Mendick knelt at the front door of the house. “This lock has not been forced. Like the whaling yard and Candle Lane a key was used.” He looked up. “I want you to find the flat’s owner, Sturrock, and who has access,” Mendick glanced once more at the broken watch chain. “And order every pawnbroker and jeweller in Dundee to look out for a gold watch being handed in. It may be a long shot, but I’ll wager our murderer doesn’t keep Grant’s watch for long.”
He opened the shutters and checked the catch. “This is perfectly sound, Sturrock, and the window is intact.” He looked down Trade’s Lane to Dock Street where the nightly crowds were beginning to gather outside the pubs. “Before we do anything else, we’ll ask the good people of the lane if they saw anything last night. You take the right side and I’ll take the left.”
“Did I see anything unusual?” The woman repeated. She stood outside her tenement flat and closed the door, too late to hide the smell of stale alcohol that followed her. “Not really.” She looked up the lane to the flat where Grant was found “Have they got rid of that body yet?”
“They will do, did you see anything?”
“There was a dark coach,” the woman looked around her as if she expected the coach to come rattling down the stair. She lowered her voice. “It was the ghost.”
“The ghost?” Mendick remembered that Hitchins had used the same term. “Which ghost?”
“The ghost.” The woman opened the door behind her and retreated into her house. “I saw him.”
Mendick put his foot behind the jamb to prevent the woman from closing the door. “Describe him to me. What was he like?”
“No.” the woman shook her head. “I can’t. He’ll get me.”
Mendick pushed the door. He stepped inside the room with its basic furniture and minimum comfort. There was half a loaf on the table, a chair, an open bottle of whisky on the mantelpiece, a shakedown bed and nothing else. He removed his hat and opened the shutters at the window.
“Was this where you stood?” He could see the entire lane, with a good view of the stair where the dead man had been found. “Tell me what you saw.”
“It was the ghost, it was the devil himself in his own coach, driven by a demon.” The woman was trembling. She took the bottle from the mantelpiece and gulped down a few swallows. The level dropped noticeably. “He’ll get me next!”
Mendick ushered her to the chair. “All right, now take your time. I am Sergeant Mendick of the Dundee Police.” He showed the crown on his staff. “No devil, man or ghost can hurt you when I am here. That I promise you. Now tell me your name and what you saw.”
The woman looked towards the window as if she expected some horned monster to burst through, but Mendick tapped his staff on the table. “It’s all right. You are safe when I am here.”
“I’m Elizabeth Elder.” The woman clung to her bottle as if it contained holy water. “I saw the ghost. He came in a black, black coach drawn by six black horses and his face was all black and his head was all black and huge and folded down.”
“Folded down?” Mendick asked; “What do you mean, folded down?”
“I mean just folded down!” Elder’s voice rose in a scream. “It was like his horns had been flattened and folded over his face and it was black as all hell itself!”
“Were you drinking last night?” Mendick looked around the room. There was another empty bottle under the table. “Tell me more about the ghost.”
Elder reinforced herself with more whisky and held the bottle tight, presumably in case Mendick should want to share. “The demon stopped the coach and the ghost and another demon came out. The three of them carried the dead man into the shop and killed him again. They drove away with the coach swaying from side to side and when they turned the corner the horses struck fire from the ground.”
“I see. Thank you, Elizabeth. Can you tell me what the demons looked like? Were they from Dundee? Did you recognise them?”
Elder shook her head. “No, they were from hell, I’m telling you! Horrible demons from hell, with black faces and imp bodies.”
“Imp bodies?” Mendick repeated. “Pray tell me about these imp bodies?”
“The bodies of imps!” Elder pointed a long, taloned finger at Mendick as she spoke while specks of spittle sprayed from her mouth and her left hand clamped around the bottle. “Horrible, horrible imps they were; small and with great long cloaks that swept the ground!”
“I see, thank you, Elizabeth.” Mendick replaced his staff in its pocket and lifted his hat. “You have been a great help to me.”
