masquerading as whisky, a cashbox, and an accounts book in your house. Such evidence is more than sufficient for a jury to find you guilty.”

Kelly’s expression did not alter as he glared at Watters.

“And finally, I might charge you with attempted murder,” Watters said, to the consternation of McLeod and MacHardy, while Kelly nearly jumped from his seat. Duff pushed him back down.

“I never attempted to murder anybody,” Kelly protested.

“We disagree on that, Kelly. The rot-gut liquor you provided is lethal, and you served it to both adults and children,” Watters said.

“I bought the whisky in good faith,” Kelly nearly shouted.

“One of your kegs contained pure peat reek, perhaps from the Angus Glens or the Sidlaw Hills,” Watters said. “Raw whisky, straight from the still and rough as a Highland winter.”

Kelly nodded. “There’s nothing wrong with peat reek,” he defended himself.

“Perhaps not,” Watters allowed, “except it hasn’t paid duty, making it illegal to produce or sell. The other keg contained methylated spirits with maybe a bottle of whisky added for flavouring. It’s little better than poison, and you had children in your house. If a child had drunk that filth—” Watters left the sentence unfinished.

“What?” Kelly asked.

“I’d be charging you with culpable homicide now,” Watters said, “or perhaps murder. I will confiscate your liquor and hold you in Lochee Police Station until you attend a Police Court tomorrow. I’ll also retain the profits of your illegal activity until a sheriff decides its eventual fate. It’s up to the judge if he jails you or merely issues a hefty fine.”

Kelly said nothing, although a worried frown replaced his sneer.

“Whatever the judge decides, we will close your shebeen, and the beat policeman will call on you every day and every night to ensure you cease your illegal business,” Watters continued. He saw Kelly’s expression alter to dismay. “If you decide to leave Lochee and set up business elsewhere, Mr Kelly, we will inform the local police of your propensity for illegal activities.”

“What does that mean?” Kelly looked confused.

Watters smiled. “It means that wherever you go and whatever you do, the police will hound you, Kelly, unless you help us.”

“Help you with what?” Kelly glanced at Inspector McLeod, who returned a blank stare.

“I want to know who sold you the peat reek and the poison,” Watters told him.

“I can’t tell you,” Kelly said.

Watters stood up. “I’ll see you again,” he promised. “And again, and again.” He smiled and tapped Kelly on the shoulder. “You’ll get to know me better than you know your face in the mirror.”

“Wallace,” Kelly growled. “I’ve got two. One whose name I don’t know, and the other is John Wallace.”

“John Wallace,” Watters repeated. He glanced at McLeod, who nodded.

“We know about Wallace.” McLeod approached Kelly. “Who is your other supplier?”

Kelly looked away. “I don’t know his real name, but he calls himself the captain.”

McLeod shook his head. “We’ll forget him and concentrate on John Wallace.”

“Thank you, Mr Kelly,” Watters said. “I doubt we’ll have to meet again. I’ll have a constable escort you to your cell.” He waited until a uniformed officer took Kelly away. “Could you tell me about John Wallace, please, Inspector?”

“I know him well,” McLeod said. “He’s a bad man, but I didn’t think he was a whisky distiller.”

Watters nodded. “Give me his address, and I’ll have a word with him.”

McLeod nodded. “I could do that, Sergeant.”

Watters watched as a constable removed Kelly to the cells, and McLeod retired from the interview room to his office, a neighbouring cubby-hole. He kept the door open.

“Now, MacHardy,” Watters tried to soothe ruffled Lochee feathers. “Tell me about Wallace.”

“We know he’s a criminal,” MacHardy said, “but we’ve never been able to catch him. We suspect he is involved in half the crimes in Lochee, everything except drunk and disorderly and furious driving.”

“Why haven’t you been able to catch him?” Watters asked.

MacHardy glanced at McLeod before he replied. “Wallace is a very clever fellow and a successful businessman into the bargain.”

“What is his business?”

