Not a Pukka Gentleman E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

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

Beschreibung

In the fifth novel of Malcolm Archibald's 19th century detective novels, Sergeant Watters finds himself overwhelmed with three simultaneous cases.

With a case of poisoning, a series of child kidnappings and somebody with a seeming dislike to clocks and watches, Watters and his team are stretched thin. Things become even more complicated when a circus comes to Dundee, and Watters has to help raid an illegal gambling den.

Fortunately, Dr. Beaton is there to help. But who is the mysterious man who crosses his path in Dundee, and why would anyone wish to kidnap boys from impoverished backgrounds? Find out in 'Not a Pukka Gentleman', a riveting historical mystery set in 19th century Dundee, Scotland.

Leseprobe

NOT A PUKKA GENTLEMAN

DETECTIVE WATTERS MYSTERIES BOOK 5

MALCOLM ARCHIBALD

CONTENTS

Preface

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

Next in the Series

About the Author

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

PREFACE

DUNDEE, NOVEMBER 1865

Constable Kenneth MacPherson of the Dundee Police pulled his tall hat lower on his head and carefully stepped across a puddle. He extracted the cheap metal watch from his pocket, saw the hour hand indicated two, and knew he had five hours of his shift remaining.

“Oh, for seven o’clock in the morning, a mug of sweet tea, and a warming fire,” he said and walked on. The centre of Dundee was quiet at this hour, with the last of the late-night revellers having wended their way home. MacPherson lifted his head, shook off the rain that dripped from the brim of his hat, and surveyed the street ahead.

One of the main western thoroughfares out of Dundee, the Overgate was a unique mixture of the old and new, with shops on the ground floor and tenement buildings rising to the weeping sky above. Some of the buildings were ancient and had once been the townhouses of the local gentry, with faded glory gradually descending into crumbling mediocrity. When the elite deserted the town centre, the houses were divided and subdivided for more modest people.

By day, the Overgate was a bustling, even raucous place, but at night, once the public houses ejected their clientele into the dreary darkness outside, it was as quiet as any other street. Some Dundonians disliked the Overgate’s preponderance of public houses – or publics as people called them – but MacPherson did not share that view. He found the publics to be friendly places where he could visit, get to know the local drinkers, and maybe have a small refreshment to help him on his way. They were all closed at this time of night, and MacPherson’s duty included checking the public’s locks and shutters to ensure nobody had broken in. He also peered inside in case unwelcome visitors intended to sneak away with a few bottles of spirits. MacPherson frowned when he noticed a man sheltering inside the doorway to a close, with a pack at his side, moleskin trousers and a pair of heavy boots. When he saw the policeman approach, the man stepped deeper into the shadows and remained still.

“Don’t linger too long,” MacPherson warned as he passed the closed mouth. “If you’re still here on my return, I might arrest you for loitering.”

“I’m moving, Constable,” the man said gruffly.

MacPherson made his way along the Overgate, rattling shop doors and shining his bull’s eye lantern up closes as he searched for night prowlers, hoping for a quiet shift. The rain eased slightly but then began again. A slant of wind blasted sleet in MacPherson’s face.

“What a stinking night!”

The noise from ahead broke MacPherson’s thoughts, and he stepped into the centre of the pavement for a better look. The street in front looked no different, empty of people, with the street lamps reflecting from windows and gleaming on the wet stone of tenement walls. MacPherson did not rush but subjected each building and shop front to a methodical examination. He knew he had heard something but was unsure what it was.

“Whatever it was, I’ll come to it eventually.”

Stepping slowly forward, MacPherson shone his lantern from side to side, looking for anything that did not belong.

The noise sounded again. A scream, but not from an adult. Aware that it could be perfectly innocent, a child having a nightmare or a fraternal disagreement, MacPherson decided to investigate. Ignoring the sleety-rain that was falling with increased force, he moved in the direction of the noise.

Although the Overgate remained empty, candles appeared in some of the windows. Faces peered outside, also searching for the source of the noise. Ignoring them, MacPherson continued his search. The noise came again, a definite youthful scream, quickly stopped, as if somebody had put a hand across the child’s mouth.

The pubs remained dark, but MacPherson saw a tell-tale sliver of light glimmer from the darkness of a close.

“If you’re thieves,” he said to himself, “you’re making a devil of a noise about it.”

MacPherson lifted the bull’s eye lantern from his belt, opened the shutter and directed a thin beam of light into the close. In Dundee, people called the common entrance to a tenement a close, from which stairs ascended to landings where the houses were situated. MacPherson strode in, flashing the light in front of him. The musty smell of the close closed around him, a compound of packed humanity, dampness, and accumulated waste.

“Is anybody in here?” He did not expect a reply and began to climb the stairs, stepping carefully. MacPherson looked upstairs, where stone steps, worn by the passage of thousands of feet, rose into dense gloom. The close remained silent, save for the scuttling of a single mouse. MacPherson’s lantern light reflected from the creature’s bright eyes, and then he flicked it away to probe the gloom.

MacPherson stopped on the first landing, shone his lantern across the three closed doors and moved on. The steps seemed interminable, stretching for another three flights. Sighing, MacPherson plodded upward, shining his lantern into every dark nook and recessed doorway. He had heard nothing for some moments and wondered if he was wasting his time when something squeaked.

Instantly MacPherson closed the shutter of his lantern and stood still, trying to trace the sound. He listened, with his mind trying to trace the origin of the sound. It had not been a mouse or a badly oiled door. It was like somebody’s shoe twisting on stone.

Where the devil did that sound come from?

MacPherson thought backwards, concentrating on the squeak. It was beneath me.

