The Fireraisers

by Malcolm Archibald

  Dumas finished scribbling notes, replaced his notebook in his pocket, and rose from his seat. Watters tried to shrink further into his newspaper, trying to disguise the sudden hammering of his heart, but Dumas was merely stretching his legs before settling back down again.

  'Are these vessels fast, Mr Caskie? Federal warships are among the fastest in the world, able to sail at ten, twelve, even fifteen knots!'

  'Condor and Ptarmigan sailed at 20 knots. Proven.' Caskie kept his face immobile for a minute, and then his enthusiasm returned. 'And Alexander MacGillivray has twin screws. Twin screws!' Caskie waited for some reaction by Dumas but explained further when the Confederate said nothing.

  'With twin screws, we can put one screw forward and one aft, turn her on a tanner; we'll run rings around anything that floats. You can use Alexander MacGillivray for an Admiral's command for she can race from point to point. You could use her as a blockade runner, or a warship, once you equip her with armaments.' William Caskie laughed again and stroked his imperial in self-congratulation. 'I have that in hand, of course.'

  Watters remembered Caskie's meetings with the French and Belgian armament manufacturers. The pieces were falling together one after the other without helping him find his murderer or the people behind the fire-raising. One huge piece was still lacking: where did Beaumont fit in?

  After a half hour, the two men rose and strolled casually toward the billiard room.

  Watters gave them another five minutes before he left the hotel. For the remainder of that evening, he walked around Dundee, swinging his cane and allowing the day's events to settle in his mind so that he could make sense of them. He knew now that the ship was being built for the Confederate States of America rather than for France and that William Caskie was heavily involved.

  As Watters walked the streets, he pondered all the aspects. With Britain neutral in the American Civil War, William Caskie had no business interfering by building the Confederates a ship, particularly a warship. Neutrality laws were strict, and if Britain came down too heavily on either side, there was the risk of war with the other. Great Britain had recently come through two major wars; she would be foolish to enter another. There was also the dangerous possibility of a European power attacking Britain while she was involved across the Atlantic; twice before Britain had fought the youthful United States while simultaneously facing half of Europe.

  Watters knew well that Napoleon III had renewed his alliance with Russia in 1860. It was fear of a Russian fleet combining with the French Navy out of Cherbourg to invade Britain that had encouraged the creation of the Volunteers and the refurbishment of coastal forts such as that at Broughty. An alliance of France, Russia, and the United States would be formidable indeed.

  Watters swung his cane as he followed his line of thought. If Britain's involvement ended in defeat for the North, then that nation would undoubtedly gather her strength and seek revenge. An invasion along the long, vulnerable border with Canada was always likely, which meant that Britain would have to increase her minuscule garrison there, thus weakening her defences at home or in India. The Russians, smarting after their defeat at Sebastopol, would benefit. Watters shuddered to think of hordes of Cossacks thundering through the Khyber Pass, uniting with the Pashtun tribes and others who remained unhappy with British rule.

  Overall, it was a dangerous game that William Caskie was playing, with higher stakes than perhaps he realised. And more crucial to Watters, where did Mr Beaumont fit in, and was all this international dealing related to the fires in his mills and the murder in Calcutta?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: DUNDEE: NOVEMBER 1862

  'I would have a word, sir.' Watters held his hat under his arm as he stood in Beaumont's study.

  'Of course, Sergeant.' Beaumont put down his pen and looked up. The portrait of the late Mrs Beaumont smiled down upon him. 'You did better than I thought with that Confederate fellow, Sergeant.' He shook his head. 'You may be assured that I let Amy know I was out of temper with her.'

  Watters took a deep breath. 'I wouldn't be too hard on Miss Amy. I suspect that Miss Elizabeth Caskie had a hand in choosing the guests. Her brother, Mr William Caskie, appears to be quite close to the Confederate gentlemen.' He stepped back slightly, ignoring the anonymous Cattanach, who handed Beaumont a document. 'I believe that Mr William has shipping business with them.'

