Watters caught on. 'There must be another reason for the strange boat being here, then. The gin selling is only a cover.'
'That's what I think,' Marie said. 'But you're the detective; I'm only a weak-minded woman.' Marie mocked her statement with a smile.
'So I am told.' Watters walked to the window and looked over the policies of the house. 'I'd like to have a look at that gin-seller.'
'What's her captain's name again?' Marie asked.
'Isabella Navarino,' Watters said, 'although she calls herself Henrietta Borg.'
'She sounds foreign too.' Marie was instantly disapproving. 'You say you've already met her in Dundee. Maybe you can ask her in the town.'
'She would deny any wrong-doing,' Watters said. 'I'll have to meet her at sea.'
Marie nodded. 'Maybe one of the fishermen could help; after all, you saved two fishermen's lives.'
Watters shook his head. 'In such a close-knit community as Nesshaven, I'm as much a stranger to them as any women with a foreign name. Besides, they only have small boats. They would have to leave a crewman behind to accommodate me. No, I would need to hire a boat from somewhere and maybe a man to help crew her.'
'Do that,' Marie said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: BROUGHTY FERRY: OCTOBER 1862
'I build boats from keel to mast, or convert older vessels.' Mr James Gall was a time-served craftsman in his late thirties, with arms like hawsers and a lugubrious expression on his face. 'I don't hire out boats, Sergeant Watters.'
'It's a one-off,' Watters said. 'I won't be gone for more than a day.'
Gall grunted and smoothed his hand over the keel of an upturned dinghy. 'The thing is, Sergeant, I don't know you. If this were official police business, you would requisition it through the proper channels; you're not doing that.'
'It's legal.' Watters felt his anger rising. 'You'll be paid in cash, up front.' He hoped that his pay could cover the cost.
'So what's the occasion?' Gall sat on the upturned boat and cast a critical eye over his workforce who were busily hammering and planing. 'A fishing trip is it? I thought you policemen were busy failing to solve this murder on Lady of Blackness, the fires on Beaumont's mills, that missing gambler, and these illicit shebeens all over the place.'
'It's connected.' Watters did not wish to give too much away.
'I see.' James Gall transferred a wad of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other. 'You're still working on Big Man Beaumont's case, then? Aye, I'm already building him half a dozen boats for that new ship of his.'
'What ship is that?' It was the first Watters had heard about a new ship for Beaumont.
Gall stood up to inspect a fishing boat, running an experienced eye along a row of wooden strakes that appeared to Watters like human ribs. 'The Big Man's having Rogers build him something special up in that new covered yard of theirs. Rogers copied that idea from Alexander Stephens, anyway.' Gall shrugged. 'As soon as Scotia was launched, Rogers transferred all the men onto this other vessel. At it night and day they are, hammering and cutting at the steel plate.' Gall ejected a brown stream of tobacco onto the ground at Watters's feet. 'The ship's about completed, I hear, and in record time. It must be costing Beaumont a fortune.' He looked up, eyes shrewd. 'Rogers only put in the enclosed yard when this work started. He said it was to shelter the workers, but I hae my doots about that.'
'Oh? Why do you think it was put in?'
'To hide what they're doing, of course. Keep away prying eyes from seeing Rogers's new shipbuilding techniques.' Gall shrugged. 'The workies talk, though, when they're in drink. They think they're building a ship for some foreigner.' He grunted. 'I've heard that it's for the Emperor of China or the Emperor of France or some other fancy potentate, but I don't know if that's true.'
Watters shrugged. 'I have no idea about that,' he admitted. He knew Rogers, of course, a company only eight years old but already one of the largest shipbuilding yards in Dundee. Mr Rogers also owned the Stannergate Foundry, which gave him a distinct advantage in building iron and steel ships. Rogers had followed Gourlays to bring the compound steam engine to the Tay, and now Rogers was building something special for Beaumont. Watters grunted; perhaps Mr Beaumont was genuinely having financial difficulties if he was building a new steel ship on top of Charlotte's wedding and Amy's extravagances.
'Listen, Mr Gall. Could I hire a boat from you, or not?'
'Maybe.' Gall gave a twisted smile. 'Seeing as Mr Beaumont is a customer and you're investigating his case, I might think about it. Come back tomorrow, and we'll see.'
