Not a Pukka Gentleman

PREFACE DUNDEE, NOVEMBER 1865 Constable Kenneth MacPherson of the Dundee Police pulled his tall hat lower on his head and carefully stepped across a puddle. He extracted the cheap metal watch from his pocket, saw the hour hand indicated two, and knew he had five hours of his shift remaining. “Oh, for seven o’clock in the morning, a mug of sweet tea, and a warming fire,” he said and walked on. The centre of Dundee was quiet at this hour, with the last of the late-night revellers having wended their way home. MacPherson lifted his head, shook off the rain that dripped from the brim of his hat, and surveyed the street ahead. One of the main western thoroughfares out of Dundee, the Overgate was a unique mixture of the old and new, with shops on the ground floor and tenement buildings rising to the weeping sky above. Some of the buildings were ancient and had once been the townhouses of the local gentry, with faded glory gradually descending into crumbling mediocrity. When the elite deserted the town centre, the houses were divided and subdivided for more modest people. By day, the Overgate was a bustling, even raucous place, but at night, once the public houses ejected their clientele into the dreary darkness outside, it was as quiet as any other street. Some Dundonians disliked the Overgate’s preponderance of public houses – or publics as people called them – but MacPherson did not share that view. He found the publics to be friendly places where he could visit, get to know the local drinkers, and maybe have a small refreshment to help him on his way. They were all closed at this time of night, and MacPherson’s duty included checking the public’s locks and shutters to ensure nobody had broken in. He also peered inside in case unwelcome visitors intended to sneak away with a few bottles of spirits. MacPherson frowned when he noticed a man sheltering inside the doorway to a close, with a pack at his side, moleskin trousers and a pair of heavy boots. When he saw the policeman approach, the man stepped deeper into the shadows and remained still. “Don’t linger too long,” MacPherson warned as he passed the closed mouth. “If you’re still here on my return, I might arrest you for loitering.” “I’m moving, Constable,” the man said gruffly. MacPherson made his way along the Overgate, rattling shop doors and shining his bull’s eye lantern up closes as he searched for night prowlers, hoping for a quiet shift. The rain eased slightly but then began again. A slant of wind blasted sleet in MacPherson’s face. “What a stinking night!” The noise from ahead broke MacPherson’s thoughts, and he stepped into the centre of the pavement for a better look. The street in front looked no different, empty of people, with the street lamps reflecting from windows and gleaming on the wet stone of tenement walls. MacPherson did not rush but subjected each building and shop front to a methodical examination. He knew he had heard something but was unsure what it was. “Whatever it was, I’ll come to it eventually.” Stepping slowly forward, MacPherson shone his lantern from side to side, looking for anything that did not belong. The noise sounded again. A scream, but not from an adult. Aware that it could be perfectly innocent, a child having a nightmare or a fraternal disagreement, MacPherson decided to investigate. Ignoring the sleety-rain that was falling with increased force, he moved in the direction of the noise. Although the Overgate remained empty, candles appeared in some of the windows. Faces peered outside, also searching for the source of the noise. Ignoring them, MacPherson continued his search. The noise came again, a definite youthful scream, quickly stopped, as if somebody had put a hand across the child’s mouth. The pubs remained dark, but MacPherson saw a tell-tale sliver of light glimmer from the darkness of a close. “If you’re thieves,” he said to himself, “you’re making a devil of a noise about it.” MacPherson lifted the bull’s eye lantern from his belt, opened the shutter and directed a thin beam of light into the close. In Dundee, people called the common entrance to a tenement a close, from which stairs ascended to landings where the houses were situated. MacPherson strode in, flashing the light in front of him. The musty smell of the close closed around him, a compound of packed humanity, dampness, and accumulated waste. “Is anybody in here?” He did not expect a reply and began to climb the stairs, stepping carefully. MacPherson looked upstairs, where stone steps, worn by the passage of thousands of feet, rose