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Malcolm Archibald

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

Dundee, 1860s. Sergeant George Watters and his team investigate the murder of a local banker, found dead on the 13th tee of a local golf course.

Illicit prizefighters, merchants and prostitutes all seem to be somehow connected to the murder, and even the toughest of Dundee are refusing to talk.

In a case that stretches him to his limit, Watters' inquiries take him from the lowest brothels to some of the elite of Dundee society. But can he crack the case before more lives are lost?

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Murdered on the 13th

Detective Watters Mysteries Book 3

Malcolm Archibald

Copyright (C) 2020 Malcolm Archibald

Layout Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Edited by Fading Street Services

Cover art by Cover Mint

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

Prelude

Dundee, December 1862

Watters could not risk opening the shutter of his lantern to check the time. If he did so, even that faint glimmer of light might give his presence away. He sat with the wall supporting his back and fought the cramp in both legs that stretched out in front of him. Watters was not sure how long he had waited. It might have been an hour, two, or even three. He only knew that the time had passed slowly, and if Eddie the cabbie, his informant, had been wrong, he would have wasted an entire night.

“And if I've wasted my time, Eddie, I'll be checking every detail of your life, searching for any concealed crime you might have committed,” Watters promised until he heard the noise. It was a furtive scratching, like mice gnawing in the attic of a house.

“Here you come,” Watters said to himself, reaching for his cane. “Well done, Eddie,” he said somewhat reluctantly.

The scratching ended in a long silence. Watters waited, aware that his interminable search was about to end. He heard a sharp tap on the wooden shutters, and immediately a circle of lesser dark appeared. Something appeared in the circle, a hand encased in dark gloves, with the fingers groping for the bolt that secured the shutters. When the bolt squeaked, the hand withdrew, then reappeared a moment later, to spread grease on the offending metal. Watters heard nervous, subdued breathing from beyond the shutters. He gripped his cane, testing the lead-weighted end against the palm of his hand.

The grease did its work, with the fingers sliding back the bolt with only a minimum of sound. After a few second's delay, the shutters opened, and the hand appeared again, slowly lowering a bag onto the floor. A moment later, a small, slender man appeared, wriggling under the raised sash-and-case window.

Watters sat tight, limiting his breathing as the intruder opened the bag and produced a small lamp. When the intruder slid back the lamp's shutter, a thin beam of light shone onto the walnut desk in the corner of the room. The light shifted a little until it ended on the topmost drawer of the desk, where the dark shape of a keyhole promised hidden wealth. As the intruder ghosted forward to kneel beside the slender beam, Watters saw him clearly for the first time.

Short and slight, the intruder possessed nondescript features and delicate hands as he removed his gloves to work on the lock. Dressed in black, with soft black shoes on his feet and a dark woollen hat on his head, he could easily merge with the shadows. He was undoubtedly a cracksman, one of the top level of the criminal fraternity.

Removing a set of lock-picks from the bag, the cracksman began work on the desk.

“That's far enough,” Watters said to himself as he slid back the shutter of his lantern, flooding the room with light. “Dundee Police,” he said quietly.

The intruder spun around with an expression of shock on his soot-smeared face.

“Charles Edmund Graham, you are under arrest for breaking and entering.”

Charles Graham looked as if he were about to faint. “Who the devil are you?” He blinked, raising a hand to protect his eyes from the lantern.

“I am Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police. I've been after you for six months Charles.” Watters saw the cracksman's eyes dart sideways as he sought a means of escape. “It's no go, Charles. The door is locked on the outside, and one of my men is arresting your crow – your lookout. Another of my men has control of your coach and driver. You have nowhere to go.”

Charles gave a resigned smile that belied the panic in his eyes. “It looks like you've got me, Sergeant Watters.” He shrugged. “I thought this was a rum job, paid big money for a simple desk. Was it a put-up job, Sergeant? Did you set me up?”

Watters shook his head. “That's not my style, Charles.”

Graham grunted as he stood up. “It's a hard day. I don't even know what I'm meant to be stealing.”

Watters fastened his handcuffs around Graham's wrists. “You're not working for yourself, then?”

Graham gave a rueful smile. “Not this time, Sergeant. If I had been, do you think that any news would have leaked out?”

“No,” Watters agreed. “You're too slippery for that, or too professional. What were you told to steal? I doubt there's enough cash in that drawer to make it worth your while.”

Charles shook his head. “You know I won't tell you any more, Sergeant Watters.”

“And you know I had to ask,” Watters said, rapping on the door. When it opened, a man of medium height and spreading shoulders stood there with a heavy bludgeon in his hand.

“It's all right, Mr Gall,” Watters said. “There is no need for the weapon. Mr Graham has decided to come with me.”

Gall looked disappointed as he glowered at Charles. “I'll kill him if he tries to escape.”

“He won't,” Watters said. “Who did you say sent you, Charles?”

Charles shook his head. “I didn't say,” he said, “and I won't say.”

For a second, Watters thought he saw a flicker of fear cross Charles' face. That was interesting and worth exploring.

“Give him to me for five minutes.” Gall tapped his cudgel against the door. “I'll soon beat it out of him.”

“There'll be none of that, Mr Gall,” Watters said, knowing the boat-builder was merely acting. “Come on, Charles, I have a nice warm cell waiting for you.”

