The Scuttlers E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

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

Beschreibung

When Sergeant George Watters is assigned to a scuttling case, he thinks he can solve it in a few days. Instead, he discovers a connection to a string of burglaries of high-value shops and hotels across Dundee.

Things take a turn for the worse when one of Watters' informants tells him that someone from the police force is involved in the burglaries. Soon, George realizes that the mystery runs deeper than he expected.

Can Watters solve the case and bring the burglars, and their accomplices, to justice?

Set in Scotland's fourth-largest city in the 1860s, The Scuttlers is the fourth book in Malcolm Archibald's Detective Watters Mysteries series.

Leseprobe

THE SCUTTLERS

DETECTIVE WATTERS MYSTERIES BOOK 4

MALCOLM ARCHIBALD

CONTENTS

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Notes

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Fading Street Services

Cover art by CoverMint

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

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

For Cathy

This book is dedicated to Detective Sergeant Charles Foote (1939 – 2019) of the Tayside Police.

PRELUDE

DUNDEE, SCOTLAND

FEBRUARY 1864

Walter Abernethy turned the false key in the keyhole and gently pushed the door. When the hinges squealed, Abernethy paused for a moment and hugged the shadows, feeling the rapid patter of his heart. Only when nobody appeared did he step inside the room, with his distrustful companion a few feet behind.

Without a word, Abernethy moved to the back wall with the thin beam of light from his bull’s eye lantern bouncing in front of him. The room was devoid of personality, characterless as if waiting for human occupancy to give it a soul. The furniture attempted to make up for the lack of life by providing bulk: a heavy oaken four-poster bed, clumsy wooden chairs, and a Jacobean-style table that seemed to be carved from a single block of wood.

“Door,” Abernethy said, and the second man closed the door and pulled the bolt across.

“Here,” Abernethy handed over the lamp and began to roll back the carpet. The second man helped until they had cleared a third of the floor, exposing the wooden floorboards beneath. Abernethy held out his hand, and the second man produced a chisel, which Abernethy used to lever up four floorboards. The first made a slight noise that caused him to stop, while the next three were silent. He laid them at his side and examined the floor beneath the boards.

“Lathe and plaster,” Abernethy said softly, “Pass me an auger.” The second man produced an auger from the bag he carried. Very carefully, Abernethy drilled holes in the floor, forming an eighteen-inch square and brushing away the dust with a gloved hand.

“Ready?” Abernethy asked.

When the second man nodded, Abernethy put pressure on the square within the holes, pushing until the entire section gave way, to fall into the room below with a crash like the end of the world.

“Jesus!” The second man blasphemed as Abernethy waited for the dust to settle. Reaching inside the bag, he produced a knotted rope, tied one end to the closest leg of the four-poster and climbed hand-over-hand into the darkness below.

“Light!” Abernethy breathed, and the second man shone the lantern, so a pencil-thin beam of light illuminated the room.

“Over here!”

The room was empty except for a desk and a large green safe. A pile of blank notepaper on the desk bore the heading Royal Hotel, Dundee. Ignoring the desk, Abernethy crouched at the front of the safe, tested the mechanism with a series of keys, and then set to work.

“Hurry,” the second man glanced behind him, starting at non-existent sounds.

“Quiet!” Abernethy hissed. He placed his ear to the safe. “These things need time.”

As Abernethy worked, the second man watched, hoping to pick up some tricks of the trade. He grunted in satisfaction as Abernethy gave a slight nod, turned both his keys, and opened the door.

“Here we are,” Abernethy said, looking at the contents.

A small cashbox stood next to a larger canvas bag, with a thin pile of banknotes at the side. Abernethy scooped everything into a soft leather case that the second man produced from his bag.

“I’m watching you, remember,” the second man warned. “If you try to gull me, I’ll tell Himself.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Abernethy sounded bitter.

On the second shelf, a diamond necklace wore a small label, which Abernethy read.

Mrs Annabelle Gordon, Room 16.

“Sorry, Mrs Gordon,” he said, “you’ve lost your prize jewels.” He showed the label to the second man. “What do you think?”

“I’m no scholar,” the second man said, indicating his inability to read.

“Of course not,” Abernethy said. “Come on, let’s get out before somebody hears us.” Reaching into his pocket, he produced a plain biscuit and crushed it, sending a cascade of crumbs onto the floor. “My calling card,” he said.

“You’re a bloody idiot,” the second man commented.

“Maybe, but at least I can read.”

They left the same way they had entered, closing the door behind them, and climbing out a back window before clambering down a waterspout. When they reached the back of the hotel, they walked through a dark close to Union Street, where streetlights forced caution upon them.

“This way.” A smirr of rain carried the salt air of the German Ocean as the second man led them to Mint Close.

“One more to rob, and we’re finished,” Abernethy reminded.

“No, wait!” The second man pointed to a draper’s shop in Reform Street. “We’ll do that as well.”

“It’s not on the list, James,” Abernethy hissed. “I can feel the bluebottles are close.” He looked around, listening for the portentous tread of polished boots.

“Himself gave us the beat times,” James said. “We’ve plenty of time for an extra. Follow me!” Climbing up a lamppost, he stretched across to the flat roof of Spence and Company, one of Dundee’s leading drapers. A cupola graced the roof, and James scraped away the putty from a pane of glass and looked down.

“I don’t do petty theft,” Abernethy said. “I’m a professional.”