He began the climb down, keeping as quiet as possible. Dousing the light from his lantern, he had to feel for each step, and the darkness seemed more profound.

A door banged, the sudden noise startling. “Who’s there?” Clicking open the lantern’s shutter, MacPherson aimed the beam downwards. “Dundee Police! Come out so I can see you!”

Smothering a curse, MacPherson hurried downstairs with the light bouncing before him, deepening the darkness on either side, and making the stairwell appear like an inaccessible pit.

“What all the noise?” a tired voice shouted from above. “Some of us have work in the morning!”

“Dundee Police!” MacPherson replied. “Go back inside and shut your door!” He ran outside, where a blast of cold sleet greeted him. He heard definite footsteps pattering on his left and guessed the owner had run up the wynd beside the close. MacPherson followed, slipped on greasy stone slabs, and swore again as he came to a tall stone wall.

Hooking the lantern to his belt, he hoisted himself up and over the wall, thankful that the householder had not thought to cement broken glass to the top as added protection. The drop into the small yard beyond the wall was easy, and MacPherson crouched for a moment, gathering information about his surroundings.

The twelve-foot-high wall enclosed a triangular yard, stone-slabbed and wet. A thin shaft of light shone from between the open shutters of a barred window, and MacPherson heard a distinct crash from within the building. Rainwater wept from a broken gutter above, forming a steady stream across a closed door.

“What the devil is happening? “MacPherson strode forward and tried the door. Finding it securely locked, he looked at the window. Somebody, presumably the man he followed, had eased aside two of the iron bars, removed a glass pane and forced open a pair of wooden shutters.

MacPherson shook his head. How the devil did he have time to do that with me chasing him?

MacPherson attempted to squeeze between the bars, gasped and realised he could not fit. He swore, tried a second time, barked his knuckles off the harsh iron and cursed again. He peered inside the room and saw a glimmer of light.

All right, my man. I can’t get in, but by God, neither can you get out!

Stepping back, MacPherson pulled his rattle and sprung it, twirling the large wooden implement to make the harsh, distinctive sound that would summon every policeman within hearing range. Having done that, he hoisted himself to the top of the wall and opened the shutter of his bull’s eye lantern to allow more light to penetrate the yard.

MacPherson heard the whimper first and focussed on the far corner. His eyes narrowed as he saw what made the sound. “Oh, dear Lord. Who are you?”

A pair of large eyes peered up at him, and a small boy’s dirty face showed the marks of recent tears.

“MacPherson?” Sergeant Murdoch panted up the alley and dragged himself up the wall beside his constable.

“Good evening, Sergeant!” MacPherson said, keeping the lantern beam fixed on the boy. “There’s been some dirty business here!”

Murdoch was middle-aged, middle height, and vastly experienced. “What’s the to-do, MacPherson?”

“That is, Sergeant,” MacPherson nodded to the boy in the lantern beam. The boy cringed away, with both hands shielding his face from the light.

“Don’t hit me, mister! Please don’t hit me!”

“I won’t hit you,” MacPherson said as his light illuminated the woman that tried to disappear into the deepest shadows beside the wall.

“Why, Bessie, this is a rum do for you,” Murdoch immediately recognised the woman. “Out you come now. I’ve got a cell all nicely warmed up for you.”

CHAPTERONE

DUNDEE, SCOTLAND

7th NOVEMBER 1865

“This is a niblick,” Detective Sergeant George Watters held up the golf club.

“A niblick,” Marie repeated the name dutifully and gently took hold of the club. “That’s a strange name. What’s it for? Is it for niblicking?”

“When your ball gets stuck in a hole or a rut, you’ll need a special club to dig it out. That’s when you use the niblick,” Watters told her. “And this one,” he held up another club, “is a shafted driver, used for long drives. You hit a long drive at the beginning of each hole. You will want to belt the ball, so it travels a long distance.”

“A shafted driver for long drives,” Marie examined the second club, repeating Watters words. “For belting the ball long distances.”

“That’s right,” Watters approved. “And this is a baffie for lofting the ball.”

Marie dutifully examined the baffie. “This is a baffie for lofting the ball. They all look the same to me.” She looked out the clubhouse’s small window at the darkness outside. “Did we have to start so early? It’s barely light enough to see.”

“The course is quieter in the early morning,” Watters explained. “We can have a round before anybody else arrives.”

“You mean before any golfing men realise that a woman is polluting their sacred game.”

Watters swung his club. “You are not the first woman, Marie. Indeed, you’re in distinguished company. I heard that Mary, Queen of Scots, placed a decent game.”

Marie frowned. “I’ll bet she didn’t start in the middle of the night, and she’d have a servant to carry her clubs.”

They stepped outside, leaving the comparative warmth of the clubhouse for the chill of the November morning. A cold wind blew from the Sidlaw Hills to the north, lifting the light powdering of snow to create a white haze against the dim of early dawn.

“Snow here, rain in Dundee,” Marie shivered and glared at the wintry sky. “And it’s probably sunny in Fife. Anyway, with your job, I’m surprised you have time to play, George, let alone finding time to teach me,” she pulled her cloak further over her shoulders and tucked in her comforter.

“Crime seems to be quiet this season,” Watters tried another practice swing of his club. “All I have on my desk, apart from the usual petty stuff, is a few watch thefts. Lieutenant Anstruther is so idle that he is engaged on Councillor Forsyth’s crusade against illegal gambling dens and some child stripping.” He glanced at Marie to ensure she was all right.

“Child stripping?” Marie swung her club, emulating Watters. “What’s that?”

“It’s a horrible crime where somebody, normally a woman, grabs a youngster and takes off their clothes.”