Sturrock knelt on the pavement at the corner of Trade’s Lane and Dock Street. “Sergeant, this might be of interest.” He pointed to the angle of the building, about two feet from the ground. “I think the driver left the road and damaged one of his wheels here. Look, you can see a smear of paint, quite distinctly.”
Mendick hurried over, “That ties in with what I was told. The body was dumped by three small men in a coach. One of my witnesses claimed she saw sparks, that could have been when the coach hit the wall.” He knelt beside Sturrock. “Yellow paint. How many broughams have yellow wheels?”
Sturrock stood up. “I’ve never checked, Sergeant, but it is easy enough to paint over a scrape.”
“We’ll be pulling over any brougham with yellow wheels as of today,” Mendick said. “Well spotted, Sturrock. This case is finally beginning to unravel. We have a lot of work to do, so let’s get on with it. Step out, my lad!”
Simpson, the young clerk at the Waverley Whale Fishing Company, peered through the ornate brass latticework that bisected the counter behind which he worked and nodded eagerly. “You want crew lists, Sergeant? Anything to help the police.” He brought out advance wage lists, records of oil money and fast-boat money paid, slops issued and crew lists for every ship in the company, and then explained the relevance of each list.
“You see, Sergeant Mendick, the Merchant Shipping Act of 1835 obliged us to make up Agreements and Crew Lists and file them with the Registrar General of Shipping and Seamen.” He looked up, “Some companies do not keep their records but Mr Gilbride insists the Waverley Company hold ours. That way we know whether we have a good man or not. We even keep duplicates, ever since that unfortunate robbery attempt a few years ago . . .”
“I’m sure you do it very well.” Mendick stopped him in mid-flow. “I would like you to copy me out the crew lists of Rose Flammock for every year from 1842 to the present. Do you hold a copy of the ship’s log as well?”
“Good Lord, no, sir!” Simpson said. “We send them immediately to . . .”
“No matter then. Write out the crew lists for me.” Mendick ordered.
“Of course, sir,” Simpson bowed low, “if you could come back tomorrow say, or perhaps the next day?”
“I will wait for them.” Mendick placed his official staff on the counter and allowed the light from the whale oil lamp to reflect on the golden VR. It was a trick he employed to remind petty officials and potential witnesses he was on the Queen’s business.
There were nine crew lists of fifty names each; the clerk pored over each one, his pen scraping at the smooth paper, dipping into the pewter inkwell and scraping again. Eventually he handed over the earliest.
“There we are sir, 1842. I have written them according to rank, as we do on the log books.”
Mendick scanned the page. From the fifty names, four jumped out at him at once:
Iain Grant
David Thoms
David Torrie
Robert Milne
“These men here,” Mendick asked the clerk, “was there anything specific about them? Did they stand out in any way?”
Simpson glanced at the names and shook his head. “Nothing that springs to mind, sir. They were just crewmen, the usual blackguards that fill every ship.”
“Blackguards?” Mendick leaned across the counter as his anger rose. “These are men, Simpson. These are the men who risk their lives day after day to make the money th
at keeps this company running and keeps you in a position.” He looked around at the neatly-panelled room with the brass railing that separated Simpson from the outside world. “I suggest you take one trip with these blackguards and see what the world is like outside your gilded cage.” He rapped his staff down on the counter and Simpson flinched. “I have changed my mind. I want crew lists from 1840 onward for both your whaling ships. Now!”
“That will take some time, sir,” Simpson looked at his watch.
“In that case you had better get started,” Mendick told him. “I am in a hurry.”
Sturrock peered at the names set out on the desk before him. “There are hundreds of different seamen here,” he said.
“Ships do not have the same crews year after year,” Mendick told him. “Seamen sign articles for only one voyage, and if they are dissatisfied or fancy a change of ship they are free to go elsewhere once the ship docks. But whaling seaman can be specialists, so they have more chance of remaining in the same trade, or even with the same ship, for years.”
