The Fireraisers

by Malcolm Archibald

  Noticing that Ted was staring at his fallen comrade, Watters tried to outflank him. He moved sideways, only for his injured leg to drag, knocking down a pile of Beaumont's files. Watters instinctively tried to catch them, with that slight movement saving his life as Ted fired the Colt he flicked from his shoulder holster. Afraid to return fire with Beaumont so close, Watters fell to the ground, rolled, slithered on the files, and slammed against the legs of the desk. He looked up to see Ted levelling the revolver.

  'No, you don't!'

  Reaching up, Watters grabbed the barrel, so the shot slammed against the far wall. Using the barrel as a lever, he bent Ted's wrist backwards, forcing him to drop the revolver. Ted countered by dropping on top of him with a broad-bladed knife in his right hand.

  'Sergeant!' That was Duff's voice. 'I'm coming! Watch the knife!'

  As lamplight flickered on the steel, Watters twisted aside. The knife blade rammed into the floorboards. Watters jabbed straight fingers into Ted's throat, saw Ted's mouth open as he gasped for air, and pulled at his tongue.

  Ted gargled but still managed to land a shrewd punch into Watters's kidneys. Watters jerked in agony with the metal cylinder falling from his pocket. Again Ted moved forward, wrenching the knife from the floor. His slash would have cut Watters's throat had Duff not blocked the blow with his staff.

  'Sergeant Watters!' Beaumont's warning shout sounded surprisingly strong for a man who had just been strangled. Ignoring Beaumont, Watters snatched up the cylinder. Pressing the button, he thrust the device inside Ted's shirt.

  Ted screamed with a mixture of fear and frustration. He tried to slash with the knife again, only for Duff to dash forward and push him through the open window. Ted's scream only ended when the explosion of the cylinder tore a hole in his chest. After that, there was silence except for the sound of hurrying feet as people ran to see what had happened.

  Watters took a deep breath. 'Thank you, Duff. I think you saved my life there.'

  'I think you both saved my life.' Beaumont looked shaken as he slumped behind his desk.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: DUNDEE: DECEMBER 1862

  Morag handed the cup to Watters. 'There you are Sergeant Watters, a nice cup of tea.'

  The ticking of the longcase clock was soft against the crackle of the fire and the hiss of the gas lighting. Lighting the cigarette on the end of his ivory holder, Beaumont sat back in his winged armchair. 'It was as well that I bought a steel anti-garrotter collar after all your warnings,' he said. 'That American fellow could never have strangled me with that thing around my neck.'

  'He could have shot you though,' Watters reminded, but Beaumont shook his head.

  'Not with you there, Sergeant. I knew that you would not let me down.' Beaumont's eyes were suddenly terribly wise. 'Of course, I have informed Mr Holderby. He was so frightfully upset about the whole thing that he could not apologise enough.'

  'Mr Mackay and Sir John Ogilvy have been busy at the United States Consulate,' Watters said, 'and between us, we've worked out the sequence of events. The fellow we threw out of the window, the man I knew as Ted Houghton, was a rogue Federal agent posing as a Confederate while passing information to the North. He was the fellow that bribed the local abolitionists to set fire to your mills as well.'

  Beaumont nodded. 'Houghton was a dangerous man.'

  'As you can imagine,' Watters said, 'Sir John Ogilvy and Mr Mackay asked many questions of Mr Holderby. He assured us that the United States government was not connected with these outrages. Houghton used his official position to further his extreme ideas of murder and fire-raising.'

  Beaumont pulled at his cigarette. 'That is what Mr Holderby told me.'

  'Ted Houghton was also a bit of a chameleon, able to alter his accent and his attitude depending on whom he was with. I suspect he may even have worked in Rogers' Yard for a while for he told the Federals all about Alexander MacGillivray even before it was launched. The other two, Niner and Scouse, were mid-level maritime toughs who would do anything for a few sovereigns.'

  'I don't like to think about foreign spies loose around Dundee,' Beaumont said.

  'Yes, sir,' Watters agreed. About to say that it would not have happened if Beaumont had not sought money at the expense of morality, he remembered Marie's opinion of his diplomacy. 'It seems that Mr William Caskie was keeping secrets from you, Mr Beaumont.'

