The Fireraisers

by Malcolm Archibald

  'Dunno,' Willie said. 'I never met him.'

  'Your ma, then. What's her last name?'

  'Dunno. I never met her.' Willie's head was down as he mumbled his replies.

  Watters killed his instinctive stab of sympathy. 'Right then, Willie. We know you were going to start a fire in the mill. Why?'

  Willie shook his head. 'Dunno.'

  'Come here, you.' Duff took a single stride into the cell, grabbed hold of Willie's ankles, and lifted him upside down. 'Let's have a look.' He shook the boy back and forward until two silver half-crowns fell from his pockets. 'Now where did a wee tyke like you get five shillings? Don't tell me you earned it.'

  'Set him down.' Watters picked up the silver coins. 'Answer the constable, Willie. I don't believe that you set these matches and planned to burn down the mill all on your own.' He jingled the coins. 'I'll keep these.'

  'They're mine!' Willie made an ineffectual grab for the coins. 'Give me them back!'

  Watters tossed the coins in the air and caught them again. 'I'll tell you what I think, little Willie no-name. I think that somebody paid you five shillings to go into the mill and start a fire. Is that right?' He showed the silver coins again.

  'Yes.' Willie held out his hand. 'Now gimme.'

  'What was he like?'

  'What was who like?' Willie made another ineffectual grab for the coins.

  'The man who paid you to start a fire,' Watters said patiently.

  'What man?' Willie was gaining a little confidence. 'You ken nothing, you.'

  'You watch your lip, you cheeky little bugger.' Duff stepped forward. 'You need a thick ear!'

  'If it wasn't a man, it must have been a woman. Was it a woman?' Watters put out a hand to stop Duff from grabbing Willie again. 'Did a woman pay you to start a fire, Willie?'

  Willie nodded. 'Aye. Now give me my money.'

  'Not quite yet, Willie.' Watters sat on the edge of the bed. 'What was the woman like, Willie?'

  'She was all right.' Willie grinned. 'Not bad looking for an old woman.'

  'What was her name?' Watters asked.

  'She never told me. She was a foreigner, though.'

  'A foreigner? Are you sure?' Watters glanced at Duff.

  'Of course, I'm sure,' Willie said. 'I'm no' a daftie! She came up to me at the bottom of the Wellgate Steps and asked if I wanted to make ten shillings. I said aye, and she sez go into old Beaumont's Mill and set fire to it. How do I dae that, I said, and she sez that there would be a pile of matches and oil ready and all I had to do was set fire to it and run.'

  'You said ten shillings,' Watters said. 'There's only five shillings here.'

  'She said she would give me the rest later. I was to meet her on the Wellgate Steps.'

  'When?'

  'Eight o' clock on Wednesday night.' Willie said.

  'Seven years transportation,' Watters said as he stepped out of the cell. 'That's what you'll get if you lied to me.'

  'What will happen to him?' Duff asked when Watters closed and locked the cell door.

  'If he's got no parents to look after him, the magistrate will give him sixty days in jail and then send him to an industrial school until he's sixteen,' Watters said.

  'Poor wee bugger,' Duff said.

  'Maybe,' Watters agreed. 'But he'll be fed and watered and clothed and washed. The school will teach him a trade and give him a chance in life. If he continues to live on the streets, I reckon he will end up transported or worse.'

  Duff nodded. 'How about this foreign woman?'

  For a moment, Watters thought of Henrietta Borg and her bowler-hatted companion.

  'We're going to wait at the Wellgate Steps with young Willie on Wednesday. I have a notion I know who she might be.' Watters checked his watch. 'Now, Duff, I have to get home. Marie is already fuming at me.' He grinned. 'Besides, I need some sleep.'

  * * *

  'You want permission to what?' Mackay stared at Watters across the width of the desk.

  'I want permission to have Mr Caskie's body exhumed for a post-mortem,' Watters repeated.

  'Why?'

  'There is a suggestion he was murdered.' Watters explained what Mrs Foreman had told him.

  Mackay shook his head. 'No, Watters. I am not allowing such a desecration on the suppositions of a foolish woman.'

  Watters had expected nothing else. 'As you wish, sir. I would be obliged if you would give the idea some thought.'

