The Fireraisers

by Malcolm Archibald

  There were others whom Watters did not recognise but knew only by the business cards he had collected at the door. The Earl of Panmure or Joseph Holderby, the United States Consul, were unlikely to be associated with fire-raisers or murderers. Dismissing them, Watters examined the others whose names he strove to remember.

  When Charlotte nearly stumbled, Amy, her sister and maid of honour, encouraged her with a hand on the small of her back. Recovering, Charlotte looked up the length of the aisle where the old maids clustered to touch her gown for luck, and the groom's relatives studied her to see what sort of woman was entering their family. For an instant, Watters met the eyes of William Caskie, the man who was about to marry Charlotte, and then he looked away. The groom did not interest him.

  Watters glanced upward. Despite the autumn sunshine, candles were necessary to penetrate the gloom of the church, their light flickering off the profusion of late flowers that Amy Beaumont and the groom's sister Elizabeth Caskie had spent hours arranging.

  Watters shifted on the pew. He would have brought his revolver until Marie said that would be sacrilege, so instead, he had his cumbersome baton under his jacket. He heard the subdued murmur as the congregation tensed in anticipation for the climax of the ceremony. Watters shook his head, remembering that Marie had ordered him to observe the women's clothes and tell her every detail. He swept his eyes across the gathered women. What the devil do I know about women's fashions?

  He turned around as the church door opened.

  'Excuse me, sir? You seem to be an usher.' The man who had entered indicated the white ribbon on Watters's shoulder. He was about forty years old, five-foot-eight tall, dark haired, and sallow featured with a fine set of whiskers. His clothes were immaculate, yet it was the smooth drawl with which he spoke that drew Watters's attention combined with the sheer elegance of manner. 'I am sorry to be late, but where do you recommend that I sit?'

  'Could I have your name, sir?' Watters consulted the list with which the Beaumonts had issued him. Mrs Mary Caskie, the groom's mother, together with Beaumont and Charlotte, had spent hours compiling guest lists.

  'James Dunwoody Bulloch.' The man said each word distinctly as if the name should mean something. He smoothed a hand over his side whiskers.

  'I'm afraid that you're not on my list, sir.' Watters was barely aware of the minister's voice droning behind him.

  'I am a business associate of Mr William Caskie.' When Bulloch smiled, his face looked ten years younger. 'Perhaps the groom was not consulted when the bride issued the invitations.'

  'Perhaps not.' Watters deliberately moved to block Bulloch's view of the interior of the church. He kept his voice level. 'However, sir, I am afraid I cannot permit you to enter unless you are on the guest list.'

  Bulloch raised an elegant eyebrow and swung the cane that he carried. His smile did not falter, but he allowed his eyes to survey the rows of packed pews. 'You have some distinguished men here,' he said, 'and some fine-looking women.'

  'Indeed we have.' Watters refused to be drawn. 'And I am certain that you are equally distinguished, but with the greatest respect, I must ask you to leave.'

  Charlotte's voice sounded across the otherwise hushed church, 'I do,' cool and clear and low.

  When Watters nodded towards the door, Bulloch reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced his card, which he held up. 'And you have Mr Joseph Holderby too, I see. Perhaps there was a good reason for William not to invite me.' He proffered the card. 'Please present this to Mr William Caskie, sir, and inform him that I did attempt to attend his wedding.'

  'I shall do that, Mr Bulloch.' Watters placed the oblong piece of pasteboard in the pocket of his waistcoat. 'I apologise for my inflexibility, but I have instructions.'

  'Which you are carrying out admirably, I am sure.' Bulloch spoke with just a hint of irony. He bowed from the waist. 'Your servant, sir.' Withdrawing with a languid grace that Watters could only admire, he walked through a crowd of spectators to a waiting gig. Watters quietly closed the church door.

  Removing the business card, Watters glanced at it. James Dunwoody Bulloch it said with little else except the name of his city, Richmond, Virginia. Watters grunted. It was as well he had not allowed Bulloch entry. Having a representative from both the Federal and Confederate sides of the American conflict could have proved uncomfortable for the wedding party.

  The congregation was singing as Mrs Mary Caskie led the procession out of the church. She looked neither to the right nor left but moved with the same precision as she seemed to do everything. Mr Beaumont was next, and then Charlotte, with one hand resting lightly on the arm of her husband. Although the veil covered Charlotte's face, Watters was sure he saw a hint of moisture in her eyes. He nodded to the groom.

