Not a Pukka Gentleman

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

DUNDEE, SCOTLAND

7th NOVEMBER 1865

“This is a niblick,” Detective Sergeant George Watters held up the golf club.

“A niblick,” Marie repeated the name dutifully and gently took hold of the club. “That’s a strange name. What’s it for? Is it for niblicking?”

“When your ball gets stuck in a hole or a rut, you’ll need a special club to dig it out. That’s when you use the niblick,” Watters told her. “And this one,” he held up another club, “is a shafted driver, used for long drives. You hit a long drive at the beginning of each hole. You will want to belt the ball, so it travels a long distance.”

“A shafted driver for long drives,” Marie examined the second club, repeating Watters words. “For belting the ball long distances.”

“That’s right,” Watters approved. “And this is a baffie for lofting the ball.”

Marie dutifully examined the baffie. “This is a baffie for lofting the ball. They all look the same to me.” She looked out the clubhouse’s small window at the darkness outside. “Did we have to start so early? It’s barely light enough to see.”

“The course is quieter in the early morning,” Watters explained. “We can have a round before anybody else arrives.”

“You mean before any golfing men realise that a woman is polluting their sacred game.”

Watters swung his club. “You are not the first woman, Marie. Indeed, you’re in distinguished company. I heard that Mary, Queen of Scots, placed a decent game.”

Marie frowned. “I’ll bet she didn’t start in the middle of the night, and she’d have a servant to carry her clubs.”

They stepped outside, leaving the comparative warmth of the clubhouse for the chill of the November morning. A cold wind blew from the Sidlaw Hills to the north, lifting the light powdering of snow to create a white haze against the dim of early dawn.

“Snow here, rain in Dundee,” Marie shivered and glared at the wintry sky. “And it’s probably sunny in Fife. Anyway, with your job, I’m surprised you have time to play, George, let alone finding time to teach me,” she pulled her cloak further over her shoulders and tucked in her comforter.

“Crime seems to be quiet this season,” Watters tried another practice swing of his club. “All I have on my desk, apart from the usual petty stuff, is a few watch thefts. Lieutenant Anstruther is so idle that he is engaged on Councillor Forsyth’s crusade against illegal gambling dens and some child stripping.” He glanced at Marie to ensure she was all right.

“Child stripping?” Marie swung her club, emulating Watters. “What’s that?”

“It’s a horrible crime where somebody, normally a woman, grabs a youngster and takes off their clothes.”

“That is horrible,” Marie agreed. “Why on earth would somebody do that?”

Watters shrugged. “They’ll sell the clothes to a pawnshop for a few pennies.”

“Poor little children,” Marie said. “I hope Lieutenant Anstruther catches them. What sort of person would do that?”

“Either somebody desperate for money, maybe to feed their own children, or somebody craving drink,” Watters took a practice swing of his club and watched an imaginary ball soar into the distance.

“Drink is a curse!” Marie said. “Anyway, I thought that crime would be busier in winter,” Marie said. “Do the criminals not prefer the long dark nights?”

“Some do,” Watters corrected Marie’s grip on her club, holding her close. “Put your hands like that, a double Vee. Yes, criminals use dark winter nights, but employment influences the types of crime in Dundee. If trade is dull and people are unemployed, petty theft rises, often with people despairing to feed themselves and their families. If work is plentiful, crimes of drunkenness and assault rise, as men and women can afford to drink too much and then get into stupid arguments.” He smiled across to Marie. “Enough of that sort of talk. Let’s get this match started. “I’ll let you tee off closer to the hole to give you a chance.”

Marie nodded. “You’d better! How many holes are there?”

“The Dundee Artisan is a nine-hole course, so we play it twice if we have time.”

“Oh, good,” Marie did not keep the sarcasm from her voice. “I’m glad we aren’t playing it just the once.”

Watters selected a spot on a slight incline and placed Marie’s ball on the ground. He pointed ahead, where the green was just visible in the distance. “You see that wee red flag?”

“I do,” Marie said solemnly. “It’s a very nice flag.”

“That flag marks the first hole,” Watters told her. “That’s what you are aiming for.”

Marie lined up as Watters had shown her, tapped the ball and swung. Watters watched, expecting her to miss entirely, but instead, her club caught the ball sweetly and sent it soaring along the length of the fairway.

“Nice shot!” Watters could not hide his surprise. “Have you played this game before?”

