A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders

by Malcolm Archibald

  Mendick nodded. He was not surprised that Gordon had been an opium smuggler in the China Seas. He had seen opium clippers in harbour in Hong Kong. Long, low, raking craft with smooth lines, built for speed. He had admired them for their seamanship but, when he had been a soldier of the queen, he had not thought twice about the morals of their occupation.

  “Thank you, Miss Louise. You have been most helpful.”

  He looked at the clock, “I really ought to be on my way now, thank you for your hospitality . . .”

  “Oh, Sergeant Mendick, you have only just arrived.” Ignoring Mendick’s protests, Mrs Leslie insisted on showing off her house. He spent an uncomfortable hour on a guided tour, from the comfortable withdrawing room to the door of the private chapel at the rear of the house, although Mrs Leslie did not take him inside, as it “was not seemly unless it is the Lord’s Day.” Only then was he allowed away, with Mrs Leslie rousing James, the handyman and coachman, from his quarters in the basement with orders to take Mendick home.

  “Here we are then, sir.” James seemed not in the least put out by having to take Mendick across half the town at one o’clock on a wet morning. He pulled up the gig outside the High Street tenement where Mendick lodged, tipped back his hat and opened the door. “You be careful how you go now, sir.” He looked into the darkened close, “Would you like me to accompany you, in case a blackguard may be prowling?”

  Mendick shook his head. “Thank you, James, I am but one flight up. I am sure I can make it.” He gestured to the pedestrians who slouched past, cowering from the wet. “This street is busy at any hour of the day, so there is plenty of help at hand.”

  “Aye, aye, sir, as you say,” James touched a hand to the brim of his hat. He watched Mendick enter the close, flicked the reins and rumbled away.

  When Mendick looked out of his window he saw the woman in the green cloak; she was standing in a shop doorway directly opposite his flat, staring upward.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mandarin House stood within a large well-tended garden just outside the planned village of Newtyle, where the smiling fields of Strathmore stretched from the flanks of the Sidlaw hills across to the distant Angus Glens. Mendick turned the hired gig through the pillars of the front gate and pulled up in front of the door. He waited for a second as the dust settled around him and the horse stamped within its harness, then mounted the two steps to the front door. The square pilasters reached to an austere pediment that guarded the arched door itself, while birdsong sweetened the sky.

  Mendick grunted; he thought of the weeping villages he had seen in China, where men lay in the slow death of opium addiction, and agriculture and work was neglected in favour of the drug. That horror had been caused by the owner of this property and men of his type. Louise had been right to term him evil, but she had only seen the shadow of his crime, never the full appalling reality or the contrast between the palaces of those who profited from opium and the misery of those who suffered the effects. Mendick pulled the black knob of the bell and listened to the rapid patter of a servant’s feet.

  An aroma of oriental spices wafted towards him as the door opened.

  “Yes?” The servant was small and obviously unimpressed by Mendick. “Tradesmen use the back entrance.”

  “Do they indeed?” Mendick pushed the man aside with his cane and stepped inside without being invited. “Pray inform your master that Sergeant Mendick of the Dundee Police is here to see him.”

  “Sergeant Mendick of the Dundee Police?” The servant looked Mendick up and down as if he was something unpleasant he had stepped on in the fields.

  “And be quick about it,” Mendick put the edge of authority in his voice. He looked around, tapping his cane against his leg.

  The outer hallway was decorated like a miniature Chinese palace, with a pair of man-sized urns immediately within the door and quilted wallpaper with dragon designs covering the walls. A large Chinese throne squatted in one corner.

  “Mendick?” Gordon carried a Purdey shotgun broken over his shoulder as he pattered down the stairs. “What the devil are you doing inside my house?”

  “I am about to ask you why you did not tell me you were an opium trader in China,” Mendick tapped his cane against the nearest urn, “and have brought half the country back with you.”

  “My business has nothing to do with you, Mendick,” Gordon inserted a cartridge into the breach of his shotgun and snapped the weapon shut.

  Mendick rapped the barrel of the gun with his cane. “I sincerely hope you are not carrying that weapon to threaten me, sir?”