  Beaumont looked suddenly wary as he read the document. He signed it with a flourish. 'Possibly, Sergeant Watters, but in business, a man must abide by the law and deliver whatever he has promised despite any political complications that turn up.' When he looked at Watters, there was no smile on his face. 'A man must keep business separate from his family concerns.' He sighed. 'Damn it, man, we know each other well enough by now.'

  Beaumont dismissed Cattanach and sent the servants to bed before lighting the candles in his room. He settled in his favourite chair beside the fire. 'We can relax a bit now, Watters. What is it you wish to ask me? More about that damned murder in Calcutta?'

  'It may be related, sir.' Watters remained standing. 'It is about a vessel named Alexander MacGillivray presently building at Rogers' Yard.'

  Beaumont's face lost all expression. 'What about it, Watters?'

  'I have heard rumours that your company may be involved in this vessel. Is that correct?' Watters held Beaumont's stony stare.

  'That's business,' Beaumont said.

  'If this vessel is intended for the Southern States, sir, it may be the reason that somebody is attempting to damage your business.' Watters tapped his cane on the floor. 'I would like you to be honest with me so I can assess the danger to you.' Watters paused for a moment. 'And I can assess the danger to your family. Neither of us wishes any harm to come to Miss Amy or Mrs Charlotte Caskie.'

  As Watters had intended, Beaumont looked away. 'Sit down, Sergeant. Before I begin, I want you to swear that you will not repeat what I am about to tell you. Understand?' Standing up, Beaumont opened a cupboard and took out a decanter and two glasses.

  'That would depend on the legality of the matter, sir.' Watters accepted the brandy-and-water that Beaumont poured for him.

  Beaumont grunted. 'I don't know your feelings about this American affair, but I am in the business of making a profit. Morals must take second place.'

  Watters said nothing.

  Beaumont sipped at his drink. 'You must understand that I have hundreds of families depending on my companies for a livelihood. Men who are not in business do not understand how precarious the margin is between success and failure, profit and loss. There is no place for idealism in the marketplace.'

  Watters wondered if Beaumont was trying to persuade himself more than anything else. 'I am a policeman, Mr Beaumont. My job is to uphold the law, not to judge people for their morality or political beliefs.'

  'As you say.' Beaumont looked at Watters over the top of his glass. 'I trust in your honesty, Sergeant Watters. Now, I'm not sure how much of this affair you already know, so I will start at the beginning. Please bear with me.'

  Watters placed his glass on a small table and took out his notebook. 'I will only write down matters pertinent to the case, sir, and nothing personal.'

  'Thank you,' Beaumont said. 'You are fully aware that my elder daughter, Charlotte, was recently married to William Caskie. You do not know that the Caskie family are not as wealthy as they appear. They are not an ancient family, Mr Watters. The grandfather was a merchant in India around the turn of the century.'

  'I see, sir.'

  'Well, Grandfather Caskie returned to Scotland with a fortune; he was what people term a nabob and bought property in the area. Pitcorbie is an ancient house, so he bought history too. However, his sons spent lavishly, so that by the time William came along, the Caskies of Pitcorbie were on their uppers.'

  'Yet you let him marry your daughter, sir.' Watters knew that he should not make such a personal comment.

  Beaumont sipped at his brandy. 'I knew that the family was strapped for cash, but I did not
know that they were virtual paupers, damnit! I'd never have agreed to the match else.'

  'Yes, sir.' Watters pondered that kindly, affable Mr Beaumont, as pleasant and companionable a man as it was possible to meet, had agreed to his daughter's marriage without checking out the groom nearly as carefully as he would examine a business deal. 'Did Charlotte agree to the marriage?'

  Beaumont looked up sharply. 'What the devil has that got to do with it? Charlotte knew that her marriage would add lustre to our name by connecting us to a landed family. It was her duty to get married, and that's all there is to it.'

  'I see, sir.' Watters began to see that all was not gold under Beaumont's urbane charm.

  Beaumont's complexion mottled. He placed his brandy down and leaned closer to Watters. 'Let's face it, Watters, my Charlotte is a fine woman, but she is hardly a prime catch. Amy is a peach, but Charlotte is—a bit plain, shall we say?'

  Watters grunted. 'It is not my place to compare the attributes of your daughters, sir.'