As he escorted Charles out of the boat-building company's office, Watters looked up the length of Broughty Ferry. “Mr Gall told me there was nothing of any value in his desk, Charles. No money, no jewellery, only documents related to his work. Who would want them?”

Charles shrugged.

“If you help me, Charles, I might be able to speak for you at your trial.”

When Charles walked on, wordless, Watters knew that he would find out no more. Whether it was professional pride, or fear, or a mixture of both, Watters did not know. He doubted that he ever would. Still, he would like to know who, or what put such fear into the eyes of a professional cracksman like Charles Graham.

Chapter One

April 1863

Watters took a final pull of his pipe and tapped out the glowing ash on the garden wall. Somewhere close, a cockerel greeted the dawn, the sound faintly nostalgic, like a folk memory from a rural past. Sighing, Watters ascended the stone steps to Firthview Lodge and rapped on the front door with the weighted end of his cane. Behind him, Constables Scuddamore and Duff stood still, saying nothing.

“You two know what to do,” Watters said. “Don't speak unless anybody speaks to you.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore agreed. “Sturrock's lucky he's getting all three of us with crime rising in Dundee. He must be a friend of Mackay's.”

“Just keep your lip buttoned,” Watters said.

The servant who answered the door looked Watters up and down before speaking. “Yes, sir?”

“I am Detective Sergeant George Watters of Dundee Police to see Mr Abraham Sturrock.”

“Does Mr Sturrock know you are coming, sir?” The servant did not look impressed.

“He does,” Watters said and entered as the servant opened the door a few reluctant inches. “Please inform him I am here.”

The interior of Firthview Lodge was as luxurious as Watters had expected. Standing behind high walls in the select area of West Ferry, east of Dundee, Sturrock had allegedly supervised every stone of its building to his famously exacting requirements.

“Nice place, I suppose,” Scuddamore said.

“Aye, no' bad,” Duff agreed, glowering at the panelled walls and expensive original paintings. “No' what I'm used to, though.”

“No,” Scuddamore said. “Not as good as a single-end in the Overgate, eh?”

Swinging his cane like a golf club, Watters waited in the outer hall until echoing footsteps announced the arrival of Abraham Sturrock.

“Ah, Sergeant Watters.” Sturrock looked worried as he shook Watters' hand.

Watters took in the man at one glance. Middle height, middle-aged, and wealthy, he wore his expensive clothes carelessly.

“It's a bad business, Watters,” Sturrock said.

“Give me a rough outline, Mr Sturrock,” Watters asked.

“It's theft, Sergeant Watters,” Sturrock said. “I laid a five-pound note on my desk before I went shooting, and when I came back, it was gone.”

“I see.” Watters took another practice golf swing with his cane. “Who has access to your desk?”

“Everybody in the house,” Sturrock said. “I never lock my study door. I've never had any need.”

“Who is in the house?”

“Two manservants, the cook and three maids,” Sturrock replied at once.

“Anybody else?” Watters asked. “Is there a Mrs Sturrock?”

“I am not married,” Sturrock spoke as if he should be ashamed of his single status.

Watters nodded. “Were there any visitors in the house?” He looked around. “Your butler was efficient.”

“We have had no visitors recently,” Sturrock said.

“May I see your study?” Watters asked. “My men can wait in the kitchen.” He followed Sturrock up a broad flight of stairs to the upper storey, and through a six-panelled door to a corner room. Immediately he entered, Watters confirmed Sturrock was a bachelor, for the papers littered the desk, a shotgun leaned against a chair and prints of ships, and wild birds hung at different angles on the wall.

“Only one door into the room, I see,” Watters said.

“That's right, Sergeant,” Sturrock agreed.

Watters looked out both windows, ascertaining the wall beneath was too smooth to climb, and there was no ivy or other vegetation for a burglar to use. “To come in here, the thief would have to enter the house and mount the stairs unseen, then leave the same way past six servants and yourself. Unlikely. How many doors do you have in this house?”

“Two, Sergeant,” Sturrock said. “The main door and a back door that the servants use.”

“To where does the back door lead?”

“From the kitchen garden straight into the servants' quarters,” Sturrock said.

A quick check convinced Watters that nobody could enter by the back door without one or more of the servants seeing them. “And the front door is kept locked,” Watters said. “How about the windows?”

“The ground floor windows are barred,” Sturrock said. “Although we're in a good area, the Dundee thieves are not far away.”

“Quite,” Watters said. “I'd like to speak to the servants. All of them.” He liked Sturrock more when the man looked uncomfortable.

“I don't think any of my people would do such a thing,” Sturrock said. “They've been with me for years.”

“We'll soon find out,” Watters said. “Let's congregate in the kitchen where they feel at home.” He grinned. “I heard a cock crowing a few moments ago. Is that yours?”

“Yes.” Sturrock was taken aback at the question.

“Where is he kept?”

“Why, in the henhouse,” Sturrock said. “You don't think he stole the money, do you?”

Watters smiled, taking another practice swing with his cane. “No, I don't, but I think he might help me find who did.” He grinned. “Would you mind if I take a short walk around the grounds? I will meet the servants in the kitchen in half an hour.”

“Do whatever you think necessary.” Sturrock looked bewildered, as well he might, Watters thought.

A middle-aged gardener joined the indoors staff who gathered in an uneasy cluster inside the kitchen. Watters sat on the edge of the table, keeping his tone light as he told them why they were there.