“That is horrible,” Marie agreed. “Why on earth would somebody do that?”

Watters shrugged. “They’ll sell the clothes to a pawnshop for a few pennies.”

“Poor little children,” Marie said. “I hope Lieutenant Anstruther catches them. What sort of person would do that?”

“Either somebody desperate for money, maybe to feed their own children, or somebody craving drink,” Watters took a practice swing of his club and watched an imaginary ball soar into the distance.

“Drink is a curse!” Marie said. “Anyway, I thought that crime would be busier in winter,” Marie said. “Do the criminals not prefer the long dark nights?”

“Some do,” Watters corrected Marie’s grip on her club, holding her close. “Put your hands like that, a double Vee. Yes, criminals use dark winter nights, but employment influences the types of crime in Dundee. If trade is dull and people are unemployed, petty theft rises, often with people despairing to feed themselves and their families. If work is plentiful, crimes of drunkenness and assault rise, as men and women can afford to drink too much and then get into stupid arguments.” He smiled across to Marie. “Enough of that sort of talk. Let’s get this match started. “I’ll let you tee off closer to the hole to give you a chance.”

Marie nodded. “You’d better! How many holes are there?”

“The Dundee Artisan is a nine-hole course, so we play it twice if we have time.”

“Oh, good,” Marie did not keep the sarcasm from her voice. “I’m glad we aren’t playing it just the once.”

Watters selected a spot on a slight incline and placed Marie’s ball on the ground. He pointed ahead, where the green was just visible in the distance. “You see that wee red flag?”

“I do,” Marie said solemnly. “It’s a very nice flag.”

“That flag marks the first hole,” Watters told her. “That’s what you are aiming for.”

Marie lined up as Watters had shown her, tapped the ball and swung. Watters watched, expecting her to miss entirely, but instead, her club caught the ball sweetly and sent it soaring along the length of the fairway.

“Nice shot!” Watters could not hide his surprise. “Have you played this game before?”

“Not ever,” Marie said. “I can’t see where the ball landed.”

“Nor can I,” Watters admitted. “We’ll find it in a moment. Stand clear while I take my shot.” He lined up, swung, and sent a long drive in the wake of Marie’s with the ball bouncing on the fairway. They walked side-by-side as the light gradually strengthened.

“There’s my ball!” Marie pointed to the ball closest to the green.

“Are you sure that’s not mine?” Watters asked.

“Quite sure,” Marie said in tones so confident that Watters could not question her judgement. She took a spooner from her clubs and lined up her shot as Watters watched, half proud of her and half nervous that a novice would beat him at his own game.

“Sergeant Watters!” The shout came from ahead. “Is that you, Sergeant?”

“Yes,” Watters replied. “Get your great size tens off the green!” He watched as the police constable apologised and lumbered towards him. Marie looked away, hiding her smile.

“Sergeant,” Constable MacPherson belatedly noticed Marie and doffed his hat. “Sorry, Mrs Watters, I didn’t know you were there. I thought the sergeant was golfing with a man.”

“I hope I don’t look like a man, Kenny,” Marie said, raising her eyebrows.

“No, of course not, Mrs Watters,” MacPherson looked rattled until Watters spoke.

“What is it, MacPherson?”

“Sergeant Murdoch sends his compliments, Sergeant,” MacPherson stumbled over the unfamiliar phrases, “and requests that you join him in the Overgate.” With the message delivered, he relaxed a little. “I tried your house first, and when you weren’t there, I thought you’d be here. Everybody knows how you like your gowff and play at the Artisan course.”

“And here I am,” Watters said. “Enjoying a peaceful round with my wife.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” MacPherson smiled.

“Why does Murdoch see fit to interrupt my golf, MacPherson?”

“We’ve found a wee naked boy, and one of the culprits vanished in Rimmer’s shop in the Overgate, Sergeant.”

“And?” Watters knew there was more to come.

“Sergeant Murdoch thinks you’d better look at it, Sergeant. It’s a bit queer.”

Watters sighed, pushed MacPherson aside, swung at his ball and sliced it badly. “Fetch that, would you, MacPherson? You disrupted my game, there.” He watched as MacPherson lumbered away. “Sorry, Marie, it seems that I’ll have to go. Do you want to play alone?”

“No, thank you,” Marie said, trying to control her shivering. “I’d better get back. I don’t like leaving Patrick for too long, anyway, especially not with him developing a bit of a cough.”

“Rosemary’s looking after him,” Watters reminded.

“She is,” Marie said, “but I don’t like to impose.”

“Here it is, Sergeant!” MacPherson held up the golf ball for Watters’ inspection as Marie headed thankfully back to the clubhouse.

* * *

“Good morning, George,” Murdoch said as Watters stepped inside Rimmer’s shop. “How’s the missus?”

“Morning, Murdoch, and she’s crabbit, thank you.”

“No wonder if you drag her to the gowff at this time of the morning. How’s the wee one?”

“He’s teething, thank you, and Marie’s worried about his cough.”

Murdoch, fifteen years older than Watters, twenty years married and a father of five, nodded. “That’s another reason that Marie’s crabbit. Get young Patrick to chew on a cold cloth. It will cool down his gums.” He glanced around the shop. “We’ve got a strange one here, George.”

Watters nodded. “Well, I’ve never seen the like of this before. “Watches and clocks lay on the floor, each one smashed. Pieces of glass, wood and intricate mechanisms were scattered from one end of the shop to the other.

“We have a double mystery here,” Watters said. “We have a shop breaker who disappeared without a trace, and this,” he gestured around the shop.

“Who the devil would break into a shop only to break everything?” Detective Constable Scuddamore asked.