“He owns a quarry that supplies building stone to Dundee and Lochee.” MacHardy shook his head. “It’s an honest business, Sergeant. We’ve gone over the accounts with a fine-tooth comb.”

Watters nodded. “Thank you, Constable. I’ll look him over. We always seem to think that the poorer areas of town harbour most criminals. In my experience, the most successful rogues live in wealthy areas. They are the men who have got away with their crimes.” He lifted his hat and cane from the stand. “I’ll leave Kelly in your care, gentlemen. I have got all I need from him.”

Chief Constable Donald Mackay drummed his fingers on his desk and turned icy-blue Caithness eyes on Watters. “Put your crusade against the shebeens on one side for a few hours, Watters. Mr Cox is parading his new coach this afternoon, and I want a strong police presence there to ensure there is no trouble and a minimum of pickpockets.”

“Yes, sir.” Watters nodded. “Processions and other public events always attract the criminal classes.”

Mackay realised his fingers were dancing a tattoo and brought them under temporary control. “It seems to be Lochee season at present. Give me an update on your operation, Sergeant.”

“We raided three shebeens in Lochee, in cooperation with Inspector McLeod of the Lochee police,” Watters said. “We arrested five wanted thieves of various types and one wife-beater. We also detained the two men and one woman who ran the shebeens and confiscated seven barrels of kill-me-deadly peat reek and two of near-poisonous methylated spirits, sir.”

Mackay stopped drumming and pressed his fingers into a pyramid. “That’s a creditable beginning, Watters, but it’s petty. The beat constables could have achieved that without using nearly half my detective force and incurring overtime. I have a limited budget, Watters.”

“I know that, sir,” Watters said. “I also discovered some intelligence that might prove valuable.”

“What was that, Watters?” Mackay pressed his fingers harder, so his knuckles gleamed white.

“Two of the shebeen landlords told me that John Wallace supplied their whisky. I asked Constable MacHardy about Wallace.”

“And?” Mackay interrupted.

“Wallace appears to be a thoroughly unpleasant character, sir, well known to the Lochee Police, but not a whisky distiller and very good at evading arrest.”

Mackay’s fingers recommenced their dance. “If Wallace is not a distiller, he must have obtained the spirits somewhere else,” he said.

“That’s what I think, sir. I suspect Wallace is acting as an agent for the distiller.”

Mackay nodded. “Speak to this Wallace, Sergeant.” He hesitated for a moment. “You are aware how important I view this operation.”

“I am, sir.”

“There are three reasons,” Mackay continued as if Watters had not spoken. “One is to ensure Lochee does not feel left out. Dundee has incorporated the village, yet Lochee seems to be on the fringes. I aim to show them we value their security as much as we do the people in Dundee.”

“Yes, sir. The Lochee people I spoke to seem happier without our interference, sir. They want their independence.”

Mackay grunted. “They also need security from theft, violence and drunken brawls at shebeens, and that’s what I mean to provide.” Mackay’s fingers increased their tempo. “I want Lochee cleaned up, Sergeant. Mr Cox is one of our most prominent businessmen, and he is engaged in some significant business transactions.”

“I see, sir. We cannot upset Mr Cox.”

Mackay glared at Watters. “Cox’s Camperdown Works at Lochee employ thousands of people, Sergeant. If Mr Cox’s business negotiations fail, it could mean hordes of unemployed on the streets. You know as well as I do that when trade is dull, crimes of dishonesty increase.”

“I know that, sir, but sometimes people steal to eat,” Watters said. “It’s less dishonesty than necessity.”

“Their motivation is irrelevant, Watters. Their criminality is our concern.”

Watters knew when to back off. “Yes, sir.”

Mackay leaned forward, satisfied he had made his point. “Collect the men first thing tomorrow, Watters, and tell them what’s happening. Visit Wallace and find out if he’s behind the rise in shebeens.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

Mackay checked his watch. “It’s nearly midday now, and you’re due back in Lochee this afternoon. You don’t have much time so catch the omnibus, take two of your detectives with you and help police this damned procession.”

“Yes, sir.”

