The Fireraisers E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

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

Beschreibung

Dundee, Scotland, 1862. After the mill of businessman Matthew Beaumont burns to the ground, Detective Sergeant George Watters is sent to investigate.

Soon, George discovers that this is not the first property that has been targeted. When a man is found dead in the hold of a trade ship, George discovers a shocking connection between Beaumont and foreign powers threatening the very country.

George tries to get to the bottom of the mystery, but clues are few and far between. What connects the enigmatic Beaumont to the murder and strange events taking place in the Dundee shipyard?

Leseprobe

The Fireraisers

Detective Watters Mysteries Book 1

Malcolm Archibald

Copyright (C) 2019 Malcolm Archibald

Layout Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Evocative

Edited by Nadene Seiters

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

PROLOGUE: WASHINGTON, UNITED STATES: APRIL 1862

Silhouetted against the window, the man was rangy with narrow shoulders and a head that seemed too large for his body. Allowing his companions to settle, he stepped forward to the table. The room crackled with tension, barely relieved by the birdsong that sweetened the humid air. The rangy man adjusted the fit of his coat and placed his tall hat on the polished table.

When the birdsong ceased, the only sound in the room was the remorseless ticking of a long-case clock. The rangy man cleared his throat before he began to speak.

'We are gathered here to discuss the possibility that our enemy could find a new ally.' The rangy man looked around the gathering, analysing the resourcefulness of each person in turn. Everybody met his eyes in full approval, with most nodding to reinforce their determination. One man produced a Bible, which he placed in front of him. Gleaming through the window, a beam of sunlight settled on the gold cross on the cover of the Book.

The rangy man continued. 'We all know that the struggle has already cost the lives of tens of thousands of men as well as millions of our dollars. We are engaged in a war which is tearing the Union apart, and we cannot afford to oppose more than one foe at a time. We also know that there has been talk of Great Britain joining the struggle on the opposing side.' He halted, cracking the knuckles of his great hands together as the men shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. A cloud blotted the sun, removing the light from the cross.

The rangy man took a deep breath. 'If the forces of Great Britain join those of the South, we will be facing a possible invasion from Canada, as well as the inevitable sea blockade and raids along the coast.' He permitted himself a small smile. 'We all know why this building is called the White House.'

There was a murmur of agreement from the room. Everybody present was aware of the War of 1812 when a British force had burned Washington. The Capitol Building had to be painted white to mask the scars. One man fidgeted in his seat as if he had been personally responsible for that decades-old disaster.

The rangy man spoke again. 'It is therefore imperative that we keep Great Britain out of the war. To that end, we will enhance the interests of all who support our noble cause and work against all those who oppose us.'

One of the men at the table lit a cigar, puffing aromatic smoke around the room. Others followed his example. When a red-haired man offered the speaker a cheroot, he shook his shaggy head.

'I propose that we use whatever methods we deem necessary to ensure Britannia pokes neither her trident nor her long nose into our domestic affairs. Whatever methods.' Again, he met the eyes of the assembled company. Not a single man flinched.

The bird sang again loudly. One of the men sought permission from the speaker then stepped to the open window and pulled it shut. He looked outside, noting the blue-uniformed guards that paraded in the hot sun and the flag that hung limply from its pole. 'Sir, when can we start?'

'Immediately,' The rangy man spoke softly. 'I will send each of you to a British city where agents of the Confederacy may seek to work against us.' Producing a sheaf of folded and sealed documents from within his coat, the rangy man handed one to each man in the room. 'You will all go to the destination written on the front of your document and do your duty for the Union. Inside, you will find two lists of names and addresses. The first gives details of those who may sympathise with us; the second gives details of those who may work against us. For instance, Mr F., you will work in Manchester, which is experiencing a great deal of distress because of the cotton famine. Mr H., you already know Dundee with its connections to both North and South. Each of you gentlemen has all been assigned to equally important destinations. That is all, gentlemen. Any methods, remember: the future of this great nation is at stake.'

One by one, the men left the room, all pausing to shake the hand of the speaker before stepping out of the building and into their waiting carriages. Only when they were gone did the speaker slump into a chair. He placed his head in his hands.

'And may God grant you strength and wisdom,' he said, 'for this country is dissolving in tears and blood.' For a second, he remained in that position then slowly stood, opened the window again, and listened to the call of the bird.

CHAPTER ONE: DUNDEE, SCOTLAND: SEPTEMBER 1862

'Sergeant Watters!'

'Yes, sir?' Watters looked up from his desk.

Superintendent Mackay stood at the doorway. 'There's trouble in Brown's Street. Take a couple of constables and sort it out.'

'Is that not a job for a man in uniform, sir?'

Mackay nodded. 'If I had one available, I would send one. I have you, so I'll send you.'

Sighing, Watters carefully put away his pen with its new Waverley nib, stood up, and reached for his low-crowned hat. 'Do you have any idea what sort of trouble, sir?'

'There's a crowd gathering outside a burning mill,' Mackay said. 'Take Scuddamore and Duff; they're fresh on duty.'

