Detective Watters Mysteries

Chapter 8-2

“Not yet, sir,” Watters said. “I’ve set them a task, and I’ll see which one gets the better result.”

“What task?” Mackay’s fingers stilled.

“These Fenian rumours, sir. Scuddamore found a poster advertising a Fenian outbreak in Dundee, and I sent them to find out more information.”

Mackay’s stilled his fingers and turned to face Watters. “That’s an important job, Watters. We don’t want any of that Irish-Scottish trouble in Dundee. Do you think the prospective men are ready for that level of responsibility?”

“We’ll soon find out, sir,” Watters said. “In my opinion, if any group planned to cause trouble in Dundee, they wouldn’t advertise in advance.”

Mackay raised his eyebrows, and for an instant, Watters thought he saw some respect in the pale eyes. “You don’t believe it’s a genuine threat, then?”

“No, sir,” Watters said.

Mackay’s fingers drummed for another few moments. “All right, Watters. That’s all. Dismissed.”

* * *

Watters swung his cane like a golf club and looked for his two prospective detectives along Dudhope Street. When he heard the tramp of marching feet, he smiled. The sound brought back memories of his time in the Royal Marines and his few years as an NCO with the Volunteers before he concentrated solely on his police career. Resisting the instinct to salute, Watters watched the half dozen red-coated Volunteers march towards the town centre. They were mostly very young, probably still teenagers, hopeful that the glamour of the uniform attracted girls, with one older man with the stripes of a corporal in charge. As they marched, their bayonets bounced from their hips while gas light reflected from the barrels of their Enfield rifles.

“Good luck to you, lads,” Watters said. “Let’s hope you never have to fire these things in earnest.”

He heard the Volunteers argue about some trifle, automatically opened his mouth to blast them into silence, and closed it again. Squabbles among Volunteers were no longer his business unless they disturbed the public peace.

“Fenians!”

Watters had nearly forgotten the Fenian scare. Now the word came to him, carried on some nebulous draught of air. He looked up, swung his cane again, and stepped into the shadows so he could hear without anybody observing him.

“They’re Fenians, I tell you, come to storm Dundee.”

Watters frowned. The speaker sounded very young. “Oh, dear Lord,” he said when he heard a concerted yell from a score of voices.

A gaggle of children of both sexes and ages from ten to about fourteen charged along the street. They were all chanting, “The Fenians are here! The Fenians are here!”

What the devil is this? Watters asked himself.

What the devil is this?When they came within twenty yards of the Volunteers, the mob of youngsters stopped and let loose a high-pitched yell. “Fenians!”

The Volunteer corporal stepped forward, presumably to ask the children where these Fenians were, only to flinch when a volley of stones rattled past him. “We’re not Fenians!” he shouted.

“That won’t work, Corporal,” Watters murmured. He sighed, wondering how best to resolve the situation as the Volunteers retaliated by throwing back the children’s stones. Within two minutes, Dudhope Street was a riot scene as children and Volunteers threw stones and insults at each other, with the growing number of children quickly in the ascendancy. When a group of older youths reinforced the children, the scene became more violent as they threw larger stones with more force.

A Volunteer yelled as a stone caught him on the forehead, knocking off his forage cap.

“We’re not Fenians,” the corporal shouted again, then staggered as a missile opened a cut on his scalp. “You wee buggers!”

“Enough!” Watters roared and strode forward, swinging his cane. “Dundee Police!” He may as well have called down the moon as the barrage of stones continued in both directions.

“He’s a bluebottle!” One of the youths yelled, pointing to Watters. “A Fenian bluebottle! Get him!”

Watters ducked as a chunk of rock the size of his fist whizzed past his head. The youths shouted strange slogans as they followed their leader, pelting Watters as vigorously as they attacked the Volunteers.

“Dundee Police!” Watters stepped in between both groups, knowing he made himself more vulnerable. “Stop this!” He raised both arms. “Dundee Police!”

A stone clattered off the ground at his feet, and another cracked him on the arm. If he were in uniform, he might have been more effective, or he could have used his rattle to summon help. As it was, he was a lone voice in a rising volume of shouts and shrieks and a central target for the youths.

When a sudden rush by the youths prompted the Volunteers to band closer together, the corporal gave a hesitant order, and the men fixed bayonets.

“None of that!” Watters snapped, with a vision of bloodied and broken youths if the Volunteers charged. “Dundee Police! Put these damned bayonets away!”

