The Fireraisers

by Malcolm Archibald

  'The pockets were empty,' the doctor said.

  'Yes, Doctor. Do you have them, please?'

  As Watters had already discovered, the man's clothes were of good quality but well used. 'It's as if he was once a wealthy, or at least a comfortably-off, man who has fallen on hard times,' Watters said.

  Doctor Musgrave nodded without interest. 'Hard times indeed.'

  'Thank you, Doctor.' Watters nodded. 'That's one more mystery in this very mysterious case. Lifting the sleeves of the man's shirt and jacket to his nose, Watters sniffed. 'Gunpowder,' he said. 'I found gunpowder on the deck of the hold, so now I know this unfortunate fellow put it there, or at least was involved in some way.'

  Again the doctor expressed supreme indifference.

  Watters checked the lining of the jacket, feeling nothing. Using his penknife, he slit the lining and turned the material inside out. 'Empty,' he said. 'Sometimes professional thieves conceal items inside the lining, or the odd coin or personal belonging slips through a hole in the pocket. Not in this case. There is nothing here. This fellow has nothing to help identify him.'

  'Is that not usual if he's been robbed?' Doctor Musgrave asked.

  'Maybe that's all it was, Doctor,' Watters said. 'Maybe this was a simple case of robbery, and the gunpowder was coincidental.' He looked up with his lip curled in a half-smile. 'Except that I don't believe in coincidences, especially in cases of murder.'

  'You have work to do, Sergeant.'

  'I have. Could you have these forwarded to the police office, please?'

  'I'm a doctor, not a letter carrier,' Doctor Musgrave said. 'If you want them, send a man to collect them.'

  Watters nodded, knowing that the doctor was correct. 'I'll send one of my criminal officers,' he said. 'Now, Doctor Musgrave, I have another question to ask you. Do you remember the manner of Mr Caskie's demise?'

  Doctor Musgrave frowned. 'Yes, I remember Mr Caskie's death,' he said. 'It was a terrible thing; a man struck down in his prime.'

  Watters held Musgrave's gaze. 'Was there anything suspicious about the death, Doctor?'

  'Suspicious?' Doctor Musgrave's frown deepened. 'No, there was nothing suspicious. The poor fellow's heart gave out on him, probably due to nervous exhaustion. These businessmen have a terrible life with all the burden of responsibility they carry.'

  Watters thought of Mount Pleasant and the luxurious Pitcorbie Estate. 'They must suffer dreadfully,' he said. 'Did you perform an autopsy?'

  'An autopsy on Mr Caskie? Indeed no, there was no need for such a thing.'

  Watters grunted. 'Was there no suspicion at all of foul play? No suggestion of poison perhaps?'

  'Absolutely none!' Doctor Musgrave shook his head. 'Mr Caskie was a respectable and much-loved businessman, one of Dundee's finest.'

  'Thank you, Doctor.' Watters lifted his hat; he would make no progress here. He stepped into the street, took a deep breath of the smoky atmosphere, and coughed. Now he had more complications, more questions, and no answers. The dead man had soft hands and quality clothing. He might have been a gentleman down on his luck or an office clerk who played with gunpowder. Taking a practise golf swing with his cane, Watters tried to make sense of everything. The murder victim had certainly not been a seaman with a grudge. Lining up a stone, Watters hit it against the wall and frowned. He sighed, realised that two women were watching him with expressions of curiosity, straightened up, and marched away with as much dignity as he could muster. His golf would have to wait until he had solved this case.

  * * *

  The roads in Dundee seemed busier than usual as Watters travelled to Lochee to interview Mr Milne, the mate of Godiva. Coal carts clattered at every junction, a string of Cameron's wagons pulling away from Thomas Moodie's hotel at Hood's Close, beside the Murraygate, and jute carts everywhere, with pieces of the brittle material breaking off and littering the streets. Beaumont had told him that the war in America was good for business, with the Union army demanding as many jute horse blankets, sandbags, and gun covers as Dundee could ship out. Watters had heard one of the Baxter clan describing his factory as “better than a gold mine” and had raised his eyebrows at the profit figures that were quoted. With so much wealth being generated, he thought, the mill owners could perhaps pay their hands a decent wage.