“This is just routine,” he said pleasantly. “Mr Sturrock assures me that I am wasting my time because you are all honest.” He watched the reactions, which ranged from anger to frustration and resignation. The oldest maid gave a bright smile and touched a horseshoe on the wall while the youngest looked on the verge of tears.

“I like that.” Watters slid off the table, lifted the horseshoe, examined it for a full thirty seconds and replaced it upside down. As he hoped, two of the servants immediately rushed forward, with the older turning the horseshoe, so the legs pointed upwards. “What's the matter?” Watters asked innocently.

“The horseshoe has to face upwards,” the middle maid said seriously. “Otherwise, all the luck runs out of the legs.”

“Ah.” Watters nodded. “I'm sorry. I did not know that.” He waited until the servants settled down before he continued. “You will know about the missing five-pound note. Does anybody here know what happened?” He expected the negative replies, the shaking heads, and the looks of innocence shielding shadows of worry. “My name is Sergeant Watters, and my superintendent sent me here to try and find the fiver.”

“We don't have it,” the gardener said. “Can I get back to work now?”

“Not yet,” Watters said. “First, I will try some magic on you. You may have heard about my friend, the black cockerel.” He was not surprised when all the servants denied any knowledge, with the gardener looking contemptuous and the middle maid slightly scared.

“No? Oh, well, in that case, I will educate you. Cockerels are magic beasts, with astonishing powers. My black cockerel can tell when a thief touches him.” Watters looked around the servants, seeing their sceptical faces. “He is normally quiet during the day, but if a wrongdoer puts one finger on him, he cries out, like this.” Watters imitated the call of a cockerel as the servants stared at him in disbelief. The youngest made began to laugh, looked at her companions and stopped. Watters gave them another moment to settle. “I use my black cockerel as a thief detector. He is quite famous in the force.”

The servants looked at Watters as though he were crazed, which he quite understood.

“If you could come with me, please.” Watters led them outside, to form a queue outside one of the stables, with Duff looking confused at the back. Watters ordered Scuddamore into the house. “You know what to do,” he said quietly.

“This is bloody stupid,” the gardener said.

“Yes,” Watters agreed, smiling. “Now, when you enter the stable, you'll find it dark, and empty save for my black cockerel. All you have to do is stroke him once. If he remains silent, then you are innocent, but if he calls out, then I will suspect you of being guilty. Keep the door shut, or the light will make him call anyway.”

“You're not a detective,” the gardener said. “You're a bloody clown.”

“You first,” Watters ordered.

One by one, Watters ushered the servants into the stable, allowed them a few moments and brought them back out, until all seven stood in front of him, brushing loose feathers or straw off their clothes and grumbling at the waste of their time.

“Now then.” Watters beamed at them. “That wasn't so bad, was it?”

“The cock didn't make a bloody sound,” the gardener said. “Can I get back to work now? The weeds don't stop growing!”

“Neither they do,” Watters said, then altered his tone to a stern command. “Show me your hands!”

“What?” While most of the servants obeyed instinctively, the gardener glowered, keeping his hands at his sides.

Leaving the gardener to the end, Watters glanced at the others. Five had dirty hands while the sixth, you youngest maid, was clean.

“What's your name?” Watters pulled the youngest maid aside.

“Julie, sir.” The girl was already crying.

“Look at the gardener's hands, Duff,” Watters ordered, glanced down, and dismissed him. “Where is the five-pound note, Julie?” Watters asked.

Julie jumped, looked at Sturrock and shook her head. “I haven't got it, sir.”

“Perhaps not,” Watters said, “but you did take it. Where did you put it?” Watters was aware that Sturrock was looking at him oddly, while the other servants were milling around, denying that Julie would ever do such a thing.

Julie fought back her tears. She bit her lip, looked imploringly at Sturrock, and then lifted her chin in defiance. “I haven't got it!” she said.

Watters nodded. “The rest of you may go now.” He watched as the servants filed away, whispering to one another and glancing at Julie. The oldest maid stretched to pat her arm in sympathy. “Now, Julie, you can tell me all about it,” Watters said. “Come now, I know it was you, all I need to know was why you stole the money, and where you have hidden it.”

“Are you sure it was Julie?” Swinton tried to defend the distraught girl. “I have always found her the best of workers.”

Watters sat down. “I am afraid there is no doubt. You see, when I borrowed your cock, I smeared it with soot from the nearest lum and told the servants that the cock would crow when the guilty person touched it. Every one of your servants has soot on their hands except this unhappy young lady, so only she was afraid of being discovered.”

“Ah.” Sturrock looked at Watters with new respect.

“While we had the servants out here,” Watters said, “Constable Scuddamore has been searching their rooms, and here he comes now.”

“Sergeant!” Scuddamore arrived, nodded to Sturrock, and spoke to Watters. “Under a loose mantelpiece tile.” He handed over a five-pound note, folded in two.

“Thank you, Constable.” Watters took the money. “Which bedroom?”

“The maid's bedroom, Sergeant.” Scuddamore was a tall, handsome man with neatly trimmed whiskers.

“Oh, Julie,” Sturrock spoke more in hurt than anger. “Why, for goodness sake? I never took you for a thief.”

“You two go away,” Watters spoke to his constables. “Have a pipe and patrol the grounds for poachers.” He waited until the constables clumped away, already enveloped in tobacco smoke.

