Detective Watters Mysteries

Chapter 1

"Sergeant Watters!"

"Yes, sir?" Watters looked up from his desk.

Superintendent Mackay stood at the doorway. "There"s trouble in Brown"s Street. Take a couple of constables and sort it out."

"Is that not a job for a man in uniform, sir?"

Mackay nodded. "If I had one available, I would send one. I have you, so I"ll send you."

Sighing, Watters carefully put away his pen with its new Waverley nib, stood up, and reached for his low-crowned hat. "Do you have any idea what sort of trouble, sir?"

"There"s a crowd gathering outside a burning mill," Mackay said. "Take Scuddamore and Duff; they"re fresh on duty."

"Send them after me, sir." Watters lifted his cane, smacked the lead-loaded end against the palm of his hand, and headed for the stairs. "Tell them to hurry!" He took the stairs two at a time, pausing momentarily at the landing to have a practise golf swing.

Sergeant Murdoch looked up from the newspaper he had been reading at the Duty Desk. "Where are you off to, George?"

"Brown"s Street." Watters lifted his cane in salute. "It"s either murder and mayhem or a missing dog; I don"t know what yet."

"Probably murder and mayhem because of a missing dog," Sergeant Murdoch said. "You know what Dundee"s like!"

Watters grinned. "That"s entirely possible, Willie."

"See if that missing Honourable Peter Turnbull is at the back of it." Murdoch pointed to a paragraph in his paper. "So far, he"s been seen in Paris, Cape Town, and America. He may as well be in Dundee as well. That fellow certainly gets around."

"He"s not my case," Watters said. "I"ve much more important things to worry about than missing gamblers. I have a crowd of people in Brown"s Street."

Murdoch shook his head. "That sounds like a major case, George. Take care." He returned to his newspaper and the missing Peter Turnbull.

Watters heard the babble of noise the instant he walked into the narrow, stone chasm that was Brown"s Street. On both sides, cliff-like mill walls soared sheer from the pavement. Smoke was clouding from the mill on the right with scores of people congregated around the two fire engines that were parked on the road outside. Most of the crowd worked in the mill, hard-grafting, tired-eyed women.

"Dundee police!" Watters parted the crowd with his voice. "Move aside, please."

"You"re no bluebottle," a gaunt-faced woman challenged him. "Whaur"s your uniform, eh?"

"I"m Sergeant Watters of the Dundee Police." Watters pushed past as a fireman appeared at the main entrance to the building. "What"s happened here? Is anybody hurt?"

"Nobody hurt, Sergeant Watters." The fireman tipped back his brass helmet with the embossed DFB, “Dundee Fire Brigade,” partly obscured by smuts of soot. He surveyed the damage to Matthew Beaumont"s Brown"s Street Weaving Manufactory and Mill. "But it"s made a fine mess of the building."

Water slithered slowly down the cobbled street, carrying the crisped leaves of autumn plus fragments of charred wood. Watters peered through the blue smoke that hung acrid and heavy, trapped by the high-walled buildings. The chimneys of neighbouring mills added to the smog as the now-idle workers of Beaumont"s Mill clustered round, pressurising the firemen for information. Through the chatter of the mill hands, Watters could hear the unending clatter of neighbouring mill machinery; the noise seeming to repeat one phrase: "more profit, more profit, more profit."

fitfitfitWell, Watters thought, there will be less profit for Matthew Beaumont until he gets his mill repaired.

"How long are you going to be, for God"s sake? You"re blocking the road!" With his wagon piled high with bales of raw jute, a carter glared at the fire engines that blocked his passage. He cracked his whip, unsettling the horses but not the equanimity of the imperturbable firemen.

"Any idea what caused it?" Watters watched as the firemen loaded their coiled canvas hoses into their wagons. The matched brown horses flicked their ears against the irritation of smut of soot.

"Our job is to extinguish fires, Sergeant Watters, not to find out how they started." The senior fireman slammed shut the hinged compartment that held the hoses, checked that the water pump was secure, and clambered onto the engine. "That"s the fire out now, so I"ll leave the cleaning up to the mill manager." Raising his hand in farewell, the senior fireman cracked his whip. The horses jerked the machine away, with the second engine following a few moments later.

"About b****y time," the carter said, cursing again as a group of women swarmed onto the road in front of him.

"Can we get back to work, Sergeant?" The gaunt-faced woman was at the forefront of the crowd.

Watters ignored the questions as he tried to peer through the charred doorway to the still smoking remains of the mill.

"Will we still get paid? I said will we still get paid?" A shrill-voiced woman followed Watters through the threshold of the mill, plucking at his arm. "I"ve got bairns to keep and a man."

