“We will speak to them,” Mendick promised. “Now, Mrs Gordon, I would be obliged if you could tell me everything you know about the night of the murder.”
“I know where I was, if that is of any interest to you,” Johanna said. “I was at home with John,” she indicated the small boy who was busily engaged in unpicking the edge of the hearth rug with his fingernails. Johanna sighed and picked him up again.
“Were you aware of any unusual activity around the flat or the shop in the days previous to the murder?” Mendick felt a pang as he watched Johanna with her son, his daughter would have been about that age, had she lived. He pushed that thought away to concentrate on the matter in hand.
Johanna shook her head. “No more unusual than normal for that part of the world,” she said.
Mendick glanced at Sturrock, who was busy with his notebook. “This may sound a strange question, but have you seen a suspicious-looking seaman in Candle Lane? He may have been looking up at the flat?”
“The flat is only a few steps from Dock Street. There are hundreds of seamen passing every day.” Johanna’s smile brought life to her face. “And may I be permitted to ask you a question, Sergeant? Have you ever seen a seaman who did not look suspicious?”
Mendick could not help his own smile. “I have one final question.” Mendick said. “Does the name Rose mean anything to you? Do you know anyone of that name?”
Johanna shook her head. “I don’t recall anyone called Rose.”
Mendick stood up, “Thank you for your time, Mrs Gordon. I will leave you in peace now.” He glanced back as he left to see Johanna watching him with her head tilted to one side and a small smile twitching on her lips. He was still thinking of her as his cab pulled away. A dark brougham coach passed on the opposite side of the road and he noticed the curtain at the coach window move and a woman’s face peer out at him. She saw him, pulled her green cloak about her and closed the curtain again. He filed the incident away in his mind but said nothing. When he closed his eyes he saw Johanna’s smile.
“How did you get on with the workmen, Sturrock?” Mendick sat back at his desk, shuffled through the fresh pile of papers that had miraculously appeared since he was last there and took out his pipe. He sighed, he had not anticipated so much paperwork when he became a detective, sometimes he missed the simplicity of life on the beat.
“None of them were at the flat on the night of the murder,” Sturrock pulled his notebook from his pocket. “I checked on them and their stories seem firm.”
Mendick frowned. So was this a case of dead ends and mystery. He began to stuff tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “Did you learn anything?”
“Only fragments, Sergeant,” Sturrock consulted his notes. “I asked if anybody had been sneaking around the flat, and they said there had been a couple of people looking to rent it, a man and a woman, but separately. The workmen sent them to the factor and I had a word with him.”
“Did you get names and descriptions?” Mendick put down his pipe and added the information into his own notes.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Sturrock read out loud. “They were a Mr Robert Marmion and a Mrs Elizabeth Deacon. I could not find an address for Marmion: the one he gave the factor was false, but Mrs Deacon was genuine. A woman with three daughters, looking for a place to live.”
Mendick nodded; “Well done, Sturrock. Did you get a description for Marmion?”
“I tried,” Sturrock said, “but the factor could hardly remember him. He said Marmion was just a man with nothing out of the ordinary about him at all.”
“That’s not much help,” Mendick said. “Did you check out the factor as well? He will have access to the flat.”
“He is a very respectable gentleman,” Sturrock’s forehead puckered in confusion.
Mendick nodded. “I have no doubt he is, but I have known the most respectable gentlemen to be blackguards and scoundrels too. Go back and question him; find out where he was the night of the murder and if anybody else has access to the house.”
Mendick turned away, but Sturrock turned over a leaf of his notebook. “There was one other thing, Sergeant, that was a bit strange. Two of the workmen said the key to the front door had some white powder on it one day, two weeks ago. They thought it was the same day Marmion came but they were not sure.”
“White powder?” Mendick nodded. “It sounds as if the key was pressed into something. That’s an old trick: the thief makes an impression in china clay or some such and then makes a false key.” He scribbled that down. “It seems obvious that this Marmion fellow was involved in some way or other, Sturrock. Did the workmen give any clue as to what he looked like?”
“Only one remembered him at all,” Sturrock said, “and he described him as ordinary, with nothing distinctive to remember.”