  “I have no need to threaten in my own house, Mendick.” Gordon said. “A house to which you were not invited and which I demand you leave.”

  “We are searching for a man who calls himself China Jim,” Mendick ignored Gordon’s outburst, “and you seem best qualified for that title.” He indicated the Chinese memorabilia that decorated the house.

  “How dare you, Mendick,” Gordon moved his shotgun but did not point it towards Mendick. “I am a gentleman!”

  “Indeed, sir, but even that does not necessarily mean you are honest.” Mendick kept his voice even. He fought the surge of anger he always felt when faced with the high-handedness of self-proclaimed gentlemen. He knew gentlemen liked to believe their position made them invulnerable, but he had dealt with embezzlers and card sharks from all walks of society and saw nothing special about presumed gentility. “I would seek permission to search your house, sir.” He watched Gordon’s face flush with fury.

  “Get out!” Gordon’s hands twitched on his shotgun.

  Mendick kept his cane poised to deflect the barrel.

  “It would be easier for us both if you were to agree, sir, else I have to obtain a magistrate’s warrant and return with a group of uniformed constables.” He tapped his cane on the wall, just below a shelf on which stood an intricate jade chalice from the Ming dynasty. “Could you imagine their great clumsy boots clattering around your beautiful house?”

  “Good God, Mendick! Do you think you can threaten me with your bully boy tactics? Do you know who I am?”

  “At present, Mr Gordon, you may be a murder suspect.” Mendick told him. “Do you wish me to leave and return with a platoon of police? Or shall I stay and search your house on my own, quietly and without fuss?” He helped Gordon ponder his choices by tapping his cane around the priceless artefacts in the hall.

  “Damn you, Mendick,” Gordon said at last, “search if you must, but be assured I will put in a strong word with your superior.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Mendick gave an ironic bow. “My superior’s name is Donald Mackay. I am sure he will be pleased to hear from you.”

  Mandarin House was not a huge mansion but every room was more splendid than the last, all decorated with Chinese art and crammed with Chinese artefacts. Mendick walked around slowly, not sure what he was looking for and more concerned with unsettling Gordon than finding anything incriminating.

  “Well?” Gordon followed him step for step, “See anything, Mendick?”

  “Not a thing, sir,” Mendick said.

  He glanced in the bedroom − a man’s room without a doubt. The large, plain bed sat squarely in the centre of the room, on bare, polished floorboards. The walls were of panelled wood, with three hunting prints for decoration, a leather armchair in one corner and not a single piece of Chinese artwork in the room.

  There was nothing of Johanna. No dressing table, no mirror, no female fripperies and not a single scrap of feminine clothing. There was no reciprocal bedroom for Johanna, or for John. It was as if Gordon’s wife and child did not exist. He lived a bachelor’s life in this grand house, and they lived their life in Unicorn Cottage.

  The gun room hosted an impressive display of firearms, with shotguns sitting beside the latest rifles and smoothbore sporting pieces by Joseph Manton of London. The wine cellar was stacked with barrels of port, sherry and French wines, with brandy and gin in reserve.

  “No whis
ky?” Mendick rapped the nearest barrel with his cane.

  Gordon snorted. “Not unless I purchase it from the Scouringburn Distillery, which is rotgut, or from some glorified shebeen keeper. I really wish you people would do something about that.”

  Mendick grunted, “I will be sure and mention it to Mr Mackay, Mr Gordon but at present we are a trifle too busy to concern ourselves with the supply of your whisky.”

  “It’s a damned inconvenience, Mendick.” Gordon poured himself a brandy and swallowed it in one gulp.

  Mendick nodded. “I am sure Mr Mackay will act immediately. We can’t have you inconvenienced by a mere murder. Just one point, Mr Gordon,” Mendick stopped at the head of the stairs, beside a life-sized statue of a Buddha. “You told me you spent the night of the murder at home with your wife, yet there is no trace of her here. She does not live with you. Could you explain that to me?” He held Gordon’s eye.

  “My domestic arrangements are my own concern,” Gordon said.