'Send them after me, sir.' Watters lifted his cane, smacked the lead-loaded end against the palm of his hand, and headed for the stairs. 'Tell them to hurry!' He took the stairs two at a time, pausing momentarily at the landing to have a practise golf swing.

Sergeant Murdoch looked up from the newspaper he had been reading at the Duty Desk. 'Where are you off to, George?'

'Brown's Street.' Watters lifted his cane in salute. 'It's either murder and mayhem or a missing dog; I don't know what yet.'

'Probably murder and mayhem because of a missing dog,' Sergeant Murdoch said. 'You know what Dundee's like!'

Watters grinned. 'That's entirely possible, Willie.'

'See if that missing Honourable Peter Turnbull is at the back of it.' Murdoch pointed to a paragraph in his paper. 'So far, he's been seen in Paris, Cape Town, and America. He may as well be in Dundee as well. That fellow certainly gets around.'

'He's not my case,' Watters said. 'I've much more important things to worry about than missing gamblers. I have a crowd of people in Brown's Street.'

Murdoch shook his head. 'That sounds like a major case, George. Take care.' He returned to his newspaper and the missing Peter Turnbull.

Watters heard the babble of noise the instant he walked into the narrow, stone chasm that was Brown's Street. On both sides, cliff-like mill walls soared sheer from the pavement. Smoke was clouding from the mill on the right with scores of people congregated around the two fire engines that were parked on the road outside. Most of the crowd worked in the mill, hard-grafting, tired-eyed women.

'Dundee police!' Watters parted the crowd with his voice. 'Move aside, please.'

'You're no bluebottle,' a gaunt-faced woman challenged him. 'Whaur's your uniform, eh?'

'I'm Sergeant Watters of the Dundee Police.' Watters pushed past as a fireman appeared at the main entrance to the building. 'What's happened here? Is anybody hurt?'

'Nobody hurt, Sergeant Watters.' The fireman tipped back his brass helmet with the embossed DFB, “Dundee Fire Brigade,” partly obscured by smuts of soot. He surveyed the damage to Matthew Beaumont's Brown's Street Weaving Manufactory and Mill. 'But it's made a fine mess of the building.'

Water slithered slowly down the cobbled street, carrying the crisped leaves of autumn plus fragments of charred wood. Watters peered through the blue smoke that hung acrid and heavy, trapped by the high-walled buildings. The chimneys of neighbouring mills added to the smog as the now-idle workers of Beaumont's Mill clustered round, pressurising the firemen for information. Through the chatter of the mill hands, Watters could hear the unending clatter of neighbouring mill machinery; the noise seeming to repeat one phrase: 'more profit, more profit, more profit.'

Well, Watters thought, there will be less profit for Matthew Beaumont until he gets his mill repaired.

'How long are you going to be, for God's sake? You're blocking the road!' With his wagon piled high with bales of raw jute, a carter glared at the fire engines that blocked his passage. He cracked his whip, unsettling the horses but not the equanimity of the imperturbable firemen.

'Any idea what caused it?' Watters watched as the firemen loaded their coiled canvas hoses into their wagons. The matched brown horses flicked their ears against the irritation of smut of soot.

'Our job is to extinguish fires, Sergeant Watters, not to find out how they started.' The senior fireman slammed shut the hinged compartment that held the hoses, checked that the water pump was secure, and clambered onto the engine. 'That's the fire out now, so I'll leave the cleaning up to the mill manager.' Raising his hand in farewell, the senior fireman cracked his whip. The horses jerked the machine away, with the second engine following a few moments later.

'About bloody time,' the carter said, cursing again as a group of women swarmed onto the road in front of him.

'Can we get back to work, Sergeant?' The gaunt-faced woman was at the forefront of the crowd.

Watters ignored the questions as he tried to peer through the charred doorway to the still smoking remains of the mill.

'Will we still get paid? I said will we still get paid?' A shrill-voiced woman followed Watters through the threshold of the mill, plucking at his arm. 'I've got bairns to keep and a man.'

Watters gently removed her hand. 'That's something that I can't answer. You'll have to speak to the mill manager.' Pushing open the door, Watters stepped inside the mill, coughing as smoke engulfed him. The interior was more cramped than he had expected: two storeys of closely-packed machinery that left little space to walk on the floor of stone slabs. The ground was a mess of wet ash with scraps of jute lying on top. Light filtered in from the now-open door and high, multi-paned windows.

'You'd better be careful, Sergeant Watters.' Fairfax was the mill manager, a man of middle height and middle age. 'We don't know what problems the fire has left us with.'

Watters nodded. 'Aye, you're not wrong there, Mr Fairfax. Are fires like this common?' Standing in the centre of the floor, Watters surveyed the mess. The damage was not as extensive as he had first supposed; the fire had swept through around one-third of this floor, putting ten spinning machines out of action.

'Not normally, but that's the second fire in one of Mr Beaumont's mills this week.' Mr Fairfax shook his head. 'Terrible.'

Watters narrowed his eyes. 'Oh? That's unusual. Is there some weakness in Mr Beaumont's mills, perhaps, that makes them more vulnerable to fire?'