  'Congratulations, sir. You have a fine bride there.'

  William Caskie nodded, with the little imperial beard highlighting his powerful chin. 'Thank you for your approval, Mr…' he hesitated then shrugged and stepped outside the church door, his tight lavender trousers emphasising muscular legs.

  William Caskie placed the top hat back on his head, took a deep breath of the autumn air, lifted Charlotte clean off her feet, swept back her veil and kissed her soundly. It was the first time that Watters had seen Charlotte close up, and he realised that she was much the plainer of the Beaumont sisters despite her elegance of carriage.

  'Three cheers for Mr William and Mrs Charlotte Caskie!' It might have been the head gardener that raised the cry, but the assembled crowd joined in lustily to the apparent embarrassment of Charlotte, who looked like fainting until William tightened his arm around her waist.

  'Come along, Charlotte! We're man and wife now; don't let me down.'

  At a nod from Watters, two of the crowd threw showers of rice, with some oats for good measure, and raised more cheers for the lucky couple. Mrs Mary Caskie nodded her approval as Watters signalled to the driver to bring the wedding carriage closer. The dark-green bodywork had a gold trim, with high, yellow wheels that crunched smoothly across the gravel. The traces had been specially extended to allow an extra pair of horses, so four matching whites pawed at the gravel.

  'A fancy machine, Watters,' Mrs Mary Caskie commented.

  'That's Sergeant Watters, ma'am,' Watters said. 'Mr Beaumont had Mr Lewis Mackenzie build the coach especially for the wedding. It is his wedding present.'

  'So I believe.' Mrs Mary Caskie's flower-topped bonnet swayed as she nodded. 'I hope it will not be an unnecessary expense.'

  'I'm sure the happy couple will find a use for a carriage, ma'am.'

  When the driver opened the door, William Caskie handed his new wife into the leather-padded interior and drew himself after her. Shouting their destination to the driver, he waved to the crowd before slamming shut the door.

  Beaumont waved back, whispered something to Amy, and sauntered across to Mrs Mary Caskie.

  'That was an excellent ceremony, Mrs Caskie, without a hitch. Let us hope the wedding breakfast is as trouble free.'

  'Complete nonsense, Mr Beaumont.' Mrs Mary Caskie shook her head. 'All this fuss for a marriage. Of what practical use is a white dress? When will Miss Charlotte ever wear such a creation again? In my time, we wore sensible clothes that would last for years, but ever since Her Majesty married in white, all young girls think they should too. Stuff and nonsense!' She straightened her bonnet. 'Come along, Mr Beaumont, we at least are of an age when we are not afraid to walk. Give me your arm, sir!'

  Pitcorbie Parish Church stood only a hundred yards outside the stone wall that marked the policies of Caskie's Pitcorbie House. Mrs Mary Caskie had insisted that everybody walk from the church to the wedding breakfast within the house but made allowances for her son and his new bride. Now, she led by example, striding through the ornate wrought-iron gates with the lodge housekeeper bowing as they passed. Watters kept to the rear of the party, ensuring that all the guests survived the walk safely and no unwanted villagers or hangers-on entered the house. He grunted as
he saw a man at the edge of a belt of woodland standing apart from the guests.

  'Do you know that man, sir?' Watters asked Beaumont.

  'I do not, Sergeant Watters.' Beaumont peered into the dim of the late afternoon.

  'Then with your permission, I will investigate.' Watters smiled to relieve any fear. 'It's probably perfectly innocent.' Lifting his cane, he strode toward the woodland, increasing his pace as the man slid back between the trees. 'Halloa! You there!'

  Tree boughs swung behind the man as he turned to run. Watters followed, wincing as a flexible bough smacked across his face. 'Dundee Police! Stop!'

  The man increased his pace, ducking beneath the branches, jinking around the tree trunks, and glancing over his shoulder as Watters gradually decreased the distance between them. When the fugitive reached the tall stone wall that marked the edge of Pitcorbie's policies, Watters leapt the final few feet.

  'Stand there!'

  The fugitive threw himself onto the wall, and for one moment, Watters had a clear view of his face. Young, with luxuriant red whiskers, he looked more scared than dangerous, and then he slipped over the far side of the wall. By the time Watters scaled the wall, the fugitive had vanished into the rapidly encroaching darkness.