“You do as I say.” James relished his temporary authority, “or I’ll tell Himself you refused to co-operate. How’d you like that, eh? An old Demon like you?”

“You’re a bastard,” Abernethy said.

“Come on!” taking a length of rope from his bag, James secured it on the roof and dropped it into the darkness below. “You first!”

Abernethy looked around the shop in contempt as James forced open the office door and peered inside.

“Here’s the desk,” James said. “There’s nae safe for you.” Forcing open the drawer, he swore. “Maistly just browns - copper coins - but I dinnae care a boddle. We can spend them, tae,” he scooped the cash into the leather bag, laughing. With a glance over his shoulder at Abernethy, he pocketed a pound in silver. “Come on, Abernethy, help yourself.”

“We’re wasting time,” Abernethy said. “We have a timetable.”

“Your timetable can go to the devil!”

As Abernethy watched, James lifted half a dozen items of clothing, helping himself to a coat and waistcoat. “Here,” James opened a box and hauled out a dozen pairs of men’s underwear. “I could do with new drawers,” he laughed high-pitched and stripped off his clothes there and then.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Abernethy said as the second man dropped his stained and threadbare underwear on the floor, stood naked for a moment with the lamplight playing on his pale, thin body, and pulled on a new pair of drawers.

“Come on,” Abernethy urged as the second man fastened his trousers with clumsy fingers. “We have one more job.” He did not crumble a biscuit here, for petty theft was beyond him.

Still laughing, James grabbed the bag, swarmed up the rope, waited for Abernethy to follow, untied the knot, and returned to Reform Street. “Lead on Abernethy, and I’ve got my eye on you, remember.”

CHAPTERONE

POLICE OFFICE, BELL STREET, DUNDEE

JANUARY 1864

Chief Constable Donald Mackay tapped bony fingers on the desk. “What do you know about Mr Muirhead, Watters?”

“He’s a shipowner, sir,” Sergeant George Watters replied. “He’s the managing owner of at least two of the Dundee Greenland Whaling Company’s vessels.”

Mackay tapped his fingers again. “Anything else?”

Watters shook his head. “No, sir. Mr Muirhead has never come to my attention. Why, sir, have we caught him shoplifting?”

Mackay ignored the attempt at humour as his pale blue eyes fixed on Watters. “He’s come to your attention now, Watters. I want you to find out everything about him.”

“Yes, sir. Why is that?”

In response, Mackay tossed a file across the desk. “Read that, Sergeant.” He waited as Watters opened the buff folder and scanned the contents.

“A small vessel, Toiler, sank on her passage between Stromness and Dundee,” Watters said. “And the owner, Mr Muirhead, has her insured with two separate companies. Do we suspect scuttling, sir?”

Mackay leaned back in his chair. “You’re the detective, Watters. Take the file away, dig a little, and come back to me with your conclusions.” He waited until Watters reached the door before calling him back. “Oh, and Watters, there has been an increase in the number of burglaries recently.”

Watters turned around. “So I hear, sir. Thefts from hotels and shops, I believe.”

“That’s correct. Look into it, will you? Deal with the scuttling case first. I doubt that will occupy you for long, then look into the burglaries.”

“Yes, sir,” Watters said and made to turn away.

“Oh, wait, Watters, I have another matter to discuss with you.”

“Yes, sir?” Watters knew that Mr Mackay would not have let him off so easily.

“I may wish to increase the detective establishment of the force.” Mackay leaned back in his chair, pressed his fingers together, and watched Watters’ reaction through his cold northern eyes.

“Yes, sir?”

“What do you think of that?”

“We could always use another couple of men, sir,” Watters said. “Much of our time is spent inspecting pawn shops for stolen goods and giving evidence at court rather than detecting crimes.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Mackay said dryly. “I have the finances for only one position, with two officers in mind. Both will join you shortly. Use them, assess their attributes and weaknesses, and report back to me.”

“Yes, sir,” Watters said.

“I can only afford one more man,” Mackay reminded, “so they are in direct opposition to one another.”

Watters returned to his desk in the duty room, where Constables Scuddamore and Duff were scraping their pens over a seemingly endless pile of forms and routine paperwork. Both looked up as Watters slid onto his chair.

“Keep working, lads,” Watters said. “We’ve got three jobs now. One is to look into the recent burglaries, and the second is a scuttling case.”

“And the third, Sergeant?” Scuddamore asked.

“We’re nursemaiding a couple of Johnny Raws,” Watters explained about the possible augmentation of their numbers.

“Two more men?” Duff grinned. “Well, they’d better be good. Do you know who they are, Sergeant?”

“Not yet.”

“I hope they’re experienced officers and not starry-eyed young hopefuls who think policing is romantic and exciting.” Scuddamore dripped ink from his pen-nib onto the topmost document on his desk, swore and reached for his blotter.

“Which case are we going to concentrate on, Sergeant?” Scuddamore asked.

“The scuttling,” Watters said. “With luck, we should get that out of the way in a few days and then we can look at the thefts. I don’t know when these new men will come.” He flourished the Muirhead file. “This rubbish is all about Mr Muirhead, whom Mr Mackay suspects of scuttling one of his vessels. I’ll read this thing and see if it’s of any interest to us.”

“I’ve never worked on a scuttling case before,” Duff said.

“Most are insurance frauds,” Watters told him. “A shipowner over-insures a vessel, takes her out to sea, and sinks her. Mr Mackay wants us to see if this vessel, Toiler, follows that pattern.” He looked at the empty mug beside his blotter. “I work better with a full mug of tea, though, Scuddamore.”

