The Fireraisers

by Malcolm Archibald

  Marie will hate me being away on a Saturday night, but it can't be helped. As long as I'm with her for the church tomorrow.

  'I'll do as you wish,' Mr Cosgrove said at once. 'I'll see the wife will find you some food. It could be a long night.'

  Mrs Cosgrove did better, sending along great hunks of bread and cheese to sustain Watters in his vigil.

  'Thank you.' Watters settled into the darkest corner of the loading bay to watch the spot where the matches had been left. It was a dismal wait, listening to the churning of the nearby Lochee Burn and the drunken yells of a few revellers, but by eleven, the night was quiet, with only the patter of rain against the windows. Twice Watters heard movement, but the first alarm was the gatekeeper's wife trudging to her outside toilet, and the second was a squabble among the resident rats. Apart from that, the night was uneventful.

  When the dark gradually faded, Watters knew that his night had been wasted. Scribbling a short note in the pocketbook that he carried, he stretched his legs with a walk to Lochee High Street, handed the note to a beat constable, and resumed his position within the loading bay. It was entirely possible that the fire-raiser had been scared off, but Watters was determined not to leave his post until he was quite satisfied. Settling down, he allowed the hours to pass.

  Marie will know I am working. She won't like it, but she will understand. It's Sunday, the mill is empty, a perfect day for a fire-raiser to come. I will be here, waiting.

  At about noon, the gatekeeper's wife brought him another welcome hunk of bread and cheese. He thanked her, wishing that Duff or Scuddamore would relieve him, closed his eyes, and failed to fight off his fatigue.

  'Sergeant Watters?' Scuddamore looked as if he had been running hard. He loosened the buttons beneath the leather stock at his neck before he spoke. 'Mr Mackay sends his respects, Sergeant, and says I have to take over from you here.' Scuddamore lowered his voice. 'Mackay says you've to go to Beaumont's house at Mount Pleasant. Miss Amy Beaumont has been attacked.'

  CHAPTER EIGHT: MOUNT PLEASANT HOUSE: SEPTEMBER 1862

  'Sergeant Watters!' Mr Beaumont grasped Watters's hand. 'Thank God you've come, man. It's Amy!'

  Beaumont was dishevelled, with no tie at his neck and his waistcoat incorrectly buttoned. He held a bandana handkerchief in his hand, which he alternately squeezed and wrapped around his knuckles.

  'Is she badly hurt?' Watters asked. 'Where is she?' Watters instinctively fingered his neck for there was a great spate of garrotting attacks across the country. It was common practice for a pair of assailants to approach their victim from behind, and while one slipped a noose around his or her neck, the other would bludgeon them into submission.

  'I sent her to her bed, Mr Watters, as soon as she arrived, and she lies there still, all a-swoon; I shouldn't wonder. Oh dear Lord, I wish her mother was still here!'

  'May I see her?' Watters hesitated for only a second. 'Morag can remain in the room at the same time.'

  'Morag? What has my maid to do with this?' Beaumont looked confused for a second until he realised that Watters was asking to visit his daughter in her bedroom. 'Oh, of course.' He gave Watters one hard glance then shook his head. 'I trust you, Sergeant, of course, I do. Dammit, man, you're a married man and a police detective!'

  Beaumont led Watters up the stairs to Amy's bedroom, tapped gently on the door, and turned the floral-decorated china handle. He peeped in. 'Amy, here's Sergeant Watters to see you. Are you fit and decent?'

  'Yes, Father.' Amy's voice was weak. 'Send him in.'

  Amy lay beneath a pile of covers with her head propped on three pillows. Her dishevelled hair covered half her face. She looked up as her father and Watters entered. 'Oh, Sergeant Watters, I'm so glad that you've come.'

  A confusion of clothing covered the only chair in the room, so Watters knelt awkwardly beside the bed. He noticed the smelling salts on the bedside table and the crumpled cloak that lay discarded on the floor. 'Can you speak, Amy?'

  'Yes.' Amy struggled to sit up. When Watters put out a hand to help her, she gripped his arm. 'It was quite exciting really, Sergeant Watters, but a bit scary.'

  'Exciting!' Beaumont exploded the word. 'Exciting! You could have been killed! My God, Watters, I'll never let her out of my sight again! I'll never forgive myself, allowing her to traipse around the countryside unescorted.'