Watters gently removed her hand. "That"s something that I can"t answer. You"ll have to speak to the mill manager." Pushing open the door, Watters stepped inside the mill, coughing as smoke engulfed him. The interior was more cramped than he had expected: two storeys of closely-packed machinery that left little space to walk on the floor of stone slabs. The ground was a mess of wet ash with scraps of jute lying on top. Light filtered in from the now-open door and high, multi-paned windows.

"You"d better be careful, Sergeant Watters." Fairfax was the mill manager, a man of middle height and middle age. "We don"t know what problems the fire has left us with."

Watters nodded. "Aye, you"re not wrong there, Mr Fairfax. Are fires like this common?" Standing in the centre of the floor, Watters surveyed the mess. The damage was not as extensive as he had first supposed; the fire had swept through around one-third of this floor, putting ten spinning machines out of action.

"Not normally, but that"s the second fire in one of Mr Beaumont"s mills this week." Mr Fairfax shook his head. "Terrible."

Watters narrowed his eyes. "Oh? That"s unusual. Is there some weakness in Mr Beaumont"s mills, perhaps, that makes them more vulnerable to fire?"

Fairfax shook his head. "Not that I am aware of, Sergeant. There was a spate of such fires in the "40s and "50s, but we tightened up since then. It"s more likely to be carelessness from the hands than anything else." Fairfax spoke with a broad Dundee accent, a man who had educated himself as he worked his way up from a half-timer to mill manager. He was pale faced and shrewd eyed with specks of soot polka dotting his sandy whiskers. "It could have been oil-soaked waste placed near heat or a man going for a fly smoke who dropped his match in a pile of paper or something similar. I doubt that we will ever know. We can only be grateful that the Lord did not see fit to take any lives."

Watters stirred the ash with his cane. "Maybe so, but Mr Beaumont will not be happy to see his profits drop. Do you know where this fire started?"

"Not yet." Fairfax shook his head.

"I"d like to find out." Watters looked up as his two constables pushed into the mill. "You lads, send the mill hands home; they won"t be working here today."

"Or tomorrow neither," Fairfax said.

The constables nodded and returned outside. Watters knew them as reliable men, although Scuddamore liked his drink and Duff could be hot headed.

"If you"ll excuse me, Mr Fairfax, I"ll have a look around." Swinging his cane, Watters stepped over a charred beam as he moved deeper into the mill. The interior of any workplace was sad when the machinery was silent, but when acrid smoke drifted between the looms, the place was particularly forlorn. Watters followed the trail of devastation from the merely scorched to the wholly destroyed, from the ground floor to the storerooms in the basement, where the smoke was at its most dense.

"Down here," Watters said. "It started down here." He poked at the now-sodden remnants of jute bales. "Mr Beaumont is not going to be a happy man when he sees this shambles."

Tapping his cane on the ground, Watters looked for anything that might have caused the fire. After fifteen minutes, he frowned and headed back to the working levels. "Mr Fairfax!"

Fairfax hurried up. "Yes, Sergeant Watters?"

"You seem to believe that carelessness caused this fire." Watters was not impressed by the mill manager"s actions. Rather than taking control the minute he discovered the fire, Fairfax had allowed the flames to take hold. "It"s a mercy that nobody was killed."

"I run a tight ship, Sergeant."

Watters tapped the brim of his hat with his cane. "I heard about some unpleasant practises at this mill. I heard that the overseers were bullying youngsters, using their belts too freely."

"Not in my mill." Fairfax shook his head violently. "I don"t allow any bullyragging in my mill."

"Good." Having suitably unsettled Fairfax, Watters listed the improvements he had thought of while down in the basement.

"In future, Mr Fairfax, I suggest that you do not permit smoking within the mill walls nor the use of any n***d flames, such as candles or lamps, unless the needs of the business demand it." Watters paused, knowing he was far overstepping his authority. "I suggest that you place buckets of sand and water in convenient places, and instruct a responsible member of your workforce in their use. It would also be an idea to order your overseers to watch for any possible hazards and take appropriate action." Watters paused. "Plus, given the complaints I have heard, I want you to ensure nobody bullies the youngsters. In return, the youngsters can watch for any fire danger."

Mr Fairfax nodded. Watters watched him closely. The workers did not seem to dislike him, which was in his favour.

"More important than all these ideas, Mr Fairfax, you should create some procedure whereby all your workers can leave the building safely in the event of a fire. We both know that you were fortunate on this occasion, but such good fortune may not occur a second time."

Watters saw Fairfax stiffen but rather than return with an angry retort, the mill manager nodded meekly. "Yes, Sergeant. Will you be giving a report to Mr Beaumont?"

Watters grunted. "I might. Two fires in Mr Beaumont"s mills within a week might be a bit more than a mere accident."

"Fire-raising?" Fairfax raised his eyebrows.