“Not ever,” Marie said. “I can’t see where the ball landed.”

“Nor can I,” Watters admitted. “We’ll find it in a moment. Stand clear while I take my shot.” He lined up, swung, and sent a long drive in the wake of Marie’s with the ball bouncing on the fairway. They walked side-by-side as the light gradually strengthened.

“There’s my ball!” Marie pointed to the ball closest to the green.

“Are you sure that’s not mine?” Watters asked.

“Quite sure,” Marie said in tones so confident that Watters could not question her judgement. She took a spooner from her clubs and lined up her shot as Watters watched, half proud of her and half nervous that a novice would beat him at his own game.

“Sergeant Watters!” The shout came from ahead. “Is that you, Sergeant?”

“Yes,” Watters replied. “Get your great size tens off the green!” He watched as the police constable apologised and lumbered towards him. Marie looked away, hiding her smile.

“Sergeant,” Constable MacPherson belatedly noticed Marie and doffed his hat. “Sorry, Mrs Watters, I didn’t know you were there. I thought the sergeant was golfing with a man.”

“I hope I don’t look like a man, Kenny,” Marie said, raising her eyebrows.

“No, of course not, Mrs Watters,” MacPherson looked rattled until Watters spoke.

“What is it, MacPherson?”

“Sergeant Murdoch sends his compliments, Sergeant,” MacPherson stumbled over the unfamiliar phrases, “and requests that you join him in the Overgate.” With the message delivered, he relaxed a little. “I tried your house first, and when you weren’t there, I thought you’d be here. Everybody knows how you like your gowff and play at the Artisan course.”

“And here I am,” Watters said. “Enjoying a peaceful round with my wife.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” MacPherson smiled.

“Why does Murdoch see fit to interrupt my golf, MacPherson?”

“We’ve found a wee n***d boy, and one of the culprits vanished in Rimmer’s shop in the Overgate, Sergeant.”

“And?” Watters knew there was more to come.

“Sergeant Murdoch thinks you’d better look at it, Sergeant. It’s a bit queer.”

Watters sighed, pushed MacPherson aside, swung at his ball and sliced it badly. “Fetch that, would you, MacPherson? You disrupted my game, there.” He watched as MacPherson lumbered away. “Sorry, Marie, it seems that I’ll have to go. Do you want to play alone?”

“No, thank you,” Marie said, trying to control her shivering. “I’d better get back. I don’t like leaving Patrick for too long, anyway, especially not with him developing a bit of a cough.”

“Rosemary’s looking after her,” Watters reminded.

“She is,” Marie said, “but I don’t like to impose.”

“Here it is, Sergeant!” MacPherson held up the golf ball for Watters’ inspection as Marie headed thankfully back to the clubhouse.

“Good morning, George,” Murdoch said as Watters stepped inside Rimmer’s shop. “How’s the missus?”

“Morning, Murdoch, and she’s crabbit, thank you.”

“No wonder if you drag her to the gowff at this time of the morning. How’s the wee one?”

“He’s teething, thank you, and Marie’s worried about his cough.”

Murdoch, fifteen years older than Watters, twenty years married and a father of five, nodded. “That’s another reason that Marie’s crabbit. Get young Patrick to chew on a cold cloth. It will cool down his gums.” He glanced around the shop. “We’ve got a strange one here, George.”

Watters nodded. “Well, I’ve never seen the like of this before. “Watches and clocks lay on the floor, each one smashed. Pieces of glass, wood and intricate mechanisms were scattered from one end of the shop to the other.

“We have a double mystery here,” Watters said. “We have a shop breaker who disappeared without a trace, and this,” he gestured around the shop.

“Who the devil would break into a shop only to break everything?” Detective Constable Scuddamore asked.

“He didn’t break everything,” Detective Constable Duff pointed out. “He only broke the watches and clocks. All the rest, all the jewellery, is untouched.”

Watters nodded. “Aye, it’s a conundrum. Mr Rimmer!” he called over the proprietor. “Has anything been stolen?”

“No, Sergeant,” Rimmer said. “As far as I can see, everything is still here. The burglar only smashed the watches and clocks. He’s broken every single watch and clock in the shop.”

“Has he taken anything away?” Watters asked.

“No,” Rimmer looked as confused as Watters felt.

“Are you sure?” Watters pressed the point. “Nothing at all?”