  'I am proud of them both, Sergeant Watters.' Beaumont was smiling again. 'However, neither my pride nor their good qualities are the subject of this conversation. Mr William Caskie is.'

  Watters nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

  'Now, William is a proud man. He wishes to raise himself, and his family, from the precipice of poverty. Quite naturally, he is using the opportunity of this American war to make money, and how better than to exploit the skills that Dundee has to offer? When he asked me for a loan at a moderate rate of interest, naturally, I did not at first agree. I thought that he was building a ship for the French government. But when I heard he was building a blockade-runner, well, where's the harm in sailing food into a beleaguered town? So I agreed and allowed my name to be used in case Mr Rogers was wary of William's embarrassed situation. It's a work of charity in its own way, feeding the starving.'

  'A blockade-runner, sir?' Watters approached the subject with some caution. 'I thought Rogers was building a warship.'

  'Alexander MacGillivray is to be a blockade-runner, Watters. The Confederate government is prepared to pay a quite sizeable sum of money for such a vessel. Oh, I know that they have been buying up all the surplus ships that the Mersey and the Clyde have to offer, and even vessels from Dublin, but William's vessel is something special, I hear.' Beaumont stifled a yawn and stood up. 'So there you have it. That's not so bad, eh? William is doing his best to care for his family by engaging in legitimate business while helping hungry people at the same time.'

  Watters stood up and wondered if he should tell Beaumont what he had overheard in the Royal Hotel. Best not to. Yet. 'Thank you for letting me into your confidence, sir.'

  'Nonsense. You did a good job in keeping the peace between these squabbling Americans.' Beaumont tilted his head to one side as if examining him. 'Well, you'd better get back to your duty.' He chattered cheerfully as he ushered Watters to the door of his office. 'Good night to you now.'

  * * *

  Superintendent Mackay listened as Watters related his discoveries. 'You say that Mr William Caskie is having an ironclad built in Dundee for the Confederate States of America with Mr Beaumont footing the bill. That would explain Mr Beaumont's current financial constraints.'

  'Yes, sir,' Watters said. 'I don't think that Mr Rogers is aware of the intended destination. Caskie sold him some tomfool story about the ship being destined for the Emperor of China.'

  'You have already told me that,' Mackay said. 'Last time you were here, you believed the ship was for French owners. Now you believe it is for the Confederates. Have you any proof, Watters?'

  'I overheard a conversation, sir.' Watters gave details.

  'Hmm.' Mackay's fingers began their drumming on the desk. 'No court in the land would take heed of that evidence, Sergeant, as you are aware. Nor is Mr Caskie doing anything illegal. No. We cannot act on it.' Mackay made his decision. 'There is nothing there that advances our case of the murder on Lady of Blackness.'

  'It may give a reason for the attacks on Mr Beaumont, sir,' Watters explained, 'if some anti-slavery group thinks he is advancing the cause of the South.' He waited a moment for Mackay to consider his words. 'Mr Caskie's actions may even create some interference from the Federal government.'

  'What?' Mackay's fingers stilled, and he looked up frowning. 'No, no, Watters. I doubt there will be anything of that significance. The United States has too much to worry about to be concerned with one Scottish merchant. Forget this blasted metal ship.'

  'As you wish, sir,' Watters agreed, fully aware that he would continue to follow any lead that may help solve the case.

  Mackay sighed, with his fingers drumming the pas de charge. 'I will agree that there's some damned awkward double dealing going on here, Watters.' He leaned forward over his desk. 'French boats and American agents and diplomats and God knows what else.'

  Watters waited for Mackay to get to his point.

  Mackay forced his fingers into stillness. 'Remind me, Watters, what is the case? You were ordered to find a murderer and to stop the fire-raising in Mr Beaumont's mills. You succeeded in the latter and have tried every avenue with the former. I also sent you to protect Beaumont and his family from possible danger. You were with the family for some days, and Mr Beaumont said that although nothing transpired, you were instrumental in keeping the peace in a possibly delicate situation. However, I think we can safely agree that Mr Beaumont is correct when he says that any danger has passed.'

  'I am not sure I agree, sir. I am still unsure why Mr Beaumont was targeted or by who. There is also the matter of the mannequin in his bed.'