  'Father, don't distress yourself so!' Amy said. 'Nobody got hurt, and it was only one man.'

  Watters waited until she was settled. 'Tell me exactly what happened, Miss Beaumont. Start from the beginning. Don't leave anything out.'

  'Well.' Amy patted the outside of the coverlet with her hands, smiled to Watters, and straightened her hair so it fashionably covered the left side of her face. 'Goodness, I must look a mess. Could you pass over my hairbrush, Father, and a mirror?'

  'Later. Tell us what happened now, Amy.'

  'All right.' Amy contented herself by clawing her fingers through her hair. 'Well, after church, Elizabeth and I caught the Newport Ferry; the river was a little choppy, and the weather was damp, so we had to shelter a bit, but that was all right. I thought Elizabeth would be a better sailor than me, with all her travelling experience, but she was not.' Amy looked pleased with the frailty of her friend.

  'And then?' Mr Beaumont was a patient father, but there was a slight edge in his voice as he prompted Amy.

  'I'm coming to it, Father!' Amy threw him a cross look before continuing. 'We went to the pleasure gardens to admire the views. We both had a cup of tea and some delicious cakes, but then we walked to the far side of the village so that Elizabeth could show off her new parasol. That was when we saw the man watching us.'

  'What sort of man?' Watters asked. 'Could you describe him, please?'

  'Oh, I don't know; he was just a man. He was not tall, quite handsome in a weak-faced way, if a little, well, common.' Amy shrugged. 'He was just a man, really.'

  'And then?' Beaumont looked towards Watters. 'Did he touch you? Threaten you? Or anything else?'

  Amy's eyes opened slightly wider, and her mouth began to tremble. When Watters saw the marks where she had been biting her lips, he reasoned that Amy's casualness was only a front. He saw the tracks of fresh tears down her face and knew she had either been genuinely frightened or was a superb actress.

  'I know this must be hard, Miss Beaumont, but we're here now. Please tell us everything that you can remember, and I'll do all that I can to make things better. Now, tell me what happened?'

  Amy began to cry; great tears rolled slowly down her face to drip from the end of her elfin chin. She dashed them away with her right hand, apologising for her 'silliness' until Beaumont wiped her face with his neckerchief.

  'Come now, Amy. I'm not angry with you. Please tell me. Tell your old father, who loves you dearly.'

  Taking a deep breath, Amy looked away. 'We were just walking, looking at the view up the Firth, and Elizabeth was twirling her parasol when a man appeared from the shrubbery.' She hesitated for a second and looked at Watters. Her eyes filled again, so her father leaned forward. He gently dabbed her tears with his handkerchief. 'There, I'm all silly again.'

  'Nonsense. You take your time,' Watters said.

  'He came right up to me, and said, “Are you Beaumont's young lass?” '

  Watters said nothing.

  Amy continued. 'I said, “Yes, that's me,” and smiled to him. I smiled nicely, Father; I did not do anything to make him angry.' Amy looked worried.

  'I believe you, Amy.' Beaumont touched her shoulder. 'Carry on now, Amy. What did the man do next?'

  'Well, he walked toward us, and suddenly, he sort of lunged. Like this!' Amy jerked forward in bed, her hair flopping loose and her hand reaching out. 'He grabbed at me, swearing. Oh, Father, his language was horrible! Then he slapped me.'

  Watters kept all expression from his face. 'Did he indeed? He slapped you?'

  'Yes. Here.' There were more tears as Amy pushed back her hair to reveal a red mark on the left s
ide of her face. 'He said, “Creatures like you should not be allowed to walk, not when your father is encouraging so much suffering in the world!” Then he ran away.'

  Now Amy began to cry in earnest, deep sobs that shook her entire body so that Beaumont roughly pushed Watters aside and took her in his arms.

  Watters waited until Beaumont had comforted her. Only after a full ten minutes did he again kneel at the side of the bed. 'I know that this is hard, Miss Beaumont, but try to describe the man that attacked you. Tell me everything that you can: face, height, speech, anything.'

  'There was nothing, Mr Watters. He was so ordinary.'

  'Height?'

  'About the same as you.'

  'He was about five-foot-eleven, then. Build? Was he fat, thin, normal?'

  Amy shook her head. 'I don't know. Normal, maybe thinner than you.' She fought another bout of tears. 'Except, he smelled strange. Like a woman.'