  Beaumont did not reply directly. He smiled. 'I spoke with Sir John about using the Volunteers to search for the incendiaries. I consider Sir John as a friend. He listens to me.'

  'Yes, Mr Beaumont. As long as the explosive devices, if any, are located, I do not care who finds them.'

  Beaumont looked up as his clerk entered. 'Here, Cattanach. Deal with this lot, would you?' He handed over a batch of files.

  Cattanach gave a little bow. 'Right away, sir.' He scurried away with the swallowtails of his coat flapping over his lean backside.

  'It seems, however, that the Volunteers were not necessary.' Beaumont drew deeply on his ivory cigarette holder. 'You had already warned the mill managers.' He walked toward the fire, turned his back, and surveyed Watters through clear eyes. 'They did not find any of these fire-raising devices in the mills.'

  'No, Mr Beaumont. However, my colleagues Constables Duff and Scuddamore found six in Houghton's luggage.'

  Beaumont raised his eyebrows. 'In that case, Watters, you probably saved hundreds or even thousands of pounds worth of damage and subsequent higher insurance premiums and loss of profit.'

  'Possibly some lives as well,' Watters said quietly. 'If the mill hands had been inside the mills when these fire-raising things went off, God only knows how many might have been hurt or killed.'

  Raised voices sounded from downstairs as Amy argued with Elizabeth about whose turn it was to use the piano. Beaumont shook his head in paternal condemnation.

  'Sir John advised that we should not make an official complaint about this matter to the American authorities. He says the least said, soonest mentioned. That's it, ended now. However, you did save my life, Sergeant, and I won't forget it. I do not know where my son-in-law is.'

  'France,' Watters said bluntly. 'He broke no law, despite all his actions.' He remembered Caskie's callousness and resolved to investigate every section of his business interests until he found cause to arrest him. 'We did not find the seaman, Jones,' Watters reminded. 'Nor did I solve the murder on Lady of Blackness.' These two failures rankled.

  Beaumont shook his head. 'I don't think anybody ever could solve that murder, Sergeant, not considering the time and distance involved.' He reached for a sealed packet that lay on the table. 'Here's a small gift for you, Sergeant. Open it when you get home. It's not much, but please accept it as a token of my gratitude.'

  Watters shook his head, smiling as he pushed the packet back. 'I was only doing my duty, sir. I cannot accept any reward.'

  'As you wish, Sergeant.' Beaumont held out his hand. 'I hope you will accept my handshake instead.'

  'I will do that with pleasure, sir.'

  Watters felt vaguely dissatisfied as he walked out of the building. Mackay had set him three tasks: solve the murder on Lady of Blackness, protect Beaumont, and find out who had planned the fire-raising at Beaumont's mills. He had completed the third and second task. The Dundee and Forfarshire Anti-slavery Alliance had set the initial fires, with the US government, officially or unofficially, behind the operation, yet he had not located the mysterious woman that Ted Houghton believed headed the Alliance. With Ted Houghton out of the way, the threat to Beaumont's life had eased, and Watters had been assured that he could rely on Sir John to pressurise the US government to end any possible intimidation from that quarter.

  Watters swung his cane. He had not solved the murder on Lady of Blackness. When Ted's conspiracy had come to light, Watters had supposed there to be a connection. Yet Ted had twice denied any knowledge. Something nagged at Watters's mind. The moment he reached the police office, he called over Scuddamore and Duff and exp
lained his worries.

  'Things are not as clear-cut as I like,' Watters said. 'I like order; I like reasons for things happening.'

  'They are criminals, Sergeant,' Duff said. 'They don't think like normal people. Houghton was probably lying.'

  'Houghton was more than a common criminal,' Watters said. 'As well as a fanatic, he may have been an agent of a foreign government. I agree his mind was coloured by his beliefs, so to him everything was black and white.' Watters shook his head. 'In that case, why should he deny something of which he would ordinarily be proud?'

  'Maybe he forgot?' Scuddamore said.

  'No.' Watters adopted Mackay's habit of drumming his fingers on the desk. 'Houghton was too dedicated for that. I am well aware that most assaults are stupid, casual affairs fuelled by drink or quick temper, while poverty or simple greed drives petty theft. More major crimes are different. A man does not suddenly decide to destroy a ship with the explosives he happens to have in his possession.'

