“So there you are, Miss Campbell. Mrs Luke thinks she could spare you and it would be perfectly safe. You would be accompanied at all times, I’d ensure that, and you would have a room of your own in the hotel, with all your meals found. Of course you would have to confront the man directly, in an identification parade, but I can promise you it would be perfectly safe. Officers would be constantly on hand to ensure your safety. He wouldn’t dare say ‘Boo’ to you and it would only take a moment. There would be plenty of time for taking in the sights of our great Imperial capital, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, the Houses of Parliament, maybe even visit to a music hall.”
“That sounds nice, doesn’t it, Maggie?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“But, you see, Miss Campbell, there would be very little point in taking you to London and very little point in burdening the ratepayers of Broughty Ferry with the costs of your journey, the railway tickets, your hotel bills, all your keep, unless,” Mr Sempill tapped the photograph with his finger, “unless you feel, in your heart of hearts, that seeing this man, face to face, might somehow clear your recollection.”
Maggie sat for a moment, balanced on the very edge of Mrs Luke’s sofa, looking hard at Warner’s picture, his face reflected in the angled mirrors, his hands, those terrible hands, and tried to imagine him in evening dress, walking amongst the shrubbery, a cigar between his lips.
“It could be the man,” she said.
“Are you sure, Maggie? Bear always in mind the ninth commandment.”
“Nearly sure, Ma’am. I think, if I saw him face to face, I could be certain sure.”
“Of course you could, Miss Campbell. Of course you could. I will make all the necessary arrangements.”
“Thank you, sir.” And then, remembering her place and the two or three days she would be away, she said: “Ma’am.”
“That’s all settled then, ladies,” said the Chief Constable. “Thank you so much.” He made his polite farewells and went to leave, and a moment later Maggie was closing the door behind him. But she did not return to her place in the kitchen, for the bell from the sitting room was ringing again.
“Yes, Ma’am?”
“More coal on the fire, Maggie. I think it’s growing a little chilly.”
29
WHO COULD SAY a harsh word against poor Maggie Campbell? Perched there on the edge of her employer’s sofa, under the very gaze of Mr Sempill, with her mistress willing her on to come to a decision and the offer of a jaunt to London dangled like a jewel before her eyes, is it any wonder she wavered? Which of us would have stayed strong in such a circumstance?
And if Mr Sempill could bend a fine young lassie like Maggie Campbell to his will, how much more easily could he impose himself upon the others?
James Don the bin man boasted that there was not a man in the Ferry he did not know at least by sight, which was not surprising since he had hardly been furth of the burgh in all his days.
Imagine the temptation to a man like that, a man who regarded a trip on the cars to Dundee as high adventure and a crossing on the Tay ferries as something akin to uncovering the source of the Nile. Mr Sempill judged that there could be but one response when he was offered the chance to travel to the greatest city on earth, completely free of charge. He was not even asked to lie but only that he should be rather more firm in the opinions he already held. Mr Sempill was right.
And then there were the McIntosh sisters, Ina and Jessie, in their little cottage along the beach. They were like any other working lassies with barely two pennies to rub together at the end of each week. If they ever hoped to marry they would do it on the last day of the year, because New Year’s Day was the only holiday they could expect. Just imagine what they must have thought when Mr Sempill offered them three days away from the screaming noise and dust of the mill, three whole days away from the stink of the bleachfields. A three days’ holiday in the capital, at no charge and no loss of wages, with the manager’s permission and their jobs held open for them when they returned – what an adventure – and the understanding was clear: they would not be asked to lie. Of course they agreed at once that a good look at the man in the picture might help them towards a more definite decision.
John Wood the gardener, the man who opened the door to the strange caller, was as unwilling to be bought and sold for Mr Sempill’s visit to London as he had been for Miss Milne’s two-shilling tip. But he was so consumed with guilt that he required no further persuasion. The thought that he might in some small way atone for his part in Miss Milne’s death, and, worse, the destruction of her reputation, was sufficient inducement.
Some of the others, the working men who offered their evidence from the tramcar, were marked down in the Chief Constable’s notebook as “not required on the voyage”, and the pedlar Andy Hay was regarded by Mr Sempill as too fragrant for the journey unless the ratepayers went to the expense of getting him a carriage of his own, preferably one with an open top and at the very back of the train. But even without Andy Hay, the Chief Constable had a jolly party ready for his new London trip and he looked forward to it eagerly, as a visit to the capital now held no terrors for him and he regarded himself as a highly experienced traveller – the sort who could hail a cab in Trafalgar Square without a second thought, and if he could do that, what could he not do? Why, shooting tigers from the back of an elephant would be small beer to our Mr Sempill from now on; indeed he would probably think nothing of shooting elephants from the back of a tiger if the circumstances called for it.
He was delighted with his efforts and, I am sure, still more delighted when, to my vexation, the Saturday papers were full of our business once again, just as I expected.
IS MISS MILNE’S ASSAILANT UNDER LOCK AND KEY?
* * *
Witnesses See Photograph of Man Sentenced for Minor Offence,
* * *
Who Answers Description of Suspect Seen Haunting Elmgrove.