  'Like a woman? What do you mean?' Beaumont stared at Watters. 'Could it have been a woman in disguise?'

  'No, nothing like that. He had a man's voice and face. But he smelled,' Amy struggled to remember, 'clean. He smelled of soap. Not of tobacco and leather, like you both do. He was soapy.'

  'He smelled of soap.' Watters rose slowly. 'And he said that Mr Beaumont was encouraging suffering.'

  Amy nodded.

  'I won't keep you long now, Amy. This man, could you tell me everything you remember about him. Any little detail would help. Take your time.'

  'Yes, Sergeant.' Amy looked at her father as if for inspiration. 'He was not old. Not really old.'

  Watters nodded. 'About fifty, then, would you say? Or about forty? Or maybe the same age as your father?'

  'Oh, no!' Amy shook her head, looking like a dog emerging from a puddle. 'He was nothing like as old as Father. He was maybe twenty-eight or thirty at most.'

  'About ten years older than you then, Miss Beaumont.' Watters wrote the details in his notebook. 'What colour was his hair, would you say?'

  'Dirty,' Amy shook her head. 'I would be ashamed to have hair like that.'

  'I am sure you would be,' Mr Beaumont said, 'but that was not what the sergeant asked.'

  'Blond,' Amy said at once, shaking her head. 'I don't like blond-haired men. I hope my husband is tall and dark and…' she looked at her father, flushed, and closed her mouth.

  Watters frowned. 'Late twenties to thirty, blond-haired, and smelling of soap, you say?'

  'Yes, Sergeant Watters.'

  'Thank you, Miss Beaumont.' Watters stood up. 'I am not sure I understand this man's comments about you, Mr Beaumont. Amy told us that he said, “Creatures like you should not be allowed to walk, not when your father is encouraging so much suffering in the world.” Do you have any idea what he might be referring to?'

  Beaumont screwed up his face. 'I cannot think of anything, Sergeant Watters.'

  'Do you think it may be because you are trading with the Confederate States of America, the Slave States?' Watters prompted.

  'I am a merchant,' Beaumont said. 'I trade for profit. I don't know anything about slavery.'

  'Of course not, sir. Thank you.' Watters snapped shut his notebook. 'Thank you, Amy, you have been a great help.'

  Beaumont followed Watters out of Amy's bedroom. 'I think you know who this blackguard is, Watters?'

  'I believe I might,' Watters said. 'I am not sure. If I am right, I am going to make sure that he does not bother Amy, or any other young girl, again.' Watters came to a sudden decision. 'Mr Beaumont, I have some arrangements to make. Could you keep Amy indoors for the next day or so?' He waited until Beaumont nodded before continuing.

  'Good. Tell Amy that I will send in a policeman to speak to her again. Until then, keep your servants alert for strangers. Don't allow anybody into Mount Pleasant unless you know them well.' Lifting his hat, Watters marched out of the house, fighting his tiredness.

  CHAPTER NINE: LOCHEE: SEPTEMBER 1862

  'Anything happened?' Watters asked as he returned to the Bon Vista mill. He felt better after taking a detour to speak to Marie. He had eaten, shaved, and picked up his revolver.

  Scuddamore tried to hide his pipe as he stood up from his chair. 'No, Sergeant. It's as quiet as the grave here.'

  'I'll take over again,' Watters said. 'Go back to your normal duty.'

  'Yes, Sergeant.' Scuddamore hurried away.

  Ignoring the pipe smoke that Scuddamore had left in his wake, Watters sank onto the chair. He checked his watch; the hours were slowly ticking past. Night again fell, accompanied by a light, chilling rain.

  This attack on Amy was a worrying new development. If the murder on Lady of Blackness, the attempts at fire-raising, and the assault on Amy were related, then somebody undoubtedly was pursuing a feud against Beaumont. Waiting for the fire-raiser was insufferably tedious, but it might provide the key to the entire case. Watters considered that if he were lucky, the fire-raiser might also be the murderer. He checked his watch. It was nearly three in the morning, the hour when people were at their lowest ebb.

  Watters heard the slight click somewhere in the dark. Had that been a rat? Or had it been the mill cat chasing a mouse? Or had the rising wind knocked something against one of the windows? Gripping his cane more tightly, Watters felt the reassuring weight of the revolver inside his coat.