“Why would anyone want to sail to the Arctic?” Sturrock wondered. “It’s a terrible place, ships are always sinking and men die in a hundred different ways.”
“It pays well.” Mendick replied. “The boys can double their wages with their share of the money from whale oil, and if they are out on the boats they pick up bonuses for getting fast to a whale as well. As a harpooner, Grant was one of the highest paid men on the ship.”
Sturrock was matching names from one list to the next. “But that also raises a question, Sergeant. If he was well paid, why would he get involved with China Jim at all, unless he was providing whisky for him to smuggle. Do they have duty-free whisky on whaling ships?”
Mendick shook his head, “No, they don’t. They have rum and tobacco but not whisky. There must be another reason.” He continued to study the lists. “I don’t know what we’re looking for here, Sturrock, but I am convinced that this ship is the answer. Something happened in 1842 and Rose Flammock is the key.”
“Here’s something interesting,” Sturrock crossed to Mendick’s desk. “Look. In 1840, ‘41 and ‘42 the Rose had less than 10 changes in the crew. Then in 1843 there were 25 changes. Twenty five men chose not to go back to sea in that ship again.”
“That’s a lot of changes for a whaling ship, right enough. Half the crew.” Mendick looked at the lists, “There are two of our boys right away: David Thoms and Robert Milne sailed in Rose in 1842 but not in 1843. Iain Grant and David Torrie went back to sea the next year though. Do any of the others appear in a later list?”
Sturrock scanned the lists. “Some do, Sergeant. Thoms and Milne do not and Torrie only sailed again in 1843 and then stopped. Grant sailed every year.”
“Write me two lists: those that appear again and those that don’t.” Mendick said. “I think we are finally making some progress, Sturrock.” Mendick pulled out his pipe. “Thoms and Milne were single men. Torrie’s wife died of fever but Grant had a family. I will speak to his wife.”
“That is not decent, Sergeant,” Sturrock said. “She has just been widowed. Surely it’s best we leave her in peace.”
Mendick slipped on his tattered Chesterfield. “We have our duty to do, Sturrock. Sometimes that means we have to upset innocent people in order to achieve justice.”
Mrs Grant lived in a quiet, impeccably neat house in the Nethergate. She sat straight-backed opposite Mendick, her eyes red-rimmed but her face composed.
“No, Sergeant Mendick. I know of no reason why my husband was murdered.” Her hands twisted a handkerchief in her lap, writhing it into a warped snake of white linen.
Mendick sipped the tea Mrs Grant had offered him. “This may sound a strange question, Mrs Grant, but did your husband know anybody from China or with a connection to China?”
“You are referring to China Jim, of course.” She might have been recently widowed but Mrs Grant’s mind was as sharp as any Criminal Officer’s. “No, Sergeant Mendick. My husband had no connection with China or with this China Jim.” She curled the handkerchief into a ball and straightened it out again, her face as immobile as ever. “Iain was a Greenlandman, Sergeant. He was no angel − he could drink and roar with the best of them, but he was never a friend of this China Jim or anyone like him. He was a good man, a good father and a good husband.”
Mendick nodded. “I have never heard anybody say anything against him, Mrs Grant. However, you do understand that I do have to ask these questions.”
Mrs Grant gave a brief nod. “Pray continue.”
Mendick took a deep breath. “Did Mr Grant have any enemies at sea? In particular, did he have any from Rose Flammock?”
“No, Sergeant.” Mrs Grant was emphatic. “My husband was a hard worker and a fair man.”
“I have just one more question to ask and then I’ll leave you in peace.” Mendick waited for a second as the street sounds drifted in from the open window. Mrs Grant held her steady gaze on him. “Are you aware of any event in 1842 that Mr Grant might have been involved in?”