“He didn’t break everything,” Detective Constable Duff pointed out. “He only broke the watches and clocks. All the rest, all the jewellery, is untouched.”

Watters nodded. “Aye, it’s a conundrum. Mr Rimmer!” he called over the proprietor. “Has anything been stolen?”

“No, Sergeant,” Rimmer said. “As far as I can see, everything is still here. The burglar only smashed the watches and clocks. He’s broken every single watch and clock in the shop.”

“Has he taken anything away?” Watters asked.

“No,” Rimmer looked as confused as Watters felt.

“Are you sure?” Watters pressed the point. “Nothing at all?”

“I’m sure.”

Watters walked around the shop. He peered at the back window, where the burglar had broken in and examined the space between the iron bars. “He wasn’t a large man if he fitted in there.”

“No, Sergeant,” MacPherson said. “I could not get in that way. I tried.” He hesitated for a second. “And there’s the wee boy, Sergeant.”

“Aye, there’s the wee boy,” Watters agreed. “Where is he now?”

“In the police office, Sergeant.”

“He’s safe enough there until we trace his parents,” Watters said. “No doubt somebody will realise that they’re missing a child and come to our lost property department in a day or two. Until then, we’ll concentrate on this mess in here.”

“Surely the boy is more important than jewellery,” Duff said.

“Do your duty, Duff,” Watters said. “Measure the space between these bars at its widest point. When we find a suspect, we’ll measure their vital sizes and see if they could fit.”

“Yes, Sergeant. It’s not a very wide space, so our shopbreaker must be slightly built.”

Watters nodded. “That would include half the population of Dundee.”

“Yes, Sergeant, but excludes the other half.”

Watters grunted. “Sergeant Murdoch. You said that MacPherson heard the boy screaming and chased the child stripper into this yard when the burglar was inside the shop. You put a man at the front, yet the burglar still got away. Is that correct?”

“That’s correct. MacPherson chased the stripper and saw the light inside. When he couldn’t get in, he summoned assistance. The light was still on when I arrived and posted Constable Nicoll at the front door.”

Watters knew that Scuddamore was taking notes of everything Murdoch said. “I’d have done the same. What next?”

“Mr Rimmer came along with his keys and opened the front door. I was with him. The shop was as we see it, and nobody was here.”

“So, either the burglar is still hiding here, or he’s escaped somehow,” Watters said. “Are there any other doors or windows, Mr Rimmer?”

“A front door, a back door, a shuttered front window that you’ve examined and the window into the yard at the back,” Rimmer said.

Watters produced his pipe, lit it, and surveyed the shop. “I’m going to search this place again. How reliable are MacPherson and Nicoll?”

“Good men,” Murdoch defended his constables. “They wouldn’t take a bribe or turn their back.”

“We have a bit of a mystery then,” Watters said. He examined the shop’s ceiling, probing for recently disguised holes and finding nothing. He grunted and walked into the back shop. The property had formed the lower storey of a house at one time, but Rimmer had converted the back room into a storage space, with packing materials and boxes against each wall. A simple desk and chair sat in the middle of the room, with a neat pile of paperwork on one side. Facing the desk and set into the wall, a small Chubb safe was unopened.

“Did he try the safe?” Watters asked, frowning at black specks of dirt on the floor between the desk and the wall.

“No.”

“Open it, please,” Watters asked and watched as Rimmer produced two keys from inside his coat and inserted them into the locks. The safe opened without a sound, revealing that the money and high-value jewellery inside were untouched.

“Thank you,” Watters said. “That must be a thick wall for the safe to sit flush against it.”

“That’s the old fireplace,” Rimmer said. “I blocked off the rest with thin board.”

“Show me,” Watters asked.

“You see?” Rimmer inserted his fingers in a handle and slid open a hinged sheet of wood, painted to match the plaster.

“I see,” Watters stepped closer. “And I’d wager that’s how our man escaped.”

“Up the lum? What sort of man could climb up there?” Rimmer stared into the black, with his voice echoing hollowly.

“A very agile, small man who could fit through a narrow gap between iron bars,” Watters said. “He dislodged some soot on his way.” He raised his voice. “Bring me a lantern, somebody! My old sergeant, James Mendick, started his life as a climbing boy, a sweep’s apprentice, in Dundee. He spent his childhood climbing up this sort of aperture.”

When Duff handed him a lantern, Watters shone it into the aperture. “See? Scuff marks all the way up. I’m surprised he didn’t get in this way as well. Now we’ve solved one mystery; we still have the big one. Why did somebody break in only to smash up the watches?”

“And clocks,” Rimmer reminded.

“And clocks. Why did the burglar break in merely to smash up the timepieces?”

Rimmer shook his head, “I don’t know, Sergeant.”

Watters looked upwards, where a circle of lesser light revealed that the chimney soared straight up to the sky, with no deviations or bends. “A climbing boy would have no difficulty in negotiating that lum,” he pulled away more of the boarding to reveal the ornate stonework of the fireplace. “Your premises must once have been a magnificent house, Mr Rimmer. The home of a wealthy man to possess such a fine fireplace.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Rimmer did not seem interested in the antecedents of his shop.

“Scuddamore! Get a statement from Mr Rimmer. Duff! Interview the neighbours, see what they saw or heard. Sergeant Murdoch, pray secure this shop, keep it closed and keep any observers out of the way.”

“You can’t close my shop,” Rimmer said. “I have a business to run.”

“It’s a temporary measure, Mr Rimmer,” Watters said. “As soon as I am satisfied we’ve found out all we can, I’ll remove the officers.”

