Detective Watters Mysteries

Chapter 7-1

Doctor Musgrave looked up as Watters entered the chill chamber. "You"ll be here about the body."

"I am." Watters looked around the mortuary. It was clean and smelled of soap with three oil-filled lanterns casting a gentle light.

"Your man was too badly damaged for me to ascertain the exact cause of death." Doctor Musgrave smiled through his beard. "I"m sorry, Sergeant; I know that is not what you wish to hear."

"No, Doctor," Watters said. "Can you tell me anything that might help my enquiries?"

"Not much." The doctor lifted a thin sheaf of notes from a shelf and leafed through them. "This unhappy fellow was five-foot-eleven, well made, brown-haired, and about thirty years old. He was muscular enough but with soft hands." The doctor lifted the body"s arms and ran his fingers over the palm of the hand. "You see? There are no calluses; your victim was no seaman."

"No seaman? I wonder what he was doing on board a ship then."

"That is hardly my province, Sergeant Watters." Doctor Musgrave replaced the hand.

"I know that, Doctor. Do you have a list of his injuries?"

"Yes." The doctor turned over the pages in his notes and read out a long list of broken, splintered, and crushed bones. "And finally, one deep and very narrow puncture wound in his neck that might have been caused by a loose spike in one of the bales."

Watters stored that information away for future reference. "Thank you, Doctor." He glanced at the fragmented human mess that lay face up on the marble slab. "Do you have his clothes? I"d like to examine them."

"The pockets were empty," the doctor said.

"Yes, Doctor. Do you have them, please?"

As Watters had already discovered, the man"s clothes were of good quality but well used. "It"s as if he was once a wealthy, or at least a comfortably-off, man who has fallen on hard times," Watters said.

Doctor Musgrave nodded without interest. "Hard times indeed."

"Thank you, Doctor." Watters nodded. "That"s one more mystery in this very mysterious case. Lifting the sleeves of the man"s shirt and jacket to his nose, Watters sniffed. "Gunpowder," he said. "I found gunpowder on the deck of the hold, so now I know this unfortunate fellow put it there, or at least was involved in some way."

Again the doctor expressed supreme indifference.

Watters checked the lining of the jacket, feeling nothing. Using his penknife, he slit the lining and turned the material inside out. "Empty," he said. "Sometimes professional thieves conceal items inside the lining, or the odd coin or personal belonging slips through a hole in the pocket. Not in this case. There is nothing here. This fellow has nothing to help identify him."

"Is that not usual if he"s been robbed?" Doctor Musgrave asked.

"Maybe that"s all it was, Doctor," Watters said. "Maybe this was a simple case of robbery, and the gunpowder was coincidental." He looked up with his lip curled in a half-smile. "Except that I don"t believe in coincidences, especially in cases of murder."

"You have work to do, Sergeant."

"I have. Could you have these forwarded to the police office, please?"

"I"m a doctor, not a letter carrier," Doctor Musgrave said. "If you want them, send a man to collect them."

Watters nodded, knowing that the doctor was correct. "I"ll send one of my criminal officers," he said. "Now, Doctor Musgrave, I have another question to ask you. Do you remember the manner of Mr Caskie"s demise?"

Doctor Musgrave frowned. "Yes, I remember Mr Caskie"s death," he said. "It was a terrible thing; a man struck down in his prime."

Watters held Musgrave"s gaze. "Was there anything suspicious about the death, Doctor?"

"Suspicious?" Doctor Musgrave"s frown deepened. "No, there was nothing suspicious. The poor fellow"s heart gave out on him, probably due to nervous exhaustion. These businessmen have a terrible life with all the burden of responsibility they carry."

Watters thought of Mount Pleasant and the luxurious Pitcorbie Estate. "They must suffer dreadfully," he said. "Did you perform an autopsy?"

"An autopsy on Mr Caskie? Indeed no, there was no need for such a thing."

Watters grunted. "Was there no suspicion at all of foul play? No suggestion of poison perhaps?"

"Absolutely none!" Doctor Musgrave shook his head. "Mr Caskie was a respectable and much-loved businessman, one of Dundee"s finest."

"Thank you, Doctor." Watters lifted his hat; he would make no progress here. He stepped into the street, took a deep breath of the smoky atmosphere, and coughed. Now he had more complications, more questions, and no answers. The dead man had soft hands and quality clothing. He might have been a gentleman down on his luck or an office clerk who played with gunpowder. Taking a practise golf swing with his cane, Watters tried to make sense of everything. The murder victim had certainly not been a seaman with a grudge. Lining up a stone, Watters hit it against the wall and frowned. He sighed, realised that two women were watching him with expressions of curiosity, straightened up, and marched away with as much dignity as he could muster. His golf would have to wait until he had solved this case.

* * *

The roads in Dundee seemed busier than usual as Watters travelled to Lochee to interview Mr Milne, the mate of Godiva. Coal carts clattered at every junction, a string of Cameron"s wagons pulling away from Thomas Moodie"s hotel at Hood"s Close, beside the Murraygate, and jute carts everywhere, with pieces of the brittle material breaking off and littering the streets. Beaumont had told him that the war in America was good for business, with the Union army demanding as many jute horse blankets, sandbags, and g*n covers as Dundee could ship out. Watters had heard one of the Baxter clan describing his factory as “better than a gold mine” and had raised his eyebrows at the profit figures that were quoted. With so much wealth being generated, he thought, the mill owners could perhaps pay their hands a decent wage.