The noise from outside seemed to increase as Mrs Grant carefully placed the handkerchief on the table and smoothed it flat before folding it into a neat square. “Of course I am, Sergeant. That was the year two whaleboats were lost in the fog. One was never found again and all six men died up there.”
For a moment Mendick pictured the small open boat drifting in the biting cold of the Arctic, surrounded by icebergs gaunt and wicked, and the insidious creep of frostbite gradually killing the crew. He held Mrs Grant’s eye. “Was Mr Grant involved in that incident?”
“Mr Grant was the harpooner of the other whaleboat,” there was pride in Mrs Grant’s voice. “He kept them alive, except one who died of the frost. Mr Grant brought the rest back safely.”
Mendick remembered the knowledge in Grant’s eyes. “He looked a capable man when I met him,” he said.
“You knew him?” Mrs Grant looked pleased.
“He rescued me from a sandbank in the Tay,” Mendick said frankly. “He helped save my life as well as the men in that whaleboat.” He placed his cup on the table. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs Grant. I assure you I will do all I can to hunt down his killer.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Mrs Grant stood up. “That is a comfort.” For a second her mask fell and her terrible grief took over. She looked old and broken and utterly forlorn.
“Here. Come here.” Mendick held out his arms to comfort her but she recovered herself and drew back.
“No, Sergeant Mendick.” Mrs Grant held herself as erect as any soldier on sentry duty. “I appreciate your offer but I was married to Iain for thirty-three years.” She controlled the catch in her voice. “No other arms will do.”
“Of course, Mrs Grant.” Mendick lifted his hat from the top of the table. “Thank you for your time. Do you wish the Dundee Police to keep you informed on the progress of this investigation?”
“No, Sergeant.” Mrs Grant shook her head. “But please catch this brute.” She hesitated for a moment. “You must be very careful, Sergeant. This Chinaman must be terribly powerful to be able to overpower Iain, he was strong as an ox.”
Mendick gave a short bow. “Thank you Mrs Grant. You have been most helpful.” He tried to protest as she insisted on showing him to the door, but he knew it was in vain. Mrs Grant would never forget her impeccable manners no matter what the circumstances.
Mendick did not look back as he left the close. He knew Mrs Grant would stand in her doorway until his footsteps ceased and he was safely out of her close; she would cling to his presence as a link to her husband. Then she would close the door quietly and firmly, wash up his cup and replace it in the cupboard. She would close that door as well then sit upright on her hard chair, fold her hands neatly in her lap, close her eyes and cry inwardly.
Without her husband, what had she to look forward to? A bleak, lonely old age of increasing poverty, or a hurried re-marriage to a man who would never compare to her Iain. She was t
he true victim here. She, and the decent, suffering people like her, they were the reason the country had a police force. Mrs Grant was a reminder that he was dealing with people with hopes and feelings, not just with criminals and victims. Mendick stepped into the Nethergate and looked upward to the window of Mrs Grant’s house. He saw the shutters closing. Mrs Grant was alone with her grief.
Mendick could hear a blackbird singing as he walked back to the police office, the sound a contrast to the sordid images that pervaded his mind. He recalled the muscular figure of Grant as he had been in life and wondered what sort of man could overpower and kill him. Hitchins had spoken of four men. Mrs Elder had spoken of three small men in a dark carriage, possibly a brougham, driven by a fourth. They were cannibals, possibly with a connection to Rose Flammock in 1842.
So why did the leader call himself China Jim? And where did Grant or Thoms or Milne or Torrie fit in with the whisky smuggling? Mendick shook his head. Something here did not make sense. There were too many threads that led nowhere, but his instincts were tingling now. Despite the apparent confusion, he knew he was close to a solution and he would soon return home to London. But that would mean leaving Johanna behind and that thought ripped a huge hole in his heart.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The man waiting at the public counter was round-shouldered, grey-haired and nervous. He looked up as Mendick appeared, smiled briefly and returned to his scrutiny of the floor.
“Yes, sir?” Mendick said. “You asked to see me?”
A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders Page 22