The Scuttlers

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

“Forget the scuttling for a minute, Sergeant. Have you seen this?” Scuddamore nearly threw the poster onto Watters’ desk. “They’re all over the town.”

“What is it?” Watters unfolded the paper and read.

Fellow Irishmen!

Now’s the time, and now’s the hour!

For too long, Ireland has struggled under British oppression. Now the Fenian Brotherhood has arrived to remove the colonial chains and free Ireland. We call upon all True Irishmen who love the Shamrock and the Green to gather in Dundee.

Eirinn go Brách.

“What the devil?” Watters shook his head. “The last thing we want in Dundee is trouble between the Irish and the Scots.”

“I agree, sir,” Scuddamore said. “I thought we’d seen the last of these troublemakers, and here they are again.”

“I met some of these lads when I worked in London,” Watters said. “They are a formidable crew. Best look into it, Scuddamore, but don’t forget the scuttling case is our priority.”

Watters looked up as two uniformed constables approached them. One man was about thirty-five, tall, broad-shouldered, and erect. The second was smaller, slighter, and looked more nervous than Watters expected from a policeman.

“Here come the Johnny Raws,” Scuddamore said quietly, putting a sheet of blank paper on top of the poster.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Watters said as the two constables stopped six feet from his desk. “What do you want?”

The tall man acted as a spokesman. “Mr Mackay sent us, Sergeant. He said you have to assess us as possible detectives.”

Watters looked them over before speaking. “Do you have names, Constables?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” the taller man said. “I am Constable Richard Boyle, 236, and this is Constable Shaw, 239.”

“Well Constable Boyle 136, and Constable Shaw 239, here’s what I want you to do.” Watters pointed to the kettle that sat on the grate. “We need hot tea ready at all times, so that’s your first job. I am not getting you out of uniform until I see how good you are.”

Constable Shaw looked disappointed as Boyle checked the kettle and refilled it. Watters waited until Boyle placed the kettle on the grate.

“The second thing,” Watters said, “is to look at this document Detective Scuddamore has brought in.” He dragged the garish poster from under its folder.

Both prospective detectives read the poster. “It looks as if the Fenians are organising something in Dundee,” Shaw said helpfully.

“You’re right,” Watters encouraged. “What do you know about the Fenians?”

“They’re an organisation in Ireland and America,” Boyle said. “They want Ireland to be separate from Great Britain.”

Watters leaned back, aware that Scuddamore was listening to every word. “Where do you think we might find the Fenians?”

Shaw and Boyle looked at each other for inspiration.

“Ireland?” Shaw hazarded.

Watters hid his impatience. “Boyle said that. Where in Dundee might they be found?”

“Where the Irish have settled,” Boyle said.

“Which is?” Watters felt as if he were drawing teeth.

“Scouringburn, Lochee, and Hilltown,” Shaw said at once.

“Quite so,” Watters said. “Those are the areas in which I wish you to operate today and tomorrow. Do your normal duty shifts in uniform, then wear civilian clothes and tour these areas, listening for any signs of subversion or Fenianism.”

“Double shifts?” Shaw asked.

“Double shifts,” Watters replied, watching their reactions. He did not want any man who was shy of working long hours. “Now I’m sure Sergeant Murdoch has already allocated you a beat.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Boyle said.

“Then get on it,” Watters watched them walk away.

“That will keep them out of our way for a while,” Watters grunted, “and maybe they’ll find out something useful.”

“Maybe, Sergeant,” Scuddamore said, “but I doubt it.”

Red streaks between the early morning grey clouds promised a windy day to come. Watters hefted his golf bag, selected a club, and squinted along the fairway. “I was surprised to see you here, Mr Muirhead. I thought you were a member at the Balcumbie Club.”

Mr Muirhead smiled. “I would be, Mr Watters, but the Dundee Artisan allows me to tee off earlier. Besides, the rates are lower.” His clubs looked well-used, even shabby. “I am happy to find a partner so early on a January morning.”

“I grab a round whenever I can,” Watters squared off and swung, sending his ball soaring down the fairway. It bounced twice, then rolled to within a yard of the green.

“Nice drive,” Muirhead said. “I can just about make out the ball.” He squinted up to the sky. “It’s still too dark for accurate golf, but the course is quiet at least.”

“Any earlier, and we’d have to carry candles,” Watters said.

Muirhead swung mightily, with the ball soaring along the fairway, to land with an awkward bounce and finish in a patch of rough.

“Hard luck,” Watters sympathised. “You seem to be having a run of bad luck just now, losing Toiler as well.”

