The Secret Life and Curious Death of Miss Jean Milne

by Andrew Nicoll

  Mr Sempill and Mr Trench were somehow flung together of a sudden and came to rely on one another in a friendly and familiar way, which, I suppose, was only right and proper for two gentlemen in that position.

  I was not required to accompany them when they went to Dundee for the interview arranged with Mr Fiscal Mackintosh, but I was informed that Dr Templeman, the police surgeon of Dundee, was also in attendance. Professor Sutherland was detained by his duties at the Royal Infirmary and unable to attend.

  I have no desire to attribute petty or ungenerous attitudes of mind to the Chief Constable, but it would have taken a man of more than ordinary flesh and blood not to gloat. After all that he had suffered at the hands of Mr Fiscal Mackintosh, after the days of ceaseless demands and, above all, the clear imputation that we of the Broughty Ferry Burgh Police were not up to our jobs, he must have relished the moment when he was able to produce unanswerable reasoning from our own Dr Sturrock proving that important evidence had been blithely overlooked. But, as I say, I was not present at that interview.

  However, I do know that the telegram message from the Metropolitan Police was discussed at the meeting and it was agreed that Mr Sempill should proceed at once to London to meet Mr Clarence Herberto Wray and carry out further inquiries.

  We also managed to confirm, by simple, straightforward routine policing methods, the date of Miss Milne’s death, almost to a certainty.

  We traced – that is to say I traced – the van driver of the Dundee Steam Laundry Company who made a regular weekly call at Elmgrove. His name was James Macrae, and he called at the house every Thursday without fail.

  On October 10th he brought a parcel of clean laundry and took a parcel of washing away to be done. He tarried long enough to help Miss Milne clear some leaves from the gutter of the back kitchen, and, no doubt, he benefitted from a generous tip, but he made no mention of that in his statement to me.

  “On Thursday, 17th October 1912, about 1.15 p.m., I called at Elmgrove with a parcel from the laundry,” he said.

  “The small entrance gate was open, and on going to the front door I rang the bell twice, but got no answer. Miss Milne had previously arranged with me that, should I be later than 1 p.m. in calling, she would leave the kitchen window unsnibbed and the parcel inside, so that I would open the window, and take the one and leave the other.

  “On going to the window I found it snibbed. I looked all round the house and saw all the windows shut except one upstairs, the centre one, looking south. I then noticed that the flap of the Chubb lock on the front door was up, and thinking Miss Milne had gone out for the afternoon, I took the parcel back with me.

  “On Thursday, 24th October, about 12.45 I again called at Elmgrove and rang the front doorbell twice but got no answer. Then I noticed the flap of the Chubb lock exactly the same as it was when I called the previous week. I then thought Miss Milne had left on holiday and had forgotten to inform the laundry. But she wasn’t on her holidays, was she? She was lying dead at the back of that door.”

  I regarded that as an excellent piece of police work, but when Mr Sempill returned from the town he was far too busy to take any notice of the van man’s evidence and nearly mad with excitement over his coming visit to London. He ran about the office, snatching up notebooks and arranging pocketfuls of business cards and babbling about his “mission” to the capital. Broon and Suttie were out on the beat, so they were spared it. I stuck close to my work and tried not to look up.

  “Would it be wrong,” he wondered, “to take a few small presents for senior officers in the Metropolitan Police? I favour those tins of shortbread they sell at Goodfellow’s along in Gray Street, the ones with the view of the castle at sunset printed on them. It would be something definitely of Broughty Ferry.”

  Poor Mr Sempill was greatly torn between the possibilities of arriving empty-handed in front of his hosts and running the risk of appearing mean-spirited and tight-fisted or, on the other hand, looking like a country bumpkin, bedazzled by the capital.

  “I think it’s important to remember,” he told Mr Trench, “that I am a Chief Constable in my own right. Yes, admittedly, Chief Constable of a small force – when considered alongside the Metropolitan Police – but a Chief Constable nonetheless. My responsibilities to this small burgh are not less than those faced by the Commissioner in the largest city of the Empire.”