“Aye, these new lads had better be good at making tea,” Scuddamore said, standing up. “I want none of that wishy-washy coloured-water stuff.”

Only when Scuddamore filled Watters’ mug from the teapot that sat permanently on the grate did Watters open the file and study the contents.

“Right, lads,” he said at length. “This looks like a simple case of scuttling, but I want your opinions.”

Duff and Scuddamore left their administrative work without hesitation and pulled their chairs closer to listen to Watters.

Watters sipped at his tea. “Toiler was a small, elderly vessel without much value, so it seems strange to insure her. According to this account, she was only thirty-five tons, and she sprung a leak off the Redhead by Montrose.”

Scuddamore nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“The report here claims that as the water within Toiler rose, the crew abandoned her fifteen miles off Bodden, and rowed to Montrose.” Watters looked up. “That sounds fairly straightforward until we reach the speculation that the master, or one of the crew, either forced out the bow plates or bored holes in the hull.”

“Is there any justification for the speculation, Sergeant?” Duff asked.

“Perhaps,” Watters said. “Toiler was heavily insured; she was worth perhaps £300, but Muirhead insured her for £925, with two different companies.”

Duff grinned as he sipped his tea. “That sounds plain enough then, Sergeant. A shipowner with a poor-quality vessel looking to make a quick profit. Who’s the owner?”

“Muirhead,” Watters said.

“Keith Muirhead?” Scuddamore asked.

Watters checked the file. “The very same.”

“But Muirhead’s one of the most successful merchants in Dundee,” Scuddamore said. “He’s got no need to scuttle a vessel for a few hundred pounds. He must be worth tens of thousands. He lives in a palace out by the Ferry.” The Ferry, or Broughty Ferry, was a salubrious town a few miles east of Dundee and the home of many of Dundee’s elite merchant class.

Duff grunted. “That’s how these people get rich, Scuds. They take every advantage, twist every law to suit themselves, and bleed the poor to line their wallets.”

Watters put down his mug. “We’re not here to judge the man’s morals, Duff, only to see if he’s breaking the law. “I want to find out all you can about Keith Muirhead. Scuddamore, you talk to his employees and see their opinion of their master. Duff, go to his bank – the Tayside Bank – and speak to their new manager, a fellow called MacBride. Look at Muirhead’s bank balance if Mr MacBride allows.”

Both detectives rose at once, happy to escape the drudgery of administration.

“I’ll talk to the insurance companies,” Watters said. “With luck, we should wrap this up in a couple of days. With a lot of luck, by tomorrow.”

The Dundee Maritime and Household Insurance Company boasted that it had offices across eastern Scotland. Its Dundee office was in Dock Street, on the second floor of a building a hundred yards from the Dundee Perth and London Shipping Company and only a biscuit toss from Muirhead’s Greenland Whaling Company.

Although the common close was unassuming, the insurance company’s name was inscribed in gold lettering on the door, and the reception hall was brightly lit, with a smell of polished wood and brass. The young man behind the desk greeted Watters with a smile.

“Yes, sir? May I help you?”

“I am Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee police, and I wish to view the insurance policy of the vessel Toiler, owned by Keith Muirhead.”

The clerk looked nonplussed for a moment. “I am not sure if I am allowed to do that,” he said.

Watters had expected such a response. “Then fetch somebody who has the authority,” he ordered. “I’ll wait,” he consulted the silver watch that Marie had given him on their third wedding anniversary, “for five minutes, and then I’ll start to look myself.”

Within three minutes, the clerk returned with an older man in a wing collar.

“It’s quite against company policy,” the older man said. “Quite.”

Watters leaned over the small wooden half-door that barred entry to the office's inner Sanctorum, snapped open the bolt, and stepped inside.

“Show me where you keep your files,” Watters said, “and I’ll search myself.”

“It’s against company policy,” the older man repeated, pulling at his collar as Watters strode inside the office and looked around, with his cane balanced over his shoulder and his low-crowned hat pushed back on his head. The room was large, with three tall windows overlooking the street below, four desks for the clerks, and a fireplace. A heavy, glass-fronted bookcase dominated one wall, and wooden pigeonholes another.

“Here we are,” Watters pointed his cane at the rows of pigeonholes, each containing bundles of documents tied with white linen ribbons. “Do you file by ship name or company name?” He removed the documents from one pigeonhole. “I’ll empty these on the floor if I don’t need them.”

“Oh, no.” The elderly man put his thin hands on Watters’ arm. “No, sir, you mustn’t do such a thing. These files are confidential.”

“I only want one,” Watters said. “The policy that concerns Mr Muirhead’s Toiler.”

The elderly man pulled at his collar again. “Over here,” he submitted at last. “We file by the client’s name, and Mr Muirhead is under M.”

Watters walked with the elderly man to the third column of pigeonholes. “Thank you, Mr…”

“Gallacher,” the elderly man seemed equally reluctant to part with his name. “Edward Gallacher.”

“Thank you, Mr Gallacher,” Watters delved into the three pigeonholes under the letter M. The contents of the first compartment were of no interest, but the next had a dozen documents neatly tied together with a strip of linen. “Are these all Mr Muirhead’s vessels?”

Mr Gallacher considered before answering. “Yes, Sergeant Watters.”

Watters lifted the bundles. “I’ll borrow these as evidence and return them when the case is closed.” He gave an ironic bow. “Thank you, Mr Gallacher.”