“Now, Julie, why did you steal the fiver?” Watters asked sternly. “You could not spend it. No thirteen-year-old maidservant could come by that amount of money honestly so that any shop keeper would be immediately suspicious. So why?”

By that time, Julie was sobbing, sitting on a stone bench with her head down and her shoulders shaking. Watters knew he had to break her to get the truth, so persevered, hating this part of his duty.

“Why, Julie?” Watters leaned closer, hardening his voice and his heart. “You are a thief, Julie, you have broken your faith with your master, and you'll go to jail with the other thieves and blackguards!”

“Go easy, Sergeant Watters,” Sturrock sounded concerned. “The girl's upset enough.”

“Aye, I'll go easy,” Watters said. “I'll go easy when this thief is locked up where she belongs. Ten years on bread and water, solitary confinement behind cold stone walls, if she is lucky, then a life of poverty because nobody will ever trust her with a position again.”

“I had to,” Julie looked up, her eyes swollen, tears streaming down her face, “it's my ma!”

“Your mother?” Sturrock put a hand on Julie's shoulder, glaring at Watters.

“Some excuse!” Watters said. He pulled a set of handcuffs from his pocket. “Come on, little thief! Let's get you to jail where you belong!”

“No!” Julie backed away, shaking her head. “Please! If I'm in jail, who'll look after my ma!”

“What's wrong with your ma?” Watters asked. “Nothing, I'd say! You're gammoning us, Julie.”

“I'm no'! She's sick, that's what!” Julie nearly screamed. “And we cannae afford a doctor's bill, and she might die unless I get a doctor!”

“Is that why you stole the money?” Watters pressed, still looming over the maid.

“Aye! Please, sir, send me to jail if you like but don't let my ma die!”

“No, of course not, Julie. I won't allow your mother to die.” Sturrock put a hand on the maid's shoulder, looking genuinely upset. “Julie's mother is Mrs Milne. She was the housekeeper here in my father's time.”

“Take me to her,” Watters ordered. “Take me to her, Julie, and we'll see if she is as sick as you claim.”

Mrs Milne lived in a one-roomed cottage at the edge of Broughty Ferry. The thatch was worn, and dampness discoloured the walls. The elderly woman was in bed, looking extremely frail when Watters entered the house, although she tried to rise, pushing herself partly upright with stick-thin arms.

“Stay put, Mrs Milne,” Watters said. “Please don't rise for us.” He nodded to Sturrock. “Julie is correct; we need a doctor. Who is your family doctor, Mr Sturrock?”

“I'll arrange all of that,” Sturrock said at once. “Julie, why did you not tell me about your mother rather than steal from me?”

“I didn't know what to do,” Julie said, through her tears.

“Steal?” Mrs Milne looked up. “Julie?”

Sturrock knelt beside Mrs Milne. “It's all right, Mrs Milne. We'll have a doctor to you shortly.”

“Never mind me.” Mrs Milne gathered strength from somewhere inside her wasted body. “My daughter did not steal. I did not bring up a thief!”

Sturrock took Watters outside the cottage, where the waves of the Tay hushed against a shingle beach. “Could we drop the theft case, Sergeant? I don't wish to waste your time, but I think Julie has learned her lesson, and she meant well.”

Watters considered the growing pile of pending investigations on his desk and nodded. “I came here to investigate a theft, Mrs Milne, but instead I found only a caring if confused daughter. As far as I am concerned, there was no crime committed.”

Sturrock put a hand on Watters' arm. “You're a clever, devious man, Sergeant Watters.”

“I've been called worse,” Watters said. “We'll be getting back to the Police Office now. I have real criminals to catch. There is a rising tide of crime at present.”

Chapter Two

“You're wanted, Sergeant,” Duff nearly whispered the words as Watters sat at his desk in the duty room. “Himself wants you.”

Watters placed his pen neatly in its holder, looked at the pile of pending investigations, and sighed. “I'd better go, then.” Rising from his chair, he made his way upstairs to Superintendent Mackay's office.

It was always trouble when Mackay called for him. However successful Watters had been in tracing stolen property, or in finding the drunken brute who beat up his wife, Superintendent Mackay never seemed pleased. So, it was with some trepidation that Watters tapped at the panelled wooden door.

Mackay was at his desk, with a splendid view of the prison next door and a cutlass hanging on the wall, a reminder that however exalted his position, the head constable of the Dundee Police could still work on the front line. “Ah, Watters,” Mackay looked up, “You spent rather a long time on a simple case of theft when we have rampant crime in the town.”

Watters stepped inside the office. “Yes, sir. I thought it best I resolved the cause as well as the mystery.”

“You're here to solve crimes, Watters, not put the world to rights.” Mackay treated Watters to a glare from his cold-blue Caithness eyes. “As it happens, Mr Sturrock was pleased with your efforts. He sent a case of beer for the Duty Room, so no doubt you'll get your share later.”

“That was very generous of him,” Watters said.

“Too generous. More importantly, I have a case for you.”

“Sir.” Watters stood at attention beside Mackay's desk.

“I was going to give it to Inspector Anstruther,” Mackay said, “but Mr Sturrock specifically requested that you're the man for the job.”

“Did he, sir?”

“He did, sir. And as Mr Sturrock is a councillor and a highly important man, I had little choice.” Mackay sighed. “It seemed he was impressed with what he called your tact and ingenuity in that incident in his home.”

