Murdered On The 13th

PreludeDundee, December 1862 Watters could not risk opening the shutter of his lantern to check the time. If he did so, even that faint glimmer of light might give his presence away. He sat with the wall supporting his back and fought the cramp in both legs that stretched out in front of him. Watters was not sure how long he had waited. It might have been an hour, two, or even three. He only knew that the time had passed slowly, and if Eddie the cabbie, his informant, had been wrong, he would have wasted an entire night. “And if I've wasted my time, Eddie, I'll be checking every detail of your life, searching for any concealed crime you might have committed,” Watters promised until he heard the noise. It was a furtive scratching, like mice gnawing in the attic of a house. “Here you come,” Watters said to himself, reaching for his cane. “Well done, Eddie,” he said somewhat reluctantly. The scratching ended in a long silence. Watters waited, aware that his interminable search was about to end. He heard a sharp tap on the wooden shutters, and immediately a circle of lesser dark appeared. Something appeared in the circle, a hand encased in dark gloves, with the fingers groping for the bolt that secured the shutters. When the bolt squeaked, the hand withdrew, then reappeared a moment later, to spread grease on the offending metal. Watters heard nervous, subdued breathing from beyond the shutters. He gripped his cane, testing the lead-weighted end against the palm of his hand. The grease did its work, with the fingers sliding back the bolt with only a minimum of sound. After a few second's delay, the shutters opened, and the hand appeared again, slowly lowering a bag onto the floor. A moment later, a small, slender man appeared, wriggling under the raised sash-and-case window. Watters sat tight, limiting his breathing as the intruder opened the bag and produced a small lamp. When the intruder slid back the lamp's shutter, a thin beam of light shone onto the walnut desk in the corner of the room. The light shifted a little until it ended on the topmost drawer of the desk, where the dark shape of a keyhole promised hidden wealth. As the intruder ghosted forward to kneel beside the slender beam, Watters saw him clearly for the first time. Short and slight, the intruder possessed nondescript features and delicate hands as he removed his gloves to work on the lock. Dressed in black, with soft black shoes on his feet and a dark woollen hat on his head, he could easily merge with the shadows. He was undoubtedly a cracksman, one of the top level of the criminal fraternity. Removing a set of lock-picks from the bag, the cracksman began work on the desk. “That's far enough,” Watters said to himself as he slid back the shutter of his lantern, flooding the room with light. “Dundee Police,” he said quietly. The intruder spun around with an expression of shock on his soot-smeared face. “Charles Edmund Graham, you are under arrest for breaking and entering.” Charles Graham looked as if he were about to faint. “Who the devil are you?” He blinked, raising a hand to protect his eyes from the lantern. “I am Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police. I've been after you for six months Charles.” Watters saw the cracksman's eyes dart sideways as he sought a means of escape. “It's no go, Charles. The door is locked on the outside, and one of my men is arresting your crow – your lookout. Another of my men has control of your coach and driver. You have nowhere to go.” Charles gave a resigned smile that belied the panic in his eyes. “It looks like you've got me, Sergeant Watters.” He shrugged. “I thought this was a rum job, paid big money for a simple desk. Was it a put-up job, Sergeant? Did you set me up?” Watters shook his head. “That's not my style, Charles.” Graham grunted as he stood up. “It's a hard day. I don't even know what I'm meant to be stealing.” Watters fastened his handcuffs around Graham's wrists. “You're not working for yourself, then?” Graham gave a rueful smile. “Not this time, Sergeant. If I had been, do you think that any news would have leaked out?” “No,” Watters agreed. “You're too slippery for that, or too professional. What were you told to steal? I doubt there's enough cash in that drawer to make it worth your while.” Charles shook his head. “You know I won't tell you any more, Sergeant Watters.” “And you know I had to ask,” Watters said, rapping on the door. When it opened, a man of medium height and spreading shoulders stood there with a heavy bludgeon in his hand. “It's all right, Mr Gall,” Watters said. “There is no need for the weapon. Mr Graham has decided to come with me.” Gall looked disappointed as he glowered at Charles. “I'll kill him if he tries to escape.” “He won't,” Watters said. “Who did you say sent you, Charles?” Charles shook his head. “I didn't say,” he said, “and I won't say.” For a second, Watters thought he saw a flicker of fear cross Charles' face. That was interesting and worth exploring. “Give him to me for five minutes.” Gall tapped his cudgel against the door. “I'll soon beat it out of him.” “There'll be none of that, Mr Gall,” Watters said, knowing the boat-builder was merely acting. “Come on, Charles, I have a nice warm cell waiting for you.” As he escorted Charles out of the boat-building company's office, Watters looked up the length of Broughty Ferry. “Mr Gall told me there was nothing of any value in his desk, Charles. No money, no jewellery, only documents related to his work. Who would want them?” Charles shrugged. “If you help me, Charles, I might be able to speak for you at your trial.” When Charles walked on, wordless, Watters knew that he would find out no more. Whether it was professional pride, or fear, or a mixture of both, Watters did not know. He doubted that he ever would. Still, he would like to know who, or what put such fear into the eyes of a professional cracksman like Charles Graham.