'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.'
'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.
'Smuggled whisky,' Watters said, 'straight from the glens, pure peat reek and the nectar of the gods.' He prised open the bung, lifted the keg to his lips, and pretended to drink. 'Here, Mr Rex, have a wee taste.'
Rex took a drink. 'That's the real stuff.' He handed the keg to McBurnie who tilted her head back as she swallowed.
Watters watched, fully aware that the illicit whisky was more potent than any of the watered-down spirits the pub sold over the counter. Again, he pretended to drink before passing the keg around.
'Now, let's get back to business,' Watters said. 'Who do you think might have killed that poor fellow, Mr Rex?'
Rex stopped with the keg at his lips and colourless whisky dribbling down his chin. His eyes were slightly out of focus. 'I can't tell you,' he said.
'If you don't,' Watters spoke quietly, 'you'll be withholding evidence. I could arrest you for that and hold you until you speak.'
'You wouldnae dare,' McBurnie said. 'The boys out there would tear your head off.'
'I would dare,' Watters said. 'I could hold you for aiding and abetting and stealing drink from a public house.' He pointed to the whisky.
'You're a bastard, Watters.'
'I already know that,' Watters said. 'Now, Mr Rex here will tell me something I don't know or,' he pulled the handcuffs from his pocket, 'you'll both be leaving here wearing these.'
'It's nothing to do with Annie.' Rex tried to push McBurnie behind him only for her wide crinolines to jam between two full kegs.
Watters shrugged. 'She'll only get three months or so.'
'I'll kill you, bluebottle!' McBurnie showed her teeth.
'She'll get six months now that she has threatened a police officer.' Watters tightened his grip on his cane. 'Is that what you want, Mr Rex? Do you want to put your girl into jail for six months by protecting a man who might be a murderer?'
'No.' Rex glanced at McBurnie. 'Jones. Look for Richard Jones.'
'He's one of the crew we have not yet located,' Watters said. 'Why him? What makes you think he is involved?'
Rex shuffled uneasily. 'If I tell you, will you let Annie go free?'
'You have my word.' Watters knew that no court in the country would use such slender evidence as he could provide to convict McBurnie.
'I can't really explain it.' Now that Rex was committed, he seemed determined to do his best. 'Jones was not right, Sergeant. He sounded like a seaman and knew his way around the ship all right, sir, but he just didn't ring true.'
Watters took notes. 'Could you say anything more specific, Mr Rex?'
Rex took another unconscious swig of the whisky and screwed up his face with the effort of thought. 'No, sir. Well, maybe, aye. His language was more like a Royal Navy man than a real seaman, and even then, it was not quite right. It's like he was trying too hard, sort of. He kept mentioning battles from the past and kings and queens and things.'
Watters noted that down. 'Thank you, Mr Rex. Only one more thing, and you are free to go. Could you give me a description of Richard Jones?'
Rex drank more of the free whisky. 'Why, no, sir. There is nothing to describe. He was just ordinary. He looked like everyone else.'
'Was he tall? Short? Broad? Thin?'
Rex shrugged. 'Neither, sir. He was about average in everything. He was a grey man; nothing stands out at all.' He frowned. 'He might have been French, sir.'
'French?' Watters raised his eyebrows. 'What the devil makes you think he might have been French?'
'I dunno.' Rex shrugged again. 'He was trying too hard, saying things like foreigners would think we said. God save the Queen and that.'
'Thank you, Mr Rex. Have you seen this patriotically anonymous gentleman since Lady of Blackness docked?'
Rex shook his head.
'Did he mention anywhere he might go when he came ashore?'
Again, Rex shook his head. 'He spoke about drinking the town dry, sir, and finding a baggage; that's a prostitute, sir.'
'Normal sailor talk,' Watters said. 'All right, Mr Rex, thank you.' Watters closed his notebook. 'You have been a great help.' He opened the door to find Scuddamore and Duff still standing sentinel. The clientele of the pub looked up without interest as Rex and McBurnie sidled out.
'What next, Sergeant?' Scuddamore asked.
'Now we scour the town for a man of average height, average size, and average build with an average face,' Watters said.
Duff stamped his feet on the ground. 'That should be easy, then. Do we have anything else to go on?'
'Yes, he doesn't look quite right; he says God save the Queen, and he might be French.'
Scuddamore looked around the room. 'Can we start here, Sergeant? None of these men looks quite right.'
Watters grinned. 'I appreciate your sarcasm, Scuddamore; we have a difficult job before us. Luckily, we have you on our side. You start searching tomorrow, public by public, boarding house by boarding house, and brothel by brothel. Have fun.' Watters nearly enjoyed the dismay on Scuddamore's face, until he remembered he had a wedding to attend.
CHAPTER FOUR: PITCORBIE ESTATE, FORFARSHIRE: SEPTEMBER 1862
Watters tugged at his starched collar, fidgeted uncomfortably, and wished he could at least look at his watch to see how much longer he had to endure this torture. His natural dislike of weddings was not improved when he did not know the participants.
'I could stand outside the building, sir,' Watters had suggested.
Mackay had shaken his head. 'I've spoken to Mr Beaumont. You're down as a friend of the family and an usher.'
'Yes, sir.' Watters knew that as a police sergeant, he could be working in the most noxious of alleys one day and guarding the queen the next. He accepted that was part of the job, but he did not have t
o enjoy it.
Watters looked up as the organist began the music and Charlotte Beaumont appeared. From the long veil that concealed her face to the bouquet of orange blossom in her white-gloved hands, past the frilled white dress that enhanced her trim waist, then flounced out to hide the flat white shoes, Charlotte looked as pristine as a bride should.
For a second, Watters nearly smiled for the gloves, from Henry Adams of Dundee, had been his present to her, which Marie had chosen with care.
'You're going to a wedding,' Marie had said. 'You have to give the bride something.'
'I'm not a guest! I'm on duty.'
'I'll choose a suitable present,' Marie told him. 'You guard the guests.'
Watters nodded; there was no advantage in continuing the discussion. Marie had made her mind up.
The instant the ancient church doors creaked open, the bells began to ring. The great and the good of Dundee were present, together with relatives from both families. Watters saw a hundred eyes examining Charlotte as she walked down the aisle supported by her father and followed by her bridesmaids.
Watters concentrated on the guests, searching for potential troublemakers. There was Sir John Ogilvy of Baldovan House, the local Member of Parliament, resplendent in the scarlet of the Volunteers. There was David Jobson, Provost of Dundee, together with his frowning wife. There was Bailie George Ower, sitting stiffly at attention in a soberly cut suit, and beside him was William Foggie, the Hospital Manager. Fidgeting on the nearest pew to the aisle was Charlotte's personal friend, Mrs Foreman of the Dundee Abolition Association. None of these people was likely to cause any trouble, murder stray seamen, or set fire to mills.
George Beaumont's business associates clumped together in a solid block of Dundonian respectability, some looking as uncomfortable as Watters. The Cox clan, whose huge Lochee works was already among the largest jute factories in the world, spoke quietly with the linen and sailcloth dynasty of the Baxters. Patrick Anderson, the Director of the Dundee Banking Company, winked at Charlotte. He had been a family friend for years, as had George Welch, manager of the Tay Whale-Fishing Company. Watters slid his gaze over them. None of these dynamic and respectable gentlemen or their ladies would be any threat to the wedding.
The Fireraisers Page 3