  'Yes, Sergeant.' Scuddamore and Duff exchanged glances. Watters realised that they now believed he was as obsessed as Ted Houghton had been.

  'Something is not right,' Watters said. 'And I mean to get to the bottom of it. This enquiry is not completed until every last I is dotted, and every last T is crossed. Get back to work, gentlemen. I want every lead followed again. I want to find the woman who paid Varthley, I want Seaman Jones, and I want the murderer of that unfortunate fire-raiser in Calcutta.' I also want William Caskie, but that is now personal.

  'How, Sergeant?' Duff asked.

  'I'll start by interviewing Varthley again.'

  'He's in prison, sir,' Duff said.

  'Then that's where I will go.' Grabbing his hat and cane, Watters rose. 'I'm not happy, gentlemen. When I'm not happy, it means that you two are not happy because I will make you work until I am smiling again. Duff, scour the shipping companies for this Jones fellow. I want to know the whereabouts of every seaman on the day of the murder on Lady of Blackness.'

  'There are thousands, Sergeant!'

  'Then you had better get busy, hadn't you?'

  'I'll help him, Sergeant,' Scuddamore said.

  'No, Scuddamore.' Watters put a hand on his shoulder. 'I want you to find the name and address of every woman in the Dundee area who supports anti-slavery. Find every woman who makes a donation, who attends meetings, who even speak to them.'

  'Yes, Sergeant.'

  'Every single one, Scuddamore.' Watters strode out of the police office. He had set his men work to do. Now he must justify his decision.

  It was fortunate that Varthley was held in Dundee Prison, only a few yards from the police office. Limping from his various cuts and bruises, Watters followed the turnkey to Varthley's cell.

  'Don't be too hard on him,' the turnkey said as he opened the door. 'He's a poor soul; he spends his time either crying like a baby or spouting his abolitionist nonsense.' He shook his head. 'I agree with his sentiments, mind, if not his methods.'

  Watters raised his voice to enable Varthley to hear. 'I don't find the poor fellow's abolitionist views offensive,' he said. 'In fact, I agree entirely that the slaves should be freed.'

  'Do you, Sergeant?' Varthley looked up from the thin straw mattress on which he had been lying.

  'Of course, I do,' Watters said honestly. 'No decent person can agree with slavery. It is a filthy thing to do to any human being.'

  'So you agree with us.'

  'I always did,' Watters sat on the bed at Varthley's side. 'It is the attempts to burn down factories and endanger lives I am against.' He shook his head. 'I did not like the attack on poor Amy Beaumont either. You could have really hurt her, Varthley.'

  'No, Sergeant Watters.' Varthley sat up, shaking his head. 'That wasn't the idea. I was only to slap her the one time, or maybe twice at most, and say the things against slavery.'

  'You did not say that before,' Watters pointed out.

  'You never asked that before,' Varthley said.

  'Now, Mr Varthley,' Watters employed his gentlest tone, 'I need you to help me now. Think hard, think as hard as you can. Tell me about this woman who paid you.'

  'Yes, Sergeant Watters.' Varthley looked at Watters much as a rabbit might stare at a predatory stoat.

  'What was she like?'

  'I don't know,' Varthley said.

  'You spoke to her; you saw her.' Watters retained his patience as best he could.

  'I never saw her,' Varthley shook his head. 'She was all covered up with a scarf.'

  Watters sighed. He should have expected that the main instigator had hidden her identity. 'Was she tall? Short? Slender? Plump?'

  'Oh, she was tall,' Varthley said. 'Tall for a woman. She was nearly as tall as a man, Sergeant Watters. And a nice shape.' He moved his hands to illustrate a woman's curves. 'Like that. Lots to hold on to, you know?'

  'I can imagine,' Watters said. For a second, he had wondered if the woman had in fact been a man in disguise, but Varthley's description of her charms disposed of that idea.

  'A tall woman then,' Watters noted. 'Was she intelligent? Educated?'

  'Yes,' Varthley said at once. 'She was a gentlewoman.'

  'And what did she say. Tell me as accurately as you can remember.'

  Varthley thought for a long moment. 'She said I was to run up to Miss Amy Beaumont, say “creatures like you should not be allowed to walk, not when your father is encouraging so much suffering in the world,” give her a good slap on the face, and then run away. She said I had to do it in the most public place in Newport. I was to give her one or two hard slaps and then run away.'