Mendick nodded. “The same description as the factor gave. Marmion will not be an easy man to find then: a false name and no description. I’ll pass the name around but we’ll get nowhere.” He sighed, “Now let’s go through what we have so far. We have your notes from the interview, the statement by the surgeon, the bag of silver, the Rose tattoo and the rope ladder. Let’s see the surgeon’s report next.”
Mendick struggled to read the surgeon’s untidy script. “The surgeon thinks the man was eviscerated and the slices of flesh removed before he was killed.”
“He was tortured then?” Sturrock’s lip curled in disgust. “Maybe he eloped with China Jim’s sweetheart, or stole from him. Maybe he stole some money from him.”
“And the murderer kindly gave him a thirty shilling reward?” Mendick shook his head. “That bag of silver confuses me. I have never seen the like before.”
“Why are the coins all the same date? That cannot be a coincidence.” Sturrock re-checked the bag. “Somebody has gone to the trouble of collecting thirty coins all dated 1842 to leave with a dead man.”
Mendick nodded. “We agreed that the number of coins suggests it’s possible this unfortunate man was murdered for betraying somebody. I think the date is significant. Mr Mackay believes it could have a Chinese connection, maybe to do with the ending of the Chinese war in 1842. Now all we have to do is find out who Thoms betrayed and we will have our murderer.”
“It’s as easy as that?” Sturrock puffed blue smoke from his churchwarden pipe. “Was that all the surgeon had to say?”
“Not quite.” Mendick scanned the second paragraph twice. “I can’t quite believe this, Sturrock. Listen. The surgeon thinks he can identify the meat on the plate. He says it was human flesh.”
For a moment the only sound was the hammer of rain on the small window. “Dear God in heaven.” Sturrock lowered his pipe. “This case just gets worse.” He shook his head. “Are you saying China Jim is a cannibal?”
“There is worse to come,” Mendick tried to keep any emotion from his voice. “The surgeon is convinced the flesh was taken from the victim’s leg and cooked in the shop.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven,” Sturrock’s hand shook as he lifted his pipe. “We had better catch this monster quickly, Sergeant. So what exactly do we know about the unfortunate fellow who was murdered?”
Once again Mendick re-read his notes. Even augmented by the surgeon’s report they did not reveal much. “We know he was David Thoms and he rented and ran the Oriental Emporium. To judge by the poor quality of his clothing and the calluses on his hands, the man came from the labouring class of the population. He was in his mid to late thirties, with strong muscles in his arms and upper body but lesser development in his legs, and had a number of minor, healed scars that suggested an active life. That is not a great deal to go on,” Mendick said. “But we do have the tattoo.”
Mendick put his papers down. “Now, let’s put everything together. We have a murderer and cannibal in Dundee. We have a murdered man from the labouring class with a tattoo that says Rose. We have a ladder made by a seaman and a bag of thirty silver coins. That is what we know. We suspect there is a Chinese connection and there is t
he mysterious Mr Marmion who entered the flat above by a false key and who is definitely not Chinese.”
He rose from his seat and slipped on his Chesterfield. “It’s time to make ourselves known to the good people of Candle Lane.” He grabbed his rattan walking cane and tapped the lead-weighted end into the palm of his hand. “Come, Sturrock, get into your civilian clothes and let’s step out together, we have a murder to solve.”
Mendick did not expect to learn anything from the shifting population that infested Candle Lane but he intended to try. He walked cautiously, checking each doorway as he approached, but although this dockland area was unpleasant and every fourth person appeared to be a prostitute or a thief, there was little possibility of two large men being assaulted unless they provoked the inhabitants. They paced Dock Street, the Seagate and the lanes and wynds in between, knocking at doors, entering lodging houses, asking about David Thoms and enquiring if anybody had seen suspicious activity in Candle Lane. They got the same negative answers from overdressed dolly mops, unemployed labourers and seamen without a berth.
“I don’t know nothing. I never saw nothing.”
“I wasn’t looking out the window.”