Gallacher nearly tied his hands in a knot as he watched Watters carry his documents out of the office. “Please don’t forget to return them, Sergeant Watters.”

The second insurance company was in Edinburgh, only an hour and a half’s journey by rail but a different world from the boisterous, smoky streets of Dundee. Watters admired the neo-classical architecture of George Street as he searched for the office, which was at street level, with marble columns surrounding the door. Once past the uniformed commissionaire, he found the clerks even less helpful than their Dundee counterparts.

“Dundee Police?” A middle-aged man with greying whiskers stared suspiciously at Watters. “This isn’t Dundee, you know.”

“I know,” Watters said, perusing a familiar set of wooden pigeonholes. “Do you file by ship name or company name?”

“Our clients each have a personal file,” the clerk tried to prevent Watters from pushing past. He glanced at the commissionaire for support.

“Ah, thank you,” Watters said, extracting the documents under Muirhead’s name. “I’ll return these when the case is closed.” He paused at the door. “One more thing, Mr…”

“Edmund Fairbairn.”

“Mr Fairbairn. Could you describe Mr Muirhead to me?”

Fairbairn pulled at his whiskers. “I did not meet the man. My assistant, Mr Beaumont, dealt with that enquiry.”

Mr Beaumont was a sandy-haired man with steady blue eyes. “I remember Mr Muirhead well,” he said.

“Could you describe him to me?” Watters asked.

Beaumont furrowed his forehead. “He was a well-set-up gentleman, with a very upright stance.” His frown deepened with the struggle to remember. “Mr Muirhead was nearly military in attitude and very tall. Taller than you and me.”

“How old?” Watters asked.

“He was a young man. I would say in his middle thirties,” Beaumont nodded. “Yes, perhaps thirty-five or thirty-six.” He nodded to emphasise his words.

“Did Mr Muirhead come in person? Or did he send a clerk?”

“He came in person,” Beaumont said.

“Thank you, Mr Beaumont. I may return to ask you more questions,” Watters said.

He returned to Dundee in a thoughtful frame of mind for aspects of the case that were unclear.

“Right, lads, how did you get on?” Watters leaned back in his chair, with the winter rain hammering at the window beside him.

Scuddamore shook his head. “I found nothing unusual, Sergeant. I spoke to a dozen of Mr Muirhead’s employees, including his secretary, and none of them had a bad word to say about the man.” Scuddamore consulted his notebook. “The comments include phrases such as “excellent employer,” “a true gentleman,” and “always polite.” He smiled. “They do say he is careful with money, but that is the mark of any merchant in Dundee.”

“Thank you, Scuddamore,” Watters said. “How about you, Duff?”

Duff shook his head. “The bank manager did not release the books to me, Sergeant, but he said Mr Muirhead’s accounts were extremely healthy and showing an annual increase. I need a magistrate’s order to view the figures.”

Watters nodded. “We’re not at that stage yet. Would you say that Mr Muirhead does not need to scuttle his ships, then?”

“I would say that he does not, Sergeant,” Duff agreed. “There was one thing that I thought unusual, though.”

“What was that, Duff?”

“Mr MacBride told me that Muirhead’s accountant, a fellow Mackenzie, opened a new account for him last week and put in six hundred pounds.”

Watters smiled. “Six hundred pounds? That is interesting, Duff. That’s the same figure as the Scottish and English Mutual paid out.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Was the account in Muirhead’s name, the company name or Mackenzie’s name?”

“Mr Muirhead’s name,” Duff said.

“In that case, gentlemen, we have an investigation on our hands,” Watters said, with a smile. “I do not believe that Mr Muirhead insured his vessels twice, and in a few moments, I’ll tell you why. Pour the tea out, Scuddamore, and make it strong.”

Scuddamore grinned and brought over three mugs with the tea black as tar. Watters added a stiff dram of whisky from a bottle he had in his bottom drawer.

“Real peat-reek boys, from an illicit still in the Angus Glens. If you drink it naked, it will lift the skin from your throat.” He tasted his tea, coughed, and added another drop. “We’re back on a case, lads, not just our normal petty theft and drunken brawls.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore said.

“Well,” Watters held up his mug. “Here’s to us, lads, wha’s like us?”

“Damned few,” Scuddamore said as the three mugs clinked together.

“And they’re a’ deid!” Duff said, grinning.

They drank, gagged, and drank again.

“Now, Watters said, “here are the insurance documents for Toiler, one from the Dundee Maritime Company and one from the Scottish and English Mutual.” He laid both on the desk. “I want you to read both and tell me what you think.”

Scuddamore scanned both documents. “The Dundee Maritime is dated earlier,” he said. “April 1856, while the Scottish and English Mutual is October 1863, just a few months ago.”

“That’s one thing,” Watters said. “Anything else?”

“Mr Muirhead signed both,” Duff said, “but with different signatures. And the Dundee Maritime is for only £325 while the Mutual is for £600.”

“That’s strange, don’t you think?” Watters asked. “The later one, when the ship is older, for nearly twice the amount, and with different signatures.”

“The Dundee Maritime says K. L. Muirhead, and the Mutual says Keith Muirhead.” Duff reread the names.

“I don’t think the same person signed both documents,” Watters said.

“Do you think somebody forged Mr Muirhead’s signature?” Scuddamore asked.

“I do,” Watters said.

“Why would they do that?” Scuddamore asked.

“That is what I intend to find out.” Watters sipped more of his tea. “Or rather, that’s what we will all find out.”