“I’m sure.”

Watters walked around the shop. He peered at the back window, where the burglar had broken in and examined the space between the iron bars. “He wasn’t a large man if he fitted in there.”

“No, Sergeant,” MacPherson said. “I could not get in that way. I tried.” He hesitated for a second. “And there’s the wee boy, Sergeant.”

“Aye, there’s the wee boy,” Watters agreed. “Where is he now?”

“In the police office, Sergeant.”

“He’s safe enough there until we trace his parents,” Watters said. “No doubt somebody will realise that they’re missing a child and come to our lost property department in a day or two. Until then, we’ll concentrate on this mess in here.”

“Surely the boy is more important than jewellery,” Duff said.

“Do your duty, Duff,” Watters said. “Measure the space between these bars at its widest point. When we find a suspect, we’ll measure their vital sizes and see if they could fit.”

“Yes, Sergeant. It’s not a very wide space, so our shopbreaker must be slightly built.”

Watters nodded. “That would include half the population of Dundee.”

“Yes, Sergeant, but excludes the other half.”

Watters grunted. “Sergeant Murdoch. You said that MacPherson heard the boy screaming and chased the child stripper into this yard when the burglar was inside the shop. You put a man at the front, yet the burglar still got away. Is that correct?”

“That’s correct. MacPherson chased the stripper and saw the light inside. When he couldn’t get in, he summoned assistance. The light was still on when I arrived and posted Constable Nicoll at the front door.”

Watters knew that Scuddamore was taking notes of everything Murdoch said. “I’d have done the same. What next?”

“Mr Rimmer came along with his keys and opened the front door. I was with him. The shop was as we see it, and nobody was here.”

“So, either the burglar is still hiding here, or he’s escaped somehow,” Watters said. “Are there any other doors or windows, Mr Rimmer?”

“A front door, a back door, a shuttered front window that you’ve examined and the window into the yard at the back,” Rimmer said.

Watters produced his pipe, lit it, and surveyed the shop. “I’m going to search this place again. How reliable are MacPherson and Nicoll?”

“Good men,” Murdoch defended his constables. “They wouldn’t take a bribe or turn their back.”

“We have a bit of a mystery then,” Watters said. He examined the shop’s ceiling, probing for recently disguised holes and finding nothing. He grunted and walked into the back shop. The property had formed the lower storey of a house at one time, but Rimmer had converted the back room into a storage space, with packing materials and boxes against each wall. A simple desk and chair sat in the middle of the room, with a neat pile of paperwork on one side. Facing the desk and set into the wall, a small Chubb safe was unopened.

“Did he try the safe?” Watters asked, frowning at black specks of dirt on the floor between the desk and the wall.

“No.”

“Open it, please,” Watters asked and watched as Rimmer produced two keys from inside his coat and inserted them into the locks. The safe opened without a sound, revealing that the money and high-value jewellery inside were untouched.

“Thank you,” Watters said. “That must be a thick wall for the safe to sit flush against it.”

“That’s the old fireplace,” Rimmer said. “I blocked off the rest with thin board.”

“Show me,” Watters asked.

“You see?” Rimmer inserted his fingers in a handle and slid open a hinged sheet of wood, painted to match the plaster.

“I see,” Watters stepped closer. “And I’d wager that’s how our man escaped.”

“Up the lum? What sort of man could climb up there?” Rimmer stared into the black, with his voice echoing hollowly.

“A very agile, small man who could fit through a narrow gap between iron bars,” Watters said. “He dislodged some soot on his way.” He raised his voice. “Bring me a lantern, somebody! My old sergeant, James Mendick, started his life as a climbing boy, a sweep’s apprentice, in Dundee. He spent his childhood climbing up this sort of aperture.”

When Duff handed him a lantern, Watters shone it into the aperture. “See? Scuff marks all the way up. I’m surprised he didn’t get in this way as well. Now we’ve solved one mystery; we still have the big one. Why did somebody break in only to smash up the watches?”

“And clocks,” Rimmer reminded.

“And clocks. Why did the burglar break in merely to smash up the timepieces?”

Rimmer shook his head, “I don’t know, Sergeant.”

Watters looked upwards, where a circle of lesser light revealed that the chimney soared straight up to the sky, with no deviations or bends. “A climbing boy would have no difficulty in negotiating that lum,” he pulled away more of the boarding to reveal the ornate stonework of the fireplace. “Your premises must once have been a magnificent house, Mr Rimmer. The home of a wealthy man to possess such a fine fireplace.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Rimmer did not seem interested in the antecedents of his shop.