  Watters frowned. 'How did you know where to find Miss Beaumont?'

  'I just said.' Varthley frowned. 'The lady told me. She told me that Miss Amy Beaumont and Miss Elizabeth Caskie would be in Newport Pleasure Gardens.'

  How the devil did she know that?

  'Thank you,' Watters said. 'I have one more question before I leave you in peace.' He chose his words carefully. 'Would you recognise her voice again, even if you could not see her face?'

  Varthley nodded eagerly. 'Yes, yes I would. It was very clear.'

  'Thank you, Mr Varthley.'

  Watters's mind was in turmoil as he walked away. He was a step further forward. The instigator was a tall, educated woman who was fully aware of Amy's movements. She had told Varthley what to say and wanted only one or at most two slaps. Why stop at two? If the woman intended to hurt Amy and by implication, Beaumont, why did she not order a more serious attack? As assaults go, it was minor; indeed, Watters remembered, Elizabeth had slapped Amy quite hard at the dance. Watters frowned again. What had Amy said then? “Oh, what we suffer for fashion and beliefs.”

  Why had she added 'beliefs' then? Watters grunted. There had been no reason to mention beliefs for a fashion statement. Women were strange creatures indeed. However, he was making progress. Now he had to find out who else would know about Amy's movements.

  The servants? They were not present when Amy and Elizabeth discussed Newport.

  Twirling his cane, Watters marched from the prison toward Dock Street. No matter what happened, he would solve this case, even if he had to work unpaid overtime to do it. Watters knew the answers were there, nagging at the corners of his mind. He felt as if the chess master was laughing at him, allowing him to know just so much before pulling agonisingly away again.

  Well, that could not be allowed. He was Sergeant Watters of the Dundee Police, not some Johnny Raw recruit with squeaky boots not yet adequately broken in.

  As always, factory smoke tainted the street air of Dundee, despite the bite from the Tay. Watters stood outside Beaumont's Dock Street offices, adjusted his new hat, and twirled his cane. He nodded to Cattanach as the clerk scurried past.

  'Morning, Cattanach.'

  'Good morning, sir.' Cattanach gave his usual little bow.

  'Is Mr Beaumont in the office?' Watters asked.

  'No, sir,' Cattanach bowed again, smiling. 'Mr Beaumont is in Mount Ple
asant House, sir. He is with Mr and Mrs Caskie.'

  Damn. 'Thank you, Cattanach. I will call on him there.' Watters turned around to find a cab as Cattanach withdrew into the building.

  Overshadowed by the ship's spars that overlapped one side of the street, seamen hurried on various errands while dock workers wheeled carts and rolled barrels. Watters saw a cab parked further up the road with the driver engaged in conversation with a familiar figure.

  'Good morning, Captain Bremner.' Watters tapped the brim of his hat with his cane. 'How are you today? And is this cab free?'

  'I am very well, thank you, Sergeant, and the cab is all yours.' Although Bremner looked as harassed as any ship's captain preparing to cast anchor, he spared time to talk to Watters. 'I see you found Jones, then, Sergeant.'

  'No, Captain.' Watters shook his head. 'We have not given up yet, though.'

  Bremner frowned. 'I saw you talking to him a moment ago, Sergeant.' The captain nodded across the road. 'Outside Beaumont's shipping office.'

  'You must be mistaken, sir,' Watters said. 'The only man I was talking to was Cattanach, Mr Beaumont's clerk.'

  Bremner's frown deepened. 'You were with the man I knew as Jones, Sergeant. I don't care a tuppeny damn what he calls himself now, but that was Jones. You have my word on it!'

  Jones! Watters took a deep breath. 'Thank you, Captain. I am very much obliged to you.'

  Watters fought his surge of excitement. So Cattanach is Jones. That opens up a whole new can of worms. Does Beaumont know? He must know that his clerk was on a voyage to Calcutta. Why the secrecy?

  Watters had to think. Touching his hat once more, he strode away from the confused cab driver. He always thought with more clarity when he walked or played golf. Marching along Dock Street with his mind working and his cane swinging, Watters tried to slot things into some sort of logical order.