The Scuttlers

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

POLICE OFFICE, BELL STREET, DUNDEE

JANUARY 1864

Chief Constable Donald Mackay tapped bony fingers on the desk. “What do you know about Mr Muirhead, Watters?”

“He’s a shipowner, sir,” Sergeant George Watters replied. “He’s the managing owner of at least two of the Dundee Greenland Whaling Company’s vessels.”

Mackay tapped his fingers again. “Anything else?”

Watters shook his head. “No, sir. Mr Muirhead has never come to my attention. Why, sir, have we caught him shoplifting?”

Mackay ignored the attempt at humour as his pale blue eyes fixed on Watters. “He’s come to your attention now, Watters. I want you to find out everything about him.”

“Yes, sir. Why is that?”

In response, Mackay tossed a file across the desk. “Read that, Sergeant.” He waited as Watters opened the buff folder and scanned the contents.

“A small vessel, Toiler, sank on her passage between Stromness and Dundee,” Watters said. “And the owner, Mr Muirhead, has her insured with two separate companies. Do we suspect scuttling, sir?”

Mackay leaned back in his chair. “You’re the detective, Watters. Take the file away, dig a little, and come back to me with your conclusions.” He waited until Watters reached the door before calling him back. “Oh, and Watters, there has been an increase in the number of burglaries recently.”

Watters turned around. “So I hear, sir. Thefts from hotels and shops, I believe.”

“That’s correct. Look into it, will you? Deal with the scuttling case first. I doubt that will occupy you for long, then look into the burglaries.”

“Yes, sir,” Watters said and made to turn away.

“Oh, wait, Watters, I have another matter to discuss with you.”

“Yes, sir?” Watters knew that Mr Mackay would not have let him off so easily.

“I may wish to increase the detective establishment of the force.” Mackay leaned back in his chair, pressed his fingers together, and watched Watters’ reaction through his cold northern eyes.

“Yes, sir?”

“What do you think of that?”

“We could always use another couple of men, sir,” Watters said. “Much of our time is spent inspecting pawn shops for stolen goods and giving evidence at court rather than detecting crimes.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Mackay said dryly. “I have the finances for only one position, with two officers in mind. Both will join you shortly. Use them, assess their attributes and weaknesses, and report back to me.”

“Yes, sir,” Watters said.

“I can only afford one more man,” Mackay reminded, “so they are in direct opposition to one another.”

Watters returned to his desk in the duty room, where Constables Scuddamore and Duff were scraping their pens over a seemingly endless pile of forms and routine paperwork. Both looked up as Watters slid onto his chair.

“Keep working, lads,” Watters said. “We’ve got three jobs now. One is to look into the recent burglaries, and the second is a scuttling case.”

“And the third, Sergeant?” Scuddamore asked.

“We’re nursemaiding a couple of Johnny Raws,” Watters explained about the possible augmentation of their numbers.

“Two more men?” Duff grinned. “Well, they’d better be good. Do you know who they are, Sergeant?”

“Not yet.”

“I hope they’re experienced officers and not starry-eyed young hopefuls who think policing is romantic and exciting.” Scuddamore dripped ink from his pen-nib onto the topmost document on his desk, swore and reached for his blotter.

“Which case are we going to concentrate on, Sergeant?” Scuddamore asked.

“The scuttling,” Watters said. “With luck, we should get that out of the way in a few days and then we can look at the thefts. I don’t know when these new men will come.” He flourished the Muirhead file. “This rubbish is all about Mr Muirhead, whom Mr Mackay suspects of scuttling one of his vessels. I’ll read this thing and see if it’s of any interest to us.”

“I’ve never worked on a scuttling case before,” Duff said.

“Most are insurance frauds,” Watters told him. “A shipowner over-insures a vessel, takes her out to sea, and sinks her. Mr Mackay wants us to see if this vessel, Toiler, follows that pattern.” He looked at the empty mug beside his blotter. “I work better with a full mug of tea, though, Scuddamore.”

“Aye, these new lads had better be good at making tea,” Scuddamore said, standing up. “I want none of that wishy-washy coloured-water stuff.”

Only when Scuddamore filled Watters’ mug from the teapot that sat permanently on the grate did Watters open the file and study the contents.

“Right, lads,” he said at length. “This looks like a simple case of scuttling, but I want your opinions.”

Duff and Scuddamore left their administrative work without hesitation and pulled their chairs closer to listen to Watters.

Watters sipped at his tea. “Toiler was a small, elderly vessel without much value, so it seems strange to insure her. According to this account, she was only thirty-five tons, and she sprung a leak off the Redhead by Montrose.”

Scuddamore nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“The report here claims that as the water within Toiler rose, the crew abandoned her fifteen miles off Bodden, and rowed to Montrose.” Watters looked up. “That sounds fairly straightforward until we reach the speculation that the master, or one of the crew, either forced out the bow plates or bored holes in the hull.”

“Is there any justification for the speculation, Sergeant?” Duff asked.