'I'll do that.' Lifting his cane in acknowledgement, Watters was about to leave when a thought struck him. 'You say Mr Beaumont's new ship is for a foreigner and not for him?'
'Aye, so the workies say.'
'Thank you. How many boats are you making for this new vessel?'
'Six. I'm building two boats of five-and-thirty feet and four of two-and-twenty,' Gall said. 'Your Mr Beaumont was specific in his requirements. He wants them strong and fast, with double strakes in the bow, rather like a blubber boat for breaking the ice.'
'I see. So you are not building ordinary ship's boats then?'
'Nothing like.' Gall returned to his work.
Watters swung his cane as he left Gall's yard. He would really have to get onto the golf course soon. Beaumont's actions were intriguing. Having a new ship built for a foreign buyer was very unusual. Why did the foreigner not come directly to Rogers' Yard? Why the secrecy? Something was wrong here, something was very wrong. Watters swung his cane again, beheading a bunch of dried thistles so the seeds scattered along the side of the road. I'll have a wee look at this covered yard of Mr Rogers's and see exactly what Mr Beaumont is having built in there. It might relate to the case, and it might not, but at this frustrating stage of my investigation, I'll try anything.
With that decision made, Watters was in a better frame of mind. Progress could be made in a variety of different ways.
* * *
Clouds scurried across a scimitar moon as the rising wind clattered a loose piece of equipment somewhere within Rogers' Yard. Watters waited in the densest of the shadows, waiting for the night-watchman to complete his rounds and retire to the shelter of his wooden shack.
'If old Mackay hears about this, we'll lose our jobs and our pensions.' Scuddamore pulled his jacket closer to his shivering body. Like Watters, he was dressed in dark, close-fitting clothing.
'Just say that I ordered you to come.' Watters adjusted his soft woollen cap. 'Anyway, we'll be in and out inside ten minutes. Mr Mackay will never find out.'
'Why do you need me anyway?'
'You're my lookout.' Watters saw the watchman sit on his bench and poke life into his brazier. The red glow looked extremely inviting. When the watchman put a frying pan on the heat, the aroma of bacon drifted towards them.
'Look at that lucky bugger,' Scuddamore said. 'He's sitting eating and getting paid for it, while we're out in the cold and chancing our jobs for the sake of a man who makes more money in one week than we do in a year.'
Watters waited until the watchman was fully occupied before leading Scuddamore across to the ten-foot tall outside wall of Rogers' Yard. He threw a heavy blanket over the broken glass that defended the top.
'Your Marie won't like her best blanket being ripped,' Scuddamore said.
'That one cost me tuppence in a pawnshop.' Watters pulled himself up the wall and rolled over the far side. Scuddamore followed a few seconds later.
'There's the covered shed.' Watters nodded to a huge, barn-like shape that dominated the eastern half of the yard. 'I'll go first. You follow.'
Scuddamore's breathing was ragged with nerves. He glanced over his shoulder. 'We'd better not get caught.'
'The watchman's too busy eating to bother about us.'
The yard had a ghostly feel in the faint moonlight with unknown objects casting weird shadows while unseen mice scurried around spars and baulks of timber. Ignoring everything except his objective
, Watters ran from shadow to shadow until he reached the covered shed.
It was logical to head for the end nearest the Tay, where the ship would be launched. The doors were as high as a three-storey tenement and firmly closed with four iron bars slotted in place, each equipped with two padlocks.
Watters swore. 'I hadn't expected that. What the devil is Beaumont hiding in here?' He glanced around. 'That will slow us down.'
'Can you pick the locks?' Scuddamore asked.
'Yes.' Pulling the bag from his back, Watters extracted his packet of lock picks. 'This job has its benefits. I took these from a cracksman I arrested in London. They've served me well for years.'
'That could come in handy,' Scuddamore said. 'When Mr Mackay kicks us both out of the force, you can start a new career as a thief.'
'We'll have less of your lip, Scuddamore. You keep watch for me.'
The padlocks were large with a simple mechanism. Watters opened the first within a minute, and with the technique mastered, the others took half that time. The iron bars were next, each one weighing ten or twelve pounds. He placed them quietly on the ground and tried the door. It creaked at his first touch.