Watters nodded. “It was nothing, sir. An open and shut case of a mislaid five-pound note.”

Mackay grunted. “That's not how Mr Sturrock reported it. Very well, then. You may find this next case more difficult. We have a murder at Dalcumbie Golf Course.” Mackay smiled faintly. “You play golf, don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At Dalcumbie?”

“No, sir. That is the elite course in Dundee. I play at the Dundee Artisan Course.”

“Ah,” Mackay said. “I thought golf was a democratic game.”

“In theory, sir, but some courses are not.”

“Well,” Mackay said. “You will have your chance to place your plebeian boots over their hallowed turf. There is a dead body on the thirteenth green.”

“You said it was a murder, sir?”

“As the man was stark naked and ripped to shreds, I'd say so.”

“Do we know who it is, sir?”

“Not yet.” Mackay returned to his paperwork. “Take Scuddamore with you, Watters, and keep me informed of progress. This is not a good time for a murder.”

“Is there ever a good time for a murder, sir?” Watters asked, but Mackay only lifted a hand to wave him away.

Scuddamore and Duff were waiting as Watters returned.

“We have a murder case,” Watters said.

“That will make a change from sooty cockerels,” Scuddamore said.

“Get the mugs out, lads.” Watters was very aware that Inspector Anstruther was watching everything he did. I'll give him a show to watch.

With both of his detectives holding a mug, Watters fetched his own and poured in tea from the pot that he kept beside the fire. “Here's to us lads, wha's like us?”

“No' many,” Scuddamore continued the ritual.

“And they're a' deid,” Duff completed the formula as they clicked their mugs together and drank the black, unsweetened tea.

“Right,” said Watters, “let's get to work.”

* * *

Dalcumbie Golf Course was two miles north of Dundee between the city and the range of the Sidlaw Hills. Watters took his usual cab, with Eddie at the reins.

“There's been a murder at Dalcumbie,” Watters said. “Do you know anything about it, Eddie?”

“I heard about it, Sergeant.” Eddie was about forty, with agile brown eyes, and ears that heard everything. In his job as a cabbie, he roamed all around Dundee and often picked up snippets of information that Watters found useful.

“Anything for me?” Watters spun half a crown in the air with the weak sunlight glinting from the silver coin.

“Not yet, Sergeant,” Eddie said. “Just one of the lads – another cabbie – said it was a ritual killing, whatever that means.”

“A ritual killing?” Watters spun the coin again. “In what way?”

“I dunno, Sergeant Watters. Old Eck, that's his name, Old Eck, says it was like a human sacrifice.” Eddie gave a twisted grin. “Do you know what I think, Sergeant? I think he was such a bad golfer that his partner bashed his head in with a club.”

“Thank you, Eddie.” Watters pocketed the half-crown. “That wasn't worth a penny, let alone silver. Take us to Dalcumbie.”

“Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police,” Watters introduced himself at the clubhouse. “And this is Detective Scuddamore. I understand you have a dead body.”

“On the thirteenth green.” The club secretary looked stunned. “Andrew Forsyth was our club captain.”

“The Andrew Forsyth?” Watters asked. “The chairman of the Tayside Bank?”

“Yes,” the spokesman spoke in hushed tones.

“Has anybody moved the body?”

“No,” the secretary said. “We thought it best to leave things for the police.”

“Who found the body, and when?” Watters asked.

“I did,” the secretary said. “I was playing a round early in the morning, and I saw poor Mr Forsyth, just lying there,” he lowered his voice, “naked.”

“I'll speak to you later, Mr…” Watters said.

“Carberry. Jack Carberry. Do you have to tell people how he was found? We have a reputation as a respectable club.”

“Show me the body, please, Mr Carberry.” Watters thought it significant that Carberry was more concerned with Forsyth's state of nudity than with his murder.

As the secretary had said, Andrew Forsyth lay face-down and naked across the thirteenth hole. A middle-aged, successful banker, his body was covered in scratches, some deep, others merely on the surface, from his neck down to his knees.

“I've never seen anything quite like this before.” Watters bent to examine the body. “It's like some wild animal attacked the poor fellow, yet none of these scratches is serious; certainly, none of them killed him.” He glanced around. “There is no blood on the grass and no sign of a struggle. I'd say that somebody murdered Mr Forsyth elsewhere and dumped his body here.”

“Yes” Carberry seemed fascinated by Forsyth's corpse, unable to tear his gaze away.

“Is there any sign of Forsyth's clothes?” Watters asked.

“None at all,” the secretary said. “Nor his golf clubs.”

“Do you know what Mr Forsyth was wearing?”

The secretary nodded. “Mr Forsyth always wore the same clothes. Light brown trousers, brown boots, a fancy Indian scarf, and a short grey jacket.”

Watters ensured that Scuddamore took notes. “Scout around for them, Scuddamore. If you can't find them, we'll look for them in the pawnbrokers. Was Mr Forsyth married?”

“No.” Carberry shook his head. “He was a single man. He always claimed he was married to the bank and the golf.”

“Aye,” Watters said. “Well, he's not married to anybody now.” He turned the body over, to see Forsyth's front was as scratched and cut as his back. “Somebody did not like the man. Did he have any enemies?”

“None that I know of,” the secretary said.

“What's that in his mouth?” Watters failed to prise Forsyth's jaws open. “The surgeon will find out for us.”

