A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders

by Malcolm Archibald

  Adam Leslie employed Durward as a driver but the question was: did he know anything? Was Durward working for China Jim without Leslie’s knowledge? Or were there more secrets in this house?

  Room by room, Mendick checked Juniper Lea, aware he was trespassing in a place where he had been shown nothing but hospitality and openness. He carefully closed each door behind him before lighting the gas and inspecting every corner. There was nothing to suggest any criminality, nothing except the usual family belongings. He felt like a traitor to kindness but that was part of his job. He examined the family portraits once more: the image of the immature young man stared solemnly at him from within the black frame, drowned on his first voyage, a tragedy for his family.

  The stables stood apart from the house, slightly larger than Mendick would have expected, with the usual small door set within a large entrance. The lock was simple to pick and he stepped inside, to be greeted by the usual familiar smell of horses and straw, and the low dark shape of the family gig. Mendick touched the woodwork, if the gig was here, what was the family riding in? Did they own two coaches? Mendick glanced around the spacious interior of the stables, was their second coach a brougham?

  There was a battered oil lantern on a small shelf amongst a litter of tools and equipment. Mendick scraped a Lucifer and set it to life. The soft glow illuminated the interior; a horse whinnied softly at this disruption to her rest, but Mendick was more interested in the pot of yellow paint set under a shelf and a collection of lengths of wood in the corner. He lifted the first. It matched the wood from the rope ladder found at the scene of the first murder. The coils of old rope told their own story: Durward had made the ladder here. But was Durward, the man of many aliases, also China Jim?

  There was only one room remaining and Mendick hesitated at the door. This was the chapel, the sanctuary, a place obviously sacred to the Leslie family. The door was securely fastened. Mendick extracted a lock pick from his pocket, worked the lock and stepped inside.

  He stopped immediately and allowed his eyes to become accustomed to the Cimmerian dark. The room was larger than he had expected, with a collection of candlesticks on a long low table. Mendick scratched a Lucifer and lit the nearest candle, shielding the flame with his hand as he looked around.

  Here were all the trappings of a chapel: an altar and pews, windows of stained glass and an atmosphere of reverence, a shelf of books and a cross. But that was where the resemblance ended.

  “Dear God in heaven! What is this place?” Shielding the light with his hand, Mendick stared at the pictures covering the walls and the objects displayed in a score of glass cases beneath them. The pictures were of one person, but rather than any religious deity, they showed the life of the Leslie’s son from a swaddled baby lying in a crib to a handsome young man in seaman’s clothes.

  “It’s a mausoleum,” Mendick said quietly. He allowed the candlelight to pool on the pictures. “It’s a memorial to the boy who was lost at sea.”

  He shook his head. After the death of his wife Emma in childbirth he understood the terrible grief this family must feel for the loss of one of their own. He shuddered with sympathy and wished he had not entered what was obviously a place of very private mourning.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I really don’t like to betray your trust, but I must do my duty.”

  He knew Durward had worked with this family for some time and he must investigate thoroughly while he had the opportunity. Lifting his candlestick high, he walked around the chapel, probing every corner and tapping the wall for secret compartments.

  He found the list of names on top of the altar, sewn in red thread beneath an embroidered background of an open boat on a waste of sea. The artist had caught the atmosphere of the Arctic perfectly, with each of the six men depicted individually. One with a grey beard and stern eyes, one with a drawn, haggard face, a third had red whiskers peppered with white frost, a fourth: an open mouth as if shouting or singing, a fifth holding the steering oar and a sixth who lay across the thwarts. The artist had ensured that the sixth crewman was central to the picture. He was the youngest of them all and the most handsome. It did not take a great leap of imagination for Mendick to recognise young Jonathan Leslie.

  The inference was obvious. The boy had drowned at sea. Jonathan Leslie had been on a whaleboat and had drowned. Mendick turned his attention from the picture to the list so neatly sewn below. There was one blank space and four names in alphabetical order:

  Iain Grant

  Robert Milne

  David Torrie

  David Thoms

  Beneath the names in bold black thread was the single word: Justice.