'Opening that door will alert the watchman,' Scuddamore said.
'We'll wait for a gust of wind,' Watters decided. 'The noise of rattling will hide everything.'
They crouched by the door with the padlocks and iron bars at their feet. A pair of seagulls passed overhead, screaming, while somewhere in the Seagate, a drunk began to sing. The sudden gust of wind nearly took Watters by surprise.
'Come on, Scuddamore!' He eased the door a fraction open, sufficient to slide inside, with Scuddamore at his back. Darkness closed around them, laden with the aroma of oil and an earthy smell Watters could not place.
'Lights!' Scuddamore said. 'I can't see a bloody thing!'
Reaching into his bag once more, Watters hauled out a bull's eye lantern and a box of Lucifers. Pulling the door closed behind him, he struggled to light a match, swearing under his breath.
'Come on, come on, come on,' Scuddamore muttered.
Watters scratched a Lucifer, with the tiny light flickering as he put it to the wick of the lantern.
Adjusting the shield so the lamp produced a thin beam of light, he aimed it into the interior of the shed just as he heard the snarl.
'Oh, you devil!' Scuddamore's yell echoed around the shed. 'Dogs!'
Watters saw them leap up, three mastiffs with rows of sharp teeth in open jaws. He threw the lantern at the nearest, decided that remaining was not an option and turned for the door. Scuddamore beat him to it by a head and then both were running across the yard with the dogs howling at their heels.
Watters yelled as a dog sank its teeth into his calf. He kicked out, swearing, heard the dog yelp, and ran on, limping. Scuddamore was a good three yards ahead of him as they approached the wall.
'Hey! Stop!' The watchman lumbered in their wake, shouting and waving his arms. 'Stop, thief!'
'Come on, Sergeant!' Scuddamore was on top of the wall, waiting. 'Jesus! He's got a gun!'
Watters had time for only a brief glance over his shoulder. The dogs were slavering a few feet behind, and the watchman had stopped. In his left hand he held an old-fashioned lantern, and in his right, he held an equally antique pistol, with a bore that seemed as wide as a cannon. Then the dog leapt on Watters.
The first bite had been little more than a nip. This time, the mastiff got a grip of Watters's thigh and held on, snarling. Watters yelled, staggering under the weight of the beast.
'Sergeant!' Scuddamore called. 'Hurry up! The old bugger's going to fire!'
The shot sounded as a deafening roar that scared a dozen seagulls into a screaming frenzy. The sound shocked the mastiff into releasing its grip, giving Watters the chance to throw himself up the wall. He fell over the other side, where Scuddamore was already waiting.
'Run!' Scuddamore said and ran off into the distance. Cursing, and with his left leg on fire, Watters limped after him. What is so secret about that ship that Beaumont needed mastiffs and an armed man to guard it? And even more important, what will Marie say when I come back with my leg bleeding and my trousers in tatters?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: NESSHAVEN: OCTOBER 1862
James Gall had come up trumps with a solid, if slow, vessel with a short foredeck and single mast.
'Her name is Grace, and she's as seaworthy as you'll get,' Gall had said, 'even for a landsman to take out.'
'I'll take care of her,' Watters promised.
'You're limping,' Gall said. 'You might not be fit to sail.'
'I'll get local help,' Watters said.
'You'll be lucky.' Gall did not pursue the conversation. 'Ten shillings a day.'
'That's very steep,' Watters said. 'Two and sixpence and you're still cheating me.'
'Seven and six and that's my final offer. What if you steal it? Or capsize?'
'I'm a police officer,' Watters reminded.
'That's what I mean. What if you steal my boat?'
'Three shillings and you're lucky to get that much,' Watters said.
Now, Grace was sitting a few miles south of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, rising and falling on the swell. Marie and the girls were huddled amidships, swathed in layers of extra clothing, while Watters had pressed Ragina into coming along to act as crew and steersman.
'You know the local conditions,' Watters said and grudgingly agreed to pay his crewman for his services.
Now they were out on the sea with the wind whipping spindrift from the wave crests and seagulls screeching in a raucous chorus. Holding a pawnshop-purchased telescope to his eye, Watters balanced against the uneven motion of the boat to examine the distant fishing boats.