* * *
MISS MILNE’S OPEN HYMN-BOOK ON ORGAN AT ELMGROVE
Beneath that there was a photographic illustration of the drawing room at Elmgrove, where there was a substantial pipe organ in a corner next to the fireplace. Miss Milne’s velvet curtains, her patterned wallpaper, the elegant gas lamps, her pictures, her chairs, a tall vase of dried grasses on a shelf on the front of the organ – all displayed to every gawker who cared to look. Even the contents of her music stand were exposed to public view.
O to awake from death’s short sleep
Like the flowers from a wintry grave
Thy name, Lord be adored:
And to rise, all glorious in the day
When Christ shall come to save!
Glory to the Lord.
O to dwell in that happy land
Where the heart cannot choose but sing
Thy name, Lord, be adored:
And where the life of the blessed ones
Is a beautiful, endless spring!
Glory to the Lord.
Far from regarding this intrusion almost as a blasphemy, the journalists of the Weekly News appeared to think they had uncovered a valuable insight.
These verses, the concluding two verses from a beautiful hymn in the Scottish Church Hymnary, were observed by detectives who made a search of Elmgrove, the mansion house where Miss Jean Milne was mysteriously murdered. The hymn book was open at Hymn No. 490 which was a favourite hymn with Miss Milne, who was frequently heard singing it to her own accompaniment on the organ in her drawing room. The photograph shows a corner of the drawing room with the organ and hymn book open as they were left by the lady on the day she met her death.
It seemed the readers of the Weekly News were intended to take some solace from these circumstances, as if the dreadful hammer blows raining down upon Jean Milne’s head until her skull split and her brains poured out were somehow softened by the fact that she had been singing of the life to come only a short while before.
Quite obviously, that photograph could not have
been obtained without the permission of the police. You will not be surprised to learn that this infuriated me, but I was astonished to discover that, in ways I had not expected, it saddened Mr Trench. After all, it was Mr Trench who had cooperated so fully with the papers only the week before, because he believed it his duty as an essential part of modern policing. Now, it seemed, he regretted ever beginning.
“Look at this,” he said. “How many men are there in Dundee – householders who might be called to sit on a jury? Now every single one of them has been advised that our suspect has something less than an unblemished record. That taints their judgement. That turns them against him before we even begin. And they have been told he resembles the wanted man. That is a matter of evidence. That’s a matter for a witness to stand up in the box and swear to before God. That’s a matter for cross-examination. It’s a matter for the jury to decide, and they have already been told their opinion by the News.”
Mr Trench sat at one side of the police office, reading the paper, and I sat at the other doing the same, and I surmised from his many huffs and groans when he had reached some particularly annoying section of the article.
“Have you seen this, Fraser? Have you seen this? Damn them.” Mr Trench began to read aloud.
It is not unknown that a person after committing such a serious offence as murder has, in order to throw suspicion off himself, committed a minor offence in a different district in the belief that prison is the last place the police would look for a wanted man.
“So, now he’s not only a petty criminal, but he is so sly and cunning that he has committed his petty crime for the sole purpose of hiding his guilt as a murderer. This is an outrage! If we ever bring this man back to Broughty Ferry we may as well string him up from a lamp post at the railway station. Why bother with the formalities, let’s just get it done.”
There was a good deal more muttering and then: “They know all about the business with his shirt. Every damned detail!”
And then:
Chief Constable Sempill applied for and obtained permission to have the man officially photographed.
“Hurrah for Chief Constable Sempill.”
It is probable that the witnesses may proceed to London to confront the original of the photograph.
“Oh it’s probable, is it? I’d say it was highly bloody likely. Well, that’s just grand. If there’s anybody who has not been corrupted by the newspaper, a trip to London should do the job.” And then, with a great sigh, he said: “It’s come to this.”
“What will you do?” I said.
“What’ll I do? I’m damned well going with them.”
30
BROON AND SUTTIE were at the station to see the party off and ensure there were no unpleasant intrusions by over-enthusiastic reporters. I was not there, but they must have seen me as they left on the train, even if they never knew it. I suppose I must have seen them. I saw their train, at least. Standing out at the end of the Pilot’s Pier I could see the whole world.
I like the Pilot’s Pier. It has a charm about it. Certainly the lamp posts bear the stamp of Dundee Harbour Trust, but that is forgivable. It is they who bear the costs of the Tay Pilot and the upkeep of the pier. We in Broughty Ferry choose to regard the pier as a small territorial concession for the greater good, an embassy, if you will, from the great city state of Dundee to our own little burgh. Ships from all over the world come to our river, and if, for the price of that small concession, the first man they meet is a Ferry man, then that is all to the good. Also it gives the laddies a place to fish.
I often go there and drink deep of the clean sea winds, pondering where they came from, what wonders they have seen. It is a good place to stand. When a man wants to feel the stars turning through the heavens and have the dust of old age blown out of his trouser cuffs, he might find a worse place to do it than the Pilot’s Pier.