Fairfax shook his head. 'Not that I am aware of, Sergeant. There was a spate of such fires in the '40s and '50s, but we tightened up since then. It's more likely to be carelessness from the hands than anything else.' Fairfax spoke with a broad Dundee accent, a man who had educated himself as he worked his way up from a half-timer to mill manager. He was pale faced and shrewd eyed with specks of soot polka dotting his sandy whiskers. 'It could have been oil-soaked waste placed near heat or a man going for a fly smoke who dropped his match in a pile of paper or something similar. I doubt that we will ever know. We can only be grateful that the Lord did not see fit to take any lives.'

Watters stirred the ash with his cane. 'Maybe so, but Mr Beaumont will not be happy to see his profits drop. Do you know where this fire started?'

'Not yet.' Fairfax shook his head.

'I'd like to find out.' Watters looked up as his two constables pushed into the mill. 'You lads, send the mill hands home; they won't be working here today.'

'Or tomorrow neither,' Fairfax said.

The constables nodded and returned outside. Watters knew them as reliable men, although Scuddamore liked his drink and Duff could be hot headed.

'If you'll excuse me, Mr Fairfax, I'll have a look around.' Swinging his cane, Watters stepped over a charred beam as he moved deeper into the mill. The interior of any workplace was sad when the machinery was silent, but when acrid smoke drifted between the looms, the place was particularly forlorn. Watters followed the trail of devastation from the merely scorched to the wholly destroyed, from the ground floor to the storerooms in the basement, where the smoke was at its most dense.

'Down here,' Watters said. 'It started down here.' He poked at the now-sodden remnants of jute bales. 'Mr Beaumont is not going to be a happy man when he sees this shambles.'

Tapping his cane on the ground, Watters looked for anything that might have caused the fire. After fifteen minutes, he frowned and headed back to the working levels. 'Mr Fairfax!'

Fairfax hurried up. 'Yes, Sergeant Watters?'

'You seem to believe that carelessness caused this fire.' Watters was not impressed by the mill manager's actions. Rather than taking control the minute he discovered the fire, Fairfax had allowed the flames to take hold. 'It's a mercy that nobody was killed.'

'I run a tight ship, Sergeant.'

Watters tapped the brim of his hat with his cane. 'I heard about some unpleasant practises at this mill. I heard that the overseers were bullying youngsters, using their belts too freely.'

'Not in my mill.' Fairfax shook his head violently. 'I don't allow any bullyragging in my mill.'

'Good.' Having suitably unsettled Fairfax, Watters listed the improvements he had thought of while down in the basement.

'In future, Mr Fairfax, I suggest that you do not permit smoking within the mill walls nor the use of any naked flames, such as candles or lamps, unless the needs of the business demand it.' Watters paused, knowing he was far overstepping his authority. 'I suggest that you place buckets of sand and water in convenient places, and instruct a responsible member of your workforce in their use. It would also be an idea to order your overseers to watch for any possible hazards and take appropriate action.' Watters paused. 'Plus, given the complaints I have heard, I want you to ensure nobody bullies the youngsters. In return, the youngsters can watch for any fire danger.'

Mr Fairfax nodded. Watters watched him closely. The workers did not seem to dislike him, which was in his favour.

'More important than all these ideas, Mr Fairfax, you should create some procedure whereby all your workers can leave the building safely in the event of a fire. We both know that you were fortunate on this occasion, but such good fortune may not occur a second time.'

Watters saw Fairfax stiffen but rather than return with an angry retort, the mill manager nodded meekly. 'Yes, Sergeant. Will you be giving a report to Mr Beaumont?'

Watters grunted. 'I might. Two fires in Mr Beaumont's mills within a week might be a bit more than a mere accident.'

'Fire-raising?' Fairfax raised his eyebrows.

'It's possible. Have you had occasion to dismiss any of your hands recently? A woman with a grudge is a dangerous animal.'

'No.' Fairfax screwed up his face. 'My hands are happy at their work.'

'Oh?' Watters took a practise golf swing with his cane. 'How happy are they? Are you a hard taskmaster, Mr Fairfax?'

'I told you there is no bullyragging here. My girls are well treated, Sergeant.'

'I hope so, Mr Fairfax; I really hope so.' Watters swung his cane again. 'If you can think of anything or anybody that may have a grudge, let me know. You know where to find me.'

The crowd had dissipated from Brown's Street, leaving Constables Scuddamore and Duff to fight their boredom as they lounged outside the mill gate.

'A shilling says he'll go into the mill even though it's shut.' Duff nodded to the lone jute cart that rumbled over the cobbles, with two small boys hitching a free lift at the back.

'You'll lose your shilling.' Scuddamore leaned against the wall, stifling his yawn. 'I know that carter. Eck Milne's not as daft as you look.'

When the boys shouted obscene insults at the two constables, Duff roared at them to the amusement of the blonde woman who sauntered along the pavement.

'Ignore them, Duff,' Watters advised. 'If you react to every cheeky wee snipe, you'll be chasing your tail all day. Right, you lads can go back to the police office now or on to your beat, if it's your time. Keep away from the publics, Scuddamore. Remember that you're on duty.'