"It"s possible. Have you had occasion to dismiss any of your hands recently? A woman with a grudge is a dangerous animal."

"No." Fairfax screwed up his face. "My hands are happy at their work."

"Oh?" Watters took a practise golf swing with his cane. "How happy are they? Are you a hard taskmaster, Mr Fairfax?"

"I told you there is no bullyragging here. My girls are well treated, Sergeant."

"I hope so, Mr Fairfax; I really hope so." Watters swung his cane again. "If you can think of anything or anybody that may have a grudge, let me know. You know where to find me."

The crowd had dissipated from Brown"s Street, leaving Constables Scuddamore and Duff to fight their boredom as they lounged outside the mill gate.

"A shilling says he"ll go into the mill even though it"s shut." Duff nodded to the lone jute cart that rumbled over the cobbles, with two small boys hitching a free lift at the back.

"You"ll lose your shilling." Scuddamore leaned against the wall, stifling his yawn. "I know that carter. Eck Milne"s not as daft as you look."

When the boys shouted obscene insults at the two constables, Duff roared at them to the amusement of the blonde woman who sauntered along the pavement.

"Ignore them, Duff," Watters advised. "If you react to every cheeky wee snipe, you"ll be chasing your tail all day. Right, you lads can go back to the police office now or on to your beat, if it"s your time. Keep away from the publics, Scuddamore. Remember that you"re on duty."

As the constables marched off, the jute cart rattled into a side street, taking its attendant boys with it. Only the woman remained, watching Watters and the still smoking mill at his back.

"That looks unpleasant." The woman was in her mid-thirties, Watters estimated, with bright eyes in a face that was too weather-tanned to be fashionable and too fresh to belong to a mill hand. She looked on the verge of respectability, a woman whose social status Watters could not quite place, which made him slightly uneasy.

"It was a fire," Watters said. The woman looked vaguely familiar. He sorted through faces and names in his head, trying to place her. She was not one of his regular customers, therefore neither a p********e nor a habitual thief. No, Watters shook his head. He did not remember who she was.

"I can see that it was a fire." The woman"s English was perfect but with an unusual accent. She was certainly not from Dundee, but neither did she belong to any other region of Britain. "Was anybody hurt?"

"Would you like anybody to be hurt?" Watters turned the conversation around.

"Good heavens, no." The woman"s protests were too forceful to be genuine, which further enhanced Watters" suspicions.

"You"re not from these parts." Watters began his process of enquiries that would eventually strip away any pretence from the woman.

"No," the woman admitted frankly. Her smile was bright. "I"m from the Mediterranean."

"You"re from the Mediterranean, are you?" Watters filed away the information, wondering at its accuracy. Who the devil is she, and how do I know her? "What brings you to Dundee, Miss? Mrs?"

Who the devil is she, and how do I know her?"Miss Henrietta Borg." The woman gave an elegant little curtsey. Her bright smile did not fool Watters for a second.

"Miss Borg," Watters touched his cane to the brim of his hat. "What brings you to Dundee, Miss Borg?"

"A ship," Miss Borg gave a little laugh, "and the fortunes of fate. Do you have a name, sir?"

"Detective Sergeant George Watters."

"I see." Miss Borg"s eyes widened in what Watters knew was only pretended surprise. "You"re a policeman."

"I am," Watters said. "And now, if you would oblige me with your real name, we could get along much better." He tapped his cane against his leg.

Miss Borg laughed. "I see that I can"t fool you, Sergeant." She gave another little curtsey. "I"ll tell you next time. It looks as if you are in demand." She nodded to the dark brougham that was slowing to a halt beside them.

The brougham"s door opened before Watters could reply. "Sergeant Watters!"

"Yes, Superintendent Mackay?"

"You"ve worked with nautical crime before, haven"t you?"

"Yes, sir, down in London." Watters guessed that he was not going home yet.

"Jump in, then. You could be useful." Mackay looked curiously at Miss Borg. "Or is this lady known to us?"

"No, sir, we were just passing the time of day." Watters touched the brim of his hat again. "Good day to you, Miss Borg. I"d advise you to try and keep out of trouble. Women who give false names tend not to fare well in Dundee."

Miss Borg gave another little curtsey. "Thank you for the advice, Sergeant Watters. I will bear it in mind."

Miss Borg accentuated the swing of her hips as she strode into the fast-darkening street. "That"s trouble on two legs," Watters said. "We"ll hear more of Miss Henrietta Borg, or whatever name she chooses to use." He frowned as an old memory crept into his mind. "Nautical crime, indeed; she reminds me of somebody I met on a ship, but it couldn"t be. That was ten years ago." Shaking his head, Watters slid into the brougham. "What"s to do, sir?"

"Murder." Superintendent Mackay was a man of few words.