“Perhaps,” Watters said. “Toiler was heavily insured; she was worth perhaps £300, but Muirhead insured her for £925, with two different companies.”

Duff grinned as he sipped his tea. “That sounds plain enough then, Sergeant. A shipowner with a poor-quality vessel looking to make a quick profit. Who’s the owner?”

“Muirhead,” Watters said.

“Keith Muirhead?” Scuddamore asked.

Watters checked the file. “The very same.”

“But Muirhead’s one of the most successful merchants in Dundee,” Scuddamore said. “He’s got no need to scuttle a vessel for a few hundred pounds. He must be worth tens of thousands. He lives in a palace out by the Ferry.” The Ferry, or Broughty Ferry, was a salubrious town a few miles east of Dundee and the home of many of Dundee’s elite merchant class.

Duff grunted. “That’s how these people get rich, Scuds. They take every advantage, twist every law to suit themselves, and bleed the poor to line their wallets.”

Watters put down his mug. “We’re not here to judge the man’s morals, Duff, only to see if he’s breaking the law. “I want to find out all you can about Keith Muirhead. Scuddamore, you talk to his employees and see their opinion of their master. Duff, go to his bank – the Tayside Bank – and speak to their new manager, a fellow called MacBride. Look at Muirhead’s bank balance if Mr MacBride allows.”

Both detectives rose at once, happy to escape the drudgery of administration.

“I’ll talk to the insurance companies,” Watters said. “With luck, we should wrap this up in a couple of days. With a lot of luck, by tomorrow.”

The Dundee Maritime and Household Insurance Company boasted that it had offices across eastern Scotland. Its Dundee office was in Dock Street, on the second floor of a building a hundred yards from the Dundee Perth and London Shipping Company and only a biscuit toss from Muirhead’s Greenland Whaling Company.

Although the common close was unassuming, the insurance company’s name was inscribed in gold lettering on the door, and the reception hall was brightly lit, with a smell of polished wood and brass. The young man behind the desk greeted Watters with a smile.

“Yes, sir? May I help you?”

“I am Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee police, and I wish to view the insurance policy of the vessel Toiler, owned by Keith Muirhead.”

The clerk looked nonplussed for a moment. “I am not sure if I am allowed to do that,” he said.

Watters had expected such a response. “Then fetch somebody who has the authority,” he ordered. “I’ll wait,” he consulted the silver watch that Marie had given him on their third wedding anniversary, “for five minutes, and then I’ll start to look myself.”

Within three minutes, the clerk returned with an older man in a wing collar.

“It’s quite against company policy,” the older man said. “Quite.”

Watters leaned over the small wooden half-door that barred entry to the office's inner Sanctorum, snapped open the bolt, and stepped inside.

“Show me where you keep your files,” Watters said, “and I’ll search myself.”

“It’s against company policy,” the older man repeated, pulling at his collar as Watters strode inside the office and looked around, with his cane balanced over his shoulder and his low-crowned hat pushed back on his head. The room was large, with three tall windows overlooking the street below, four desks for the clerks, and a fireplace. A heavy, glass-fronted bookcase dominated one wall, and wooden pigeonholes another.

“Here we are,” Watters pointed his cane at the rows of pigeonholes, each containing bundles of documents tied with white linen ribbons. “Do you file by ship name or company name?” He removed the documents from one pigeonhole. “I’ll empty these on the floor if I don’t need them.”

“Oh, no.” The elderly man put his thin hands on Watters’ arm. “No, sir, you mustn’t do such a thing. These files are confidential.”

“I only want one,” Watters said. “The policy that concerns Mr Muirhead’s Toiler.”

The elderly man pulled at his collar again. “Over here,” he submitted at last. “We file by the client’s name, and Mr Muirhead is under M.”

Watters walked with the elderly man to the third column of pigeonholes. “Thank you, Mr…”

“Gallacher,” the elderly man seemed equally reluctant to part with his name. “Edward Gallacher.”

“Thank you, Mr Gallacher,” Watters delved into the three pigeonholes under the letter M. The contents of the first compartment were of no interest, but the next had a dozen documents neatly tied together with a strip of linen. “Are these all Mr Muirhead’s vessels?”

Mr Gallacher considered before answering. “Yes, Sergeant Watters.”

Watters lifted the bundles. “I’ll borrow these as evidence and return them when the case is closed.” He gave an ironic bow. “Thank you, Mr Gallacher.”

Gallacher nearly tied his hands in a knot as he watched Watters carry his documents out of the office. “Please don’t forget to return them, Sergeant Watters.”

The second insurance company was in Edinburgh, only an hour and a half’s journey by rail but a different world from the boisterous, smoky streets of Dundee. Watters admired the neo-classical architecture of George Street as he searched for the office, which was at street level, with marble columns surrounding the door. Once past the uniformed commissionaire, he found the clerks even less helpful than their Dundee counterparts.