  'Your job is to see if the murder on Lady of Blackness links to the fire-raising at Mr Beaumont's mills, not to delve into the death of a respectable businessman. Please remember that. If you wish another case, Sergeant Anstruther is more than capable of continuing your investigation. I need a sergeant to close down all the shebeens in town. If I take you off the Lady of Blackness case, you will be free.'

  'Yes, sir.' Watters realised the gloves had come off. 'It was only a thought.'

  'It was a foolish thought, Watters. Now get about your duty.'

  'Yes, sir.' Watters stepped outside. So far, his attempts at investigating Mr Caskie senior's death had failed as dismally as his investigations into the murder on Lady of Blackness. He would keep the possibility of foul play in mind but concentrate on his primary duty.

  * * *

  'Right, gentlemen!' Watters addressed his platoon. He had sent a runner to round up a dozen picked men for an impromptu pre-dawn parade on the hard sands beside Broughty Castle. He glanced over them, from Tulloch with the cynical glower to fair-haired MacPherson from Badenoch who had enrolled in the Volunteers because he thought it the right thing to do. 'We are one man missing.'

  The Volunteers stared at him, not yet disciplined enough to remain expressionless. 'We are going on a wee march through Dundee to pay a call on our missing man. Corporal Tulloch!'

  'Sergeant.' Tulloch stepped forward, his face set hard.

  Watters spoke quietly to him for a few minutes. 'Have you got that?'

  Tulloch nodded. 'Aye. I've got that.'

  Watters led them from the Broughty sands to the eastern suburbs of Dundee. Carts already crowded the road plus an occasional carriage and a horseman or two out for exercise, but Watters stopped for nobody and nothing. After the forced march, the men were flagging when they reached the new Gas Works at Peep o' Day. Watters turned into the narrow close that led to Foundry Lane. It was now seven on the dark autumn morning, with the air crisp and the sun a dull gleam behind the gas works. Checking the address with his pocketbook, Watters stopped outside a tenement flat.

  'Right, lads. It's time for a sing-song.' The Volunteers looked at him in confusion.

  'You heard the sergeant!' Tulloch reinforced the order with all the power of his lungs. 'Sing! Bonnie Dundee!' None of the inhabitants of the close looked out. They had more important concerns than the actions of a bunch of eccentrics playing at soldiers.

  The words were well known, for Walter Scott's poetry was recited throughout the civilised world, from the dirtiest Dundee close to Balmoral Castle itself.

  The tenements here were stone built, each with a single entrance door that led to a common passage, from which four or more doors opened to the individual houses. Entering the first passage, Watters approached the nearest door, lifted his fist, and hammered. The sound echoed hollowly along the passage. He knocked again, and when the door cracked open, booted it wide.

  'Varthley! Come out here!'

  Without waiting for a reply, Watters thrust inside. The single room had scrubbed wooden floorboards, a pile of books, and a table with yellowing newspapers in place of a table-cloth. Clothes were piled neatly on a hard-backed chair. Naked as a new-born baby, Varthley retreated to his bed, goggling up as Watters thundered in. 'What? What's this, Sergeant?'

  'Sergeant be buggered! Come out of that, you bastard!' Reaching out, Watters grabbed Varthley's hair and hauled him upright.

  'What's the matter?' Yelling, Varthley clawed at Watters's hand. 'What's this? Sergeant Watters? What is it?'

  Before Varthley could cover h
imself with the single thin blanket, Watters dragged him through the narrow close to the street outside, where the Volunteers were still singing.

  'Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can

  Come saddle my horses, and call up your men;

  Come open the West Port and let me gang free

  And its room for the bonnets o Bonnie Dundee.'

  While one hand covered his nakedness, Varthley used the other to try to tear Watters's hand away from his hair. 'What have I done?'

  'What have you done?' Watters kicked him in the shin. 'Ask Amy Beaumont! Ask Elizabeth Caskie! Mr Beaumont encouraging suffering, is he?'

  Watters signalled to his gaping Volunteers, 'Form a circle around us, boys. Face outward and keep singing.' Releasing Varthley, Watters produced his revolver from inside his tunic. The pocket Tranter Dragoon had a .32 calibre bullet and a manageable four-and-a-half-inch barrel. He cocked the weapon. 'Kneel, Varthley. Kneel before your peers and tell me what it was all about.'