  Mr Trench said: “Indeed.”

  “I think I’m right in saying, Trench, that the Commissioner himself may be the only officer of the Met who can officially outrank me.”

  “I could not say.”

  “Well I can. I can say it with confidence. So, the shortbread. What’s your view?”

  “I would say not,” Mr Trench said gently. “Best to keep things on a purely professional footing.”

  “Professional. Damn it, Trench, you’re right.”

  “Friendly, but not familiar.”

  “No. No. Familiarity breeds contempt. Don’t want that.”

  “You are, after all, the Chief Constable of Broughty Ferry.”

  “Indeed, and if the plain, unvarnished Chief Constable of Broughty Ferry is not to their liking, then damn the lot of them.”

  Mr Sempill hurried into his office and came out again a moment later with his dress uniform on a hanger over his arm. “How will I find Scotland Yard?”

  “Take a cab, sir. From the railway station.”

  “Yes. A cab.”

  All Mr Sempill’s self-doubt was rolled up in those two words. He was flabbergasted by the possibility of getting in a cab, not knowing where it might go or how much it might cost. The extravagance of the notion appalled him – which was entirely to his credit since he knew he would have to be accountable to the burgh treasurer for every penny and, through him, to the ratepayers of Broughty Ferry themselves.

  “It’s the best thing,” said Mr Trench. “You are the Chief Constable.”

  Mr Sempill was persuaded, and after not much more fussing he was ready to quit the office for his turreted house amongst the Scots pines of Orchar Park and finish filling a bag for the journey that evening.

  “I want to make it quite clear,” he said, as I held the door for him, “that Lieutenant Trench takes on full responsibility for the Elmgrove inquiry in my absence – at least as far as it pertains to Broughty Ferry. Obey him in all things as you would me.”

  “Yes, sir. Are you sure you won’t be requiring assistance with your bags?”

  “Thank you, Fraser, I can manage. I will be in touch daily. At least daily.” And away he went, with a long thread of reporters trailing after him, all shouting questions. “Lieutenant Trench will assist you, gentlemen. Speak to Lieutenant Trench!” So they all came in to the front counter, waiting for a word from the lieutenant like dogs waiting for a biscuit, and it fell to him to explain that, in light of recent developments which he was not at liberty to disclose, our Chief Constable was away to London, following up definite lines of inquiry regarding the murder and working hand in glove – that’s what he said, “hand in glove” – with Scotland Yard. He made no mention whatever of the business with the meat fork and said nothing at all about shortbread, which I regarded as very wise.

  When the reporters had gone and the office was filled again by nothing more than the sharp ticking of the clock on the wall, Mr Trench went off towards the Chief Constable’s office, where he had set up a table and which he could now count as his own for a few days.

  “Will you be needing me this afternoon?” I asked him.

  “I don’t think so, John. Is there something you need to do? The murder inquiry must take the first importance in everything, you know.”

  “A few private inquiries of my own, sir.”

  “I don’t think I quite approve of private inquiries. This is not a private inquiry agency. This is a police force.”

  “Oh I understand that, sir, but, with respect, you are a stranger here and some of these people, well, they might . . .”

  “You think they�
��d be more willing to talk to one of their own, like the pedlar?”

  “Aye, sir. Something like that.”

  “You might be right, John.” And then, as if to underline his newfound authority, he said: “But I expect a full report. You must keep nothing from me.”

  He went into the Chief Constable’s office and, from behind the door, he called out. “And be sure to wait until Suttie comes back. We can’t leave the office unmanned.”

  Luckily that wasn’t long.

