A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders

by Malcolm Archibald

  “Hey, bluebottles! Why haven’t you caught the beast yet?”

  “You buggers are useless! If you can’t catch him, we’ll get him ourselves.”

  They pushed forward, angry young men who had learned about the murder of one of their own, all searching for someone to blame. Another stone bounced from the scrubby spring grass and the noise rose as the soldiers encouraged each other. The police line withdrew as the soldiers advanced. Mendick frowned. “Sturrock. Run to West Bell Street and warn the Superintendent there’s trouble brewing. We might need reinforcements.” He frowned. “Top speed, man! I’ve seen redcoats on the batter before. It’s not a pretty sight.”

  A small shirt-sleeved soldier swaggered forward, thrust his thumbs into his braces and faced Mendick.

  “Are you in charge here?” When Mendick nodded he said, “We want to know who murdered Torrie and why you haven’t done something about it, eh?”

  The crowd was now sixty or seventy strong, mostly soldiers. While some were probably out officially from Dudhope Castle barracks a mere quarter mile away to the south, Mendick suspected others were absent without leave, men who were already in trouble and careless of causing more. Voices rose to support the small man.

  “Aye, why haven’t you done something about it? Who killed Davie Torrie eh?”

  “Why isn’t this Chinese beggar hanging from a rope, eh?”

  “We want China Jim!”

  The faces were angry, confused, some flushed with drink, some fearful and staring towards the mutilated corpse. As the noise increased, Mendick took another step forward.

  “Calm down now, men,” he shouted. “Show some consideration for poor Mr Torrie here!”

  “Consideration! If you bastards had any consideration for us you’d have caught the monster by now!”

  “Aye! Maybe it’s you who should show consideration!”

  Holding his staff high, Mendick took a third step forward to show he was not afraid. He was now a full five yards in front of the police line and wondered if he could withdraw to safety before the soldiers caught him. The prospect of being kicked to pieces by iron-shod army boots was unappealing.

  “I assure you that we are doing everything we can to trace this killer.”

  “Was it China Jim?” A large and muscular redcoat joined his shirt-sleeved companion. “If it was China Jim, why have you not got him under lock and key?”

  “We are following lines of enquiry,” Mendick attempted to sound confident. “And that is all I can say just now.”

  “It was that bloody China Jim again,” a small man with a neat moustache said. He had the olive complexion of long service in the East and eyes hard enough to drill through granite. A blue-tinged scar on his left arm revealed he had been in a gunpowder explosion at some time. “We’ll get the bugger!”

  “No!” Again Mendick brandished the official staff. “You cannot take the law into your own hands. If you want to help then return quietly to the barracks and let us get on with our job. Every soldier who knew David Torrie will be questioned by a police officer and can then pass on any useful information.”

  “Oh aye? By that time the monster will have murdered half of Dundee!”

  “Then don’t delay us now!” Mendick held the scarred soldier’s gaze until he turned away and began to walk down the slope of the Law. The others followed, in ones and twos and then in groups, some mumbling, others glancing back over their shoulders.

  “That was well done,” Deuchars murmured.

  “Aye, but I doubt it’s finished yet.” Mendick slid his staff back into its pocket. “Take two men and follow the soldiers, but be discreet. Don’t provoke them.”

  “Oh, I won’t be provoking them,” Deuchars said, “I like to keep my head attached to my shoulders.”

  It was nearly an hour before Mackay arrived with reinforcements and Dr Webster, and then the work of removing Torrie’s remains began. Mendick kept hold of the scrimshaw silhouette. He knew it was significant in some manner, but could not figure out why or how. He held the scrimshaw as he read the list of women named Rose he had asked the beat constables to compile.

  “Rose Arnold?”

  The woman looked up from the clattering machinery. She brushed the hair back from her face and nodded. Her eyes were sunk into a face lined with tiredness. “Yes. If it’s about the rent, I will find the money. Just give me time.”