Evergreen foliage decorated the railway bridge, making it appear like a rustic gateway, with red and blue gas jets creating the image of a carriage. Above the bridge, two flagpoles thrust skyward, one bearing the Union Flag and the other the serene blue and white of the Scottish Saltire.

People packed the windows along Lochee High Street, with fathers holding their children and mothers waving and talking to friends and relatives across the road. The procession filled the street from end to end. At the head, Lieutenant McLeod sat on his grey Arab, as erect as a guardsman, with four uniformed constables at his back. Behind him marched a piper and a platoon of kilted and red-coated Black Watch soldiers from Dudhope Barracks, and then came the members of the Weavers Lodge, with a profusion of banners. The Lodge had been influential in Lochee for generations, and the crowd pointed to relatives and waved in delight.

Watters and his men had accompanied the procession along Liff Road, down Church Street, eastward by South Road, and now onto the High Street with its array of prosperous shops and businesses.

“I’ve never seen Lochee looking so good.” Scuddamore smoothed his side whiskers as he watched the excited crowds.

Watters nodded. “Lochee is a very distinctive village,” he said.

“They’ve gone to town with their decorations,” Scuddamore said grudgingly.

The shops in Lochee High Street were brightly decorated, with Well Brothers, the drapers, ornamented with leaping gas jets and the Railway Tavern inviting with bright lights and a smiling host.

“You’ll be feeling the pinch a bit, sir,” Watters stopped to talk to the proprietor of the Railway Tavern. “With all these shebeens taking your custom.”

The proprietor rubbed a hand across his jaw. “We’ve lost weekend custom,” he admitted, “but we’re not paupers yet. However tight things get, men always seem to have spare pennies to buy whisky or porter.” He nodded to a regular customer. “My beer isn’t watered, my porter is the best quality, and my whisky has all paid the excise dues. I run a quality public, Sergeant Watters, and nobody will die from drinking in the Railway.”

“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” Watters said. “Does John Wallace ever trouble you?”

The publican started and looked away. “I can’t say I know the fellow’s name,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Watters said and moved on to the Camperdown Inn, where a row of gas jets gleamed behind a screen of coloured glass. He asked the same questions and got similar responses.

“John Wallace?” the proprietor repeated the name. “I don’t think he’s one of my regulars.”

“Thank you, sir.” Watters tapped his cane on the brim of his bowler and stepped on.

Two publicans, both of whom deny knowledge of John Wallace, and both scared when I mentioned the name.

“Here come the carriages,” Duff said, smiling. “Rosemary’s in the crowd somewhere,” he stretched onto his toes to scan the sea of people. “I’m blessed if I can see her, though.”

Four matching horses pulled each of the highly polished carriages, with coachmen in dark uniforms sitting proudly on the driving seats. The remainder of Lochee’s police, backed by a dozen of Dundee’s finest, struggled to keep back the spectators.

Three Cox brothers occupied the first two carriages, and the crowd cheered them, throwing hats in the air at this unexpected day off work. The Cox family were the largest employers in Lochee and among the principal businessmen in the Dundee area.

“Hooray for Mr Cox!”

“Three cheers and a tiger for James Cox!”

The crowd roared their approval. Watters was slightly surprised at the workers’ approval for their employer but allowed the feeling to pass as he viewed the faces, searching for pickpockets. He saw a couple of tinkers, colourful, ragged, wary, and out of place as they slid through the mothers with small children, millworkers, and quarrymen.

Watters expected the crowd’s interest to wane once the Coxes passed, but it increased. Lochee people could see members of the Cox family any time, for their mansions of Clement Park, Beechwood, and Foggyley were only a short walk from the great Camperdown mill complex. However, the third carriage was different, if only for its historical associations.

Dark blue with gold leaf around the windows, the carriage whirred over the granite setts and lurched in the potholes.

“What the devil is all the fuss about?” Duff asked. “It’s only a coach.”

“It’s more than that,” Scuddamore stroked his side whiskers. “Some Russian general owned it, and Campbell’s Highlanders captured it at the Battle of Alma in ’54.”