'Can you see anything?' Marie asked.
'Aye. The lads are fishing. Longlining for mackerel by the look of it, and not doing too badly either. They must have struck on a shoal there.' Watters passed the telescope to Ragina. 'See what you make of them.'
Ragina raised the telescope and nodded. 'That's your sort, boys! No, not like that! You're making a right haggis of that, you useless buttons!' He shook his head. 'I think these boys have already been at the gin. Look at the way they're handling that line!' Shaking his head, he focussed again. 'Now that's what we've come here for. Here she comes round the Inchcape! See that, Sergeant Watters? If that's not a coper, I don't know what is!'
'A what?' Amy asked.
'A coper.' Watters took back the telescope, extended it to its fullest extent and balanced on the foredeck of the madly swaying boat. 'There's a brig coming from the lee of the Inchcape, right enough. She's wearing no colours, but I'd wager that she's foreign built.'
Amy looked up curiously. 'Is that important, Sergeant Watters?'
'It might be.' Watters passed back the telescope and settled down between the thwarts.
Ragina nodded. 'Aye, she's a Dutchy, sure as death. They control the coper trade from Dunkirk to the Dogger and all points north. Dutchy, and that's the end of it.'
'Coper? Could somebody tell me what a coper might be?' Amy did not flinch as a wave splintered on the prow, spattering her with spindrift.
'Amy asked you a question.' Marie poked at Watters's sore leg until he replied.
'Copers are seagoing dealers in gin or other spirits, Miss Amy. Sometimes fishermen call them grog-ships or the Devil's floating parlours. They come out of the Dutch ports, often at night, and sell their stuff at sea. Their main customers are fishing boats, but as my lady wife has already reminded me, it's unusual for them to come this far north. Normally they infest the Dogger Bank, where the English trawler fleets work.' Watters adjusted the sail a fraction to keep Grace's head toward the wind.
'So why are they here?' Marie directed the question at Ragina. 'Is there a reason?'
Ragina shrugged. 'Maybe they're searching for new custom, Mrs Watters. Fishermen like the copers, but the stuff they sell is often rot-gut, kill-me-deadly firewater, the roughest of rough poison. I've heard of entire
crews of English trawlers falling overboard drunk or just dying on deck. The Dogger Bank is notorious for fishing up dead bodies, and these copers are the cause of many of them. They're bad news.'
Mari fidgeted, looking at the girls. 'Can't the Royal Navy do anything about them? Chase them away?'
'Not normally,' Ragina said. 'They usually operate outside the three-mile limit.'
'How about the deaths? Can't they be blamed for that?'
'Seamen don't have the same laws as on land. Nobody has to even report a death on a fishing boat, not unless there's damage to gear as well. Fishermen's lives are worth that,' Ragina snapped his fingers, 'or maybe a bit less.'
A rogue wave battered Grace sideways. Marie took hold of Amy. 'Are you girls all right?'
'This is exciting.' Amy seemed to be enjoying herself. 'Are you going to arrest the Dutchy, Sergeant Watters?'
'No, I can't,' Watters said. He frowned. 'I was wrong. That's no Dutchy. If that boat's not French, then I'm a Chinaman.'
'A Frenchie, Sergeant?' Amy said. 'What's a Frenchie doing here?'
'I wish I knew what she's doing here.' Watters had spent at least one night a week training up his Volunteers in case of a French landing. He had seen the Armstrongs of Broughty Castle exercised in case a French fleet should sail up the Tay, and now, here was a French vessel openly trading a few miles off the Scottish coast. He frowned, remembering William Caskie's dealings with the Continental arms manufacturers. Was this vessel a spy? Surely not. Watters shook his head; he was never a man to believe the rumours spread by the lurid press, and he was not about to start now.
'She's selling grog by the looks of it.' Watters focussed on the two-masted foreign vessel around which the fishing boats were clustered. 'Maybe she's just smuggling.'
'Maybe she is.' Marie replied. 'Do you want to sail closer and challenge her?'
'Not with you and the girls on board,' Watters said, 'but I will be alerting Mr Mackay and the customs officer at Dundee. I think I've seen enough here.' He ordered Ragina to return Grace to Broughty Ferry. 'I'll get Scuddamore and Duff to stand guard over the girls.'
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