  Mendick showed the crown on his staff. “It’s not about the rent, Mrs Arnold. I am Sergeant Mendick of the Dundee Police and I am asking about a man named David Torrie.” He mentally compared her face with the silhouette on the scrimshaw. She looked a good ten years older and there was nothing oriental about her features.

  “I don’t know any David Torrie.” Her eyes flickered with indignation. “Here! What sort of person do you think I am? I’m a respectable married woman! Just because I got a little behind with the rent doesn’t mean I know every Tom and Dick in Dundee . . .”

  Mendick stopped her with an upraised hand. “I was not suggesting that for a second, Mrs Arnold.” He sighed as Sturrock reached in his pocket and produced a few shillings.

  “How far behind with the rent are you, Mrs Arnold?” Sturrock asked.

  She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Not far enough that I take charity from a thief-catcher, anyway. I keep my own house.”

  Mendick gave a small smile. “Come on, Sturrock. If you tried to give money to every woman in arrears in Dundee you’d need a never-ending purse.”

  They left the factory and stood in the narrow confines of Brown Street with the cliff-like walls crowding them on either side, and carts growling past.

  “That was the last Rose.” Sturrock consulted his list. “There were eighteen names and she was number eighteen. That’s another possible hope gone.”

  Mendick nodded. “You better get about your business, Sturrock. I will get back to the office and write this up. He glanced again at the face on the scrimshaw and was still clutching it when he passed the square pillars of the entrance to the police office.

  Deuchars was bustling past, straightening his hat with one hand and trying to push his staff into its inside pocket with the other. “Don’t get yourself settled, Sergeant. Wee Donnie wants everybody in the High Street. The lobsters are rioting. There’s blood and guts and broken heads all over the blasted place.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Get the Chinese! Kill China Jim!”

  The chant echoed and re-echoed around the centre of Dundee, accompanied by the smashing of windows and the crash of stones and bottles. Acrid smoke from a burning cart coiled across the street, obscuring the topmost storey of the tenements and stinging Mendick’s nostrils. He heard the buzz from spectators who had gathered to watch or who hoped for easy loot. Mackay had formed the police in a line across the High Street, and they moved slowly towards the mob gathered around the Old Steeple and the ruined remains of the City Churches that dominated the Nethergate.

  Mendick frowned as he hurried along, watching the slender line of blue swallowtail coats and tall black rabbit-skin hats advancing with staffs drawn, and the much larger crowd of soldiers, youths and hangers-on, some in scarlet, others in shirtsleeves or ragged civilian clothes surging around the High Street. A group of youths kicked at a shop window while others threw stones at the police or passers-by.

  “Get the Chinese! Kill China Jim!”

  As Mendick moved closer, the soldiers coalesced into a tighter group and turned against the police, a barrage of assorted missiles arcing through the space between them. Carters whipped up their horses and tried to flee, congesting Union and Lindsay Streets and the narrow closes that plunged north and south. The hackney carriages that stood waiting for custom at the Town House began to flee, with the leading cab having to swerve to avoid a loaded jute cart. Women screamed in terror, some running with children in tow, others dropping recently purchased parcels from the still-open shops. A gaggle of bare-footed girls gathered at the tail of the soldiers, adding their own raucou
s voices to the noise.

  “It’s a full-scale battle,” Sturrock shouted. He pulled free his staff and looked eager.

  “Not at all,” Mendick ducked as a bottle hissed past, turning end over end until it exploded in a shower of shards against the shutters of a shop window. “It’s only the lobsters letting off some steam. They’re angry and confused and they’ve lost one of their own. They want revenge and they’ve nobody else to attack.”

  Mendick had left his cane at the office and carried the regulation baton. “This might get a bit unpleasant, gentlemen, so keep together.” He stamped his feet on the ground. “Mind you, I used to quite enjoy a good turn-up when I was in the army. Most of these lads will be looking forward to this.”

  The soldiers withdrew before the advancing police officers and gathered again in an untidy bunch beyond the Steeple. They shouted insults and chanted about China Jim but already their aggression had dissipated and some of the girls lost interest and began to drift away.