As the constables marched off, the jute cart rattled into a side street, taking its attendant boys with it. Only the woman remained, watching Watters and the still smoking mill at his back.

'That looks unpleasant.' The woman was in her mid-thirties, Watters estimated, with bright eyes in a face that was too weather-tanned to be fashionable and too fresh to belong to a mill hand. She looked on the verge of respectability, a woman whose social status Watters could not quite place, which made him slightly uneasy.

'It was a fire,' Watters said. The woman looked vaguely familiar. He sorted through faces and names in his head, trying to place her. She was not one of his regular customers, therefore neither a prostitute nor a habitual thief. No, Watters shook his head. He did not remember who she was.

'I can see that it was a fire.' The woman's English was perfect but with an unusual accent. She was certainly not from Dundee, but neither did she belong to any other region of Britain. 'Was anybody hurt?'

'Would you like anybody to be hurt?' Watters turned the conversation around.

'Good heavens, no.' The woman's protests were too forceful to be genuine, which further enhanced Watters' suspicions.

'You're not from these parts.' Watters began his process of enquiries that would eventually strip away any pretence from the woman.

'No,' the woman admitted frankly. Her smile was bright. 'I'm from the Mediterranean.'

'You're from the Mediterranean, are you?' Watters filed away the information, wondering at its accuracy. Who the devil is she, and how do I know her? 'What brings you to Dundee, Miss? Mrs?'

'Miss Henrietta Borg.' The woman gave an elegant little curtsey. Her bright smile did not fool Watters for a second.

'Miss Borg,' Watters touched his cane to the brim of his hat. 'What brings you to Dundee, Miss Borg?'

'A ship,' Miss Borg gave a little laugh, 'and the fortunes of fate. Do you have a name, sir?'

'Detective Sergeant George Watters.'

'I see.' Miss Borg's eyes widened in what Watters knew was only pretended surprise. 'You're a policeman.'

'I am,' Watters said. 'And now, if you would oblige me with your real name, we could get along much better.' He tapped his cane against his leg.

Miss Borg laughed. 'I see that I can't fool you, Sergeant.' She gave another little curtsey. 'I'll tell you next time. It looks as if you are in demand.' She nodded to the dark brougham that was slowing to a halt beside them.

The brougham's door opened before Watters could reply. 'Sergeant Watters!'

'Yes, Superintendent Mackay?'

'You've worked with nautical crime before, haven't you?'

'Yes, sir, down in London.' Watters guessed that he was not going home yet.

'Jump in, then. You could be useful.' Mackay looked curiously at Miss Borg. 'Or is this lady known to us?'

'No, sir, we were just passing the time of day.' Watters touched the brim of his hat again. 'Good day to you, Miss Borg. I'd advise you to try and keep out of trouble. Women who give false names tend not to fare well in Dundee.'

Miss Borg gave another little curtsey. 'Thank you for the advice, Sergeant Watters. I will bear it in mind.'

Miss Borg accentuated the swing of her hips as she strode into the fast-darkening street. 'That's trouble on two legs,' Watters said. 'We'll hear more of Miss Henrietta Borg, or whatever name she chooses to use.' He frowned as an old memory crept into his mind. 'Nautical crime, indeed; she reminds me of somebody I met on a ship, but it couldn't be. That was ten years ago.' Shaking his head, Watters slid into the brougham. 'What's to do, sir?'

'Murder.' Superintendent Mackay was a man of few words.

CHAPTER TWO: DUNDEE: SEPTEMBER 1862

Lantern light cast flickering shadows across the deck of Lady of Blackness as Watters stepped onto the weather-stained planking. 'What's to do?'

'There's a blasted body in my hold; that's what's to do.' The man looked as battered as his ship, with his nose broken and twisted to starboard. The white line of an old scar crossed his barely shaven jaw.

'And who might you be?' Watters asked.

'I might be anybody, but I am Captain Murdo Stevenson. This is my ship.'

'Show us the body please, Captain Stevenson.' Superintendent Mackay did not waste time.

'It's in the hold,' Captain Stevenson said. 'Or rather, it's all over the bloody hold. Follow me, gentlemen.' Leading them to a length of knotted rope that stretched from an open hatch to the dark depths below, Stevenson raised his voice to a bellow. 'Bring me two lanterns!'

Without waiting for the light to arrive, Stevenson swarmed down the rope.

'I'll go next.' Mackay followed with barely less skill than Stevenson had shown. Watters descended last, plunging into a darkness that was relieved when a saturnine seaman lowered a pair of lanterns.

'Here's the body.' Captain Stevenson led them to the furthest corner of the hold, where the bouncing light of the lanterns scared away scurrying rats. 'What's left of it after four months at sea.' He pointed downward at the smeared remnants of a man.

'He's been flattened.' Watters looked down at the corpse. 'It looks like every bone in his body had been broken. What happened?'

Captain Stevenson grunted. 'Ask his maker for I'm blessed if I know. We found him here, squashed beneath hundreds of bales of raw jute.'

'I see.' Watters looked around. 'So we don't know if the jute killed him or if he was already dead when the weight of the cargo crushed him.'