Carberry glanced down at Forsyth's mutilated body and visibly trembled. “Who would do this sort of thing?”

“That's what we'll try to find out,” Watters said. “I want to interview all the members of the golf club. You'll have a membership list in the clubhouse. And I want to see the people at his bank, and his neighbours.” He looked at Scuddamore. “We have some work to do, Scuddamore.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore said. “I've never seen the appeal of golf.”

“No, you wouldn't,” Watters said. “Very few women play.”

Scuddamore grinned. “That must be it, Sergeant.”

“I want you to go to the bank and interview everybody,” Watters said. “Find out if Mr Forsyth had any enemies, and how he lived. I want to know his friends, hobbies, family and everything else.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore said.

“In the meantime, I'll go through the club members,” Watters said.

The membership list was short, with only twenty-three men being members of the exclusive Dalcumbie Golf Club, each one notable in his profession or position. Watters spent three days interviewing them, without adding much to his knowledge.

“Andrew Forsyth was a very private man,” Arthur Cook said. “He did not speak much except about golf and his banking.”

“He was a quiet man,” James Menzies said. “A good golfer. We played together a few times.”

“Did he ever mention any enemies?” Watters asked.

Menzies shook his head. “No, he only spoke about the golf. He was my banker as well if that's of interest.”

“Maybe later,” Watters said, knowing that people with anything to hide rarely volunteered information.

“He was not interested in anything except his work,” Mr Baxter said.

“He concentrated on his game to the exclusion of all else,” Charles Ogilvie said. “He did not even seem to have a woman in tow.”

“A woman in tow?” Watters pounced on the phrase. “What do you mean by that, Mr Ogilvie?”

“Well,” Ogilvie looked a little embarrassed, “he was not a married man and pretty wealthy, so one would suspect that single women would be sniffing at his heels, an eligible bachelor and all that.”

“No women in his life at all?” Watters noted that down.

“None, Sergeant,” Ogilvie said. “Andrew Forsyth lived for his work and the golf, nothing else.”

Watters remembered Ogilvie's words when the police surgeon gave his report. “Mr Forsyth was suffocated,” Dr Musgrave said, “I found this stuffed in his mouth.” He showed a small bundle of ten-pound notes.

“There are a hundred pounds here,” Watters said.

“That's correct,” Dr Musgrave said, “but that was not what killed him.”

Watters handed the money back. “What killed him, Doctor?”

“This.” The surgeon produced a golf ball, bounced it on the ground, and handed it to Watters. “What do you make of that?”

“Good quality.” Watters examined the ball. “Hand made by Gourlay of Musselburgh. It's an old one though, a feathery. Gourlays stopped making featheries over ten years ago and started making gutties.” He looked up. “Tell me more, Doctor.”

Dr Musgrave placed the ball in a metal dish. “I found this golf ball stuck in Mr Forsyth's windpipe. That's what killed him. Somebody stuffed it as far down his throat as they could after they tortured him.” He shook his head. “Somebody, or rather some bodies, plural, subjected this unfortunate fellow to a frenzied attack.”

“Some sort of animal, we thought,” Watters said.

The surgeon shook his head. “There was no animal involved, Sergeant Watters. As far as I can judge, human nails caused all the injuries on Mr Forsyth's body. He had bruising on his wrists and ankles, consistent with being restrained, as if he was tied down and then attacked, ripped to shreds before somebody rammed a golf ball in his throat and a wad of money in his mouth.”

Watters took a deep breath. “What sort of person would do such a thing?”

“That's your job, Sergeant, not mine. I can tell you that more than one person was involved,” Dr Musgrave said. “Judging by the width and depth of the wounds, I would estimate two to three people.”

“It's a strange thing for a man to do.” Watters contemplated Forsyth's battered body.

“Aye, maybe so,” the surgeon agreed. “Perhaps it was not a man.”

“Women?”

“I'd say so.”

“Thank you,” Watters said. “That narrows it down to only half the population.”

“I did not say only women,” Dr Musgrave pointed out. “There may have been men involved as well.”

“When?” Watters asked. “Could you tell me when the murder took place?”

Dr Musgrave pursed his lips. “I'd say about sixteen hours ago. Around midnight.”

“Very appropriate,” Watters said. “Very dramatic. Now all I need to do is establish a motive and find the killer.”

The surgeon did not smile. “I have seen a lot of things in my time, but nothing like this, before. Good luck, Watters.”

Chapter Three

“How did you get on at the bank, Scuddamore?” Watters sat at his desk in the Duty Room in Bell Street Police Office, reading through his notes to see if he had missed anything.

“Not well.” Scuddamore consulted his notes. “Mr Forsyth seems to have been a hard manager but fair. He was neither liked nor disliked, with no enemies and no friends.”

Watters nodded. “A grey man, then. That's the impression I got in the golf club. People respected him for his position and his golf, without ever becoming close.”

“He was in the bank before dawn and often worked late,” Scuddamore said.

“Did anybody mention women?” Watters asked.

Scuddamore looked up. “He wasn't married.”

“How about other women? A sweetheart?”

Scuddamore looked blank. “Nobody spoke about women.” He grinned. “Golf, though. Most people I interviewed said he played golf.”

“Golf and money,” Watters said, “and he was murdered with a golf ball, with money crammed in his mouth. Whoever killed him, knew him well.”

“It was no random murder, then,” Duff had been listening to the conversation. “Somebody selected him.”