  Mackay halted the police line outside the Town House, whose classical pillars were partly obscured by drifting smoke. The police stood shoulder to shoulder and on an order from Mackay began to tap their staffs on the ground in a rhythmic, menacing drumbeat that echoed from the surrounding buildings.

  Mendick looked along his line. The men stood firm, their tall hats adding to their height, the long coats adding to the impression of lean strength, the array of staffs looking formidable. The Dundee Police were a powerful force when seen in this mood. Up beyond the blue-white smoke, the evening sky was dull grey, with low clouds pregnant with rain and a few seagulls circling lazily, their screams melancholic in the troubled street.

  “Right, lads.” Mackay sounded as calm as if he was reading the duty roster on a Sunday morning. “We want to contain the redcoats here and prevent them from destroying the town. I’ve contacted the barracks commander and he’ll be sending a company of men in support, but until they get here, it’s up to us.”

  The number of soldiers had increased again as stragglers joined them, and the noise rose until it was hard for Mendick to think. He frowned as he saw a carriage at the back of the crowd. Who would want to stop in such a perilous place? He tried to see who was inside but the shifting movement of the soldiers blocked his view. Another bottle arced above, to shatter against one of the pillars of the Town House in a hundred shards of glass.

  “It’s building up again,” Deuchars said quietly. He did not appear displeased.

  Mendick looked to the east where an island of buildings narrowed the High Street and the name altered to the Murraygate. A handful of redcoats drifted from that direction, shouting and waving their fists. Fifty yards west, the high-quality Reform Street, where Adam Leslie had his crockery shop, led off at a right angle, while behind him Crichton and Castle Street arrowed down to the docks with some narrow wynds giving alternative dark passage.

  “We’ll have to keep them from Reform Street and the Murraygate,” Mackay said. “Mendick, hold this line here. Keep them from advancing further.” He refused to duck as another bottle spiralled past and shattered on the cobbles underfoot.

  “Now here’s trouble!” Deuchars pointed as a small body of lascars, Indian seamen from a newly arrived ship, wandered up from the dock and stared at the riot as if it was a public entertainment. “These lads had better get out of the way before the soldiers lynch them.”

  “They’re Indian, not Chinese,” Sturrock said.

  “Do you think the redcoats care? They wouldn’t know the difference between a maharaja and a mandarin.”

  Within seconds one of the soldiers, more sober or more alert than his companions, pointed to the lascars.

  “There’s the bloody Chinese! That’s China Jim and his friends! Get the bastards, boys!” The roar increased and a group of soldiers advanced towards the bemused seamen.

  Mackay pointed to the breakaway group, “Sergeant!” but Mendick was already stepping forward, staff in hand.

  “Sturrock! Deuchars! You’re with me!” He moved to get between the seamen and redcoats. British soldiers were notorious for their drunken brawls and he knew that in their present temper they were quite capable of murder. “You men! Stop there!”

  The soldiers ignored him, as he had known they would. One whooped loudly, encouraging his fellows to battle. Suddenly aware of the threat, the lascars turned to run, watching over their shoulders as the redcoats broke into a ragged charge.

  “There they go lads! After them!” Two young redcoats, one giggling in drunken excitement, raced ahead to cut off the lascars from the narrow wynd which offered the best escape route. “Don’t let them escape, boys! Kill the Chinamen!”

  The main body of redcoats yelled, whistled, roared in their triumph. Mendick saw one smallish soldier leap high in the air to land with both heavily-booted feet on the back of the rearmost lascar and knock him to the ground. The lascar’s scream was high-pitched as the soldier swore and twisted his boots deep into the man’s back.

  “Get off him!” Mendick smashed his staff across the back of the soldier’s head, sending him reeling forward. “He’s not China Jim!”

  “He’s a bloody Chink!”

  Mendick sought to quieten the soldiers, “He’s a bloody seaman, you stupid bugger!”

  Two soldiers had joined their colleague. They glared at Mendick. “Who the hell cares? He’s bloody Chinese.”

  “He’s Indian!”

  “Same difference.” The voice was flat and vicious, reared in the gutter of some English Midland slum. “We’re going to string these bastards up, and if you don’t get out of the way, we’ll have you too.” Unfeeling eyes glared at Mendick.