“You’re no bluebottle,” one of the Volunteers said. “You’re only an interfering bugger of a civilian. Where’s your uniform?”

Watters strode forward and slashed his cane on the man’s rifle. “You’ll do as I tell you,” he said. He staggered when a stone crashed onto the back of his head and then gasped as a bottle thumped onto his shoulder.

“Bayonets, men! Show them the bayonet!” The corporal shouted.

“No!” Watters roared, and the voice of authority finally stilled the Volunteers. Even the youths were silent for a moment, and then a tousle-haired redhead lobbed another missile, and the barrage started again. One of the Volunteers slid his bayonet in place with a sinister click. When other Volunteers followed his lead, the situation altered from dangerous to potentially lethal.

I’ll either be a martyr or a hero here, but I must try and stop this madness.

I’ll either be a martyr or a hero here, but I must try and stop this madness.Stepping towards the Volunteers, Watters grabbed the rifle from the nearest man. “Put that b****y thing down! You’re in Dundee, not the North-West Frontier! You can’t go around bayonetting people just because they throw stones at you!”

The other Volunteers crowded round, one or two nursing cuts and bruises, some angry and brandishing their bayonets at Watters.

What the devil do I do now?

What the devil do I do now?“Corporal! Get your men under control. You’re not here to fight children!”

The harsh police rattle was welcome as it sounded through the commotion, and two uniformed officers marched into the mob of youths, scattering them with sundry pushes and the odd slap to ears and heads. One swung his long staff at the youths’ legs, pressing them back.

“Get along there!” The taller of the two said. “These men are not Fenians!”

Assailed from this unexpected direction, the youthful army frayed at the edges. They began to retreat, singly and then in small groups until the Dundee Police were in total control of the situation. The Volunteers stared at the newcomers, with the corporal unsure how to react.

“There is no Fenian threat to Dundee!” The taller of the two police shouted as the last of the youths ran away. “Tell that to all your friends.” He approached Watters. “That was a Donnybrook, a regular Donnybrook. Are you all right, Sergeant?”

“Glad to see you, Constable Boyle,” Watters rubbed the back of his head. He could feel a lump already forming there. “I am glad you turned up. Things were looking decidedly nasty.”

Boyle grinned, with Shaw like a shadow at his back. “We heard the commotion, Sergeant, and heard somebody shouting Fenians and thought we’d come along.”

“You were just in time,” Watters said. “Corporal, put these bayonets back in their scabbards and get on with your duty!”

“Yes, sir.” The corporal muttered orders to his now-sheepish men. Watters watched the Volunteers shamble away, resisted the temptation to shout after them to march to attention, and checked himself for broken bones. Considering the noise and volume of stones, he was surprised that nobody was seriously hurt, with only a few cuts and bruises on either side.

“Sergeant,” Boyle put a hand inside his tunic and pulled out a copy of the Fenian poster. “I found out more about this poster. Is this the right time to tell you?”

“No time like the present,” Watters said. “What did you find out?”

Boyle stood at attention. “Shaw and I spoke to the people in Lochee and the Scouringburn, Sergeant, as you said. Most of the Irish folk knew about the Fenian Brotherhood, and some had even seen this poster. Nobody knew anything about an attack by the Fenians.”

“Would they tell you the truth?” Watters asked. “People tend to lie to the police, even when they’re in civilian clothes.”

“Shaw can put on an Irish accent, Sergeant.”

“Can you, Shaw?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Shaw said. “My mother was Irish.”

“Good man. So is my wife,” Watters said, wondering if there was more to quiet Constable Shaw than met the eye.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Boyle said. “We were getting nowhere, and we decided to go to the source.” He unfolded the poster and pointed to a small name at the bottom. “We went to the printer, Sergeant, that’s his name there, James Valentine, and asked him who ordered the posters.”

“Good thinking, Boyle,” Watters said.

“Mr Valentine checked his accounts book and told us that a theatrical company paid for a hundred posters.”

Watters looked up as a wind carried rain from the sea. Dundee had the reputation as Scotland’s driest and sunniest city but still received its fair share of foul weather. “Did you follow your investigations through?” He wanted detectives who could act on their initiative rather than men who merely followed orders from above.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Boyle said. “Shaw and I checked up on the theatre company, and they are producing a play in the Alhambra Music Hall.”

Watters nodded. “Is it about the Fenians?”

Boyle smiled. “Yes, Sergeant. The Alhambra thought the poster would raise interest in the forthcoming play.”