Watters nodded. “Aye. Maybe Eddie the Cabbie was right. Maybe it was a ritual murder. A customer who did not get a loan, perhaps?”

“Bloody expensive way to show disapproval,” Scuddamore said, “cramming a hundred pounds in the unfortunate fellow's mouth.”

“A disgruntled employee, then,” Watters said. “Has anybody been dismissed recently?”

“No.” Scuddamore shook his head. “I asked, Sergeant. The bank has had the same staff for three years, with no movement at all.”

Watters drummed his fingers on the desk. “We're getting nowhere here,” he said. “Who is in charge of the bank now?”

“A Mr Gladstone,” Scuddamore said, “the chief cashier. He's acting as manager until the directors of the bank make a decision.”

“What's he like?” Watters asked.

Scuddamore screwed up his face. “He's like you'd expect a bank clerk to be, Sergeant. Small, neat, dapper, fussy, meticulous.”

“Would he murder his manager to gain promotion?” Watters asked hopefully.

“I doubt he'd have the nerve to swat a fly,” Scuddamore said. “I can't see him sticking a golf ball in anybody's throat. He might get his delicate little hands dirty.”

Watters grunted. “All right. We'll visit Forsyth's house,” he decided. “We might pick up something there. If there were two or more women involved in the attack, as the doctor believes, one will talk, eventually.”

“Women like to talk,” Scuddamore said.

Watters lifted the solitary bottle of beer that remained from Mr Sturrock's gift, discovered it was empty and tossed it in the bin. “So much for this place,” he said, raising his voice. “I do all the work, and these hounds take my beer!”

In the far corner, Sergeant Murdoch raised a beefy hand. “We enjoyed it, George!”

“Have you not got a beat to walk?” Watters asked, shaking his head.

* * *

Forsyth lived in a surprisingly modest house in Thomson Street, off the Perth Road, a detached villa with an impeccably neat garden. He had no servants, but according to the neighbours, a housekeeper called three times a week.

“Do you know her name?” Watters asked the neighbour, Mrs Carruthers.

“Mrs Kelly,” the neighbour said. “She's a lovely woman. Was it true they found poor Mr Forsyth without any of his clothes?”

“Did anybody else come to the house? Relatives, friends?”

Mrs Carruthers shook her head. “No. Mr Forsyth kept himself to himself. He was a reticent, respectable man.”

“Did you ever see Mr Forsyth with a woman?”

“No,” Mrs Carruthers said at once. “He was not that sort of man. My husband said that Mr Forsyth had too much sense to marry. He only thing he loved was his golf, although I believe he visited his mother regularly.”

“How regularly?”

“Every Thursday,” Mrs Carruthers said. “He was a dutiful son.” She stepped closer. “I heard he was entirely unclothed.”

Watters nodded. “We'll speak to Mr Forsyth's mother. Thank you, Mrs Carruthers.”

The interior of Forsyth's house afforded no clues. The rooms were simply furnished, bare of character except for a scattering of golfing prints on the walls and a collection of golf clubs. One image of Tom Cribb the prize fighter looked a little out of place. The remainder of the house was as plain as the man himself with functional furniture, old and well-maintained. His wardrobe was the same, neat, sparse, and business-like.

“Look for anything that might belong to a woman,” Watters said to Duff.

There was nothing. Forsyth's life seemed as devoid of character as the man himself. Even the few books in his bookcase related to his work. Volumes of banking dominated, with two golfing books.

“So, we have a successful banker with no wife, no family, and few friends, who lived for his work and playing golf, found dead on a golf course, scratched to pieces, and choked on a golf ball,” Watters said when they returned to the Duty Room.

“What's next, Sergeant?” Scuddamore asked.

“We must find Mrs Kelly and Mrs Forsyth, or whatever his mother's name was, but first we look for his clothes,” Watters said. “They were not at the golf course, or in his house, so we try the pawn offices. I've had Duff searching, but now we join in.”

“Light brown trousers, brown boots and a short grey jacket.” Scuddamore consulted his notebook. “There might be hundreds of clothes like that.”

“Maybe not the Indian scarf though,” Watters said.

“That seems out of character,” Scuddamore said.

“I thought so, too,” Watters agreed. “Maybe a present from an old flame?”

“More likely from his mother,” Scuddamore said.

“And Forsyth was nothing if not neat. His clothes will be clean, and top quality – things you won't find in many pawnshops in Dundee.”

Watters gave each of his men an area and chose Dock Street and the Maritime Quarter for himself, sharing the streets with the dockers, seamen, ropemakers, ship chandlers, small merchants, sailmakers, and various hangers-on.

“Aye, Betty.” He stopped at the first public house he came to, where he knew the landlady. “You'll have heard of the death of Andrew Forsyth, the banker.”

“I heard about it.” Betty was mopping the tables with a scrap of cloth that looked as if a coalminer had rejected it as unfit for use. “He wasn't one of my customers.”

“No, I imagine not,” Watters said. “You've got too much class for a man like that.”

Betty grunted. “I hear stories, though.”

“I know,” Watters said. “That's why I am here, Betty.”

Betty stopped adding dirt from her cloth to the grease on the tables. “My stories don't come free, Sergeant Watters.”

“No, I imagine not.” Watters sauntered around the interior, rattling his cane against the tables and chairs. “You must have rather a mixed bag of customers here, Betty, seamen, porters, factory hands and the like.”