  “Will you, now?” Mendick placed his staff diagonally across his chest as he stared the soldiers down. He watched Deuchars turn the screw to close his handcuffs over the wrists of the fallen redcoat.

  Other soldiers snarled drunkenly at him, both sides a few paces apart in that street of tenements and shops, with the flare of the burning wagon puncturing the growing dark. One by one the soldiers unfastened their leather cross belts and began to swing them menacingly. Mendick had seen those army belts and in the days of his wild youth he had used one as a weapon himself. Broad and heavy and with massive brass buckles at the end, they could easily break an arm or a skull. Now he heard their sinister whirr as they were swung, gathering momentum as the soldiers crowded round.

  “Don’t wait, lads” Mendick shouted, “if we hit their hands and arms they’ll drop the belts. Step in together!”

  There was no quarter given as the three policemen attacked the mob. The first belt buzzed past Mendick’s face with a sound like a skein of geese passing close overhead, but he cracked down his staff on the holder’s knuckles, feeling immense satisfaction from the shock of contact and the man’s instant yell of pain.

  Something hard and heavy thumped against Mendick’s back. He shortened his grip on the staff and thrust it hard into the throat of the nearest soldier, leaving him gasping and writhing on the ground. Mendick looked up to see Sturrock using his staff like a sword, parrying the buckle end of a soldier’s belt, withdrawing and slashing right and left at the man’s upper arms. The belt dropped and Sturrock felled the bearer with a sharp blow to the head.

  “Watch that one!” Mendick gestured to a tousle-haired soldier who was dragging clear his bayonet, but Deuchars was there first, smashing sideways with his long staff so the man shouted and dropped the weapon. Mendick recognised the vocal soldier from the Law but had no time to arrest him.

  “Keep going, Sergeant!” Deuchars was grinning, enjoying the challenge of a fight. Something had knocked flat the reinforced leather of his hat and there was a trickle of blood on his face, but he sidestepped a swinging belt and thrust out accurately with his staff, catching the soldier in the belly. “And that’s done for you!”

  The chanting rose high, “Get the bluebottles! Kill the peeler bastards!”

  “At least they have lost interest in China Jim,” Deuchars
grinned despite his bloodied face.

  There were more soldiers now and more supporters, a rabble of beery, swearing faces shouting oaths as they lunged at him, but Mendick knew there was no turning back. There was no sign of the lascars, and the High Street took on the appearance of a battleground as redcoats fought blue and the inevitable casualties crumpled in pools of blood.

  “There’s too many of them,” Sergeant Morrison shouted as two soldiers converged on him, kicking viciously with their heavy boots. A belt buckle smashed against his face and he yelled and staggered back. The soldiers laughed and closed in, boots hammering. Another redcoat, diminutive in stature but large in animosity, leaped high in the air and swung his belt so the great brass buckle crumpled a constable’s hat. The policeman stumbled and another soldier thrust at him with the jagged edge of a broken beer bottle.

  “Hot work, Sergeant.” Deuchars shoved the bottle holder aside, reeling as a stone thumped against his chest. He took a step backward, and Mendick thrust his staff between the ankles of a running soldier, bringing the man clattering down. Another constable was writhing on the cobbles, with the broad cross belts hissing and heavy buckles crashing down on his screaming form.

  “Get the bluebottles! Kill China Jim!” Now a different chant started, one that arose from a small group of soldiers but soon spread amongst the rest.

  “Burn the place! Burn the place!”

  The cry was accompanied by a new approach from the soldiers. Intense groups smashed shop windows and threw burning rags inside so flames ripped skyward from half a dozen different locations.

  “What the devil is that about?” Deuchars asked, “I’ve never known redcoats do that before.”

  “Nor have I,” Mendick said. “We can discuss it later; here they come again!”

  “Kill the bluebottles! Kill China Jim!” A volley of bottles smashed and rolled on the cobbled ground, announcing another surging charge of soldiers who erupted from the direction of the Overgate.