“Toiler?” Muirhead hefted his bag and began the trudge along the frost-hard fairway. “Yes, that was a strange one. It seems her bow plates just opened up, and she went down in fifteen minutes. We were fortunate that nobody was lost.”

“That’s always the prime concern,” Watters agreed. “Toiler was insured, wasn’t she?”

“Oh, yes,” Muirhead said. “All my vessels are insured.” He smiled again. “I’m fortunate that the insurance office is only a step from the company offices.”

“That will be the Dundee Maritime?” Watters asked, helping Muirhead find his ball in a tangle of rough grass and winter-brown bracken.

“Yes,” Muirhead sounded disinterested. “Where’s that damned ball? I know it landed here somewhere!”

“I believe that some shipowners have a second insurer as well,” Watters pointed his club to Muirhead’s ball.

“Yes,” Muirhead said, shaking his head. “My ball’s in a damned bad lie. It will be a devil of a job to get it near the green from here.”

“It’s a friendly game,” Watters said. “Kick it to a better lie. I won’t look.”

Muirhead frowned. “I don’t do that,” he said. “I’ll try from here.” He swung and shook his head when the ball travelled six inches and settled back in the rough. “Stand back, Mr Watters, and I’ll try again.”

Watters watched as Muirhead hacked at the ball, with every attempt moving it a few inches closer to the green. Eventually, the shipowner succeeded and finished with a beautiful putt that placed the ball in the hole.

“You won that one,” Muirhead said.

“I did, Mr Muirhead,” Watters agreed. “Did Toiler have a second insurer?”

“Toiler? No. Are you in the insurance business, Mr Watters? If so, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. I’ve been with the Dundee Maritime a long time and am perfectly happy with them.”

“I’ve heard that the Scottish and English Mutual is equally good,” Watters said as they lined up for the next hole.

“It may well be,” Muirhead swung first, with his ball travelling two thirds down the fairway. “That’s a better drive.”

“Would you consider using the Mutual?” Watters swung, with his ball landing a hands-breadth from Muirhead’s.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Muirhead said. “Are you here to play golf or to sell me ship insurance, Mr Watters?”

“I’m not an insurance salesman, Mr Muirhead,” Watters said, as they strolled up the fairway with their feet making slight indentations on the grass. “I’m a policeman. Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police.”

Muirhead looked sideways at Watters as he lined up his next shot. “Are you, indeed? Are you investigating me, Sergeant Watters?”

“I am investigating the loss of Toiler,” Watters said.

“Why is that?” Muirhead drove the ball onto the green, watching it bounce and roll back to the edge of the fairway.

“Toiler was insured with two different companies, to a value far in excess of her worth, and sank in calm seas.” Watters placed his ball a little behind Muirhead’s.

“I think you are mistaken, Sergeant,” Muirhead said. “I only ever insure with Dundee Maritime and never above the value of my vessels.” He chipped his ball beside the hole. “There, that’s better. No, Sergeant Watters, I don’t believe in wasting money on excess insurance premiums, and I’d never risk the lives of my men by deliberately sinking a ship.”

“Nice shot, Mr Muirhead. I am afraid Toiler was insured with two different companies, sir. Dundee Maritime and the Scottish and English Mutual. I will bring the documentation to your office later today, and we can discuss matters further there.”

“That would be best,” Muirhead gave Watters a stern look. “Then I can show you that you’re talking nonsense. Shall we say eleven o’clock?”

“Eleven o’clock it is,” Watters watched Muirhead sink his shot, then followed suit. “A tied hole, I believe.”

Muirhead glanced at the sky. “The weather’s breaking,” he said. “I shall have to get to work, Sergeant Watters. Eleven o’clock, then.”

Watters watched Muirhead walk away, a man in his late thirties with a snap to his step.

“Golfing, Sergeant?” Duff asked as Watters placed his clubs in the corner of the room.

“Golfing with Mr Muirhead,” Watters said, pouring himself a mug of tea. “I’m meeting him at eleven in his office.”

“Are you going to arrest him, Sergeant?”

“If I think he’s guilty, I will,” Watters said. “At the minute, I am unsure. There are too many imponderables in the case. Anyway, golfers who lose rather than cheat are unlikely to fiddle their insurance companies.”

“Is that why you played golf with him?” Duff asked.

“You can find out a lot about a man’s character on the golf course,” Watters said.

“What am I doing today?” Duff pushed his pile of paperwork away in a gesture of contempt.

“You’re on pawnshop patrol,” Watters tasted his tea, pulled a face, and added another half-teaspoon of tealeaves. “Weak tea is suitable for children and old women,” he said. “If the brew doesn’t stain the spoon, it’s no good to anybody.”