GodivaBy the time Watters reached Lochee, two miles outside Dundee proper, the onset of darkness seemed to increase the unceasing racket from the mills. Nodding to the Lamplighter, who was just beginning his evening work, Watters fumbled in his pocket for his pipe, stuffed down tobacco with his thumb, and swore when he realised that he did not have a match.

Watters did not know Lochee well. He looked around for a shop he could buy a match. He found fleshers, bakers, general stores, and even a music teacher but no match seller.

"Blasted Lochee," Watters said as his craving for tobacco increased. "Normally, I am plagued by wee lassies selling the damned things, and when I want one, there are none to be seen."

Watters stomped down the street, coughing as the reek of the sewage-choked Lochee Burn caught the back of his throat. He waved a hand to try to clear the smoky atmosphere. There were mills everywhere, with East or Burnside Mill, Pitalpin Mill, Cox"s huge Camperdown Linen Works, West Mill, and Beaumont"s own Bon Vista Mill. Like Dundee, Lochee was noisy with carters carrying their loads of jute, others with building materials, lime, and the essential coal for the steam-powered works, while the railway trains also rattled past, spreading smoke smuts into the air.

At last, Watters saw a shop standing snug at a corner of the High Street with gold lettering across the window announcing Foote"s Tobacconist: quality tobacco and cigars.

Foote"s Tobacconist: quality tobacco and cigars."A packet of Lucifers, please." Watters threw a copper half-penny down on the shop counter.

The shopkeeper shook his head. "Sorry. We"ve sold out."

"Sold out of Lucifers?" Watters wondered what sort of shop could sell out of such an essential commodity. He shrugged; with so many mill workers in the area, maybe they needed the solace of tobacco. "A box of Palmer"s Vesuvians then." He did not really like these matches, which were too quick burning and unpredictable for pipe smokers, but beggars could not be choosers; he desperately needed a smoke.

The shopkeeper shook his head. "Sorry again. None left." He was a tall, calm-faced man with a bald head that shone under the smoky lantern.

Watters grunted and left without another word. He wondered if the drizzle had driven the match sellers off the street, entered another tobacconist, to be told the same sad tale. "Sorry, mate. I"ve just sold my entire stock, not an hour since."

"What was it? A mad rush by the quarry workers?" Watters was not in the best of temper, and being deprived of his tobacco made him worse. "What sort of place is this Lochee anyway?"

"It"s the sort of place where people work hard for a living and don"t ask stupid questions!" The shopkeeper was clearly not a man to be easily subdued. "No, one fellow bought all my matches."

"All of them?" Watters shook his head incredulously. "In God"s name, why?"

The shopkeeper shrugged. "How should I know? Maybe he collects them. Maybe he wants to sell them on the streets. Maybe he"s scared that he runs out. Who cares?"

Watters started. "Or maybe he wants to start a fire." He hesitated for a second, thinking of the mysterious blazes in Mr Beaumont"s mills. "Did he say anything to you? Anything at all?"

"Of course, he did. He said: “give me all the matches you have.” What do you think he was, a b****y mute?"

"No, I didn"t think that. What was this fellow like? Tall, short, fat, thin?"

"He was like a customer." The shopkeeper leaned closer. "Look, are you going to buy anything or just ask questions? I"ve got a business to run."

"I"ll come back later." Watters was already leaving as he spoke. "When do you shut?"

"Midnight and not a second later!" The shopkeeper shook his head and wiped his hands on his already stained apron as his door banged shut. Watters hurried away; Mr Milne"s interview would have to wait. A man buying hundreds of matches might mean danger for Mr Beaumont.

One of the smallest mills in Dundee, Beaumont"s Bon Vista was a converted water-powered mill hard by the Lochee Burn. Watters heard the refrain of the machinery before he reached the plain, near-windowless walls. More profit, more profit, more profit. Again and again, the looms repeated the same phrase, more profit, more profit, so that Watters wondered how the workers endured the ceaseless racket yet still retained their concentration.

fitfitfitfitfitThere was an enclosing wall of massive sandstone pierced by iron gates, which were swung wide open to permit the passage of the jute wagons. Those coming in carried bales of raw jute straight from the ships in the dock. Those leaving carried sandbags and sacking, wagon covers, and rough canvas for half of Britain and most of the developing world. Mr Beaumont would have these items loaded onto ships for the war in the United States and the expanding colonies of Australia, Canada, and South Africa.

Watters dashed into the Bon Vista. "Where"s the manager?"

The watchman barely looked up. "Through the door and up the stairs, mate."

Watters glanced at the man and pushed into the mill where the bustle was worse. Rows of cop winders in the spinning department kept their heads down as they worked. Their hair was tied up to keep loose strands from falling into the fast-moving machinery, their hands busy as young children darted beneath the machines to retrieve any loose pieces of material. The noise was deafening with moving belts spiralling at an appalling rate amidst the constant grind and rattle of the machines. Yet all the time, the exhausted-looking women spoke in high-pitched, nearly nasal accents that could be heard even above the noise.

Watters flinched at this reality of Beaumont"s wealth. The labours of these women created the fortune that had built Mount Pleasant House and allowed Miss Amy to indulge herself in pleasure trips to Reekie Linn and Newport. The sweat and toil of these children made the profit that paid for straw bonnets and the most fashionable clothes from London.