  By the time Watters reached Lochee, two miles outside Dundee proper, the onset of darkness seemed to increase the unceasing racket from the mills. Nodding to the Lamplighter, who was just beginning his evening work, Watters fumbled in his pocket for his pipe, stuffed down tobacco with his thumb, and swore when he realised that he did not have a match.

  Watters did not know Lochee well. He looked around for a shop he could buy a match. He found fleshers, bakers, general stores, and even a music teacher but no match seller.

  'Blasted Lochee,' Watters said as his craving for tobacco increased. 'Normally, I am plagued by wee lassies selling the damned things, and when I want one, there are none to be seen.'

  Watters stomped down the street, coughing as the reek of the sewage-choked Lochee Burn caught the back of his throat. He waved a hand to try to clear the smoky atmosphere. There were mills everywhere, with East or Burnside Mill, Pitalpin Mill, Cox's huge Camperdown Linen Works, West Mill, and Beaumont's own Bon Vista Mill. Like Dundee, Lochee was noisy with carters carrying their loads of jute, others with building materials, lime, and the essential coal for the steam-powered works, while the railway trains also rattled past, spreading smoke smuts into the air.

  At last, Watters saw a shop standing snug at a corner of the High Street with gold lettering across the window announcing Foote's Tobacconist: quality tobacco and cigars.

  'A packet of Lucifers, please.' Watters threw a copper half-penny down on the shop counter.

  The shopkeeper shook his head. 'Sorry. We've sold out.'

  'Sold out of Lucifers?' Watters wondered what sort of shop could sell out of such an essential commodity. He shrugged; with so many mill workers in the area, maybe they needed the solace of tobacco. 'A box of Palmer's Vesuvians then.' He did not really like these matches, which were too quick burning and unpredictable for pipe smokers, but beggars could not be choosers; he desperately needed a smoke.

  The shopkeeper shook his head. 'Sorry again. None left.' He was a tall, calm-faced man with a bald head that shone under the smoky lantern.

  Watters grunted and left without another word. He wondered if the drizzle had driven the match sellers off the street, entered another tobacconist, to be told the same sad tale. 'Sorry, mate. I've just sold my entire stock, not an hour since.'

  'What was it? A mad rush by the quarry workers?' Watters was not in the best of temper, and being deprived of his tobacco made him worse. 'What sort of place is this Lochee anyway?'

  'It's the sort of place where people work hard for a living and don't ask stupid questions!' The shopkeeper was clearly not a man to be easily subdued. 'No, one fellow bought all my matches.'

  'All of them?' Watters shook his head incredulously. 'In God's name, why?'

  The shopkeeper shrugged. 'How should I know? Maybe he collects them. Maybe he wants to sell them on the streets. Maybe he's scared that he runs out. Who cares?'

  Watters started. 'Or maybe he wants to start a fire.' He hesitated for a second, thinking of the mysterious blazes in Mr Beaumont's mills. 'Did he say anything to you? Anything at all?'

  'Of course, he did. He said: “give me all the matches you have.” What do you think he was, a bloody mute?'

  'No, I didn't think that. What was this fellow like? Tall, short, fat, thin?'

  'He was like a customer.' The shopkeeper leaned closer. 'Look, are you going to buy anything or just ask questions? I've got a business to run.'

  'I'll come back later.' Watters was already leaving as he spoke. 'When do you shut?'

  'Midnight and not a second later!' The shopkeeper shook his head and wiped his hands on his already stained apron as his door banged shut. Watters hurried away; Mr Milne's interview wou
ld have to wait. A man buying hundreds of matches might mean danger for Mr Beaumont.

  One of the smallest mills in Dundee, Beaumont's Bon Vista was a converted water-powered mill hard by the Lochee Burn. Watters heard the refrain of the machinery before he reached the plain, near-windowless walls. More profit, more profit, more profit. Again and again, the looms repeated the same phrase, more profit, more profit, so that Watters wondered how the workers endured the ceaseless racket yet still retained their concentration.

  There was an enclosing wall of massive sandstone pierced by iron gates, which were swung wide open to permit the passage of the jute wagons. Those coming in carried bales of raw jute straight from the ships in the dock. Those leaving carried sandbags and sacking, wagon covers, and rough canvas for half of Britain and most of the developing world. Mr Beaumont would have these items loaded onto ships for the war in the United States and the expanding colonies of Australia, Canada, and South Africa.