Duff was not impressed. “Why does Cox want an old Russian carriage?”

Scuddamore walked along the fringe of the crowd, his eyes constantly roving from person to person. “Prestige,” he said and pointed to the highly ornate chimney that soared nearly three hundred feet into the air above the Camperdown works. “People are beginning to call that Cox’s Stack, one of the tallest factory chimneys in the country. Cox could have built three or four smaller chimneys, but that would have been less visible.”

Watters walked at the back, listening, saying nothing, and watching the crowd. The tinkers had vanished, and he could not identify any known pickpockets.

“People for miles around can see the Stack,” Scuddamore continued. “It displays Cox’s importance to the world, and the Russian carriage will do the same. It’s a display of opulence and wealth.”

Duff grunted. “It’s pointless showmanship.”

“Showmanship, certainly,” Scuddamore agreed, “but James Cox won’t do anything pointless. He has a reason for all his actions. A few generations ago, the Cox family were simple merchants. They were called Cock before they changed their name and carried textiles to Perth, walking there and back. They slowly built up their business to own the largest jute mill in the world. Now they have a Russian carriage fit for a merchant prince.”

Duff grunted. “Aye, maybe. It’s still a lot of fuss for a fancy coach. Robertson’s omnibus is fine for me.”

Scuddamore’s eyes drifted across a group of boisterous young men before he dismissed them as harmless. “Cox will display his coach at the entrance to Camperdown works, beside the church, so that every visitor will see his royal pretensions.”

“James Cox, king of Lochee,” Duff said. He shouted to a young man in a velocipede. “Halloa! Be careful in that thing before you knock somebody down!”

The man raised a hand in acknowledgement, weaved, recovered, and cycled away.

“Damned stupid contraption,” Duff said.

“Precisely so,” Scuddamore’s eyes followed a green-coated woman who pushed through the crowd holding a matching green parasol high above her head. “Now there’s a woman worth watching,” he murmured.

“Why is that?” Duff asked.

“Look how she’s holding her parasol,” Scuddamore said. “She’s daring the world when she holds it high.”

Duff raised his eyebrows. “Is there a language to parasols?” he asked, gently mocking.

“Undoubtedly,” Scuddamore replied seriously. “There is a secret language to everything that women do. If you learn the language, you can understand them.” He smoothed his whiskers. “That’s how I get along so well with the fair sex.”

“Enough, gentlemen,” Watters interrupted. “There’s Dode Ramsay, looking for a victim. Duff, keep an eye on him.”

“I see him, Sergeant.” Duff slipped into the crowd. Ramsay was a known garrotter who habitually worked in a group of three, so Watters knew that Duff was better able to handle him rather than the debonair Scuddamore.

“There’s another looker,” Scuddamore nodded to a dark-haired woman in a smartly cut blue coat. “I’d like to get to know her better.”

“Never mind the women, Scuddamore,” Watters snapped. “Keep level with the coach on the right side of the street, and I’ll take the left. The carriage will distract the crowd, and the pickpockets will have a field day.”

“Right, Sergeant,” Scuddamore smoothed a hand over his whiskers and moved into the mass.

Swinging his cane, Watters adjusted the set of his bowler hat, so it was angled over the back of his head and peered at the crowd. Most of the people were Lochee mill workers, spinners, dyers, flax-dressers, or weavers from the Camperdown or other mills. Others had travelled by Robertson’s three-horse omnibus or walked from Dundee to view the coach, while the remainder travelled from the outlying farms and hamlets. Watters frowned when he saw the tinkers swagger towards a group of people from the middle classes, deigning to mix with the hoi polloi on this occasion. Immediately Watters stepped forward; the tallest tinker noticed him and guided his followers away. The respectable middle-class group continued to talk, unaware of the mini-drama.

As the coach reached the ornamental gas lamps outside Camperdown gates, Watters saw a swirl in the crowd. A lithe, swarthy-faced man darted away, with Scuddamore a few steps behind.