  Mendick stepped back as enlightenment dawned. Mrs Grant had told him her husband had been in charge of one of Rose Flammock’s whaleboats when it had been lost in a fog. One man had died; Jonathan Leslie. And now Mr Leslie was taking a terrible revenge on those who had survived. Mendick had to discover the last person who had been in that whaleboat − Jonathan and four others were dead. But what was the significance of China Jim and where did the whisky fit in?

  Mendick had been aware of the sound for some time before it entered his consciousness. It was the sound of sobbing, not that of a child; deeper, as if someone was tearing himself apart in grief.

  “Who’s there?” Mendick looked around again, the lantern danced flickering shadows. The sobbing died away as he strode forward with the lantern held high. The man was crouched in the far corner, hiding beneath a table with both hands folded over his head. “Come on out of that!” Mendick said, “Come on, nobody is going to hurt you.”

  Mendick did not immediately recognise Adam Leslie in the human wreck who crouched in front of him. His clothes were rumpled and stained and his eyes haunted.

  “Mr Leslie?” Mendick tried to keep his voice gentle.

  Leslie nodded vigorously. He began to speak, slowly at first and then faster as though to ease himself of some burden. “I love her you see, but I can’t keep her in the comfort she deserves. Her first husband, Grandison, was a wealthy man with the whisky, but my shop just does not make enough money, so I had to do something else.” He crouched back on the floor and began to play with the hem of his jacket.

  Mendick joined him. “What did you do, Mr Leslie?”

  Leslie buried his head in his folded arms. “Whisky,” he said. “Crockery is a luxury people only buy when they have money to spare and in these times of dull trade no-one has money to spare but they always have money for drink. So I moved into Grandison’s whisky trade.” He looked up, his face streaked with tears and his mouth working loosely, “Then they caught my boat and my wagons and closed down my distillery! I have lost the house too. She will be a pauper in the poorhouse!”

  “And China Jim?” Mendick asked. “Are you China Jim? Why did China Jim kill these men?”

  Leslie shook his head. “I’m China Jim, but I have never killed anyone. When you started asking questions I had to get rid of you in case you caught her.”

  A chill hand clutched around Mendick’s heart. “Who killed these men, Mr Leslie?”

  Leslie buried his face in his hands and began to cry.

  “Who is next, Leslie? Who is next to be killed?”

  Leslie said nothing, the deep sobbing continued.

  Mendick closed his eyes. He knew exactly where he would discover the name of the final member of the boat’s crew. He looked down at Leslie. China Jim was a broken man and no threat to anybody.

  Sturrock was waiting in the hired gig. He looked up as Mendick appeared clutching his hat to his head.

  “You’re in a hurry, Sergeant,” Sturrock lifted the reins. “Did you find anything?”

  Mendick threw himself into the carriage. “I found nearly everything, Sturrock. I’ll fill you in as we go. Whip up, man!”

  “Where to?” Sturrock was grinning, enjoying the excitement; “Back to the office?”

  “No, Unicorn Cottage.”

  “Johanna Lednock’s house?” S
turrock flicked the reins and the horse moved off at a brisk trot. “Don’t tell me she is China Jim?”

  “No, she’s not, Sturrock, but she is the key to the next murder. Come on, man! Hurry!”

  Sturrock cracked the reins and the gig lurched forward, its wheels growling over the road as it sped past the villas of Magdalen Yard Road and up the incline to the Perth Road, heading eastward to Dundee. “Is she in danger, Sergeant?”

  “Not her, but someone else is and the faster we get to her the more chance we have of saving his life.” Mendick held on to his hat as Sturrock turned the gig into the High Street. He saw Deuchars stepping towards them, one hand in the air as he tried to stop them for furious driving, but Sturrock whipped on, rattling into the Seagate and towards the Arbroath Road.

  It was fully dark now, night-time revellers were roaring in the road, prostitutes plying their trade and respectable families sheltered behind secure shutters as the gig rattled along. Broughty Ferry was quiet as they entered, most of the men would be out at the fishing and the sea hushed deceptively soft at the beach.