CHAPTERTWO

“Forget the scuttling for a minute, Sergeant. Have you seen this?” Scuddamore nearly threw the poster onto Watters’ desk. “They’re all over the town.”

“What is it?” Watters unfolded the paper and read.

Fellow Irishmen!

Now’s the time, and now’s the hour!

For too long, Ireland has struggled under British oppression. Now the Fenian Brotherhood has arrived to remove the colonial chains and free Ireland. We call upon all True Irishmen who love the Shamrock and the Green to gather in Dundee.

Eirinn go Brách.

“What the devil?” Watters shook his head. “The last thing we want in Dundee is trouble between the Irish and the Scots.”

“I agree, sir,” Scuddamore said. “I thought we’d seen the last of these troublemakers, and here they are again.”

“I met some of these lads when I worked in London,” Watters said. “They are a formidable crew. Best look into it, Scuddamore, but don’t forget the scuttling case is our priority.”

Watters looked up as two uniformed constables approached them. One man was about thirty-five, tall, broad-shouldered, and erect. The second was smaller, slighter, and looked more nervous than Watters expected from a policeman.

“Here come the Johnny Raws,” Scuddamore said quietly, putting a sheet of blank paper on top of the poster.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Watters said as the two constables stopped six feet from his desk. “What do you want?”

The tall man acted as a spokesman. “Mr Mackay sent us, Sergeant. He said you have to assess us as possible detectives.”

Watters looked them over before speaking. “Do you have names, Constables?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” the taller man said. “I am Constable Richard Boyle, 236, and this is Constable Shaw, 239.”

“Well Constable Boyle 136, and Constable Shaw 239, here’s what I want you to do.” Watters pointed to the kettle that sat on the grate. “We need hot tea ready at all times, so that’s your first job. I am not getting you out of uniform until I see how good you are.”

Constable Shaw looked disappointed as Boyle checked the kettle and refilled it. Watters waited until Boyle placed the kettle on the grate.

“The second thing,” Watters said, “is to look at this document Detective Scuddamore has brought in.” He dragged the garish poster from under its folder.

Both prospective detectives read the poster. “It looks as if the Fenians are organising something in Dundee,” Shaw said helpfully.

“You’re right,” Watters encouraged. “What do you know about the Fenians?”

“They’re an organisation in Ireland and America,” Boyle said. “They want Ireland to be separate from Great Britain.”

Watters leaned back, aware that Scuddamore was listening to every word. “Where do you think we might find the Fenians?”

Shaw and Boyle looked at each other for inspiration.

“Ireland?” Shaw hazarded.

Watters hid his impatience. “Boyle said that. Where in Dundee might they be found?”

“Where the Irish have settled,” Boyle said.

“Which is?” Watters felt as if he were drawing teeth.

“Scouringburn, Lochee, and Hilltown,” Shaw said at once.

“Quite so,” Watters said. “Those are the areas in which I wish you to operate today and tomorrow. Do your normal duty shifts in uniform, then wear civilian clothes and tour these areas, listening for any signs of subversion or Fenianism.”

“Double shifts?” Shaw asked.

“Double shifts,” Watters replied, watching their reactions. He did not want any man who was shy of working long hours. “Now I’m sure Sergeant Murdoch has already allocated you a beat.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Boyle said.

“Then get on it,” Watters watched them walk away.

“That will keep them out of our way for a while,” Watters grunted, “and maybe they’ll find out something useful.”

“Maybe, Sergeant,” Scuddamore said, “but I doubt it.”

Red streaks between the early morning grey clouds promised a windy day to come. Watters hefted his golf bag, selected a club, and squinted along the fairway. “I was surprised to see you here, Mr Muirhead. I thought you were a member at the Balcumbie Club.”

Mr Muirhead smiled. “I would be, Mr Watters, but the Dundee Artisan allows me to tee off earlier. Besides, the rates are lower.” His clubs looked well-used, even shabby. “I am happy to find a partner so early on a January morning.”

“I grab a round whenever I can,” Watters squared off and swung, sending his ball soaring down the fairway. It bounced twice, then rolled to within a yard of the green.

“Nice drive,” Muirhead said. “I can just about make out the ball.” He squinted up to the sky. “It’s still too dark for accurate golf, but the course is quiet at least.”

“Any earlier, and we’d have to carry candles,” Watters said.

Muirhead swung mightily, with the ball soaring along the fairway, to land with an awkward bounce and finish in a patch of rough.

“Hard luck,” Watters sympathised. “You seem to be having a run of bad luck just now, losing Toiler as well.”

“Toiler?” Muirhead hefted his bag and began the trudge along the frost-hard fairway. “Yes, that was a strange one. It seems her bow plates just opened up, and she went down in fifteen minutes. We were fortunate that nobody was lost.”

“That’s always the prime concern,” Watters agreed. “Toiler was insured, wasn’t she?”

“Oh, yes,” Muirhead said. “All my vessels are insured.” He smiled again. “I’m fortunate that the insurance office is only a step from the company offices.”

“That will be the Dundee Maritime?” Watters asked, helping Muirhead find his ball in a tangle of rough grass and winter-brown bracken.

“Yes,” Muirhead sounded disinterested. “Where’s that damned ball? I know it landed here somewhere!”

“I believe that some shipowners have a second insurer as well,” Watters pointed his club to Muirhead’s ball.