  Watters dashed into the Bon Vista. 'Where's the manager?'

  The watchman barely looked up. 'Through the door and up the stairs, mate.'

  Watters glanced at the man and pushed into the mill where the bustle was worse. Rows of cop winders in the spinning department kept their heads down as they worked. Their hair was tied up to keep loose strands from falling into the fast-moving machinery, their hands busy as young children darted beneath the machines to retrieve any loose pieces of material. The noise was deafening with moving belts spiralling at an appalling rate amidst the constant grind and rattle of the machines. Yet all the time, the exhausted-looking women spoke in high-pitched, nearly nasal accents that could be heard even above the noise.

  Watters flinched at this reality of Beaumont's wealth. The labours of these women created the fortune that had built Mount Pleasant House and allowed Miss Amy to indulge herself in pleasure trips to Reekie Linn and Newport. The sweat and toil of these children made the profit that paid for straw bonnets and the most fashionable clothes from London.

  More profit. More profit.

  'Hi! Who are you?' An overseer approached Watters. Stocky and bold, he pushed past the women. 'Who said you could come in here?'

  Well done, Watters thought and said, 'I am Sergeant Watters of the Dundee Police. Where is your manager?'

  The overseer's manner changed at once. 'The manager is this way, Sergeant.' He led Watters up a flight of wooden steps to the upper level, where the mill's offices provided a view of the shop floor.

  The manager was a Mr Cosgrove, weary-eyed, smart in a dark jacket, and with hair long enough to be fashionable in an earlier age. He greeted Watters squarely but listened with growing concern as Watters explained his suspicions.

  'Fire-raising in my mill?' Cosgrove looked down at his workers. 'We must evacuate. I'll get the girls out at once. I won't risk any of them getting hurt.'

  'But Mr Cosgrove,' one of his assistants protested, 'we'll lose money. We might jeopardise the orders.'

  'I'd rather jeopardise the orders than risk the lives of my people.'

  'If you'll excuse me for saying, Mr Cosgrove, I have another suggestion.' Watters knew that a police sergeant had no authority to give orders to a mill manager, but he hoped that Mr Cosgrove would listen to what he said. 'Rather than send the women outside, could you not use them? Nobody knows the mill better than you do, but these women will know their own areas well enough. They could help search for anything suspicious, such as a pile of matches.'

  Cosgrove shook his head. 'Some would panic, and panicking workers amidst moving machinery?' He paused to allow Watters time to picture the results. 'I won't hazard my hands. The women furthest from the door will be released first,' he looked at Watters and hardened his voice, 'with no loss of pay. The overseers and managers will search the premises. And Sergeant Watters,' the friendly approach was gone, 'you had better be correct. This is a competitive industry, and Mr Beaumont will not appreciate a drop in profits. He will be only too happy to inform Superintendent Mackay if your warning has lost him income.'

  The women grumbled as they filed out, some because they did not understand 'what all the fuss was about,' others because they 'wanted to finish their shift,' but most because complaining was virtually the only entertainment that they had. Not until the women had clattered into the smoky rain outside did Cosgrove begin the search. He was systematic, dividing his mill into areas and sending each man to scour the section that he knew best.

  Cosgrove glanced at his watch. 'Thank the Lord it's Saturday,' he said. 'Early finishing; the girls would be lousing in an hour anyway. We're not losing too much working time.'

  Watters could only follow the searchers as they peered in dark corners and swung lanterns to illuminate the normally hidden spaces beneath machinery. There was something almost uncanny about the emptying mill, with sounds echoing and the slow ticking of machinery as it cooled down. The smell of jute permeated everything, together with hot oil and the perspiration of fifty female bodies.

  'Anything?' Watters was unsure whether he wanted to be proved right or to find that he was mistaken and Mr Beaumont was not the target of some unknown arsonist.

  'Not yet.' Cosgrove shook a tired head. 'We've only the yard to check now and the loading bays where the jute arrives.'

  Watters followed. He must be sure that everything was done correctly, for if there were another fire at this mill, he would now be held responsible. If there was anything wrong, he had to locate it.

  The loading bay was a gloomy place, thick with the smell of jute. There were machinery parts stored in obscure corners, kegs of whale oil, spare leather belts for the weaving shop, and coiled rope for attaching bales of jute to the flat carts.