  “You were alone in the house then, on that night.” Mendick said. “Now, if you will just show me your stables, I will leave you for the present.”

  There were six horses in the stable block. Four were thoroughbred, fine, blood horses for riding and hunting. The remaining two were carriage horses used for drawing the black brougham that sat just within the arched doorway of the principal stable.

  “The men who murdered Mr Thoms travelled in a brougham,” Mendick said. He replaced his hat.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Gordon. You may depend on me to further pursue this investigation, and I may well return later.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “So there we have it,” Mendick sat on top of his desk and addressed Sturrock and Deuchars. “We are slowly gathering a great deal of information, but none of it seems to make sense.”

  Deuchars fingered his scar. “We keep hearing about this China Jim fellow, Sergeant, but nobody knows anything about him. We don’t even know what he does or what he looks like. How the devil are we to find a man nobody knows anything about?”

  “Well,” Mendick said, “let’s see what we have got and maybe one of us will spot a connection.”

  Deuchars sighed and slumped into a chair. “On you go then, Sergeant.”

  Mendick lit his pipe. “We have a tenuous link between two of the people who may be involved. They both have names from Walter Scott’s novels, so they may be pseudonyms for the same man. We also know that Gordon owns a brougham and had an extensive connection with China.”

  “Scott’s novels?” Deuchars snorted. “Of course, you know that Gilbride names all his ships after Scott’s characters? Hence the Waverley Whale Fishing Company, after the Waverley Novels.”

  Mendick thought of the young businessman with the bad leg and the lack of witnesses the night of the murder. “In that case we should interview Gilbride again. We also know Gordon hid information from us but that just makes him an uncooperative fellow rather than a murderer.”

  Deuchars grunted. “Now there’s a gentleman I would love to see locked away for a very long time.” He shrugged. “It seems that both Gordon and Gilbride are suspects: neither have witnesses to support them on the day of either murder.”

  “The only man who has is Leslie,” Mendick said. “He was with me.”

  “Mendick,” Superintendent Mackay pushed quietly into the room, “I am sorry to break up your conference but China Jim has done it again, and this time he’s killed a soldier.” His eyes were bleak. “Here are the details,” he handed over a single sheet of foolscap and raised his voice. “Now get out there, gentlemen, and for Heaven’s sake sort things out! The last thing we need is trouble with the army.”

  “Another one?” Mendick sighed and reached for his hat. “Dear God. Is this monster determined to kill everyone in this town?” He nodded to Sturrock and Deuchars. “Right, lads, let’s step out together now.”

  Dundee Law rose five hundred feet above the town, a landmark for seamen and a guardian for the spreading tenements beneath. In summer it was bright and clear, with views across the Firth of Tay to Fife and around to the Sidlaw hills, but on this spring morning of howling wind it was cold and stark and unforgiving. Mendick stopped for a second to gather his thoughts. He gazed over Dundee, seeing a panorama of blue-grey tenement roofs and tall factory chimneys. The whim of the wind gusted smoke eastward towards Broughty or south towards the silver-grey sheen of the Tay, where the ships waited with furled sails for the weather to improve.

  “Let’s hope this one’s not as bad as the last.” Deuchars grunted his doubt. “Wee Donny said it was China Jim’s work, so don’t expect anything pretty.”

  They walked the final few steps and stopped. The latest victim had been killed in the open and his remains spread across the southern slopes of the hill. A dozen policemen guarded the spot, holding their tall hats firmly against the assault of the gale and with their faces closed against shock and disgust. Mendick tried to envisage what had happened up here, and when. A killing in this wild and windy place was unusual, it was unlikely to be a drunken brawl or an argument between a man and his wife.

  Within the circle of uneasy policeman, what was left of the victim lay in the usual hideous mess of blood and flesh. A few yards outside the circle, a hostile group of soldiers and bystanders were hunched under the battering storm.

  “Aye, there’s plenty bluebottles now,” a scarlet-coated soldier glowered at Mendick through poisonous eyes. “What were they doing when the lad was being murdered? Sitting in the warmth drinking drams, that’s what.”