  Johanna answered her own door, her dressing gown wrapped around her and a candlestick held high. “Why, Sergeant Mendick!, Whatever is the matter?” She looked so very vulnerable with her hair in a cap and a few loose strands across her face that Mendick wanted to hug her in reassurance.

  Instead he removed his hat, very aware that Sturrock was watching. “I am very sorry to disturb you Mrs Gordon, but I would like access to your portraits.”

  Johanna stepped aside at once. She glanced towards Sturrock and understood. “Of course, Sergeant, pray step inside. Would you and your companion like a cup of tea? I can make it myself rather than ringing for the maid . . .”

  About to push past, Mendick collected himself and smiled. “Thank you for your kindness, Johanna, but I fear we do not have the time. I must just look at one of your paintings, if I may?”

  Johanna ushered him inside and closed the door on the outside world. “All this hurry for a painting, and at this time of night?” Her hand lingered on his arm as her eyes searched his face. “Of course you may. You know the way, James. Which picture interests you?”

  “I would like to see the boat’s crew with Iain Grant in it.” Mendick was already heading for the stairs and Johanna followed, holding the candle high so the yellow light pooled in front of him.

  “Has there been another murder, James?”

  “Not yet, Johanna, but I may be in a position to prevent one.”

  The picture was as he remembered it; bearded Iain Grant and six other men, the boat’s crew of Rose Flammock and one other man, all staring at the artist. The youngest man was smiling, the others staring with expressions of morose patience. He could name four of them and guess at the identity of the fifth but it was the sixth and seventh that interested him − the older man who sat on the left and the nondescript fellow with his face shielded by a fur hat who sat on the extreme right.

  “Could you name these men, Johanna?” Mendick asked.

  “Not all of them,” She was at his side and he could feel her body heat and smell the freshness of her. “That one is Iain Grant, of course, and that is David Thoms and . . .” She stopped as the realisation hit her. “These are the men who were murdered!”

  “Yes.” Mendick pointed to the boy. “Can you remind me of his name?”

  “Jonathan Grandison,” Johanna said at once.

  Mendick nodded. Grandison, not Leslie. The boy had kept his father’s name. That was why he had not recognised the name on a crew list., “That’s who I thought it was. He died on that voyage didn’t he?”

  Johanna nodded, “Yes, I remember that picture well. I sketched it first and then painted from the sketch. He was a nice young lad.”

  “And this man here?” Mendick pointed to the older man.

  “Andrew Cleghorn,” Johanna replied at once. “Everybody knows him as Old Andy. That voyage was his first and last, his mind could not take the strain . . .”

  Mendick took a deep breath.

  “Get up there, you little dog, and get it swept!”

  The voice echoed in the choking darkness, distorted by the surrounding brickwork but still containing enough menace to make Jamie shiver. He looked upward to where the flue ascended forever, the sides black and slippery with soot and the exit a tiny circle of light diminished by distance.

  “Move, you bugger! Or it will be the worse for you!”

  Mendick remembered the misery of his childhood and Cleghorn’s constant bullying. He remembered Old Andy in the Greenland Inn warbling his whaling song and clutching at his stomach. They were one and the same person. If he did nothing now, the monster who had tormented him so badly would die. The past would be cleansed forever.

  “James?” Johanna was watching him, her eyes concerned. “Are you all right?”

  Mendick nodded. What would Johanna think of him if he left a man to such a terrible death, even such a man as Andrew Cleghorn. He had to rescue him. Cleghorn would be hard to prise from the Greenland Inn but an easy victim compared to Alex Grant.

  “And this one?” Mendick pointed to the nondescript man on the far right. “Do you remember him?”

  Johanna shook her head. “Honestly, James, I can’t even remember painting him. He could be Robert or Thomas.”