Superintendent Mackay nodded. 'Exactly so. This might be murder or a simple accident. I'll leave you to it, Watters. Give me a report of your findings. Don't waste too much time over it.'

'Yes, sir.' Watters looked upward as Mackay swarmed up the rope. 'Could you arrange for the body to be taken ashore? I'd like the surgeon to have a look at him.'

'I know the procedure, Sergeant,' Mackay spoke over his shoulder. 'And Watters, don't forget that you are on volunteer duty tomorrow afternoon.'

'No, sir, I won't forget.' Watters restrained his oath. He had no enthusiasm for his position as a sergeant in the Eastern Division of Dundee Volunteers, which was a further encroachment into his time. However, with the current apprehension that the French might flex their military muscle at Britain's expense, Watters knew it was his duty to don the Queen's scarlet. Besides which, as his wife Marie reminded him, the money came in handy.

'Has the body been moved, Captain Stevenson?'

'No, Sergeant. It's exactly where we found it.'

'I see.' Watters knelt at the side of the corpse. 'Do you have this unfortunate fellow's name, Captain? Was he a member of your crew?'

'I don't know who he might be,' Stevenson said. 'He was not one of my men.'

With the dead man's pockets stuck together with dried blood, Watters had to cut his way in to prise them apart. He questioned Stevenson as he worked. 'Is it normal for strangers to roam around your ship when she's in dock, Captain?'

'It is not. I have a ship's husband who should prevent any strangers from boarding.' Stevenson did not sound pleased, but whether at the questions or the disruption to his routine that the body caused, Watters was not sure.

'Is your ship's husband still on board?' Watters slipped his hand inside the dead man's trouser pockets. They were empty.

'He lives on board,' Stevenson said.

'I'll speak to him in a few moments.' Watters checked the inside of the dead man's jacket. Also empty. 'How many of a crew do you have?'

'Twenty-four.' Stevenson was abrupt. 'Do you want to speak to them all?'

'Yes, I do. Are they all on board?'

'No.' Stevenson shook his head. 'My lads are either at home, drinking away their wages along Dock Street, or with some bobtail in Couttie's Wynd.'

Watters felt along the waistband of the dead man's trousers. There was no money belt or anything else. 'What is the makeup of your crew? Where are they from?'

Captain Stevenson was evidently annoyed by all of the questions. 'It's a typical south-Spain crew. As well as my Dundonians I have the usual Scowegians, Lascars, North Sea Chinamen, and a couple of Americans avoiding their country's troubles.'

'I want their home addresses,' Watters said.

'You'll have to ask the owners about that,' Stevenson said, 'or the boarding master for I'm blessed if I know.'

Watters grunted again. He should have known it would not be easy.

'Who are the owners?'

'Matthew Beaumont and Company,' Captain Stevenson said. 'It's a wholly owned Beaumont ship.'

'Oh?' Watters looked up. That was two incidents concerning the same company in one day. He did not believe in coincidences. 'Thank you, Captain. I'll have a look around the hold. When I come on deck, please have the ship's husband ready for me.'

'There's nothing to see down here,' Stevenson said.

'I want to know why this poor fellow was here in the first place,' Watters said. 'And I want to know if the cargo was lowered on him while he was sleeping or if he was already dead when the cargo was loaded.'

Stevenson nodded. 'If you let me know when you're finished, I'll fetch the husband and any other of the crew who may turn up.'

Watters lifted the lantern and examined the body. In all the score or so of investigations into suspicious deaths in which he had been involved, the cause of death had been apparent. In this case, bales of jute had crushed the man so that Watters found it impossible to tell if the injuries had been caused before or after death.

'I hope the surgeon can see something I can't see.' He looked at the neck and throat for signs of a knife wound and checked the shirt for the same. 'No, it's up to the surgeon now. Now, my unfortunate fellow, why on earth were you down here?'

Leaving the body where it lay, Watters lifted the lantern and paced around the hold talking to himself. You've no money. Were you an unlucky stowaway? Your clothes are good quality, too good for a tarry-jack; are you a gentleman down on his luck?

All the time Watters spoke, he was investigating the hold, looking for anything unusual. He stopped and sniffed at a familiar acrid smell. What's this? Crouching down, he rubbed his hand along the rough planking of the deck, feeling the coarse grains under his fingers.

Watters pursed his lips. I see. He scooped up a pinch of the grains and folded them inside his handkerchief. I see, but I don't understand. Lifting the lantern, he carried it carefully to the centre of the hold before taking out his notebook and pencil. After writing a few notes, he returned to his scrutiny of the hold, eventually lifting a couple of items. He examined them before putting them in his pocket. There is more to this case than a drunken man falling into the hold or a brawl gone too far. We have something of interest here.

'I'm coming up, Captain!'

Captain Stevenson stood at the break of the poop with a surprisingly elderly man at his side.

'You'll be the ship's husband,' Watters said.

The elderly man nodded. 'That's right, sir.' His voice was hoarse.

Watters poised his pencil. 'I'm not a sir. I am Sergeant Watters of the Dundee Police. What is your name?'

'James Thoms, sir, but everybody calls me Piper.'