With morning light now illuminating the street, Watters stepped outside the shop and into the Overgate. A brewer’s dray rumbled past on its early deliveries while a butcher’s cart rattled over the cobbles as Dundee awoke to a grey, cold day. The sleety rain had ceased, and a chill wind drove frost into the sheltered corners and shadows.

Watters followed the line of the ancient building to the roof. The chimneys thrust upward, half-seen against the sky. Watters sighed and called for MacPherson.

“You’re the beat constable, are you not?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” MacPherson admitted.

“How do I get onto the roof?” When MacPherson looked confused, Watters rephrased the question. “There are houses on the top storey of the building, MacPherson. One of them must have access to the roof to allow maintenance and to sweep the chimneys from above.”

“Oh,” MacPherson’s face cleared. “This way, Sergeant.” He led Watters to a doorway, where a turnpike stair led upwards. “This must have been the servants’ entrance to the big house, Sergeant,” MacPherson said, with his heavy footsteps echoing and the dark seeming to close around them.

As an afterthought, MacPherson used his lantern, so a thin beam of light probed ahead until they reached a landing from where three doors opened. Strong cords held a ten-rung ladder against the wall, with a small wooden hatch in the ceiling above.

“Hold this thing steady for me, Constable,” Watters ordered, untying the ladder.

“I’ll go up if you wish, Sergeant,” MacPherson offered.

“Do you know what you’re looking for?”

“Why, the burglar, Sergeant,” MacPherson sounded surprised.

“He’ll be long gone.” Watters climbed up. “Hold this secure!”

The bolt that secured the hatch was stiff, but Watters wrestled it free and pushed the heavy wood aside. There was two-foot-high attic space, and then Watters found himself in the flat area immediately behind an array of chimneys. The cold wind stabbed at his face.

Hauling himself onto the roof, Watters knelt behind the chimneys, glad of the shelter and the residual warmth. He did not know which chimney the burglar had ascended, so he examined the roof for footprints. He cursed that the night’s rain had washed away any sign of egress until he noticed a smear of soot down the lee side of the central stack.

That’s where you came out, my man!

Watters searched for a trail to gauge the direction of travel. Even the most careful of burglars, or shop breakers, in this case, would leave some clue. Watters followed the roofline, trying to ignore the long drop to the street on one side and the equally uninviting drop to the array of wynds and lanes on the other.

Now how did you get back down to ground level, my agile little friend?

Watters checked access to the gutters and waterspouts, crawling across the slippery blue-grey slates until he found a single smudge of soot.

There we are. You turned here and left soot from your boot.

There was another sooty mark at the head of a waterspout that descended to one of the narrow wynds. Watters looked down to the dimness below, marking the spot in his head.

“Did you find him, Sergeant?” MacPherson was still holding the ladder.

“No, but I found where he went,” Watters said. “Come with me, MacPherson. You know this area better than I do.”

The wynd was hard to find in the tangle of ancient lanes behind the Overgate, but MacPherson led him through a succession of dim passages until they reached the foot of the waterspout. Watters examined the ground, following possible routes until he found what he sought.

“There! “The footprint was incomplete, the mark of a heel and part of a sole. “That’s a new impression.”

“Is it, Sergeant?”

“Yes,” Watters said. “You see how the edges are crisp, with no blurring? This footprint was made last night at the earliest and more likely this morning.” He leaned closer. “I can see soot in the imprint there, and I doubt many people have been here this early.”

“It’s like a child’s foot, Sergeant,” MacPherson said. “Or a very small man.”

It’s a clue, but only one that confirms what we already knew. The intruder was small made, and agile. We don’t know who he is or why he’s smashing up watches. I also want to know if the burglar was involved in child stripping. We have two mysteries to solve.

CHAPTERTWO

“Well, gentlemen,” Watters leaned back in his chair as he spoke to his team of detectives. “Gather round and drag up a pew. Mr Mackay has given us an intriguing case to solve. We have a small man running around Dundee smashing watches and clocks, and we don’t know why.” He nodded to Duff. “Four mugs, Shaw!”

Watters looked at each man in turn. Duff, whose breadth of shoulders compensated for his lack of height and whose squat, ugly face concealed a generous heart. He was a slow, methodical man Watters knew he could rely on in any situation. Beside him, Scuddamore was taller, slim, and elegant, with carefully oiled side-whiskers and mobile eyes. Scuddamore relied on his charm, yet he was an excellent detective when not eyeing up some woman or searching for a drink.

The latest and youngest of Watters’ team was Shaw, a man who many believed lazy but who considered every problem before he acted. He was the most intellectual of the detectives, if not universally popular. Watters considered him a junior policeman and was slowly teaching him the skills of his profession.

Watters reached down, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out a bottle of whisky. Shaw had placed four mugs on the desk, added a teaspoon of tea to each and poured in boiling water from the kettle that permanently sat on the duty room fire. Watters supplied each mug with a generous tot of whisky. “There we are, gentlemen. Peat reek from the Angus glens. Here’s a toast to us. Here’s tae us!”

“Wha’s like us?” Scuddamore asked, lifting his mug.

“Damned few,” Duff continued with the litany.

“And they’re all deid!” they said together, with even quiet Shaw joining in.

Watters opened a packet of Abernethy biscuits and passed them around. “And to continue the tradition,” he said, “we’ll have a biscuit to give us strength.”

Watters was aware that the other officers in the duty room were watching everything he did. He lifted his mug in salute, then turned back to his team.

“All right, gentlemen, what do we have so far?”

“A small man who broke into a jeweller’s shop and smashed all the timepieces,” Duff said. “He might, or might not, be the same man who has attacked two men in central Dundee to steal and break their watches.”

“A man sufficiently small and agile to swarm up a chimney and run along a roof in the dark,” Scuddamore added.