“Yes,” Muirhead said, shaking his head. “My ball’s in a damned bad lie. It will be a devil of a job to get it near the green from here.”

“It’s a friendly game,” Watters said. “Kick it to a better lie. I won’t look.”

Muirhead frowned. “I don’t do that,” he said. “I’ll try from here.” He swung and shook his head when the ball travelled six inches and settled back in the rough. “Stand back, Mr Watters, and I’ll try again.”

Watters watched as Muirhead hacked at the ball, with every attempt moving it a few inches closer to the green. Eventually, the shipowner succeeded and finished with a beautiful putt that placed the ball in the hole.

“You won that one,” Muirhead said.

“I did, Mr Muirhead,” Watters agreed. “Did Toiler have a second insurer?”

“Toiler? No. Are you in the insurance business, Mr Watters? If so, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. I’ve been with the Dundee Maritime a long time and am perfectly happy with them.”

“I’ve heard that the Scottish and English Mutual is equally good,” Watters said as they lined up for the next hole.

“It may well be,” Muirhead swung first, with his ball travelling two thirds down the fairway. “That’s a better drive.”

“Would you consider using the Mutual?” Watters swung, with his ball landing a hands-breadth from Muirhead’s.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Muirhead said. “Are you here to play golf or to sell me ship insurance, Mr Watters?”

“I’m not an insurance salesman, Mr Muirhead,” Watters said, as they strolled up the fairway with their feet making slight indentations on the grass. “I’m a policeman. Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police.”

Muirhead looked sideways at Watters as he lined up his next shot. “Are you, indeed? Are you investigating me, Sergeant Watters?”

“I am investigating the loss of Toiler,” Watters said.

“Why is that?” Muirhead drove the ball onto the green, watching it bounce and roll back to the edge of the fairway.

“Toiler was insured with two different companies, to a value far in excess of her worth, and sank in calm seas.” Watters placed his ball a little behind Muirhead’s.

“I think you are mistaken, Sergeant,” Muirhead said. “I only ever insure with Dundee Maritime and never above the value of my vessels.” He chipped his ball beside the hole. “There, that’s better. No, Sergeant Watters, I don’t believe in wasting money on excess insurance premiums, and I’d never risk the lives of my men by deliberately sinking a ship.”

“Nice shot, Mr Muirhead. I am afraid Toiler was insured with two different companies, sir. Dundee Maritime and the Scottish and English Mutual. I will bring the documentation to your office later today, and we can discuss matters further there.”

“That would be best,” Muirhead gave Watters a stern look. “Then I can show you that you’re talking nonsense. Shall we say eleven o’clock?”

“Eleven o’clock it is,” Watters watched Muirhead sink his shot, then followed suit. “A tied hole, I believe.”

Muirhead glanced at the sky. “The weather’s breaking,” he said. “I shall have to get to work, Sergeant Watters. Eleven o’clock, then.”

Watters watched Muirhead walk away, a man in his late thirties with a snap to his step.

“Golfing, Sergeant?” Duff asked as Watters placed his clubs in the corner of the room.

“Golfing with Mr Muirhead,” Watters said, pouring himself a mug of tea. “I’m meeting him at eleven in his office.”

“Are you going to arrest him, Sergeant?”

“If I think he’s guilty, I will,” Watters said. “At the minute, I am unsure. There are too many imponderables in the case. Anyway, golfers who lose rather than cheat are unlikely to fiddle their insurance companies.”

“Is that why you played golf with him?” Duff asked.

“You can find out a lot about a man’s character on the golf course,” Watters said.

“What am I doing today?” Duff pushed his pile of paperwork away in a gesture of contempt.

“You’re on pawnshop patrol,” Watters tasted his tea, pulled a face, and added another half-teaspoon of tealeaves. “Weak tea is suitable for children and old women,” he said. “If the brew doesn’t stain the spoon, it’s no good to anybody.”

“Yes, Sergeant. Do you want me to do your normal pawnshops as well as my own?”

“Well volunteered. It’s time you learned the Dock Street area.” Watters handed over a closely printed sheet of paper. “This is a list of property stolen in Dundee over the past week. You know the drill. If you find anything, arrest the pawnshop managers, and bring them in, together with the items. Theft is a bigger threat than violence and more prevalent than scuttling. Boyle and Shaw here will help you,” he said as the two prospective detectives walked over.

Shaw glanced at the list. “There are hundreds of items here,” he said. “How will I identify them all?”

“You won’t,” Watters said. “Read the list and find the most distinctive, then look for them. You’ll never identify one white shirt from a score or a pewter mug from a shelf-full, but if something has distinctive markings or a watch is engraved, then you have a chance. Selective detecting, Shaw; concentrate on what you can do, rather than wasting time on the impossible.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Shaw wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Duff read through the list again. “A lot of this property is high value, Sergeant. Will the thief find a pawnshop able to sell it?”

Watters shook his head. “That’s the property the thieves took from the Royal Hotel and the shop break-ins. I doubt any Dundee pawn would touch the expensive jewellery that’s easily identifiable. It is more likely the cracksman will sell it in Edinburgh or Glasgow, but keep your eyes open anyway.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Duff said.

“Here’s Scuddamore. Take him with you. You’d both better all learn the area.”

“Take me where?” Scuddamore poured himself a mug of tea. “It’s cold out there today. Playing golf later, Sergeant?”

Watters glowered at him. “I played this morning, Scuddamore, when you were still lazing in bed.”