“Scuddamore! Get a statement from Mr Rimmer. Duff! Interview the neighbours, see what they saw or heard. Sergeant Murdoch, pray secure this shop, keep it closed and keep any observers out of the way.”

“You can’t close my shop,” Rimmer said. “I have a business to run.”

“It’s a temporary measure, Mr Rimmer,” Watters said. “As soon as I am satisfied we’ve found out all we can, I’ll remove the officers.”

With morning light now illuminating the street, Watters stepped outside the shop and into the Overgate. A brewer’s dray rumbled past on its early deliveries while a butcher’s cart rattled over the cobbles as Dundee awoke to a grey, cold day. The sleety rain had ceased, and a chill wind drove frost into the sheltered corners and shadows.

Watters followed the line of the ancient building to the roof. The chimneys thrust upward, half-seen against the sky. Watters sighed and called for MacPherson.

“You’re the beat constable, are you not?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” MacPherson admitted.

“How do I get onto the roof?” When MacPherson looked confused, Watters rephrased the question. “There are houses on the top storey of the building, MacPherson. One of them must have access to the roof to allow maintenance and to sweep the chimneys from above.”

“Oh,” MacPherson’s face cleared. “This way, Sergeant.” He led Watters to a doorway, where a turnpike stair led upwards. “This must have been the servants’ entrance to the big house, Sergeant,” MacPherson said, with his heavy footsteps echoing and the dark seeming to close around them.

As an afterthought, MacPherson used his lantern, so a thin beam of light probed ahead until they reached a landing from where three doors opened. Strong cords held a ten-rung ladder against the wall, with a small wooden hatch in the ceiling above.

“Hold this thing steady for me, Constable,” Watters ordered, untying the ladder.

“I’ll go up if you wish, Sergeant,” MacPherson offered.

“Do you know what you’re looking for?”

“Why, the burglar, Sergeant,” MacPherson sounded surprised.

“He’ll be long gone.” Watters climbed up. “Hold this secure!”

The bolt that secured the hatch was stiff, but Watters wrestled it free and pushed the heavy wood aside. There was two-foot-high attic space, and then Watters found himself in the flat area immediately behind an array of chimneys. The cold wind stabbed at his face.

Hauling himself onto the roof, Watters knelt behind the chimneys, glad of the shelter and the residual warmth. He did not know which chimney the burglar had ascended, so he examined the roof for footprints. He cursed that the night’s rain had washed away any sign of egress until he noticed a smear of soot down the lee side of the central stack.

That’s where you came out, my man!

Watters searched for a trail to gauge the direction of travel. Even the most careful of burglars, or shop breakers, in this case, would leave some clue. Watters followed the roofline, trying to ignore the long drop to the street on one side and the equally uninviting drop to the array of wynds and lanes on the other.

Now how did you get back down to ground level, my agile little friend?

Watters checked access to the gutters and waterspouts, crawling across the slippery blue-grey slates until he found a single smudge of soot.

There we are. You turned here and left soot from your boot.

There was another sooty mark at the head of a waterspout that descended to one of the narrow wynds. Watters looked down to the dimness below, marking the spot in his head.

“Did you find him, Sergeant?” MacPherson was still holding the ladder.

“No, but I found where he went,” Watters said. “Come with me, MacPherson. You know this area better than I do.”

The wynd was hard to find in the tangle of ancient lanes behind the Overgate, but MacPherson led him through a succession of dim passages until they reached the foot of the waterspout. Watters examined the ground, following possible routes until he found what he sought.

“There! “The footprint was incomplete, the mark of a heel and part of a sole. “That’s a new impression.”

“Is it, Sergeant?”

“Yes,” Watters said. “You see how the edges are crisp, with no blurring? This footprint was made last night at the earliest and more likely this morning.” He leaned closer. “I can see soot in the imprint there, and I doubt many people have been here this early.”

“It’s like a child’s foot, Sergeant,” MacPherson said. “Or a very small man.”

It’s a clue, but only one that confirms what we already knew. The intruder was small made, and agile. We don’t know who he is or why he’s smashing up watches. I also want to know if the burglar was involved in child stripping. We have two mysteries to solve.