Watters nodded. “It’s not much to go on.”

Scuddamore lifted his hand. “I wonder if the attacks on members of the public were only a blind, something to divert us from the shop breaking.”

“Carry on, Scuddamore,” Watters invited.

“Yes, Sergeant. I mean, perhaps the shopbreaker was somebody who doesn’t like Mr Rimmer and wants to damage his business. Maybe he bought a faulty watch there.”

Duff consulted his notebook. “I thought something similar, Sergeant. I asked Mr Rimmer if he had any enemies or rivals.”

“And does he?” Watters asked.

“He didn’t know of any. Mr Rimmer said that there are other jewellers in Dundee, but the town is big enough to encompass them all. He thinks he has a good, professional friendship with his business rivals.” Duff shut his notebook.

“Was Rimmer’s stock insured?” Watters asked. “He might have arranged the damage to claim compensation if he has financial troubles.”

“Rimmer is fully insured with the Dundee and Edinburgh Insurance Company,” Duff said. “I’m visiting there this afternoon to see if he’s overinsured.”

Watters nodded. “Find out his bank as well. See how his accounts look.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Did either of you get anything useful from the neighbours?” Watters asked.

Scuddamore nodded. “A Mrs Milne said she saw a man looking suspicious the previous day.”

“Looking suspicious?” Watters repeated. “Did Mrs Milne say in what way this man was looking suspicious?”

“He was walking back and forward,” Scuddamore read from his notes, “like a hen searching for seed.”

“Do you have a description?”

“No,” Scuddamore shook his head. “Except he was suspicious. Maybe I should search for a suspicious-looking hen.”

Only Duff smiled at the feeble attempt at humour. Outside, the rain had begun again, smearing the windows. A gust of wind drove smoke down the chimney into the duty room.

“All right,” Watters drained his mug. “Normally, we search for stolen property at the pawns, but there’s no point in that this time. Even the lowest of pawns would not accept a smashed watch. We’ll try our informants and see if that helps. That’s our job for today, boys. Shaw, you did the morning’s pawn patrol. Was there anything interesting?”

Shaw, clean-shaven and young, shook his head. “I only found one shirt, Sergeant, stolen from a washing line and a pair of boots pinched from outside a hotel bedroom. The guest put them outside to be cleaned, and some little thief ran off with them.”

“Did you get the name from the pawn ticket?”

“Arthur Wellesley,” Shaw said. “We have a thief with a sense of humour.”

Watters grunted. “And a knowledge of history.” Arthur Wellesley was better known as the Duke of Wellington, the victor of Waterloo and one-time Prime Minister of Great Britain. “Did you retrieve the items?”

“They’re in the stolen property locker, Sergeant.”

“Do you have any informants yet, Shaw? The criminal class calls them preachers.” Watters often added little snippets of information to advance Shaw’s training.

“Not yet, Sergeant,” Shaw said. “I suspect it was one of Big Jim’s boys, but I’ve no proof. Big Jim leads a gang of miscreants and street Arabs around the Overgate area.”

“In that case, Shaw, I want you to find the two men who were attacked for their watches and ask them for a description of the attacker. Anything. Garrotters and their ilk don’t habitually work alone, so I think this fellow might have an accomplice.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“See if he matches the description of our shopbreaker. If so, we only have one queer fellow to catch.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Shaw said.

“Duff, you know what you’re doing. Scuddamore, use your charm again. Ask your informants for news of this shopbreaker.”

“Sergeant,” Duff raised his head. “I’m a wee bit concerned about the lad that Bessie Cartwright had.”

“That’s Anstruther’s case,” Watters said. “He’s chasing after the child strippers.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” When Duff looked unhappy, Watters took pity on him.

“Ask him, then,” Watters said. “Then get about your duty.”

* * *

Lieutenant Anstruther looked surprised when Duff approached him. “Yes, Duff?”

“It’s about the child stripping case, and I was just after asking about the wee boy, sir.”

“The boy is perfectly all right, Duff,” Anstruther said. “I’ve put him in a cell until we trace his parents.”

“He’ll be scared in a cell all alone, sir.”

Anstruther shook his head. “I’m not a monster, Duff. The lad’s warm and dry, and the turnkey’s supplied him with a sandwich and a mug of tea. He’s not suffering.”

“Yes, sir,” Duff said. “If you can’t find his parents, I’ll take him home tonight. My Rosemary is good with children.”

Anstruther nodded. “Thank you for the offer, Duff. I’m sure he’ll be happier with you than spending a night in a cell. I have the doctor coming to check him over later.”

Duff nodded. “Dr Musgrave will be thorough.”

“It’s not Musgrave, Duff. It’s another fellow, a man called Beaton.” Anstruther frowned. “Anyway, I have other cases besides a woman who strips children. I have gambling hells to locate and close down before they inveigle more gentlemen into their snares.”

Duff frowned. “I didn’t know that gambling was illegal, sir.”

Anstruther sighed as if talking to a man of low intelligence strained his patience. “Gambling itself is not illegal, Duff, but cheating in gambling dens is. Mr Forsyth, one of our more esteemed councillors, wishes me to locate the gambling hells and end their practice of shaved dice, marked cards and any other illicit practice. Now, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

Anstruther realised he was unbending too much and frowned. “Don’t you have duties to perform?”

“Yes, sir,” Duff withdrew hastily. “As long as the wee boy is all right.”

* * *

Many local residents had complained about the cab stance in elite Panmure Street, and as he approached, Watters understood why. The ten cabs, some the old-fashioned hackney growlers but most the two-wheeled Hansoms, with spare horses, a pump for the horse’s water and servicing equipment, took up a great deal of space. However, the major complaint was the mess. Horse manure mingled with chaff, straw, hay, and oats, creating a stinking morass that spilt further down the street. The waterman, bundled up against the cold, looked like a tramp in his ragged clothes as he piled up bundles of straw to insulate the water pump.