Muirhead’s Greenland Whaling Company’s office fronted onto Dock Street, with a splendid view of the packed shipping in King William the Fourth Dock. Watters stepped into the reception area and stopped at the ornamental brass railing between him and the two busy clerks. He held a leather case in his left hand and his lead-weighted cane in his right.

“I’m here to see Mr Muirhead!” Watters rapped his cane on the counter.

The first clerk was about eighteen, with thin shoulders and slicked-back hair. He eyed Watters up and down. “Mr Muirhead doesn’t see anybody without an appointment,” he said.

“I am Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police. Pray, tell Mr Muirhead that I am here.” Watters held the clerk’s gaze until he scurried away to fetch his master.

Muirhead greeted Watters with a smile and an outstretched hand, which was unusual for a man that Watters had recently accused of scuttling a ship. “Come in, Sergeant Watters, and we’ll get this nonsense cleared up.”

Muirhead’s office was large and plain, with oak-panelled walls and two tall windows overlooking the docks. Muirhead ushered Watters to a comfortable leather chair on one side of his desk, seated himself on the other and rang a small brass bell. “Tea, Sergeant? Or coffee? I feel it is too early yet for anything stronger.”

“Tea would be most welcome, Mr Muirhead,” Watters said, looking around the office. Save for the desk, two chairs, and a single glass-fronted bookcase, the only items in the room were ship models, a clock, an old-fashioned harpoon, and a barometer.

“Are these your ships, sir?”

Muirhead’s eyes brightened. “Yes, they are, Sergeant.” He stepped across the room to the ship models. “The steam paddle-steamers are Toiler and Travail, the sail-powered coasters are Teresa and Tamerlane, and the whaling vessels are Guinevere, Arthur and Lancelot.” He paused beside the largest of the models. “This beauty is Lancelot, only launched last month, a steam-whaling ship and the pride of my fleet.”

“She’s a beauty,” Watters caught Muirhead’s enthusiasm. “You must have invested a great deal of money in building her.”

“I have,” Muirhead agreed. “Hunting the whales is a very chancy business, Sergeant. One good voyage can make a man, and one unsuccessful trip can break him. That is why I spread my money around in different ventures, although whaling is my primary concern.”

With her three masts and sturdy construction, Watters could only admire Lancelot’s lines while Muirhead explained his situation. “Some of the smaller, one-man or one-ship whaling companies live on the edge of disaster with every voyage,” Muirhead said. “For them, even the capture of a single whale can make the difference between profit and loss, success or failure, the continuance of business or bankruptcy. I am in the fortunate position of being able to spread the risk between my different vessels and various business interests.”

“I see, sir,” Watters said. “I am afraid I must return to the reason I am here, Mr Muirhead.”

“Oh, yes, this insurance nonsense,” Muirhead reluctantly left his ship models and returned to his seat. “Let’s get that cleared up.” He looked up as a smart, young man entered the room. “Could you fetch us a pot of tea, please, Killen?”

“Yes, sir.” Killen gave a small bow and withdrew.

“I called around at the Dundee Maritime after our golf this morning to pick up the original documentation,” Muirhead said, “but it seems you beat me to it.”

“I have the documents with me,” Watters said. “I believe you have the copies?”

“My secretary looked them out for me,” Muirhead indicated the papers on his desk.

When Killen brought the tea, Muirhead had him pour two cups and then handed over the insurance documents to Watters. “There you are, Sergeant, all in order.”

Watters compared the copies with the originals. “Exactly the same, sir,” he said. “I notice you sign as K. L. Muirhead.”

“Always,” Muirhead said. “My middle name is Lancelot. When I was younger, it embarrassed me to have such an unusual name, but now I use it as an extra form of security. Not many people know what the L stands for, you see.” He nodded to his ship models. “That’s why my whaling ships have Arthurian names, and I plan a Gawain in the near future.”

“May I see some of your recent correspondence?” Watters asked.

“Of course,” Muirhead sounded slightly irritated. He rang the bell again and ordered Killen to bring him his secretary.

“This is Mr Forbes, my secretary,” Muirhead said.

Forbes was a tall, thin man who looked down at Watters from a long nose.

“And this is Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police,” Muirhead completed the introductions. “The sergeant wishes to see a selection of my signatures, Mr Forbes. Could you fetch some, please?”

“No, no,” Watters said. “Just show me, Mr Forbes. I’ll come with you.” He was quite aware that Forbes could bring a selection of innocent signatures. He accompanied Forbes to an adjacent office.

“I’ll look myself,” Watters said. “Where do you store copies of Mr Muirhead’s correspondence?”

Muirhead was a prolific letter writer, with everything duplicated and neatly filed. Watters selected twenty letters at random over the past five years and found the same signature on each sheet of paper. “K. L. Muirhead.”

“Thank you, Mr Forbes,” Watters said. “I may call on you again.”

“Yes, sir,” Forbes gave a small bow.

“Well, Mr Muirhead,” Watters returned to his previous chair and half-finished cup of tea. “I do not doubt that the Dundee Maritime Insurance documents are genuine, as is your signature.”

“I am glad to hear it, Sergeant,” Muirhead said dryly.

“That leaves us with these,” Watters produced the documents from the Scottish and English Mutual. “Which are for your vessels and bear your signature.”

“Let me see these!” Muirhead held out his hand. He glanced at each document. “These are certainly for my vessels,” he said, “but that is not my signature.”

“That’s what we thought, sir,” Watters said.

Muirhead looked up. “Well, who the devil would wish to double insure my ships?”