'Right, Piper, tell me about that body in the hold.'

'I don't know anything about it, sir, not until we unloaded the cargo and found it.' Piper's hands fiddled with the ends of his coarse canvas shirt.

'Where was the vessel loaded, Piper?'

'Calcutta, sir.'

'Call me Sergeant. Who was in charge of the loading?'

'Mr Henderson, sir, the mate.'

That made sense. The master was in overall command, decided on the course and made the big decisions, while the mate was in charge of the day-to-day running of the vessel. 'I'll speak to Mr Henderson later. Did you see anybody come on board this vessel when you were in Calcutta?'

'No, sir. Nobody came aboard except the crew and the dock workers who loaded the cargo.'

'Sergeant, not sir. Do you think the deceased was one of the dockers?'

'No, sir, Sergeant.' Beads of sweat formed on Piper's forehead. 'The dock workers were all Lascars, sir. That is natives of Hindustan.'

'Of course,' Watters nodded. 'You could not watch everything all the time.'

'No, sir.' Piper looked guilty as if Watters expected him to remain awake and alert twenty-four hours a day. The nervous sweat was dripping from his face.

'Did you delegate anybody to take over when you were off duty?'

Piper nodded vigorously. 'Mr Henderson took over, sir.' He looked pleased to pass the responsibility to the mate.

'Did you check the hold before the loading began?'

'No, sir. There was no need.' Piper glanced at Captain Stevenson as if to confirm his words. 'Nobody ever goes down there.'

Watters wrote in his notebook. 'Thank you, Mr Thoms, and thank you, Captain Stevenson. I'll leave you in peace now. If you can think of anything, please let me know. Send a note to the Police Office on West Bell Street.' Watters checked his watch. Marie would be wondering where he had got to.

As he walked out of the dock, past the Royal Arch, Watters saw the woman silhouetted against the bright glow of a gin palace window. Henrietta Borg was in animated conversation with a man in a bowler hat with a feather thrust through the band.

'Miss Borg!' Watters lifted his cane in salutation and hurried forward. A boisterous crowd of seamen and prostitutes exploded from the public house around Borg, and then she was gone. Had she been watching Lady of Blackness? Had she been watching him? Or was her presence here merely another of these coincidences in which Watters did not believe? Swinging his cane at an imaginary golf ball, Watters thought that this case might be interesting.

CHAPTER THREE: POLICE OFFICE: WEST BELL STREET, DUNDEE

Superintendent Mackay looked up as Watters entered the office. 'Have you brought your report, Sergeant?'

'Yes, sir.' Watters handed over a small sheaf of papers.

Mackay surveyed the documents with distaste. 'Give me a brief rundown, Sergeant. Please tell me the death was an accident, and we can forget the whole thing.'

Watters remained standing a foot from Mackay's desk. 'I don't think it was an accident, sir. Some factors make me suspicious.'

'You are a cynical and suspicious man, Watters. That's what makes you such a good policeman. That is why I approved your request for a transfer from Scotland Yard.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you.' Praise from Mackay had to be handled carefully. It was usually a precursor to some unpleasant duty.

'Give me the details.' Mackay leaned back in his seat with his clear Highland eyes fixed on Watters. His fingers slowly tapped on the desk.

'The first thing was the position of the body, sir. It was spread-eagled with the left leg at an unnatural angle, as if the man had fallen down the hatch.'

'Perhaps he did.'

'No, sir,' Watters shook his head. 'If the fellow had fallen, he would have been directly under the opening, or at most only a couple of feet away. The body was a good five feet from the edge of the hatch, nearly touching the bulkhead; that's the internal wall of the ship, sir.'

'I know what a bulkhead is, Watters.'

'Yes, sir. I think that somebody pushed the poor fellow over the edge, knocked him out, or killed him when he was inside the hold.'

Mackay sighed. 'That poses two more questions, Sergeant. Why was he inside the hold, and why did somebody wish to kill him?' Mackay's fingers increased the speed of their drumming.

'Yes, sir,' Watters said. 'I might have a clue as to why he was inside the hold.'

'Tell me.'

'I found this on the deck of the hold.' Watters unfolded his handkerchief and allowed the powder to form a neat little pile on Mackay's otherwise pristine desk.

Mackay poked at it curiously. 'That is gunpowder.'

'Yes, sir. Also, there was this.' Watters placed two lengths of fuse beside the gunpowder.

Mackay sighed and leaned back in his chair. 'Give me your theory, Sergeant, if you please.'

'I can only think of one. Somebody was trying to place an explosive charge to sink the ship.'

'I tend to concur.' Mackay's fingers were now beating a tattoo on the desk. 'The question is: Why? Why sink a jute ship?'

'That I could not say, sir.' Watters hesitated. 'If it happened at sea, I would suspect an attempt to scuttle the vessel for insurance money, but not in port and not with explosives. That would be too obvious. Besides which, Mr Beaumont is a respectable businessman with no need to do such a thing. His company appears to be one of the healthiest in Dundee.'

Mackay nodded. 'Carry on, Watters. You have given this some thought.'