  I was lying. I had no reasons of my own for wanting to leave. At least none that were connected to the inquiry. Or perhaps all my reasons were connected to the murder. I was simply sick of the sight of the place and tired of listening to people who had no idea what to do or how to begin to do it. I wanted to walk and feel the wind chill me and have the cold rain wash my face, someplace away from the hiss and glare of gas lamps. I tramped the beach, eastwards, away from the police office and away from Elmgrove, along Beach Crescent, with its fine ornamental lamp posts, all cast-iron curls and twists, past the old Provost’s house, under the shadow of the castle on its rock, sharp and black against the rolling, marbled blackness of the clouds, past the stalls and the beach huts, shut up now for the winter, away to where the fine houses of the Esplanade ran out and then on, through the dunes to the mouth of the Dighty Water, which marks the boundary of our little burgh, where I stopped to look at a flotilla of swans, appearing and disappearing like ghosts among the waves. The wind carried sprays of fine sand along with it. I could feel it gently rattling against the cloth of my trousers in tiny, harmless volleys as I stood there, little pieces of rock that might once have been mountains, ground as fine as dust by water and wind and time. How long must it have taken? How many millions of years? And yet, if some cataclysm saw it all pounded together again into rock and worn again into dust, even that would not be an eternity. I thought on poor, dead Jean Milne and I thought on myself, who must soon follow her. I was put in mind of the 139th Psalm: “If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.” But the darkness had covered me and I thought again on poor Jean Milne and I turned my back to the weather and went away, grateful.

  Andy Hay the packman was right. The great and the good had shown themselves to know nothing. It was the little people I had to ask. I had to find out what they knew.

  14

  Finger Print Department

  New Scotland Yard

  London, S.W.

  Sir,

  Re. Finger Marks

  In reply to your communication dated 19th inst, I have to inform you that the finger marks do not possess any clearly defined characteristic detail. Consequently they are useless for the purposes of comparison with the fingerprints of any person.

  I am,

  Sir,

  Your obedient servant

  (Signed) M L Macnaghten

  The Chief Constable

  Burgh Police

  Broughty Ferry

  15

  I WASTED THE rest of that day warming myself at the fire and dozing in a chair. I seem to recall waking suddenly as the book fell from between my fingers. I seem to recall stooping to retrieve it and beginning again. I seem to recall filling the kettle and making a pot of tea, but the exhaustion was seeping from my bones and before long I gave in to sleep.

  But part of my mind watched and waited, and when the bells of St Aidan’s Kirk struck three, I rose from my chair, took a little tea and polished my boots. The rain had eased and the wind turned to the south, which brought the mist rolling in off the river so it lay in beads and cobwebs on my coat as I walked, westwards this time, towards Elmgrove.

  By four o’clock I was there. Quietly, so as not to disturb the family, I opened the gate of Westlea and stood in the shelter of its deep shadows. The gaslights down the hill were blurred and softened by the mist, and the wind rising from the river brought gentle wave sighs with it. Sleep had almost caught me again when I heard the slow sound of hoof beats and wheels on the road, coming from the top of the hill, and a cart rolled to a stop on the other side of the street, under Elmgrove’s dripping boughs.

  “James,” I whispered. “James Don.”

  The carter looked about himself in terror.

  “Here. Over here, James.”

  He was a big man and not one to be easily frightened, but he seemed relieved to see me step out of the gate.

  “You know me,” he said, “but who the Hell are you?” He wore a heavy coat, with a sack tied across his shoulders and a fisherman’s oilskin sou’wester that flopped down over his eyes and hung in a tail over his neck.

  “John Fraser, Burgh Constabulary.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Now, we both know that’s a lie.”

  “No since the last time. Whatever they’re sayin it’s a damned lie.”

  “Nobody’s accusing you. I need your help.”

  James Don nodded towards the locked gate. “The business in there.”

  “That. What do you know?”

  “I saw him, sure as daith.”

  A cold shiver ran down my neck. No more than a dribble of mist. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “It was the Monday, three, four weeks ago.”

  “When, James? The dates are important.”