“Stop, thief!” Scuddamore shouted the traditional cry to raise the alarm, and Watters moved quickly forward, swinging his cane to ensure his passage.

“Police!” Watters roared. “Make way!” He pushed through the crowd to cut off the fugitive’s retreat.

The swarthy man noticed Watters and altered his route, ducked low, and tried to lose himself in the mass of people.

“There’s the Russian carriage!” a woman shouted excitedly. “Isn’t it braw?”

The crowd surged forward for a better view of the coach, with fathers hoisting children onto their shoulders and men pointing out the best features to wives and sweethearts. Watters swore as a crush of people rushed in front of him. Scuddamore slid through the crowd, raising a hand to Watters.

“Did you see him, Sergeant? It was Eckie Muckhart.”

Watters nodded. “I lost him in the crowd,” he admitted, looking around at the ocean of faces. Most had dressed in their respectable best, all smiling at the celebration.

Scuddamore smoothed a hand over his side whiskers and squared his tall hat on his head. “Give me a minute, Sergeant, and I’ll find him.”

“You flush him out, Scuddamore, and I’ll catch him,” Watters watched as Scuddamore scanned the crowd and approached a middle-aged, well-dressed couple.

Scuddamore lifted his hat politely. “Excuse me, sir and madam. I am Detective Scuddamore of the Dundee Police, and I am searching for a very unpleasant character. He is a pickpocket and wife beater, and we suspect him of other terrible crimes.”

The man frowned, and the woman looked horrified. “That’s awful, Constable.”

“Indeed, Madam,” Scuddamore gave a charming smile. “Did you happen to see him? He is wearing a blue jacket and dark check unmentionables. He passed this way not three minutes ago, possibly bending low.”

The woman nodded. “Why, yes, Detective, I am sure I did. He went that way,” she indicated her left.

“Thank you, Madam,” Scuddamore lifted his hat again and moved left to halt beside a single, older woman. When the woman nodded to the left, Scuddamore touched his hat and stepped to the woman with the green coat and parasol he had noted earlier.

Watters followed, keeping to the fringe of the crowd, as Scuddamore charmed his way from woman to woman until he reached out and grabbed Muckhart’s collar. “Got you, my lad!”

Muckhart did not hesitate but shrugged off his jacket and fled straight into the waiting arms of Watters.

“Nicely done, Scuddamore,” Watters approved.

Scuddamore gave a slight bow. “Thank you, Sergeant.” He grinned. “I’m good with women.”

“Older women, anyway,” Watters said as he screwed his handcuffs on Muckhart.

“They are the most receptive,” Scuddamore agreed. “They are flattered by having a handsome young chap like me charming them. The married ones compare me favourably with their husbands, who take them for granted, and the spinsters hope that they can impress themselves into my heart.”

“Your modesty does you credit,” Watters said. “What’s this fellow done?”

“I saw him dipping two people,” Scuddamore said.

“You’ll find nothing on me,” Muckhart told him.

“You’re right,” Scuddamore agreed. “Your takings are in your blue jacket.”

“I’m no’ wearing a blue jacket,” Muckhart glanced down at himself. “I’m in a weskit and check trousers.”

Scuddamore sighed. “Eckie, I have three witnesses who saw you in a blue jacket, and here is one now.”

The woman with the green parasol hurried to Scuddamore, carrying a blue jacket. “Detective Scuddamore! Is this the jacket you mentioned?” Her eyes fixed on Scuddamore’s face, slid down his body and returned, blue, sincere, and smiling.

“The very thing,” Scuddamore said with a smile and a bow. “I must have your name for our records.”

“I am Jennifer Fletcher,” the woman was in her early thirties. “Miss Jennifer Fletcher.” The slight emphasis she placed on her title was significant.

Scuddamore bowed again. “I knew I could rely on you, Miss Fletcher. I immediately knew that you are the most intelligent of women and the most helpful.” He looked around and dropped his voice. “And the best looking, if I may be so bold.”

“Detective Scuddamore,” Miss Fletcher said. “You cannot say such things.”