  The singing faltered until Tulloch snarled at the Volunteers, then they picked up again:

  'The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat;

  But the Provost, douce man, said, “Just e'en let him be,

  The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee'

  Varthley stiffened. When he looked up, there was a light in his pale eyes. 'You won't do anything, not in front of so many people.' He tried to rise until Watters shoved him back down.

  'Kneel. Or I'll blow your kneecaps off!' Watters leaned closer and hissed in Varthley's ear. 'Amy Beaumont is only a child.'

  'Her father is helping the slave keepers!' Varthley retorted. 'Beaumont must be made to suffer until he alters his ways!'

  Watters closed his eyes. Varthley's words had removed his shadow of doubt.

  'Sing louder!' Watters ordered as the Volunteers' voices again faded. They were more interested in the drama beside them than in a song that told of an ancient dynastic dispute. 'Say goodbye, Varthley.' Watters rammed the barrel of his revolver into Varthley's mouth. Again, the singing faltered until Watters glared at the men.

  'There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth;

  If there's Lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North.'

  Varthley was trembling, shifting his head from side to side as Watters spoke, 'This is a percussion revolver with a single, double-action trigger. You attacked a young girl who was doing you no harm.' He squeezed the trigger as even Tulloch stopped singing.

  The click was clearly audible as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Varthley collapsed, sobbing in fear.

  The music faltered and faded to silence.

  'What's all this, then? Singing in a public street?' Middle-aged Sergeant Murdoch was as experienced as the two constables who accompanied him. 'I brought the drunk's cart like you said, George.' He indicated the wooden handcart, which the Dundee police used to transport drunks to the cells.

  'This blackguard,' Watters kicked the naked and sobbing Varthley, 'attacked Miss Amy Beaumont, Mr Beaumont's younger daughter. I was about to ask him why.'

  Sergeant Murdoch jerked a thumb to his men. They grabbed Varthley and threw him none-too-gently on top of the cart where they tied him with lengths of rope. 'We'll take care of him, Sergeant Watters; don't you worry.' Murdoch watched dispassionately as a constable covered Varthley with a blanket. 'I'll ask him why.'

  'Beaumont is a friend of the slave keepers.' Varthley recovered a little of his spirit. 'He must be stopped by any means.'

  Murdoch was broad in the shoulder and face. He signalled to his men, who began to wheel Varthley away, the cart rattling over the uneven cobbles. 'I'll know by nightfall, George.'

  'I'll accompany you, Willie.' Watters replaced his pistol in its holster. 'Corporal Tulloch can march the Volunteers back to Broughty.' He nodded. 'Thank you for your help, men. Dismiss at the castle walls.'

  When they reached the police office, Watters placed Varthley in the coldest of the cells, still naked.

  'Do you think he'll tell us anything?' Murdoch asked.

  'I hope so,' Watters said. 'He's only a pawn. He doesn't have the brains to set up anything. Either he or young Willie could lead us to whoever is behind this.'

  Murdoch wrapped a massive hand around his mug of tea. 'I don't hold much with men that slap women around. I've got three sisters and two daughters.' He curled his left hand into a massive fist. 'If anybody touched one of them…'

  'Varthley's an idealist,' Watters interrupted. 'He wants to cure the world of all its ills. It would be easy to convince a man like that to do anything to further his cause. The big question is why target the Beaumonts? If we can find out that, we are a step forward in finding out who is behind all this nonsense.' Watters took a sip at his tea, added more sugar, sipped again, and added more.

  'Any ideas, George?'

  'I have a vague unease about a French connection,' Watters said. 'This William Caskie fellow has dealings with France. It also seems that Varthley believes that Beaumont is trading with the slave states of America. Varthley is very intense in his crusade against slavery.'

  'That's in Varthley's favour, then.' Murdoch took out his watch. 'He's been stewing down there for a couple of hours. Maybe he's ready to talk to us.'

  Watters nodded. 'Let's give him a call. Better for him to talk to us and lead us to whoever is pulling his strings than for him to take all the blame.'

  'He won't get much for a simple slap,' Murdoch said, 'more's the pity.'

  'If it was a mill hand he slapped, or a shop worker, I'd agree,' Watters said. 'For slapping the daughter of one of Dundee's leading businessmen, it might be a bit different. We both know that social position matters.'