into dense gloom. The close remained silent, save for the scuttling of a single mouse. MacPherson’s lantern light reflected from the creature’s bright eyes, and then he flicked it away to probe the gloom. MacPherson stopped on the first landing, shone his lantern across the three closed doors and moved on. The steps seemed interminable, stretching for another three flights. Sighing, MacPherson plodded upward, shining his lantern into every dark nook and recessed doorway. He had heard nothing for some moments and wondered if he was wasting his time when something squeaked. Instantly MacPherson closed the shutter of his lantern and stood still, trying to trace the sound. He listened, with his mind trying to trace the origin of the sound. It had not been a mouse or a badly oiled door. It was like somebody’s shoe twisting on stone. Where the devil did that sound come from? MacPherson thought backwards, concentrating on the squeak. It was beneath me. He began the climb down, keeping as quiet as possible. Dousing the light from his lantern, he had to feel for each step, and the darkness seemed more profound. A door banged, the sudden noise startling. “Who’s there?” Clicking open the lantern’s shutter, MacPherson aimed the beam downwards. “Dundee Police! Come out so I can see you!” Smothering a curse, MacPherson hurried downstairs with the light bouncing before him, deepening the darkness on either side, and making the stairwell appear like an inaccessible pit. “What all the noise?” a tired voice shouted from above. “Some of us have work in the morning!” “Dundee Police!” MacPherson replied. “Go back inside and shut your door!” He ran outside, where a blast of cold sleet greeted him. He heard definite footsteps pattering on his left and guessed the owner had run up the wynd beside the close. MacPherson followed, slipped on greasy stone slabs, and swore again as he came to a tall stone wall. Hooking the lantern to his belt, he hoisted himself up and over the wall, thankful that the householder had not thought to cement broken glass to the top as added protection. The drop into the small yard beyond the wall was easy, and MacPherson crouched for a moment, gathering information about his surroundings. The twelve-foot-high wall enclosed a triangular yard, stone-slabbed and wet. A thin shaft of light shone from between the open shutters of a barred window, and MacPherson heard a distinct crash from within the building. Rainwater wept from a broken gutter above, forming a steady stream across a closed door. “What the devil is happening? “MacPherson strode forward and tried the door. Finding it securely locked, he looked at the window. Somebody, presumably the man he followed, had eased aside two of the iron bars, removed a glass pane and forced open a pair of wooden shutters. MacPherson shook his head. How the devil did he have time to do that with me chasing him? MacPherson attempted to squeeze between the bars, gasped and realised he could not fit. He swore, tried a second time, barked his knuckles off the harsh iron and cursed again. He peered inside the room and saw a glimmer of light. All right, my man. I can’t get in, but by God, neither can you get out! Stepping back, MacPherson pulled his rattle and sprung it, twirling the large wooden implement to make the harsh, distinctive sound that would summon every policeman within hearing range. Having done that, he hoisted himself to the top of the wall and opened the shutter of his bull’s eye lantern to allow more light to penetrate the yard. MacPherson heard the whimper first and focussed on the far corner. His eyes narrowed as he saw what made the sound. “Oh, dear Lord. Who are you?” A pair of large eyes peered up at him, and a small boy’s dirty face showed the marks of recent tears. “MacPherson?” Sergeant Murdoch panted up the alley and dragged himself up the wall beside his constable. “Good evening, Sergeant!” MacPherson said, keeping the lantern beam fixed on the boy. “There’s been some dirty business here!” Murdoch was middle-aged, middle height, and vastly experienced. “What’s the to-do, MacPherson?” “That is, Sergeant,” MacPherson nodded to the boy in the lantern beam. The boy cringed away, with both hands shielding his face from the light. “Don’t hit me, mister! Please don’t hit me!” “I won’t hit you,” MacPherson said as his light illuminated the woman that tried to disappear into the deepest shadows beside the wall. “Why, Bessie, this is a rum do for you,” Murdoch immediately recognised the woman. “Out you come now. I’ve got a cell all nicely warmed up for you.”