  'Forget the mannequin; some childish prank, no doubt. As the fire-raising has stopped, we can be fairly sure it was by that abolitionist group.' Mackay shook his head. 'Now as for that French vessel, you think she is a coper and working with William Caskie. I am not so sure. I am coming around to your French theory. I think she might be here to spy on our shipping.'

  'If she is, sir, all she can spy on is the Nesshaven fishermen.'

  'Go out and have a look.'

  'With respect, sir, I am a policeman, not a spy. Surely that's the Navy's job.'

  'With respect, Sergeant Watters, I have given you an order.' Mackay tried to smile. 'I do not know if your vessel is engaged in espionage, Watters, but if the Navy hauls up an innocent French vessel, then it's a diplomatic incident. If an overzealous Dundee policeman examines her, people will shake their heads and then forget it.'

  'Yes, sir,' Watters said. 'Will the time I take out at sea be included in the four days I have left to solve the murder on Lady of Blackness?'

  'Don't be damned impertinent, Watters!' Mackay's hands clenched into fists. 'I've given you your orders; it's your duty to carry them out.'

  'Yes, sir.' Watters reached for his hat. 'I'll need to hire a boat. May I draw some funds to cover the cost?'

  * * *

  A pair of oystercatchers piped Watters clear of the beach, their calls somehow reassuring above the crash of the surf. Both birds circled the boat, their black and white plumage contrasting with the orange bill and legs.

  With her name Joyce painted in simple black letters on her white hull, the boat was smaller than Grace, with a single mast and a pair of oars. Hoisting the lug sail, Watters concentrated on the tiller, hitting the waves at an angle so they broke on the bows and dashed aside. Keeping well clear of the surge around the Sisters, he caught the land breeze to steer out to sea. The Nesshaven fleet always fished the same two areas, either near My Lord's Bank, two miles to the north and within sight of the growing village of Carnoustie, or ten miles out in the lee of the Inchcape Rock. Watters knew by experience that the gin coper did not come close inshore, so the fleet would be off the Inchcape, where the Bell Rock Lighthouse thrust itself from the sea.

  Spindrift pattered inboard, streaking the foredeck with salt as Joyce cleared the Sisters. Watters touched the New Testament that Marie had insisted on giving him.

  'I worry about you,' Marie had said. 'Tak
e this with you.'

  'You know I'm not particularly religious,' Watters reminded.

  'I am, though,' Marie said. 'Please take it.'

  Now, strangely, Watters was glad to feel its bulk in his breast pocket.

  'You manage the sail, Ragina!' Watters called above the crash of the sea and the whine of wind through the rigging. He eased the tiller a little as the wind shifted a few points to the north. He watched Ragina fight to adjust the sail.

  'I hope you bluebottles are going to pay me for this,' Ragina grumbled.

  'So do I,' Watters said, 'because as sure as God, I can't afford it.'

  The land was far behind them now, with the waves rising sharply, not the great greybeards of the North Atlantic or the horrifying mountains of Cape Horn, but short, steep, and ugly. Watters ignored the seagulls that circled the boat, constantly calling in their quest for food. He could see sails rising on the horizon, but visibility was restricted at the level of this small boat. The oystercatchers had deserted them.

  'Are those our boats?'

  'I'm not sure!' Ragina said. 'They might belong to Arbroath or Broughty, even Easthaven or Westhaven. I won't know until we're closer.'

  The sea was rising faster than Watters had expected, and he eyed the bank of dark cloud that was rising to the northeast. 'I don't like the look of that!'

  'Nor do I,' Ragina said. 'We might be better returning to harbour.'

  'I have my duty to do,' Watters said.

  'You can't do any duty if you're drowned.' Ragina altered the angle of the sail.

  Watching the run of the sea, Watters gradually eased the boat around as waves slapped against their starboard bow, splashing inside. Purple-black clouds were racing over the horizon, already concealing the pencil-thin finger of the Bell Rock Lighthouse. The sea was changing, with the waves higher and longer, tipped with hissing beards of foam. Watters could not see the fishing boat sails, while belts of driving rain even obscured the land.