  Murdoch drained his mug. 'We might use that.' He caressed his fists. 'Come on George.'

  'I don't like bully-ragging prisoners,' Watters said.

  'Nor do I, but if it saves lives.' Murdoch shrugged. 'Think of the young girls caught in a burning mill. That might help.' He stood up, sighing. 'Off we go then. Try to look heartless.'

  'Well now.' Watters stood over Varthley who crouched against the wall with his arms crossed over his knees. 'I want to know why you attacked Amy Beaumont.'

  'I already told you,' Varthley said. 'Her father is dealing with the slave owners.'

  'So you attack a young girl.' Murdoch closed his fists. 'You attacked a girl who is the same age as my younger daughter.'

  Watters looked up as somebody knocked at the cell door. 'Not now!'

  Duff looked in. 'Sorry, Sergeant. Could I have a word, please?'

  'Are you deaf, man? I said not now!'

  'Yes, Sergeant.' Duff had the grace to look uncomfortable. 'It's about the case, Sergeant.' He glanced meaningfully at Varthley.

  Watters sighed and stepped out of the cell. 'This had better be important, Duff, or you'll be on permanent night duty on Dock Street.'

  'When we searched Varthley's house like you said, Sergeant, we found this.' Duff held up two golden sovereigns. 'Varthley's a mill hand. He doesn't make enough to pay the rent, hardly.'

  Watters tested one of the coins. 'This feels genuine. Is Varthley a thief?'

  'There is no record of him being a thief, Sergeant.'

  'Thank you, Duff. You were right to interrupt me.' Watters returned to the cell. The situation was so similar to that of young Willie that he already guessed the outcome.

  'Two golden boys, Varthley.' Watters kicked Varthley on the leg. 'That's what we found in your house. Two golden boys. You're a thief as well as a cowardly blackguard. From where did you steal them?'

  Varthley looked up. 'I never stole them, Sergeant.'

  'Oh?' Watters did not have to force his look of scepticism. 'Tell me that you saved up from your wages. You earn 17/6 a week; your rent is 8/-. That leaves 9/6. My constables checked your local shops. You pay about 7/- for food; that leaves 2/6 for tobacco, clothes, and drink. Not much left for savings.'

  'A man and a woman gave me the sovs.'

&
nbsp; 'Oh?' Watters laughed. A man and a woman; how many people were involved in this case? 'These people just came up to you, did they? “Here, Varthley,” they said. “Here are two golden boys. Away and burn down a mill.” That does not sound likely, does it?'

  Varthley looked away.

  'All right. Theft it is. Two sovereigns should earn you a good few years' penal servitude. Added to the cowardly assault on Miss Beaumont…' Watters shook his head. 'I doubt you'll be the same man when you come out. Solitary confinement, bread and water, and the turnkeys will let everybody know that you maltreated a young girl.'

  'They came to the anti-slavery meeting,' Varthley gabbled. 'They said that we could fight for the good cause over here as well as over in the United States.'

  'Keep talking,' Watters said.

  'They said that Beaumont was involved with the slave states, and we could do our bit by scaring him off.'

  'So you decided to attack a young girl.'

  Varthley looked away. 'They told me to.'

  'All right, Varthley, describe these mysterious couple to me. In detail.'

  Varthley looked up. 'Can I get some clothes, please, Sergeant?'

  'Maybe. If I believe what you tell me.' The pattern was repeating itself.

  'The man was just average,' Varthley said. 'He wore a long coat all the time.'

  'Dark hair? Fair hair?'

  'He wore a hat. He had queer teeth, though, with a gap in the front.'

  Watters had expected to hear of a man with a bowler hat. 'He was an average man with a gap in his teeth; that will earn you a pair of socks. You'll have to do better to get fully dressed, Varthley. What kind of hat?'

  'One of these big wide ones, Sergeant. A wide-awake.'

  'That's better. Did the man have a name? How did he introduce himself? Did he say why he was so keen to attack Mr Beaumont?'

  'No.' Varthley looked confused at so many questions. 'He never gave a name; he just said that Beaumont was helping the slave owners.'

  'Did he have you set fire to the mills as well?' Watters threw that question suddenly.

  Varthley shook his head. 'No, Sergeant, I never did that.'

  'Did he say why he was so concerned that he could afford to give away two golden boys?'