“Maybe these people don’t believe we are police officers because we’re not in uniform,” Sturrock glanced over at Mendick in his battered hat and smart Chesterfield, with his cane rapping on the paved street. “You look like a gentleman out for a stroll, save for your hat.”
“These people know full well who and what we are,” Mendick told him. “And if there were a score of murders in broad daylight, they still would not have seen anything and would know nothing.”
“Sometimes I wonder why we even bother . . .” Sturrock began until Mendick stopped him with a gesture.
“Trust me in this, Sturrock, I understand nautical people. Now, the entire parish has seen us asking questions, correct?”
Sturrock nodded.
“So nobody will think it amiss if we ask another man what he has seen.” Mendick stopped outside the open door of a pub they had passed on two occasions. The sign, Greenland Inn, with a picture of a sailing ship against an icebound coast, hung above an open door. Although it was hardly past nine in the morning, the place was already buzzing, with men and women gathered around the tables and a swarm of children playing around their parents’ feet. Alone in one corner, an elderly red-faced man whined an interminable dirge, stopping occasionally to clutch his stomach and mutter something to himself.
“We’ve been here already,” Sturrock said.
“I know,” Mendick agreed. “And that blind beggar watched everything we did,” he pointed the tip of his cane at the man who slouched by the door.
Standing outside amidst a misery of rags that might once have been the proud scarlet of a soldier’s uniform, the beggar proffered his cap in which rattled a worn farthing and a thin piece of metal. The label tied around his neck proclaimed: Please Help a Blind old Soldier.
Mendick dropped a single penny into the cap. “There’s a shilling for you, my man.”
The beggar touched a hand to his forehead. “Thank you kindly, sir. You’re a gent, and there’s not many going around nowadays.”
“Talking of gents,” Mendick leaned against the wall at the beggar’s side, “my friend and I are searching for an old workmate of ours. His name is David Thoms and you might know him by the tattoo on his arm.”
The beggar shook his head. “I am blind, sir. I can’t see a tattoo.”
“Of course you are; please accept my apologies old man.” Mendick touched the man’s arm. “I am not scholar enough to have read your sign. Tell me, which regiment were you in?”
“Twenty-Ninth Foot, sir.” The beggar shuffled to a parody of attention and threw a salute that would have disgraced a first day Johnny Raw.
Mendick returned the salute and casually balanced his cane over his shoulder. “Ah the old Vein Openers, the two and a hook, the heroes of Mudki. You boys showed the Afghans, eh?”
“That we did, sir.” The beggar’s grin showed half a mouthful of yellow fangs. “We won that war all by ourselves.”
“Heroes all,” Mendick said. “I was in the Twenty-Sixth myself, the Camerons. Were we not brigaded together in the Punjab?”
“We were that, sir. I remember the Twenty-Sixth well.”
“Well, for an old soldier of the Twenty-Ninth, I must give more than a single coin.” Mendick reached into his pocket and hauled out a small handful of loose change, dropping two coins as he did so. Surreptitiously standing on one, he lifted the second and placed it in the beggar’s cap. “Well my friend, there’s a guinea somewhere around here, but I’m blessed if I can find it.” Touching his cane to the brim of his hat, he sauntered away, followed by a confused Sturrock.
“Walk slowly,” Mendick warned. “I want to watch that fellow.”
“The blind man?” Sturrock said, “He can’t help us, surely.”
“Don’t be so certain, Constable. That blind man sees more than most. Turn . . . now!”
He turned on his heel, just as the beggar snatched the coin from the ground. “Well spotted, Twenty-Ninth Foot!”
The beggar looked up. “It’s a bloody farthing, not a guinea . . .”
“And you can see as well as I can,” Mendick said. “Block him, Sturrock!”
The beggar jinked backward towards the pub but Sturrock was in his path, so he tried to weave sideways, slammed into Mendick’s outstretched arm and crashed to the ground. He began to roar for help until Mendick placed the tip of his cane on his windpipe and pressed.
“There’s none so blind as these who don’t want to see. Now keep quiet, Twenty-Ninth Foot,” he said, “or you won’t be able to breathe either.”