'I don't know if the dead man was placing the gunpowder and fuse or if he found somebody with the explosives and was killed for his trouble.'

'It's a bit of a conundrum then,' Mackay said. 'What is your opinion?'

'I would suspect the former. If our man was killed preventing an attack on the ship, I can think of no reason his murderer did not continue with his plan.' Watters consulted his notebook. 'I have spoken to the shipmaster and ship's husband, and I have a list of the crew with the addresses of any local men.'

'You'll be interviewing them, I expect?'

'Yes, sir, and there's more.'

'Oh, there would be with you involved, Watters.' Mackay sounded weary. 'What else, Sergeant?'

'Matthew Beaumont owned the ship, sir. He also owned the mill on Brown's Street that was on fire, and that was his second fire within a few days.'

Mackay's fingers recommenced their tapping. 'It's a long way from Calcutta to Dundee, Sergeant, unless you are suggesting an international attack on Mr Beaumont?'

'I'm not suggesting anything yet. I think it's a bit queer, that's all.'

'Well, Watters, you keep an eye on Mr Beaumont's affairs just in case.' Mackay's fingers continued their assault on the desk. 'And solve this murder for me.'

'Could I have a couple of men, sir? I have a lot of people to question.'

'Take Scuddamore and Duff,' Mackay said. 'They can work in plain clothes if that helps. The budget will have to cope with paying the enhanced wages of two more criminal officers.' Mackay leaned back again frowning. 'I don't like this, Watters. Mr Beaumont is one of our most prominent merchants. If somebody is attacking his business for some reason, I want to know why. Alternatively, you could be making a mountain out of two different molehills.'

'Yes, sir.'

Mackay sighed and stood up. 'All right, Watters. Question the crew of Lady of Blackness and look closely into Beaumont's business interests. See if there is anything that could provoke such a reaction.'

'I'll do that, sir.'

Mackay reached for his hat. 'I'll go over to Mr Beaumont's home at Mount Pleasant right now. He won't like this. You may know that his elder daughter is due to be married in a few days.'

'So I believe, sir.' Watters gave a wry smile. 'My wife has kept me in touch with every detail.' Charlotte Beaumont's wedding was one of the major subjects in the society columns of the Dundee Advertiser.

'I can imagine. I'll apprise Mr Beaumont of our interest in his situation and advise him that one of our men will be present at the wedding for security.'

'I see, sir.'

'That will be you, Watters.'

'I am not the best man for the job, sir!' Watters said in something like alarm. 'I'm not a social animal.'

'Then ask Mrs Watters for advice.' Mackay sounded vaguely amused. 'She will keep you in touch with every detail.'

* * *

'So what do we have?' Sitting behind his desk, Watters addressed his two constables. 'We have a dead man in the hold of a ship with no identification, no money, and no possessions.' He looked at the blank faces opposite. 'We suspect the fellow was murdered. We have evidence that somebody, either the victim or an unknown party, intended to start a fire in the hold of that vessel. Mr Matthew Beaumont owned the ship, Lady of Blackness, as well as two Dundee mills in which some unknown party also started a fire.'

Scuddamore screwed up his face in his effort to think. 'Was the murder not committed before the ship left Calcutta, Sergeant?'

'It must have been,' Watters said. 'The victim was underneath the jute.'

'There can't be a connection then,' Scuddamore said. 'Calcutta is thousands of miles away.'

'Matthew Beaumont is the connection,' Watters reminded patiently. 'I want the crew interviewed.' he produced the crew list he got from the shipping office with the names and home addresses of each man of Lady of Blackness. 'There are twenty-four names there. I'll take Mr Henderson, the mate, and the first eleven men. You two gentlemen work together and question the others.'

'They're not all from Dundee, Sergeant,' Duff pointed out.

'Take the Dundee men first,' Watters said, 'and then try the publics, crimps, and cheap lodging houses for the rest.'

'What are we asking, Sergeant?' Scuddamore scanned the list.

'Ask what they know about the murder. Ask if they know the dead man. Ask if they saw anything unusual; get some notes of their movements.'

'They're seamen, Sergeant,' Scuddamore said. 'They'll all be drunk.'

'All the more likely to talk then,' Watters said with far more confidence than he felt. Seamen could be notoriously truculent when faced with authority, while seamen with a drink in them might react badly. However, that was all part of the policeman's bargain.

'It will take a long time, Sergeant,' Scuddamore said.

'Best get started then,' Watters dismissed him.

It took two full days to track down and question the first eighteen of the crew. Two days of knocking at doors and facing suspicious men. Two days of squeezing answers out of reluctant sailors. Two days of talking to men across the battered tables of public houses. Two days of recording similar responses, of frustration, dead-ends, and insults.

'Go to hell, bluebottle bastards.'

'I don't know anything.'

'I helped load the jute. I never saw nobody in the hold.'

'I done what Mr Henderson told me to do. Nothing else. Now bugger off.'

'We're not getting anywhere,' Scuddamore said. 'If any of these seamen knew anything, they would not tell us anyway.'

'We've still got six men to find,' Watters reminded. 'You're the drinking expert, Scuddamore. Where's the most popular place for seamen this year?'