“Yes, Sergeant. Do you want me to do your normal pawnshops as well as my own?”

“Well volunteered. It’s time you learned the Dock Street area.” Watters handed over a closely printed sheet of paper. “This is a list of property stolen in Dundee over the past week. You know the drill. If you find anything, arrest the pawnshop managers, and bring them in, together with the items. Theft is a bigger threat than violence and more prevalent than scuttling. Boyle and Shaw here will help you,” he said as the two prospective detectives walked over.

Shaw glanced at the list. “There are hundreds of items here,” he said. “How will I identify them all?”

“You won’t,” Watters said. “Read the list and find the most distinctive, then look for them. You’ll never identify one white shirt from a score or a pewter mug from a shelf-full, but if something has distinctive markings or a watch is engraved, then you have a chance. Selective detecting, Shaw; concentrate on what you can do, rather than wasting time on the impossible.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Shaw wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Duff read through the list again. “A lot of this property is high value, Sergeant. Will the thief find a pawnshop able to sell it?”

Watters shook his head. “That’s the property the thieves took from the Royal Hotel and the shop break-ins. I doubt any Dundee pawn would touch the expensive jewellery that’s easily identifiable. It is more likely the cracksman will sell it in Edinburgh or Glasgow, but keep your eyes open anyway.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Duff said.

“Here’s Scuddamore. Take him with you. You’d both better all learn the area.”

“Take me where?” Scuddamore poured himself a mug of tea. “It’s cold out there today. Playing golf later, Sergeant?”

Watters glowered at him. “I played this morning, Scuddamore, when you were still lazing in bed.”

Muirhead’s Greenland Whaling Company’s office fronted onto Dock Street, with a splendid view of the packed shipping in King William the Fourth Dock. Watters stepped into the reception area and stopped at the ornamental brass railing between him and the two busy clerks. He held a leather case in his left hand and his lead-weighted cane in his right.

“I’m here to see Mr Muirhead!” Watters rapped his cane on the counter.

The first clerk was about eighteen, with thin shoulders and slicked-back hair. He eyed Watters up and down. “Mr Muirhead doesn’t see anybody without an appointment,” he said.

“I am Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police. Pray, tell Mr Muirhead that I am here.” Watters held the clerk’s gaze until he scurried away to fetch his master.

Muirhead greeted Watters with a smile and an outstretched hand, which was unusual for a man that Watters had recently accused of scuttling a ship. “Come in, Sergeant Watters, and we’ll get this nonsense cleared up.”

Muirhead’s office was large and plain, with oak-panelled walls and two tall windows overlooking the docks. Muirhead ushered Watters to a comfortable leather chair on one side of his desk, seated himself on the other and rang a small brass bell. “Tea, Sergeant? Or coffee? I feel it is too early yet for anything stronger.”

“Tea would be most welcome, Mr Muirhead,” Watters said, looking around the office. Save for the desk, two chairs, and a single glass-fronted bookcase, the only items in the room were ship models, a clock, an old-fashioned harpoon, and a barometer.

“Are these your ships, sir?”

Muirhead’s eyes brightened. “Yes, they are, Sergeant.” He stepped across the room to the ship models. “The steam paddle-steamers are Toiler and Travail, the sail-powered coasters are Teresa and Tamerlane, and the whaling vessels are Guinevere, Arthur and Lancelot.” He paused beside the largest of the models. “This beauty is Lancelot, only launched last month, a steam-whaling ship and the pride of my fleet.”

“She’s a beauty,” Watters caught Muirhead’s enthusiasm. “You must have invested a great deal of money in building her.”

“I have,” Muirhead agreed. “Hunting the whales is a very chancy business, Sergeant. One good voyage can make a man, and one unsuccessful trip can break him. That is why I spread my money around in different ventures, although whaling is my primary concern.”

With her three masts and sturdy construction, Watters could only admire Lancelot’s lines while Muirhead explained his situation. “Some of the smaller, one-man or one-ship whaling companies live on the edge of disaster with every voyage,” Muirhead said. “For them, even the capture of a single whale can make the difference between profit and loss, success or failure, the continuance of business or bankruptcy. I am in the fortunate position of being able to spread the risk between my different vessels and various business interests.”

“I see, sir,” Watters said. “I am afraid I must return to the reason I am here, Mr Muirhead.”

“Oh, yes, this insurance nonsense,” Muirhead reluctantly left his ship models and returned to his seat. “Let’s get that cleared up.” He looked up as a smart, young man entered the room. “Could you fetch us a pot of tea, please, Killen?”

“Yes, sir.” Killen gave a small bow and withdrew.