Eddie the Cab did not look surprised when Watters approached him. “Good afternoon, Sergeant. I thought you might be looking for me.”

Watters fed a piece of carrot to one of Eddie’s horses while the second was busy with his nosebag. “You are one of my most reliable helpers,” Watters said. “I am asking about the break-in at Rimmer’s shop last night.”

“I heard about that,” Eddie admitted. “A bit of a rum do, though, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Watters agreed. “Have you heard anything?”

Eddie screwed up his face. “I heard the boy bashed old man Rimmer’s shop up and escaped.”

“I already know that much,” Watters said, stroking the nearer of Eddie’s horses. “Did you hear of any cabbie picking up a fare in the Overgate area early this morning?”

“Not at that time,” Eddie said at once. “Night shifts aren’t popular, Sergeant Watters. There’s never enough fares to justify the time spent.”

Watters found another carrot. “Did you hear anything about a man smashing watches? We’ve had a couple of incidents where somebody has robbed a pedestrian and broken his timepiece.”

Eddie shook his head. “Sorry, Mr Watters, I’d help if I could, but I’ve heard nothing.” He lowered his voice. “If you want to know what I think, I think this fellow didn’t like Rimmer.”

“Why might that be?”

Eddie glanced around the street. “Rimmer likes the ladies, Sergeant Watters. Maybe somebody’s husband was upset.”

“Thank you, Eddie. I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Sergeant,” Eddie said. “I was thinking about changing my vehicle.” He tapped the old hackney coach he drove. “I’ve had this chariot for years now, and it’s out-of-date. Nearly everybody else has a Hansom cab.”

“We like you with the growler,” Watters said. “Hansom cabs only hold two passengers, while your hackney holds four.”

“I’m losing fares, Sergeant. My customers want a fast, manoeuvrable Hansom.”

“We need you to carry prisoners,” Watters reminded. “And we give you plenty custom.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Eddie said miserably. “I’ll keep the old hackney.”

Leaving Eddie, Watters tried his next informant. Arbroath Betty ran a public house she called Betty’s Welcome in Dock Street, with the masts and spars of the shipping a biscuit toss across the road. Betty was busy behind the bar when Watters pushed open the door and walked in, passing the man with the moleskin trousers and navvy boots with barely a glance.

“Good afternoon, Mr Watters,” Betty was a widow in her early fifties. She did not smile as she polished a glass. “What trouble are you here to cause?”

“No trouble, Betty,” Watters said. “I’m looking for information.”

“I didn’t think you came here for the pleasure of my company,” Betty put down her glass and attacked the bar counter as if she were trying to scrub it to extinction. “What’s the to-do this time?”

“The break-in at Rimmer’s jewellery shop.”

“Oh, that,” Betty threw her cloth into a pail. “Some young idiot who likes breaking things, I reckon.” She managed a twisted smile. “Lads nowadays have no self-discipline. They need a few years at sea to teach them what life is all about.”

“Not like our youthful days, eh?”

Betty stopped scrubbing for a moment and looked up suspiciously. “What do you mean by that remark?”

“We were no angels,” Watters reminded. “Can you think of any other reason to smash up clocks and watches?”

Betty snorted. “Maybe it was a man who didn’t like Rimmer.”

“Why wouldn’t somebody like Rimmer?”

Betty shrugged. “He’s a lady’s man.”

“So I’ve heard,” Watters said. “There’s also a man robbing pedestrians and smashing their watches.”

Betty glanced at the large clock behind the bar. “Just let him come in here, that’s all! I’ll soon show him the way out!” She touched the ancient cutlass that decorated the wall beneath the clock. “I can deal with any man.”

“I know that, Betty. Thank you,” Watters tossed over a shilling.

“Is that all I get?” Betty complained, staring at the silver coin.

“If your idea is right, I’ll add more,” Watters promised.

A lady’s man? Perhaps a betrayed husband? In that case, why only break up the timepieces? Was there a reason? Watters left Betty’s Welcome, swinging his cane. I’ll follow that lead at present, but I think there is more to this case.

Watters’ third informant was Jim Bogle, who used to haunt the brothels in Couttie’s Wynd. Now Jim worked as a porter in the docks and supported Hairy Meg, a one-time prostitute trying to leave the profession.

“Jim! My young friend!” Watters warned of his approach.

Jim was less nervous than he had once been but still started when Watters put a hand on his shoulder. “I haven’t done anything wrong, Sergeant Watters.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Jim,” Watters swung his cane like a golf club. “I’ll wager you still need some extra money, though, now you have a woman to look after.”

Jim’s smile appeared genuine. “Meg looks after me, Sergeant Watters.”

“I thought she would. Meg’s got a good heart, so you treat her right, young James, or you and I will fall out.” Watters reversed his cane and swished it again, smacking the lead-weighted end into the palm of his left hand.

“I will, Sergeant Watters,” Jim nodded vigorously.

“Good lad.”

Both men looked around as the foreman arrived. He was a distinctive, burly figure with a pheasant’s feather thrust through the band of his low-crowned hat. “Good afternoon, Mr Ambrose,” Watters said.

“It’s nearly evening,” Ambrose said sourly. “Has Jim been causing trouble, Sergeant?”

“Not even a shadow of trouble,” Watters said and returned to his questioning.

“You’ll know about Rimmer’s jewellery shop, Jim.”