“Aye, maybe.” Betty narrowed her eyes. She was around fifty, with a well-used face and a blackjack hidden up her sleeve for the more disreputable customers. A cutlass displayed above the bar was for any serious trouble. Betty had been known to chase drunken Greenlandmen halfway along Dock Street with that cutlass.

“They must feel secure in your public, knowing the bobbies seldom visit. What's the beat policeman's name? Constable Littlejohn, is it not? He's been a policeman for over twenty years and never risen above the rank of constable.”

“Maybe.” Betty waited to see where Watters was heading. The dirty cloth halted in its progress across the greasy table. A dog wandered in from the street outside, sniffed at a table leg and curled up, tail over its nose, and watched through one brown eye.

“Aye, Littlejohn. He doesn't seek trouble, so if nobody bothers him, he allows all sorts of illegalities to pass him by.” Watters leaned on the counter to peruse the bottles behind the bar. “If I replaced Littlejohn with a young, keen-as-mustard constable who is seeking promotion, who knows what sort of thing he might find in a place like this.”

“I run an honest shop.” Betty began to smear the tables again.

“I am sure you do,” Watters said. “But are all your customers honest? And how would your business fare if the bluebottles buzzed in here every night, or maybe twice a night, checking up for, say, illicitly distilled whisky, or whaling men selling duty-free tobacco or rum? Maybe arresting the odd petty thief or snotter-lifter, or a man selling the gold turnips (watches) he's grazed. Would your business hold up?”

“You're a bastard, Sergeant Watters.”

“That's my middle name,” Watters said cheerfully. “Now, then, what stories have you heard about Andrew Forsyth.” Smiling, he leaned closer to her, avoiding the filthy rag, and ensuring he blocked her loaded right sleeve. With a woman like Betty, one never knew when she would turn violent.

“Nothing definite,” Betty said.

“That's all right. All rumours are welcome.” Watters withdrew, to perch on one of the benches with his cane in front of him, tapping the weighted end on the floor as a reminder that he, too, carried a weapon. “There's no smoke without fire,”

Betty's glower would have scared a man with less experience than Watters. “I heard somebody murdered Forsyth because of a woman.”

“A woman?” Watters asked, trying to hide his surprise. “What sort of woman?”

Betty shrugged. “The female sort. I heard he had been with the wrong woman and crossed the wrong man.”

“I would not argue with that,” Watters said. “He crossed the wrong man, and the wrong man killed him. Do you know who that man was? Or that woman?”

“No.” Betty shook her head too emphatically.

“No. You might not know, but you do suspect,” Watters said. “Who was it, Betty?”

“Not a local man.” Betty began to smear grease again. “He doesn't drink here.”

Removing a crown piece from his pocket, Watters slid it over the table towards Betty, then slammed his hand on top, hiding the silver. “Tell me more, Betty.”

Licking her lips, Betty shrugged. “I don't know much more, Sergeant Watters. I just heard that Mr Forsyth paid attention to the wrong woman and somebody sent a man to kill him.”

Somebody sent a man to kill him. That is ominous. “The wrong woman? And who sent the man?”

“That's all I heard, Sergeant Watters.”

Watters lifted his hand, allowing Betty to snatch the silver coin. “Thank you, Betty.” He stood, raising his cane. As he reached the door, and he knew Betty would be off-guard, he turned around. “Just one more thing, Betty. You did not mention the women. Who were they?”

He saw Betty give a little start as if surprised. “Women?”

“Yes, the women who were involved in the murder. Do you know who they were?” Watters returned to the pub, pulling another crown piece from his pocket.

“I don't know.” Betty looked at Watters' coin with lust.

“How many were there?” Watters held the coin between his thumb and forefinger. “You knew there were women, don't you?” He saw Betty's arm twitch as she contemplated the crown. She reached forward, hesitated, and pulled back as a shadow crossed her face.

“No,” Betty said.

“If you ever remember.” Watters replaced the crown in his pocketbook. “Be sure to let me know.”

Fear, he told himself as he stepped into the street. That was the shadow on Betty's face. She was too scared to say anything about the women. Something, or somebody, was spreading fear through Dundee. First, there was Charles Graham, and now Arbroath Betty. Neither were people who scared easily. Swinging his cane, Watters walked on. He had made progress, but he did not like the direction in which this case was moving.

* * *

There were two types of pawn shops in Dundee, which Watters called the “big pawns” and the “wee pawns.” The big pawns were reputable offices whose managers and owners were relatively respectable, scanned the police notices for lists of stolen items and tried to retain their licences. The wee pawns were not always so honest, small, often one-man or one-woman shops that operated on the very fringe of legality and catered for the very poor. It was the latter that Watters concentrated on, asking about clothes that matched those Forsyth generally wore. The sort of people who used the wee pawns would not be interested in Forsyth's missing golf clubs, except as offensive weapons.

The first three shops yielded nothing, and Watters entered the fourth, at the corner of Gellatly Street, just as evening was dimming the sky, and the night-people were emerging from their dens.

“Good evening.” Watters swung his cane, smiling at the balding man who ran the office. As in many wee pawns, the manager had raised the floor behind the counter, so he appeared taller, giving him a physical and psychological advantage over his customers.

“Evening.” The manager ran a suspicious gaze over Watters. “I run an honest shop.”