“I called around at the Dundee Maritime after our golf this morning to pick up the original documentation,” Muirhead said, “but it seems you beat me to it.”

“I have the documents with me,” Watters said. “I believe you have the copies?”

“My secretary looked them out for me,” Muirhead indicated the papers on his desk.

When Killen brought the tea, Muirhead had him pour two cups and then handed over the insurance documents to Watters. “There you are, Sergeant, all in order.”

Watters compared the copies with the originals. “Exactly the same, sir,” he said. “I notice you sign as K. L. Muirhead.”

“Always,” Muirhead said. “My middle name is Lancelot. When I was younger, it embarrassed me to have such an unusual name, but now I use it as an extra form of security. Not many people know what the L stands for, you see.” He nodded to his ship models. “That’s why my whaling ships have Arthurian names, and I plan a Gawain in the near future.”

“May I see some of your recent correspondence?” Watters asked.

“Of course,” Muirhead sounded slightly irritated. He rang the bell again and ordered Killen to bring him his secretary.

“This is Mr Forbes, my secretary,” Muirhead said.

Forbes was a tall, thin man who looked down at Watters from a long nose.

“And this is Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police,” Muirhead completed the introductions. “The sergeant wishes to see a selection of my signatures, Mr Forbes. Could you fetch some, please?”

“No, no,” Watters said. “Just show me, Mr Forbes. I’ll come with you.” He was quite aware that Forbes could bring a selection of innocent signatures. He accompanied Forbes to an adjacent office.

“I’ll look myself,” Watters said. “Where do you store copies of Mr Muirhead’s correspondence?”

Muirhead was a prolific letter writer, with everything duplicated and neatly filed. Watters selected twenty letters at random over the past five years and found the same signature on each sheet of paper. “K. L. Muirhead.”

“Thank you, Mr Forbes,” Watters said. “I may call on you again.”

“Yes, sir,” Forbes gave a small bow.

“Well, Mr Muirhead,” Watters returned to his previous chair and half-finished cup of tea. “I do not doubt that the Dundee Maritime Insurance documents are genuine, as is your signature.”

“I am glad to hear it, Sergeant,” Muirhead said dryly.

“That leaves us with these,” Watters produced the documents from the Scottish and English Mutual. “Which are for your vessels and bear your signature.”

“Let me see these!” Muirhead held out his hand. He glanced at each document. “These are certainly for my vessels,” he said, “but that is not my signature.”

“That’s what we thought, sir,” Watters said.

Muirhead looked up. “Well, who the devil would wish to double insure my ships?”

“That’s what we hope to find out, Mr Muirhead. Do you recognise the signature? The style of writing, sir?”

“Devil a bit of it!” Muirhead said. “What possible profit can anybody make from such a scheme? The money would come to the company.” He looked up.

“When the insurance companies pay the money,” Watters said. “Would they pay it directly to this office? To Mr Forbes, perhaps?”

“No, sergeant,” Muirhead said. “Any monies are sent to my accountant, Mr Mackenzie.”

Watters wrote the name in his notebook. “And what should Mr Mackenzie do with the money, Mr Muirhead?”

“Why, he should pay it into my account, of course.” It was evident that the barrage of questions was irritating Muirhead.

“Are there any circumstances where he could open another account?” Watters asked.

“No,” Muirhead said. “Although I give him a free hand. I have known Bill – Mr Mackenzie – since we were at the High School together.”

Watters nodded. “Thank you. Could you supply me with the logbook and the Articles of Agreement – the crew list - for Toiler?”

“The logbook went down with the ship,” Muirhead said. “But I am sure that Mr Forbes has a copy of the Articles. He keeps one to pay the wages.” Muirhead rang his brass bell again and ordered Killen to fetch the list from Forbes.

Watters checked to ensure the crew’s addresses were added and tucked the sheet safely inside his case.

“Thank you, Mr Muirhead,” Watters decided he had asked sufficient questions for a friendly interview. “I appreciate your co-operation.” He packed away the insurance documents in his case and reached for his hat and cane.

“I have a question to ask, Sergeant Watters,” Muirhead said. “This extra insurance affair. Did the money come from my accounts? Have I been charged with these unnecessary expenses?”

“I am afraid I don’t know the answer to that, sir,” Watters said. “You’d better ask Mr Mackenzie.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.” Muirhead gave a small smile. “Am I off the hook, Sergeant? Do you believe I am scuttling my vessels?”

Watters jammed his hat on his head. “No, sir, I do not believe that you scuttled Toiler.”

“Then tell me, Sergeant, why somebody is insuring my vessels, sometimes for more than they are worth?”

“That, sir, remains a mystery,” Watters said.