“I can only say it when it’s true,” Scuddamore told her and lifted his hat. “Now, if you can excuse me, Sergeant Watters and I must take this blackguard to the police station.”

“Of course, Detective Scuddamore,” Miss Fletcher said, treated Muckhart to a glare and nodded to Watters. “You’re lucky to have such a fine officer on the force, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, Miss Fletcher,” Watters said. He waited until Miss Fletcher had left. “As you’re such a fine officer, Scuddamore, you won’t need my help to take Muckhart to Lochee Police Station.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Scuddamore grinned, watching Miss Fletcher disappear into the crowd.

“While you are dealing with Muckhart, Duff and I will look at Mr Cox’s splendid new carriage,” Smiling and swinging his cane, Watters walked away.

The crowd had gathered around the main entrance of the Camperdown Works, where the Lochee Chapel of Ease offered Christian sanctuary beside Cox’s temple of work and wealth. All three carriages were drawn up inside the gates, with two Cox brothers watching while James Cox supervised a dozen workmen. After leading away the horses, the men backed the Russian carriage into a covered enclosure, a showpiece to greet visitors.

“It looks good, doesn’t it, Sergeant?” Constable MacHardy joined Watters.

“It’s certainly eye-catching,” Watters said. “Although I can’t see Mr Cox using it much unless he wants to join the queen at the state opening of parliament.”

MacHardy laughed. “Nor I, Sergeant. Imagine driving that ornate thing through the narrows of the Nethergate on a wet November afternoon!”

Watters smiled in agreement. “Lochee is going up in the world.”

MacHardy glanced at the height of the Stack. “So we are.” He nudged Watters on the arm. “Don’t look now, Sergeant, but we have some more distinguished company.”

Watters tucked his cane under his arm and began to fill his pipe. He offered a quarter of an inch of tobacco to MacHardy. “Who and where?”

“To your left,” MacHardy accepted the tobacco. “Thank you, Sergeant. The tall fellow with the neat red beard and low crowned hat. That’s John Wallace.”

Watters lit his pipe and puffed it into life. He moved casually to look to his left. “I see him and want a word with that man.”

“Be careful, Sergeant.”

“I will,” Watters glanced around. “Who is the muscular fellow at Wallace’s back? I guess he’s one of his men.”

“Davie Anderson,” MacHardy said. “When people don’t do as Wallace wants, he sends Anderson to have a wee word. He looks villainous, but he’s nothing without Wallace.”

“I want all the details of them sent to Bell Street,” Watters said. “I’m going to speak to Wallace, and you’d better ensure the crowd behaves.”

Wallace did not look surprised when Watters approached. “Good evening,” he said politely, touching the brim of his hat and holding Watters’ gaze.

“Good evening.” Watters tapped his cane on the brim of his bowler. “You are John Wallace, I believe.”

“I am,” Wallace confirmed. “You look like a police detective with some authority. A sergeant, perhaps?” He had a deep voice and a penetrating gaze.

“I am Detective Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police,” Watters confirmed.

Wallace nodded. “Dundee? What brings you to Lochee, Sergeant?” He grinned. “Have you come to view Mr Cox’s tall chimney? Or admire his fancy carriage?”

“Lochee is part of Dundee now,” Watters reminded. “We don’t have your Russian carriage, though, or a chimney as big as yours.” He noticed Anderson a few yards away, standing with thumbs in his braces and a scowl on his face. Heavy footsteps announced the arrival of Duff, who stood behind Watters as a counterfoil to Anderson.

Wallace pushed back his hat and faced Watters. “You Dundee folk may believe you own Lochee,” he said, “but you don’t. You’re out of your familiar territory now, Sergeant Watters.”

Watters held Wallace’s intelligent grey eyes and puffed smoke from his pipe. “I believe the Cox family own much of Lochee, Mr Wallace. It’s their territory. The Dundee police are only here to uphold the law.”

Anderson took a step closer as Wallace spoke. “Cox’s territory begins and ends at his factory gates, Sergeant Watters. Outside the gates, I control Lochee.”