'The Bird,' Scuddamore said at once. 'That's a public down the Dockie, Sergeant. Its name is the Albatross, but it's known as the Big Bird or just the Bird.'

'We'll go there tonight,' Watters said. 'You're meant to be criminal officers, so wear civilian clothes. If you arrive in uniform, the clientele will either riot or run out the back.' His mouth twisted in a mirthless grin. 'I'll send one of my informants in there ahead of us to prepare the way.'

The Albatross crouched unpretentiously on Dock Street with its single window facing onto the spars of the massed shipping in the docks. Watters shoved open the door and slouched through the haze of tobacco smoke to the bar. Most of the drinkers were either seamen or seamen's women with a smattering of dock workers. A man with thinning red hair glanced up, met Watters's eye for a significant second, and looked away again. He sat at a circular table, shuffled his feet, and took a sip at his whisky.

With a pint of Ballingall beer in his hand, Watters leaned against the bar and watched Scuddamore take up position beside the front door, while Duff carried his whisky to the door that gave access to the lane in the rear. Once he was satisfied he had covered both exits, Watters put down his tankard and leapt on top of the bar.

Only a few of the Bird's customers bothered to look up; drunken escapades were a frequent occurrence in the pub.

'I am Sergeant George Watters of Dundee Police!' Watters shouted. 'I'm looking for the crew of Lady of Blackness!'

There was an immediate trickle toward the exits until Duff and Scuddamore stepped forward.

Watters tried again. 'Is there anybody here from Lady of Blackness?'

A thin-faced woman glared at him. 'Mind your own business, bluebottle bastard!'

The man with thinning hair caught Watters's eye, placed his hand on the table, closed it into a fist, and then extended a single finger toward the table nearest to the window.

'I'm looking for the following men,' Watters read out the list, 'Petersen, Hughson, Rex, Banerjee, Ghosh, and Jones.' As he read, he watched his informant, who tapped his finger on the table at the name Rex.

Watters could see that the two Lascars, Ghosh and Banerjee, were not present. He concentrated on the table that his informant had indicated. 'I only wish to ask a few questions,' he said. 'Nobody is in any trouble.'

'So you say,' a woman in a gaudy crinoline shouted. Red and green ribbons decorated her hair. 'You're just after a man to blame for that murder.'

One of the seamen at the table nearest the window shook his head, sliding slightly further down in his seat. Watters nodded. That's my man. 'You!' He pointed with his cane. 'What's your name?'

Watters's bark was so sudden that the man responded purely by instinct. 'John Rex, sir.'

'Are there any of your shipmates here, Rex?' Watters continued before Rex could recover his equanimity.

'No, sir,' Rex looked wildly towards the door as if contemplating a quick escape. Duff moved his burly form further forward.

'I've just a few questions, Rex.' Watters jumped from the counter, holding his cane ready to repel any attack.

'You're no' taking him to any bloody police office.' Rex's female companion put a sinewy arm around him. 'I'll no' let you.'

'We can ask him in the back room here.' Watters decided not to risk a riot. 'You can come too.'

With Duff and Scuddamore remaining nearby in case of a rescue attempt, Watters escorted Rex and his woman into the back room. Lined with kegs of spirits and casks of beer, the room only had sufficient space for the three of them, particularly as the woman wore a full crinoline to counter her narrow, frowning face.

'You know about the murder on Lady of Blackness,' Watters said.

'The whole of Dundee knows about it,' the woman said as Rex gave a reluctant nod.

'Who are you?'

'I'm Annie McBurnie.' The woman sounded surprised that Watters had to ask.

'I'm going to ask you, Mr Rex, the same questions as we have asked your shipmates.' Watters tried to reassure the seaman. 'I am not accusing you of anything, and I do not suspect you of anything.' Yet.

'I don't know anything,' Rex said at once.

Watters let that pass. 'Do you know the man whose body we found in Lady of Blackness?'

Rex shook his head. 'No, sir.'

'Did you see anybody on the ship that had no business there?'

'No, sir. I only saw the crew and the dock workers.'

Watters leaned closer to the shaking seaman. 'What are you scared of, Mr Rex? Did you kill the unfortunate fellow?'

'No, sir! I never killed nobody.'

'Do you know who did?'

Rex glanced at McBurnie before shaking his head. 'No, sir.'

Watters pounced on Rex's hesitation and the slight alteration in his tone. 'You don't know,' he crouched beside the seaman, 'but you think you might know.'

Again, Rex glanced at McBurnie, who pushed her face towards Watters.

'You leave him alone,' she said. 'He already told you that he didn't know.'

Watters moderated his voice. He knew that if the crowd in the public bar thought he was brow-beating one of their colleagues, they could trample over his two constables and break the door down. 'You're right, Annie. So he did. Tell you what, let's have a drink instead. On the house.'

With the walls of the room lined with barrels and kegs, it was not hard to find something to drink. Avoiding the garish labels of the kill-me-deadly concoctions, Watters poked at the upper shelves until he found a five-gallon keg. 'That will do.'

'What's that?' McBurnie was instantly suspicious.