  'He sported red whiskers,' Watters noted in his notebook. 'But so does every fifth man in Dundee.' He snapped his book shut. He could have been anything from a poacher to a well-wisher. Or a potential fire-raiser.

  By the time Watters returned to the front door of Pitcorbie House, hard-working servants had removed Charlotte's carriage to the stable block, and the sound of feasting was already evident.

  'I presume that you were not required?' The taller of Mrs Mary Caskie's two footmen looked down his long nose at Watters. 'There were no armed Russians or mutinous Indian sepoys attempting to disrupt the wedding?'

  'Not yet,' Watters agreed, 'only a large-mouthed servant.' Pushing past both men, he followed the sound of revelry to the wedding breakfast in the grand hall. Mr Beaumont must have spent a fortune on the flowers, with every column boasting a floral garland, the long table an arboretum of roses, and even the crystal chandeliers be-flowered. The table for the bridal party, set at right angles to the other, was hidden beneath orange blossoms and roses. Nor had Beaumont stinted on food, with the table piled high with every delicacy that Watters could conceive, and much that he did not recognise.

  'Did you catch him, Sergeant?' Beaumont spoke from the side of his mouth as he watched his daughter and her husband.

  'No, sir. I chased him away.'

  'Well done, Sergeant.' Beaumont moved on.

  Charlotte stood in one corner of the hall, arm in arm with her husband. As the principal bridesmaid, pretty Amy was in her element, talking twenty to the dozen as she reminded her sister of the names of people that she had known for years.

  After eating, the guests drifted to the great hall for the dancing. Pressed against the wall, Watters watched for the trouble that he hoped would not come. He patrolled from the door to each curtained window, scanning each face for the return of the red-whiskered man, occasionally visiting the hall to check the servants were alert.

  'Oh la, Mr Watters, are they not energetic?' Mrs Foreman flapped a fan in front of her face as she spoke. 'Is it not enchanting to see so many young people enjoying themselves?'

  Watters forced a smile. 'Indeed it is, Mrs Foreman.'

  'I believe that you are a friend of the family, Mr Watters.' Mrs Foreman was about forty with intense brown eyes and a smile that hovered at the edges of her thin lips.

  'I am honoured by the association, Mrs Foreman.'

  'Yet I have never met you,' Mrs Foreman said, 'and none of the other guests are paying you the least bit of attention.'

  'I am rather a quiet man,' Watters said.

  'You are not from Dundee, are you?' Mrs Foreman peered into Watters's face as if she was accusing him of a major crime.

  'Not originally,' Watters admitted.

  Mrs Foreman leaned closer and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'Nor am I. I'm from Perth. Us strangers should stick together, don't you know?'

  Watters managed another weak smile as he watched the servants glide in and out of the room and wished he had time to review their backgrounds.

  'Well, Mr Watters, I feel neglected, while you are alone. Can you think of a solution to both our predicaments?' Mrs Foreman's smile transformed her face into something quite attractive.

  Watters looked around the room, hoping for an escape that was not there. He was trapped. 'Shall we join in the dancing, Mrs Foreman?'

  'Why, Mr Watters, what an excellent idea.' Mrs Foreman gave an elegant curtsey and accompanied Watters to the dance floor.

  'I am not much of a dancer, I'm afraid.' Watters excused himself in advance, in case he should trample on Mrs Foreman's feet.

  'Oh, Mr Watters, neither am I.' Mrs Foreman proved her words by raking her boot down Watters's shin.

  Watters disguised his wince with a deaths-head grin. 'I hope that Mr Foreman will not disapprove of you dancing with me.'

  Mrs Foreman shook her head. 'Mr Foreman has been gone this last four years,' she said, taking control of the dance and nearly whirling Watters off his feet. One of her hands strayed until her fingertips rested on his right buttock. 'Are you a married man, Mr Watters?'

  'I am, Mrs Foreman.' Watters was acutely aware of the position of Mrs Foreman's hand.

  'Oh, that is such a pity.' Mrs Foreman shook her head. 'And you are such a handsome fellow.' Her hand patted lightly.

  'Mrs Watters might not agree to that,' Watters said.

  'I am sure that you are both very well matched.' Mrs Foreman broke off as the music ended. She led Watters back to the seats. 'There is nothing as happy as a well-matched marriage, although I cannot see Mrs Watters here.'

  'She is not here,' Watters said.