“Dundee Police?” A middle-aged man with greying whiskers stared suspiciously at Watters. “This isn’t Dundee, you know.”

“I know,” Watters said, perusing a familiar set of wooden pigeonholes. “Do you file by ship name or company name?”

“Our clients each have a personal file,” the clerk tried to prevent Watters from pushing past. He glanced at the commissionaire for support.

“Ah, thank you,” Watters said, extracting the documents under Muirhead’s name. “I’ll return these when the case is closed.” He paused at the door. “One more thing, Mr…”

“Edmund Fairbairn.”

“Mr Fairbairn. Could you describe Mr Muirhead to me?”

Fairbairn pulled at his whiskers. “I did not meet the man. My assistant, Mr Beaumont, dealt with that enquiry.”

Mr Beaumont was a sandy-haired man with steady blue eyes. “I remember Mr Muirhead well,” he said.

“Could you describe him to me?” Watters asked.

Beaumont furrowed his forehead. “He was a well-set-up gentleman, with a very upright stance.” His frown deepened with the struggle to remember. “Mr Muirhead was nearly military in attitude and very tall. Taller than you and me.”

“How old?” Watters asked.

“He was a young man. I would say in his middle thirties,” Beaumont nodded. “Yes, perhaps thirty-five or thirty-six.” He nodded to emphasise his words.

“Did Mr Muirhead come in person? Or did he send a clerk?”

“He came in person,” Beaumont said.

“Thank you, Mr Beaumont. I may return to ask you more questions,” Watters said.

He returned to Dundee in a thoughtful frame of mind for aspects of the case that were unclear.

“Right, lads, how did you get on?” Watters leaned back in his chair, with the winter rain hammering at the window beside him.

Scuddamore shook his head. “I found nothing unusual, Sergeant. I spoke to a dozen of Mr Muirhead’s employees, including his secretary, and none of them had a bad word to say about the man.” Scuddamore consulted his notebook. “The comments include phrases such as “excellent employer,” “a true gentleman,” and “always polite.” He smiled. “They do say he is careful with money, but that is the mark of any merchant in Dundee.”

“Thank you, Scuddamore,” Watters said. “How about you, Duff?”

Duff shook his head. “The bank manager did not release the books to me, Sergeant, but he said Mr Muirhead’s accounts were extremely healthy and showing an annual increase. I need a magistrate’s order to view the figures.”

Watters nodded. “We’re not at that stage yet. Would you say that Mr Muirhead does not need to scuttle his ships, then?”

“I would say that he does not, Sergeant,” Duff agreed. “There was one thing that I thought unusual, though.”

“What was that, Duff?”

“Mr MacBride told me that Muirhead’s accountant, a fellow Mackenzie, opened a new account for him last week and put in six hundred pounds.”

Watters smiled. “Six hundred pounds? That is interesting, Duff. That’s the same figure as the Scottish and English Mutual paid out.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Was the account in Muirhead’s name, the company name or Mackenzie’s name?”

“Mr Muirhead’s name,” Duff said.

“In that case, gentlemen, we have an investigation on our hands,” Watters said, with a smile. “I do not believe that Mr Muirhead insured his vessels twice, and in a few moments, I’ll tell you why. Pour the tea out, Scuddamore, and make it strong.”

Scuddamore grinned and brought over three mugs with the tea black as tar. Watters added a stiff dram of whisky from a bottle he had in his bottom drawer.

“Real peat-reek boys, from an illicit still in the Angus Glens. If you drink it n***d, it will lift the skin from your throat.” He tasted his tea, coughed, and added another drop. “We’re back on a case, lads, not just our normal petty theft and drunken brawls.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore said.

“Well,” Watters held up his mug. “Here’s to us, lads, wha’s like us?”

“Damned few,” Scuddamore said as the three mugs clinked together.

“And they’re a’ deid!” Duff said, grinning.

They drank, gagged, and drank again.

“Now, Watters said, “here are the insurance documents for Toiler, one from the Dundee Maritime Company and one from the Scottish and English Mutual.” He laid both on the desk. “I want you to read both and tell me what you think.”

Scuddamore scanned both documents. “The Dundee Maritime is dated earlier,” he said. “April 1856, while the Scottish and English Mutual is October 1863, just a few months ago.”

“That’s one thing,” Watters said. “Anything else?”

“Mr Muirhead signed both,” Duff said, “but with different signatures. And the Dundee Maritime is for only £325 while the Mutual is for £600.”

“That’s strange, don’t you think?” Watters asked. “The later one, when the ship is older, for nearly twice the amount, and with different signatures.”

“The Dundee Maritime says K. L. Muirhead, and the Mutual says Keith Muirhead.” Duff reread the names.

“I don’t think the same person signed both documents,” Watters said.

“Do you think somebody forged Mr Muirhead’s signature?” Scuddamore asked.

“I do,” Watters said.

“Why would they do that?” Scuddamore asked.

“That is what I intend to find out.” Watters sipped more of his tea. “Or rather, that’s what we will all find out.”