  “Or Oldbuck, perhaps? Could he have been Oldbuck, or Marmion or Durward?” Mendick looked closely. Each man in the painting had some character: experience, youth, cheerfulness; Johanna had caught something that set them apart, but the final man was merely a face. Even although he had met Durward and followed him just that afternoon, Mendick was not sure he recognised him.

  “He could be Durward,” Johanna said. “I am so sorry, Sergeant, but I truly cannot recall.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry about,” Mendick said. “Indeed, you have been far more helpful than you realise, particularly since I came to your house at this ungodly hour of the night.”

  “You are always welcome, James.” Her hand was on his arm again. “Do you have time . . . no, of course, you have a man waiting.” Johanna followed as Mendick strode outside. When he looked over his shoulder she was still watching as the gig clattered back towards Dundee.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Did you find what you wanted?” asked Sturrock.

  Mendick explained about the crew of the whaleboat being murdered one by one, with only two left: Old Andy and the man who might be Durward. “It appears he is murdering the others,” he said, “together with the three masked men.”

  “Do you know where Old Andy lives?” Sturrock took a corner on three wheels, winced as the gig clattered back down, bounced on a prominent stone and righted itself.

  “No, but I would wager the publican does.” Mendick held on to the edge of the gig as they jolted over a succession of potholes. “Can’t you drive this thing?”

  “The horse is tired, Sergeant!” Sturrock said. “And the oil in the lamps is getting low so we can’t see the potholes in the road.”

  Although there were gas lamps in the principal streets of Dundee, the approaches were dark and the gig banged and rattled its way into the town. A sliver of moon reflected from the Firth of Tay and glinted on the twin tracks of the Arbroath Railway, pointing the way to Dundee. It was three in the morning when they rattled along Dock Street, wind whining through the rigging of the ships only a few yards away and the last of the night’s drunks weaving their way home.

  “Pull up in front of the pub,” Mendick ordered. He jumped out of the gig as Sturrock patted the horse.

  “Open up in there!”

  There was no answer. The Greenland Inn remained in darkness. Mendick hammered his fist against the door. “Halloa! Dundee Police!”

  Sturrock joined him; “Let me, Sergeant.” He reached into the gig and pulled out his staff. “They’ll hear this, unless they’re deaf.” He hammered the staff against the door and roared out, “Hello in there! Open up for the Dundee Police!”

  Ligh
ts came on in neighbouring houses, some the slender flicker of single candles, others the more diffused glow of a lantern. Voices floated through the dark.

  “What the devil is all the noise out there?”

  “Answer your bloody door, why can’t you?”

  At last the window above the pub scraped open and a bald man peered out. “What is it?”

  “Dundee Police!” Mendick displayed the crown on Sturrock’s staff. “Let us in.”

  “Oh, Christ! What now? What time of night do you call this? Go away and come back in the morning.” He reached to close the window.

  “We’ll stay here until you let us in,” Mendick yelled, “think what that will do to your custom!”

  The man muttered a few curses. “Wait,” he said, “I’ll come down.”

  Mendick heard the bolts creak back.

  “Come in if you must.” The room was empty, the atmosphere flat, rancid with stale tobacco smoke. He placed the lantern on the table. “Well, what is it?”

  “We’re looking for Old Andy,” Mendick said.

  “He drinks here, he doesn’t live here,” the bald man breathed whisky fumes over Mendick. “What’s Old Andy done that’s so important? Everybody wants to see him now.”

  “What do you mean everybody?” Sturrock tapped his staff on the counter. “Who else wants to see him?”

  The man shrugged. “Blessed if I know their names, there were a couple of shipmates of his asking for him. The three of them left arm in arm, friendly as you please.” He lifted a greasy cloth from the bar and smeared it over a ring-marked table. “Mind you, Andy was three sheets in the wind by then. The old bugger was so far gone they near had to carry him out.”

  Mendick glanced at Sturrock. “What were these friends of his like? Describe them!”

  Cleaning duties completed, the bald man shrugged. “One was a little fellow, slight, like. He never said a word. He had a big hat on . . .”

  “A wide-awake hat?” Mendick asked.