  When Sturrock turned to face the soldier Mendick took his elbow and hustled him onward. “You can’t argue with a frightened and angry man,” he said, “particularly when he’s wearing a scarlet jacket.”

  “What was the victim’s name?” Sturrock asked.

  “David Torrie,” Mendick said, “He was a private soldier.”

  “You’d better catch him, coppers,” a saturnine corporal shouted. “Or we bloody will!”

  “Oh my eye!” Sturrock looked away, “this one is even worse!”

  Mendick nodded. As before, the man had been stripped stark naked but this time he retained all his limbs. His intestines had been neatly removed and the now-expected linen bag placed in the bloody cavity. There was a piece of what looked like bone placed on his forehead.

  “What sort of man would do that?” Sturrock shook his head. “We’re dealing with a monster here, not a man.”

  “I do not know what sort of man,” Mendick said quietly. “But there are some terrible people out there.” He knelt beside the victim and lifted the bone. He pointed to the silhouette of a woman’s face that was carved on one side. “I wonder if her name was Rose,” he said.

  “Do you think this was the work of a jealous lover?” Sturrock examined the face. “Not much to look at is she? She looks foreign anyway. Look at the shape of her eyes.”

  “Chinese, perhaps,” Mendick said, “a Chinese Rose?” He ran his thumb over the object. “I don’t think that’s bone though. What do you make of it, Deuchars?”

  Deuchars took one glance. “It’s scrimshaw work, Sergeant, baleen from a whale’s mouth. Lots of the old Arctic hands do it, but I’ve never seen it on a soldier before.”

  Mendick stared at the face in the carving. “So this may be Rose. This woman may be the cause of three murders. One thing’s certain. China Jim did not leave this here for nothing. It’s a message.”

  “Aye, Sergeant. Either for us or for somebody else.” Sturrock said. “Maybe he is warning the criminal class that he is top dog and they had better behave themselves.” He looked downhill at the growing crowd. The noise was increasing. “Do we have any more details of Torrie?”

  “Not many.” Mendick re-read the piece of paper Mackay had handed him. “He was a new recruit, he’d only been in uniform for three weeks.”

  “Only three weeks?” Deuchars frowned. “He’s a bit old for a Johnnie Raw isn’t he? He must be five and thirty if h
e’s a day. The army are really dragging the bottom of the barrel now.” He turned the body over. “Sergeant! Look at this.”

  Mendick looked closer. Both Torrie’s thighs and buttocks were mutilated with great chunks of flesh hacked off and the remainder punctured and torn in the same manner as he had seen with Thoms and Milne. “It looks like he’s been chewed. Those are teeth marks or I’m as Chinese as Jim.” He shivered. “What in God’s name are we dealing with here?”

  “A monster,” Sturrock took a deep breath. “I always hoped to be involved in a murder case, Sergeant, but I never expected anything like this.”

  “It’s no monster, constable,” Mendick tipped out the bag. As expected, there were thirty silver shillings all dated 1842. “Just a very evil man.”

  “We had better catch him then,” Sturrock said quietly. He tapped his fingers on the haft of his staff, suddenly looking very much older than his twenty-one years.

  “We need to ascertain why China Jim selected these particular victims. The bags of silver would tell us a lot if only I could work it out, and I suspect this woman Rose is at the crux of the matter. Maybe she was China’s girl and she betrayed him.” Mendick examined the scrimshaw again, the woman’s face was enigmatic; she seemed to mock him.

  “With three different men?” Deuchars shook his head. “She’s not the sort of woman I want to have anything to do with, then.”

  “Nor I,” Mendick agreed. He tucked the scrimshaw inside his pocket. “I want to know why Torrie joined the army, and I want to know if he was out alone and where he was going. I also want to know where he was in 1842.”

  The bottle landed beside them with a soft thud, followed by a stone. While they had been inspecting Torrie’s body, more soldiers had arrived and now there were about fifty with the crowd still increasing; some in regimental scarlet, others in shirtsleeves, but all uniformly angry. Their voices came in fitful snatches, partly carried away by the now dying wind.