  'Aye, Sergeant Watters,' the stocky overseer said, 'this is where it all happens. This is the most important part of the mill.'

  'This is where the carters have access.' Watters looked around. 'So this is probably the place where a visitor would plant his combustibles. I want everybody down here, Mr Cosgrove, and I want every corner searched. Every corner! If there is anything wrong, it will be here.'

  Watters could sense the resentful glares of the overseers behind his back as he drove them on. 'Come on, lads! This is not just extra work; this could be your livelihood or even your lives!'

  'There had better be overtime for this,' one thin-faced man grumbled. 'We're well past lousing time.'

  Ignoring the moans, Cosgrove signalled to Watters. 'We're nearly done, Sergeant Watters. Only the boiler room now, where the coal is stored.'

  Watters nodded. 'Lead on, Mr Cosgrove!'

  Knowing his mill, it did not take Cosgrove long to search out the most likely places for a fire to start. 'Sergeant Watters! Here!' Cosgrove lifted a strong hand. 'Look at this!'

  Somebody had emptied hundreds of matches into two wooden boxes. Each box had been soaked in whale oil and then placed beneath the massive piles of coal that waited to be shovelled into the boilers.

  'This is our reserve supply,' Mr Cosgrove said. 'We won't be using this unless all the other coal is gone.' He shook his head. 'Anyway, they won't cause a fire like that.' He looked to Watters for an explanation.

  'Indeed not,' Watters agreed. 'But I'll wager whoever put them there will return tonight and set light to them.' He looked at the coal, which seemed to rise forever into the gloom of the building. 'How much of this stuff do you use, for goodness sake?'

  'This was a water-powered mill, Sergeant, until Mr Beaumont converted it only a few years back. He uses one large chimney so that the smoke is high above the buildings. You'll have heard about the Smoke Act, of course?'

  Watters nodded. Mr Beaumont had complained about the Government Act that ordered as little smoke as possible in the belief that it was harmful. As if smoke could hurt anybody.

  'Yes? Well, this mill chimney has sixteen boilers, each with two furnaces. They work for sixty hours a week, from six on Monday morning until three on Saturday afternoon. That is the same hours as the girls work, of course, and in that time, th
e boilers consume 200 tons of coal.'

  'Does the coal arrive by wagon?'

  'Yes, we have a constant stream of coal wagons bringing it in.'

  'Do you have a single supplier? Or do you use multiple suppliers?' Watters looked around the boiler room. 'Are the cart drivers employed by Mr Beaumont or merely contractors?' He wondered how many people had access to this mill. Between mill girls and carters, engineers and coal carriers, it seemed that half of Dundee could come and go as they pleased.

  Cosgrove shook his head. 'The carters are contracted. The ships bring coal from Tayport, or the Tyne, and carters carry it here. We have our regulars, but if somebody offers it cheap, we'll take their offer. We can hardly get enough coal.'

  'So I see.' Watters shook his head, trying to imagine a fire amidst all this fuel. With the coal and combustible whale oil together with the inevitable mill waste, the building was an invitation to any fire-raiser.

  'But who would do this? Why would anybody wish to burn down a mill?' Cosgrove wondered.

  'That is something I would like to know,' Watters said. 'We believe it might be a business rival or somebody with a grudge against Mr Beaumont.'

  Cosgrove looked genuinely surprised. 'Why that should be I cannot imagine. Mr Beaumont is the kindest man imaginable, charitable to a fault and paternalistic to a degree. Why, Mr Watters, only last year he allowed my mill girls a day trip to Broughty Ferry by rail and paid for it himself! Out of the profits of this mill! And every Christmas, he has the mill managers and some of the staff to his house for lunch. Surely nobody would dislike Mr Beaumont.'

  Watters nodded. What Mr Cosgrove said made sense. He had never heard anybody say a bad word against Beaumont. Within the limits of profit, he was a conscientious employer who cared for his workers. The seamen on his ships were as well fed as any British sailor, while his factory workers enjoyed wage levels that equalled anybody in the industry. Even his business rivals seemed to respect him.

  'There must be some other reason for the attacks, Mr Cosgrove, but we'll find out what later.' Watters thought for a moment. 'Dismiss the men. Tell the watchman to have an early night. I will remain here and wait for the fire-raiser.'