The beggar glared silent hatred. His eyes swivelled to the pub but with Sturrock’s mighty frame blocking the doorway, staff in hand and grin on face, none of the denizens dared come to his help.
Mendick applied slight pressure to his cane so the beggar gasped for breath. “Now, Twenty Ninth Foot; you are guilty of a number of crimes and offences. I will not list them all but the least of them is begging under false pretences, that is theft. That would mean a nice long stretch in jail. So you and I are going to have a little talk. Let’s find somewhere quiet, shall we?” Mendick looked at Sturrock. “We know the perfect place.”
“Indeed we do,” Sturrock agreed at once.
As they neared the shop in Candle Lane the beggar began to kick and struggle and Mendick clamped his arms around him to keep him still. The constable on guard at the door winked at Sturrock and then watched quietly.
The beggar pulled back. “Christ! Not in there! Don’t take me in there!”
“What’s the matter? You’re a big brave soldier, are you not? Wounded in the service of your country, remember?” Mendick nodded to the constable to open the door and wrestled the beggar inside, where the smell of damp clothing and raw blood waited. “Come on, soldier boy and don’t be afraid. We’ll take good care of you!”
Mendick hauled the beggar inside and the constable quietly closed the door at their back. Sturrock lit the gas but, if anything, the flickering light only emphasised the surrounding dark.
“You can’t do this to a blind old soldier . . .” the beggar began. Mendick rapped him on the head with his cane.
“Firstly, you are not blind. You failed my farthing test. Second, you are no old soldier, you failed on every point: the Twenty-Ninth were not present at the Battle of Mudki, the Twenty-Ninth fought the Sikhs not the Afghans, the Twenty-Sixth are the Cameronians, not the Cameron Highlanders and the Twenty-Sixth and Twenty-Ninth were never brigaded together.”
The beggar exchanged his whining for a bout of cursing. “You devious bastards!”
“That’s us,” Mendick told him. “I am Detective Sergeant Mendick of Scotland Yard and the Dundee Police. The gentleman with me is Constable Sturrock. We are going to ask you some questions and you are going to answer them quietly and truthfully, or . . .” he bounced his c
ane on the top of the beggar’s head again. “Or this interview might become less pleasant.”
“You bastard!”
“We already agreed on that,” Mendick told him. “Is your habitual stance outside that pub?” He poised the cane above the beggar’s head.
“Yes.” The man’s eyes swivelled, following the cane.
“That wasn’t too hard, was it?” Mendick left the cane in position. “And your name is?”
There was a short hesitation. “Jones. James Jones.”
Mendick brought the cane down hard and the beggar yelped and winced. “Now try your real name.”
“John Hitchins, you bastard!”
“See? Tell the truth and there’s no pain, is that not much easier?” Mendick lifted the cane again. “Right, John Hitchins, the civilian with two working eyes. I think you know everything that happens around here because nobody will hide from a man who cannot see. Correct?”
Hitchins opened his mouth, hesitated and nodded. “I know more than most,” he agreed sourly.
“Then tell us all you know about what happened in here. Tell us all about the man who was murdered in this room.”
Hitchins’ eyes swivelled upwards to where the cane was poised above his head. “His name was Davie Thoms. He ran the oriental shop selling rubbish and acting as a pawnbroker. He was just a man trying to make a living.” Hitchins shrugged. “That’s all I know about him.”
Mendick allowed the cane to fall. Hitchins yelled and tried to protect his head.
“Try again,” Mendick advised. “A man like you watches everyone and listens to everything. Tell me about Thoms.”
Hitchins swore but as Mendick raised his cane he started to talk again. “I know he was a seaman but that’s all. He came shore-side a few years back and tried a job in the quarry at Kingoodie, but the gunpowder blew out his eardrums so he rented his shop. I swear that’s all I know.”
Mendick stored away the information. “Thank you, soldier boy. That may be of use. Was he on long haul voyages? Perhaps to China?”
“I don’t know.” Hitchins said, and yelled as the cane cracked down once more. “I don’t know, I tell you!” He flinched as the cane poised once more. “You can bullyrag me all year, Sergeant, but I still can’t tell what I don’t know.”
A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders Page 5