  'In that case, you must make do with me.' Mrs Foreman laid her gloved hand on Watters's arm. 'And I will glory in your company. Do you think that the happy couple is well matched?'

  'They seem happy enough,' Watters said.

  'I do not think they are well matched at all.' Mrs Foreman leaned closer to Watters and dropped her voice to impart her vital information. 'I think it is a marriage of convenience to patch up Mr Beaumont and Mr Caskie's business rivalries.'

  Watters refrained from the temptation to write that in his notebook. 'What makes you think that, Mrs Foreman?' He gave a slightly lopsided smile. 'Women are much better at working out such things than men.'

  'Well,' Mrs Foreman settled down to enjoy her gossip, 'Mr Beaumont and the Caskies have been business rivals for years. When old Mr Caskie died, and that was mysterious, don't you know? When old Mr Caskie died, young William Caskie took over the family business and suddenly became interested in Charlotte.'

  'How did Mr Caskie die, and why was it mysterious?' Mrs Foreman's words had aroused Watters's professional interest.

  Mrs Foreman leaned even closer to Watters so her breath was hot on his face. She put a hand on his thigh for support. 'I think it was poison.' She patted his thigh, nodding for emphasis. 'One minute, Mr Caskie was right as a thrupenny bit, and the next, he was dead. Now,' she sat back with a look of triumph on her face, 'you tell me that was natural, Mr Watters, and I'll tell you that the sea is blue claret.'

  'I did not realise there was any suspicion.' Watters looked up as the urbane figure of Sir John Ogilvy strolled up to him.

  'Do you have a moment, Sergeant Watters?'

  'Sergeant Watters?' Mrs Foreman placed a hand over her mouth. 'Are you in the Army?'

  'No, Mrs Foreman.' Watters smiled, knowing that people did not like a policeman. 'I am a detective sergeant in the Dundee Police.'

  'Oh.' Mrs Foreman's eyes widened. 'Oh, how positively delicious.'

  'Excuse me, please, Mrs Foreman.' Watters stood, bowed, and stepped away. 'Yes, Sir John.'

  Dressed in the full regimentals of the Dundee Rifle Volunteer Corps, Sir John Ogilvy sa
luted Watters with his glass of brandy and water. 'Mr Beaumont informs me that you served in the Army?'

  'No, sir. I was in the Royal Marines.'

  'Rank?' Ogilvy demanded. As a local landowner as well as a Member of Parliament and head of half a dozen committees and charities, Ogilvy was used to instant obedience. Watters let him wait for a moment as he watched Charlotte walk to her new husband. She did not look as if the marriage was misaligned.

  'I was a sergeant, sir.' Light from the chandelier gleamed on Charlotte's wedding ring. She smiled upwards as William took her arm.

  'She will make a perfect wife, I imagine.' Ogilvy had also been watching Charlotte. 'William is a lucky man. You have experience in training men then.'

  Watters nodded. 'Some, sir.'

  'I know that you are already a sergeant in my regiment.' Ogilvy stepped back as a press of dancers clattered across the room with a laughing Miss Amy in the forefront. 'I would like Mr Mackay to grant you more time with my Volunteers. I do not trust the French. With much of our attention on events across the Atlantic, it would be like them to stab us in the back.'

  'I don't know about the French, sir,' Watters said, 'but my work keeps me fairly busy.'

  Ogilvy nodded. 'So I hear, Watters.'

  'Yes, sir.' Watters rescued a brace of brandy glasses from a passing footman, automatically passed one to Ogilvy, and cradled the second in his hand. He refused to be intimidated by this powerful man.

  Sir John accepted the brandy as if it was his right. 'I will ask Superintendent Mackay to give you some more time. There's not just the American business; who knows what might happen with Garibaldi. Europe is in a fearful mess just now.'

  'I agree, sir.' Watters had been keeping an eye on the papers. The Courier and Argus was full of news from the war in America and the captivity of the Italian patriot Garibaldi. 'Perhaps Mr Bismarck can keep Europe stable. His proposed army reforms may have the French watching their northern border rather than bothering us.'

  Ogilvy looked surprised that a mere sergeant was aware of international affairs. He eyed Watters over the rim of the brandy glass. 'Perhaps so indeed, Watters. I can see that you are a man who bears watching.' He took a sip. 'I shall certainly speak with Superintendent Mackay about you, sir. Mark my words.'