“Well done, Boyle, and you, Shaw. When your shift is finished, go back to the Alhambra, and tell the manager to remove all the posters. If they refuse, charge them with creating public disorder.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Boyle said.

Watters watched the constables walk away and rubbed the back of his head. That cleared up the Fenian threat and showed him the mettle of Constables Boyle and Shaw. Boyle had waded into the youths without hesitating and had shown considerable initiative in investigating the poster. Shaw? Watters was not sure. Shaw seemed too quiet for a detective. We’ll see. It’s early days yet, but I’d prefer a man with more fire.

We’ll see. It’s early days yet, but I’d prefer a man with more fire.* * *

“Well, George,” Marie leaned back in her chair, with the baby at her breast. “How is the case progressing?”

“Not well,” Watters admitted. “We are no closer to catching the culprits than we were at the beginning.”

“Don’t bite!” Marie admonished. “Not you, George. I was talking to Patrick.”

Watters smiled. “Maybe we weren’t lucky that he was born with a tooth.”

“I’ve never heard the like before,” Marie said, looking down fondly at her son. “Did you know that some men are jealous of their children?”

“Jealous? Why?” Watters reached out to touch Patrick’s shoulder. The baby gave a little gurgle of protest at being disturbed.

“Well,” Marie jiggled her breast. “This was your exclusive territory until he arrived.”

Watters smiled. “I think he has prior rights,” he said. “As long as he doesn’t bite too hard.”

“He’s biting now,” Marie winced and changed sides. “Have you thought about how to progress with your case?”

“No,” Watters said. “I am no further forward.”

Marie looked up. “Do you know who this rogue officer is?”

“No.”

“Who do you suspect?”

Watters considered. “I don’t know,” he said. “Some things point to Anstruther.”

“Lieutenant Anstruther?” Marie asked, in case there were others in the force with the same name.

“The very man.”

Marie considered for a while before replying. “Then you’ll have to ensure he doesn’t learn of your tactics.” She looked up. “Are you sure you don’t suspect Anstruther just because you dislike the man?”

“I’m not sure of anything,” Watters said and explained about Anstruther’s brass buckle and the broken buckle in Sinclair’s.

“A broken buckle on its own signifies nothing,” Marie said.

“I know.” Watters reached for his pipe until Marie shook her head. “Don’t smoke in front of the baby, George.”

“Smoke’s good for them. It clears their lungs.”

“I don’t believe that,” Marie said. “Smoke makes me cough and stings my eyes, so imagine what it does to this wee man.”

Watters sighed and put his pipe back on the mantelpiece. Sometimes Marie had the strangest ideas, but it was better to accept her foibles rather than argue.

“What’s your next move, George? You always have some ploy up your sleeve.”

Watters glanced at the baby, who had fallen asleep while remaining firmly attached to his mother. “I honestly don’t know, Marie.”

“You trust Scuds and Duff, of course.” That was more a command than a question.

“I do. Duff can be too honest sometimes.”

“It’s impossible to be too honest,” Marie said. “How about your two new men. Are they up to snuff?”

“I don’t know about them yet. Boyle has promise, but Shaw is a bit shy, maybe even lazy.”

Marie snorted. “Lazy won’t last in the force,” she said. “How about your informants?”

“They feed me scraps,” Watters walked to the window and stared outside. “We don’t have much of a view here,” he said. “Only the houses across the street. I’d like a house with a view of the sea or the hills.”

“Maybe some time,” Marie said and shifted the baby slightly. “You can see the Old Steeple if you stand on the right and twist your head.”

“So I can,” Watters followed Marie’s advice. The Old Steeple was central to Dundee, although it was a tower rather than a pointed steeple. It was the focal point of the City Churches and acted as a landmark for homecoming sailors and the home of the church bells that summoned the faithful to Sunday worship.

“I often look at the Steeple when you are on duty,” Marie said. “It gives me comfort.” She eyed him, gently persuasive. “You must get a good view of the town from there.”

“I’ve never been to the top,” Watters admitted.

“I’d imagine,” Marie spoke slowly, “that a man up there could see everything that was happening in the streets.”

“He could,” Watters agreed. “He could observe without being seen and send a message to somebody on the ground below.”

Marie sat back, satisfied she had done her duty. Now her husband would water the seed she had planted and convince himself the idea was entirely his own. She held her baby closer. “But we know, don’t we, my wee man?”

“What was that, Marie?”

“Oh, nothing, George. I was talking to Patrick. Mothers do such things.”