  “Och, Ah dinnae ken. Ask at the depot, they keep aa the books. But I’m sure and certain it was a Monday, just this day and just this time, half past four of the clock. I was working in Albany Road and working alang this way towards Grove Road, lifting ashes and soil and ribbish from fowk’s bins as usual.”

  “Aye, James, but what did you see?”

  “Ah was jist past the wee gate intae thon big hoose, Netherby, in Albany Road, not more than a matter o yairds in this direction, when I saw a man by the light o the lamp, this verra lamp, at the gates o Elmgrove.

  “The man came out by the wee gate,” James pointed with his whip, “and he cam forrit twa three steps and stood there, in the middle o the path like he’d been cock o the midden. He lookit tae the sooth,” he pointed with his whip down the hill towards the river, “an he lookit tae the north,” a flick of his whip over his shoulder to Strathern Road. “Then he took a step backwards, back tae the Elmgrove gates. Then he stood there for a good half minute, gave a wee cough and off he went doon the hill at a smart pace.”

  “What sort of a cough?”

  “What sort of a cough? A cough. He coughed, that was all. Like as if he had the cauld.”

  “Was there anybody else about?”

  “At that hour?”

  “Would you know him again?”

  “Ah couldna say. It was a queer thing what wi Miss Milne being a wumman on her ain an he was undoubtedly a stranger. There’s damned few folk in the Ferry Ah dinnae ken.”

  “Can you not even tell me his age?”

  “Verra few men in Broughty Ferry that ah dinnae ken. Verra few. Aa mah days Ah’ve bin here. Ah’d say he wis atween thirty and forty, no tall, five foot eight or nine, slight, awfy white in the face, a wee thin moustache, dressed like a gentleman wi a dark coat doon past his knees.”

  “Hat?”

  “Oh aye, he had a hat. What like a hat Ah couldnae say.”

  “Cane?”

  “Naw.”

  “Umbrella?”

  “Naw, naw, nithin at all like that.”

  “And what then?”

  “He went his ways.” Another flick of the whip down the hill.

  I took a note of his details and we parted, the cart rolling gently down the hill and James Don grunting as he got down to do his work. But there was nothing there for me, so I turned north, up to the car route, and waited. The street was silent, as it should be at that hour, when honest folk are still in thei
r beds, but before long I heard the ringing of the rails and the great yellow lamp of the tramcar appeared through the mist, glowing like a monstrous eye, blue-white sparks spitting from the overhead lines as it turned the last corner.

  It is a great credit to the management of the Dundee, Broughty Ferry and District Tramways that their service is available to members of the public even at that early hour, for, by that means, working men can easily and cheaply reach their employment, even though it be at a great distance. Persons of quality are by no means too proud to use the cars, but if I wanted to find Andy’s little people they would be here, riding to another day of hard labour to earn their daily bread.

  The car clanged and juddered to a halt beside me and the conductor rattled the sliding doors back. Inside it was bright with electric light while the windows shone back, black and blank and gleaming with a chill silvering of November mist.

  The car was almost empty – just a handful of hunched figures under worn-out work clothes, bowed down with tiredness and the awful thought of another day of labour. They barely had the energy to look up when I came in, but I stood up to as much of my height as the wooden ceiling would allow and I called out: “I am Sergeant John Fraser of the Broughty Ferry Burgh Police. Is there anybody on this car who has any information about Miss Jean Milne?”

  I had no plan for what I might do if no one answered – get off and wait for the next car, I suppose – and there were no signs of stirring from all those grey, exhausted heaps of clothes, but, from up the stairs, a voice cried out: “Aye. Up here.”

  I climbed the stair and there, with his back to the wind, was a strongly built man smoking a pipe.

  “Are you not freezing up here?” I said.

  “I’ll be out all day in it. There’s no escaping it and I like my pipe.” He held out his hand. “James Urquhart.”

  “John Fraser. I know your face. Is it St Vincent Street you bide?”