If I look to my left, to the east, there is the castle and a sky full of boiling, racing clouds, the sound of chattering, clattering, yammering gulls calling and calling to each other, the waves, as blue black as my uniform, all the way to the edge of the world, the very edge of the world, where they break in a standing line of foam across the bar, and a distant lighthouse looking out still further, beyond the edge of the world to a new horizon I cannot see, a great broad, blue sweep of forever bounded on the south by forest and hills and then a few houses and then a few more, growing denser as my gaze turns west, more and more of them, the closer they get to the railway bridge.
That bridge has been a way of escape for many of Dundee’s more prosperous citizens – those not fortunate enough to find a refuge in Broughty Ferry. The bridge leads all the way from the black, stinking, smoking heart of Dundee, far across the river until it comes out clean on the other side, away from the dirt, away from the smells, away from poverty and disease and drunkenness and poor souls piled one on top of another as if packed away in the filing cabinets of Hell.
I was there on the Pilot’s Pier that day when Mr Sempill and Mr Trench and their little party left for London. I saw their train puffing across the bridge, its ragged scarf of smoke blown to lace through the grey steel girders. I watched it all the way, not quite able to see it, so far off was it, but knowing it was there, and if they had cared to look down the river, they might have seen me too, a tiny dot in the landscape, unrecognisable as a man, but there anyway.
The day the old bridge fell, the one that blew down in a gale when I was a boy and carried a train and all its passengers to their doom, that was the last time we saw such a plague of reporters in the burgh, scribbling down their notes and making their sketches as we picked over the broken flotsam on the beach. Poor, mad McGonagall, who thought himself a poet and went door to door selling his ballads, was moved to write of the disaster. “The stronger that we our houses do build, the less chance we have of being killed.” That was what he said, and whatever your view of his writing style, you could not fault him in his philosophy.
The new bridge has stayed up. It is, they say, the longest railway bridge over tidal waters anywhere in the world, an outward and visible sign of mankind’s dominion over the forces of nature – but they said that about the last one. They said it about the Titanic. We have no dominion. We live our whole lives on the edge of a cliff. Did Jean Milne not prove that?
And I knew those on board the train with Mr Sempill would not be watching to see Sergeant John Fraser waving them off. Instead they would be peering from their windows for the peculiar thrill of seeing the stumps of the old bridge and laughing and giggling and wondering if they would make it over, laughing and dancing on the edge of the cliff, like the rest of us.
I wonder how long it was, after the train vanished into the southern hills, before the terrible truth of their situation began to dawn on them and they realised they were captives in a railway carriage and their three days’ holiday would be spent – for the most part – trapped inside a rattling, jolting box. After an hour, perhaps, when they reached the Forth Bridge, still mightier and grander than our own? Or half an hour later when they passed under the feet of Edinburgh Castle, high up on its rock above the city, so much larger and stronger than our little castle dabbling its toes in the harbour? Or when they had to gather up all their traps and baggage and get off and race across the platform to change trains and wait, because the train was not there? Then they might begin to think how long they had travelled, how far they had come from their quiet homes and yet they had barely even begun.
And what did they speak of all through the endless hours to London? The McIntosh girls had each other, of course. That would have made the journey easier. They had spent their lives sharing a bed, so they could at least stretch out their limbs in the cramped carriage without fear of intruding upon a stranger, but sometimes a constant intimacy can rob us of conversation. There is nothing new to be said. It must be as true for sisters as it is for married couples.
Maggie Campbell would befriend them and Mr Trench knew how to be charming, but
Broughty Ferry burgh cleansing department is not known to engage its bin men and street sweepers for their conversational skills, Wood the gardener was gloomy and unbending, and Mr Sempill, well, Mr Sempill was Mr Sempill. He might play the part of jovial uncle for a while, but he had a heart of teak and all the dignity you would expect of the Chief Constable of Broughty Ferry. He would be no company at all for young lassies.
There would be refreshments on the way, no doubt. Smart girls like that – raised without servants to wipe their noses – would have thought to take something with them, and no doubt James Don had a bottle of beer in his pocket. Both pockets. Mr Sempill may even have treated them to a cup of tea and a bun during the long stop at York while they changed engines – being careful, of course, to obtain a receipt. But York was only halfway there and the newspapers and the magazines they bought would be squeezed dry ten minutes after they left the station. Oh, but it would be a long and weary journey, and the darkness would come down by the middle of the afternoon, so even the passing scenery would cease to provide any diversion.
Maybe they came to regret their bargain. They must have wondered if a day skivvying for Mrs Luke or tending a loom in the mill or manhandling bales of soaking linen might not have been better than sitting on those hard seats for the best part of a day. The hours must have dragged all the way into London, and by the time they arrived it would be too dark to see anything but the inside of their hotel and their beds.
But the McIntosh sisters did not sleep well. They had never passed a night alone in their own bed and now they were severed completely, sent to separate rooms, each with its own fireplace, each its own washstand, its own rug on the floor, pictures on the walls, a vast wardrobe filled with nothing but coat hangers that rattled in every draught.
The Secret Life and Curious Death of Miss Jean Milne Page 18