“That’s what we hope to find out, Mr Muirhead. Do you recognise the signature? The style of writing, sir?”

“Devil a bit of it!” Muirhead said. “What possible profit can anybody make from such a scheme? The money would come to the company.” He looked up.

“When the insurance companies pay the money,” Watters said. “Would they pay it directly to this office? To Mr Forbes, perhaps?”

“No, sergeant,” Muirhead said. “Any monies are sent to my accountant, Mr Mackenzie.”

Watters wrote the name in his notebook. “And what should Mr Mackenzie do with the money, Mr Muirhead?”

“Why, he should pay it into my account, of course.” It was evident that the barrage of questions was irritating Muirhead.

“Are there any circumstances where he could open another account?” Watters asked.

“No,” Muirhead said. “Although I give him a free hand. I have known Bill – Mr Mackenzie – since we were at the High School together.”

Watters nodded. “Thank you. Could you supply me with the logbook and the Articles of Agreement – the crew list - for Toiler?”

“The logbook went down with the ship,” Muirhead said. “But I am sure that Mr Forbes has a copy of the Articles. He keeps one to pay the wages.” Muirhead rang his brass bell again and ordered Killen to fetch the list from Forbes.

Watters checked to ensure the crew’s addresses were added and tucked the sheet safely inside his case.

“Thank you, Mr Muirhead,” Watters decided he had asked sufficient questions for a friendly interview. “I appreciate your co-operation.” He packed away the insurance documents in his case and reached for his hat and cane.

“I have a question to ask, Sergeant Watters,” Muirhead said. “This extra insurance affair. Did the money come from my accounts? Have I been charged with these unnecessary expenses?”

“I am afraid I don’t know the answer to that, sir,” Watters said. “You’d better ask Mr Mackenzie.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.” Muirhead gave a small smile. “Am I off the hook, Sergeant? Do you believe I am scuttling my vessels?”

Watters jammed his hat on his head. “No, sir, I do not believe that you scuttled Toiler.”

“Then tell me, Sergeant, why somebody is insuring my vessels, sometimes for more than they are worth?”

“That, sir, remains a mystery,” Watters said.

CHAPTERTHREE

The police headquarters at Bell Street was busy as always, with uniformed men arriving for their shifts or marching out for their regular beats. Two men struggled with a well-known prostitute, and one constable nursed a bruised face after attending a domestic dispute between husband and wife. Sergeant Murdoch looked up when Watters came in. “Afternoon, George,” he said. “About time you appeared. Mr Mackay has been asking for you this past two hours.”

“I’ve been busy. What does Mr Mackay want?”

“There’s been a robbery at Sinclair’s the Jewellers in the Nethergate,” Murdoch said. “Mr Mackay wants to talk to you about it.”

“I’ll see him right away,” Watters said.

Mr Mackay had his office on the top floor of the building, with a view to the prison next door. He looked up when Watters entered, put down the pen he had been holding and immediately began to speak.

“Have you got your men onto the burglaries yet, Watters?”

“Yes, sir, I have them working on tracing the stolen items.” Watters removed his hat and held it under his arm.

“Good,” Mackay grunted. “Any results?”

“I’ll find out in a few moments, sir. I’ve been concentrating on the scuttling case.” Watters removed his hat and placed it under his arm.

“That should not take long,” Mackay said. “Find out who the insurance company pays the money to, and you have your man.”

“It doesn’t appear to be as simple as that,” Watters said. “There are complications.”

“Never mind that now,” Mackay waved away Watters’ words. “The scuttling is in the past; it’s done with. This spate of robberies is more important as they are ongoing. I want you to concentrate on them.”

“I don’t think the scuttling was a one-off,” Watters said.

Mackay leaned forward in his chair. “Is Toiler sunk?”

“Yes, sir,” Watters said.

“Was anybody drowned?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it’s a simple case of insurance fraud. Put it to the bottom of the pile and deal with it later. These burglaries are becoming serious, Sergeant, so I am ordering you to prioritise them.”

“Yes, sir,” Watters said.

“Go to Sinclair’s Jewellers and find out what happened,” Mackay said.

“Yes, sir,” Watters turned around and marched out. Not until he returned downstairs did he vent his feelings in a sequence of words that should have blistered the ears of anybody listening.

“Temper now, Sergeant,” Murdoch leaned against the corner of a door, puffing on a curved-stemmed pipe.

“I feel I’m making progress on the scuttling case when the old man takes me off and sends me to deal with a jewellery theft!”

“I know,” Murdoch said quietly, puffing smoke into the air. “How much was the ship worth?”

“What?”

“The ship, Toiler, how much was she worth?”

“About three hundred and fifty pounds,” Watters said.

“Well, this particular jewellery theft is worth two and a half thousand pounds, and it’s only one of many. Mr Mackay is doing you a favour by steering you away from the scuttling.” Murdoch removed the pipe from his mouth to add tobacco. “Anybody who catches the jewel robbery may be in line for a promotion, and wouldn’t Marie like that? Especially with her new baby.”

“Two and a half thousand pounds!” Watters repeated. “That’s twenty years wages.”

“I know,” Murdoch thrust the pipe back between his teeth. “That’s why Mackay wants you to find the thief. He could have sent Lieutenant Anstruther.”

“Anstruther couldn’t find a puddle in a wet November,” Watters said.

“Maybe aye, maybe och aye,” Murdoch added more smoke to the air. “But you’d better prove that you are better than him.”