Jim nodded vigorously. “It’s in the Overgate,” he said helpfully. “Abe Rimmer is a tight-fisted bugger with a roving eye, and he undercharges any looker to get under her skirts.”

“Thank you for the overview, Jim. Do you know why somebody turned his place over last night?”

Jim shook his head. “No, Mr Watters. I never heard. The boys in the docks here think it’s a lark, though, somebody larking at Rimmer’s expense.”

“Thank you, Jim.” Watters extracted a shilling from his pocket, thought of Meg and handed over a florin. “Ask around, Jim, will you?”

“I will, Sergeant,” Jim said.

“You’d best get on with your work.” Watters touched a finger to his hat in Ambrose’s direction and walked away, wondering about the possibilities.

A womanising jeweller? A jealous husband or the old favourite of insurance fraud? Neither theory seemed correct unless the attacks on random pedestrians were only a coincidence. Even then, Constable MacPherson had noticed a light on in Rimmer’s shop and heard the smashing of watches, while Rimmer was a portly man in his forties. Watters could not imagine Rimmer scrambling up a chimney in the dark.

It’s an intriguing mystery that I can’t yet figure out.

* * *

Sergeant Murdoch looked up from the booking desk when Watters entered. “Good evening, George.” He put his mug on top of the folded newspaper at his side.

“Evening, Murdoch. You’re having a busy shift, I see.”

“Hectic, George, hectic.” Murdoch took a deep gulp of his tea, shaking his head. “In the last eight hours, I’ve had one man complaining about a smashed watch, a youngster who lost his dog and a mill worker complaining about her overseer.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how my pen can cope with so much work.”

“A smashed watch?” Watters peered at Murdoch’s Incident Book. “Did you get the fellow’s name?”

“Michael McPake,” Murdoch said. “He claimed that a young fellow saw him checking the time, knocked his watch to the ground, stamped on it and ran away.”

Watters scribbled down McPake’s address. “I’ll have a word with him. It may be a coincidence, but I’m looking for a man who breaks timepieces.”

“Ah, for the good old days of Chartist marches, civil disturbance, foreign spies and murders,” Murdoch said.

“You’re a sarky bugger, Murdoch,” Watters told him, smiled, and stepped away until Murdoch spoke again.

“You’re lucky you only have one child, George,” Murdoch said. “My eldest is searching for a position, and I don’t want him working in a mill.”

“It’s a steady job,” Watters said.

“It’s a steady job until trade becomes dull, or the lad reached manhood, and the mill throws him onto the streets,” Murdoch said. “I’m hoping to gain him an apprenticeship,” he indicated the newspaper. “I only saw two advertised in the paper. One was for a hatter, a trade I know nothing about, and the other was a trawler owner down in Hull looking for apprentices. You were at sea, George. How do you think my lad would do on a trawler?”

Watters realised that Murdoch was serious and stepped back to the desk. “I was a Royal Marine, Murdoch, not a sailor, but it’s a hard life at sea. I’ve heard that trawler apprentices have a terrible time, but they can rise to be skippers and even boat owners if they’re hardy and determined.” He paused for a moment. “I’ve also heard some dark tales of cruelty out there on the Dogger Bank.”

Murdoch sipped at his tea as he scrutinised Watters. “Would you send your Patrick to a Hull trawler?”

“No,” Watters shook his head. “I would not recommend it. Have you thought about the whaling trade? There’s good money in that when the catches come in and the chance to rise to harpooner or even shipmaster.”

Murdoch grunted. “Thanks, George. I’ll consider that.”

“If I think of anything, I’ll let you know. Good luck, Murdoch,” Watters swung his cane and hurried to his desk, where his men were already waiting.

* * *

“I can’t see Rimmer smashing his own stock,” Duff echoed Watters earlier thoughts. “The man was nearly in tears at the mess in his shop.”

“No, unless he employed somebody to do the wrecking,” Scuddamore said. “Make it look like a break-in for plausibility and claim the insurance.”

Duff shook his head. “The insurance people showed me the documents,” he said. “Rimmer has underinsured his stock if anything. The clerk at the Dundee and Edinburgh Insurance Company told me that Rimmer was so tight-fisted he kept a hedgehog in his pocket to ensure he never spent money.”

“Ah, a man with deep pockets and short arms,” Scuddamore added.

“Did you manage to check his bank account?” Watters asked. “If he’s financially embarrassed, he might need a quick windfall. Or maybe one of his lady friends is blackmailing him.”

“I’ve made an appointment with Mr MacBride, the manager of the Tayside Bank. I’m seeing him tomorrow morning.”

“Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

Duff looked slightly embarrassed. “That’s Matthew chapter twenty-five, verse twenty-three,” he said.

“See what Mr MacBride says,” Watters could not argue with Duff’s theological knowledge. “Now, Scuddamore, I want you to investigate Rimmer’s lady friends. Find out who they were and if they were married.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore stroked his whiskers. “And I’ll find out about jealous husbands as well.”

“That’s right. We might be barking up the wrong tree, but it’s the only lead we have at present.”

“How about me, Sergeant?” Shaw looked slightly disconsolate.

“I have a vital job in mind for you, Shaw, but not yet,” Watters told him. “At present, you are taking over the routine duties of Scuddamore and Duff.”

“Checking pawnshops for stolen items?” Shaw sounded resigned.

“It’s a never-ending part of police work,” Watters said. “And then you walk about the town, listening and watching for dippers.”

“Dippers?”

“Pickpockets,” Watters explained. “You’ll have to learn thiefology, the terminology of the criminal classes, Shaw. They speak a different language from us, a mixture of cant and slang, so that ordinary people, or flats, can’t understand them. If you learn their words, you can listen to their conversations.”