  Come on in; I'm waiting for you.

  The click sounded again, followed quickly by a thin beam of light. Watters nodded; somebody had entered the mill with a bull's eye lantern fitted with a shutter. The shutter could be moved to regulate the light the lantern emitted. Watters kept still, allowing the intruder free range. He watched the light play along the heaps of coal and the immaculate machinery until it paused on the broken match-heads.

  Time to move.

  Rising quietly from his chair, Watters took two steps forward, halting when he heard the murmur of voices.

  There was more than one intruder. That could make things awkward. Flexing his grip on his cane, Watters took another three steps. The rasp of a Lucifer was followed by the sudden flare of a match. Wavering orange-yellow light reflected on the grimy faces of two boys.

  'Stop right there!' Watters shouted. He saw the flame fall as the nearest boy dropped his match. The lantern light swung round to focus on Watters's face. 'Dundee Police!'

  The second boy swore. 'Run! It's a bluebottle!' He dropped the lantern, which rolled onto its side, casting its thin beam of light across the floor.

  'Not so fast, you little blackguards!' Watters strode forward, cursing as he saw a burst of flame from the pile of match-heads. Taking a running kick, he scattered the combustibles across the floor and stamped out the fire. By the time he looked up, the two boys had fled, each in a different direction.

  'Not so fast!' Chasing after the nearer of the two, Watters grabbed a handful of the boy's shirt. 'Got you, you little devil!'

  The boy wriggled free, leaving Watters with his shirt as a prize. Swearing, Watters lunged forward, taking hold of the boy's greasy hair. The boy yelled, struggling in Watters's grip.

  'Now where's your friend.' Dragging his foully protesting prize behind him, Watters was in time to see the second boy clamber swiftly up the inside of the door to a tiny fanlight and wriggle half-way through. Swinging his cane, Watters caught the boy a smarting cut across his backside. The boy yelped shrilly as he vanished outside.

  You'll remember that, my fine little fellow. I wish I could have given you more.

  Retaining his grip on the first boy's hair, Watters lifted him bodily off the ground. 'Right, my lad,' he said. 'You're coming to the police office with me, and you're going to do a lot of talking.'

  'I never done nothing!' The boy wriggled, both hands holding his hair. 'I never done nothing.'

  * * *

  'What's that you have there, Watters?' Sergeant Anstruther was tall and blond with a scar across his chin.

  'A young fire-raiser,' Watters said.

  'A fire-raiser, is he?' Anstruther shook his hea
d. 'You've spent two nights and half the police resources, and all you can catch is a ten-year-old boy? I could pick up half a dozen young tykes down the Overgate within half an hour.'

  'Oh, he's more than just a fire-raising little tyke.' Watters gave the boy a none-too-gentle shake. 'He's the key that's going to unlock my whole case. Come on, my lad, and we'll have a talk. We have a fine cell just waiting for you.'

  The cells were stark, clean, and cold, with a tiny, barred window set high in the wall and a peep-hole in the door. Watters bundled the boy inside.

  'Is that the fire-raiser?' Duff had followed Watters to the cells.

  'This is he,' Watters confirmed.

  'He doesn't look like much.' Duff banged the cell door shut.

  Watters released the boy, who crawled onto the plank bed and sat there with his arms folded across his knees. His big eyes were half-pleading and half-defiant.

  'Seven years transportation they get for fire-raising.' Duff planted his back against the door. 'Seven years in Australia with the snakes and tigers and murderers. Do you think he'll survive that, Sergeant?'

  'Not for a minute,' Watters said. 'They eat little blackguards like him over there. They skin them alive and eat them raw.' He forced what he hoped was an unfeeling laugh. 'What's your name, boy?'

  The boy looked from Watters to Duff and back. He said nothing.

  Duff laughed. 'He's another of the suddenly silent ones,' he said. 'Are you going to torture him, Sergeant? The rack or red-hot iron?'

  Watters grunted. 'We'll try asking him nicely first. What's your name, boy? I won't ask you a third time.'

  'Willie.' The boy looked as if he was trying to burrow into the brick wall behind him.

  'Right, Willie.' Watters stood over him. 'What's your last name?'

  Willie shrugged. 'Dunno,' he said. 'I'm just Willie. A'body calls me Willie.'

  'What's your father's name?' Duff asked.