Not a Pukka Gentleman

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

“Well, gentlemen,” Watters leaned back in his chair as he spoke to his team of detectives. “Gather round and drag up a pew. Mr Mackay has given us an intriguing case to solve. We have a small man running around Dundee smashing watches and clocks, and we don’t know why.” He nodded to Duff. “Four mugs, Shaw!”

Watters looked at each man in turn. Duff, whose breadth of shoulders compensated for his lack of height and whose squat, ugly face concealed a generous heart. He was a slow, methodical man Watters knew he could rely on in any situation. Beside him, Scuddamore was taller, slim, and elegant, with carefully oiled side-whiskers and mobile eyes. Scuddamore relied on his charm, yet he was an excellent detective when not eyeing up some woman or searching for a drink.

The latest and youngest of Watters’ team was Shaw, a man who many believed lazy but who considered every problem before he acted. He was the most intellectual of the detectives, if not universally popular. Watters considered him a junior policeman and was slowly teaching him the skills of his profession.

Watters reached down, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out a bottle of whisky. Shaw had placed four mugs on the desk, added a teaspoon of tea to each and poured in boiling water from the kettle that permanently sat on the duty room fire. Watters supplied each mug with a generous tot of whisky. “There we are, gentlemen. Peat reek from the Angus glens. Here’s a toast to us. Here’s tae us!”

“Wha’s like us?” Scuddamore asked, lifting his mug.

“Damned few,” Duff continued with the litany.

“And they’re all deid!” they said together, with even quiet Shaw joining in.

Watters opened a packet of Abernethy biscuits and passed them around. “And to continue the tradition,” he said, “we’ll have a biscuit to give us strength.”

Watters was aware that the other officers in the duty room were watching everything he did. He lifted his mug in salute, then turned back to his team.

“All right, gentlemen, what do we have so far?”

“A small man who broke into a jeweller’s shop and smashed all the timepieces,” Duff said. “He might, or might not, be the same man who has attacked two men in central Dundee to steal and break their watches.”

“A man sufficiently small and agile to swarm up a chimney and run along a roof in the dark,” Scuddamore added.

Watters nodded. “It’s not much to go on.”

Scuddamore lifted his hand. “I wonder if the attacks on members of the public were only a blind, something to divert us from the shop breaking.”

“Carry on, Scuddamore,” Watters invited.

“Yes, Sergeant. I mean, perhaps the shopbreaker was somebody who doesn’t like Mr Rimmer and wants to damage his business. Maybe he bought a faulty watch there.”

Duff consulted his notebook. “I thought something similar, Sergeant. I asked Mr Rimmer if he had any enemies or rivals.”

“And does he?” Watters asked.

“He didn’t know of any. Mr Rimmer said that there are other jewellers in Dundee, but the town is big enough to encompass them all. He thinks he has a good, professional friendship with his business rivals.” Duff shut his notebook.

“Was Rimmer’s stock insured?” Watters asked. “He might have arranged the damage to claim compensation if he has financial troubles.”

“Rimmer is fully insured with the Dundee and Edinburgh Insurance Company,” Duff said. “I’m visiting there this afternoon to see if he’s overinsured.”

Watters nodded. “Find out his bank as well. See how his accounts look.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Did either of you get anything useful from the neighbours?” Watters asked.

Scuddamore nodded. “A Mrs Milne said she saw a man looking suspicious the previous day.”

“Looking suspicious?” Watters repeated. “Did Mrs Milne say in what way this man was looking suspicious?”

“He was walking back and forward,” Scuddamore read from his notes, “like a hen searching for seed.”

“Do you have a description?”

“No,” Scuddamore shook his head. “Except he was suspicious. Maybe I should search for a suspicious-looking hen.”

Only Duff smiled at the feeble attempt at humour. Outside, the rain had begun again, smearing the windows. A gust of wind drove smoke down the chimney into the duty room.

“All right,” Watters drained his mug. “Normally, we search for stolen property at the pawns, but there’s no point in that this time. Even the lowest of pawns would not accept a smashed watch. We’ll try our informants and see if that helps. That’s our job for today, boys. Shaw, you did the morning’s pawn patrol. Was there anything interesting?”

Shaw, clean-shaven and young, shook his head. “I only found one shirt, Sergeant, stolen from a washing line and a pair of boots pinched from outside a hotel bedroom. The guest put them outside to be cleaned, and some little thief ran off with them.”

“Did you get the name from the pawn ticket?”

“Arthur Wellesley,” Shaw said. “We have a thief with a sense of humour.”

Watters grunted. “And a knowledge of history.” Arthur Wellesley was better known as the Duke of Wellington, the victor of Waterloo and one-time Prime Minister of Great Britain. “Did you retrieve the items?”

“They’re in the stolen property locker, Sergeant.”

“Do you have any informants yet, Shaw? The criminal class calls them preachers.” Watters often added little snippets of information to advance Shaw’s training.

“Not yet, Sergeant,” Shaw said. “I suspect it was one of Big Jim’s boys, but I’ve no proof. Big Jim leads a g**g of miscreants and street Arabs around the Overgate area.”

“In that case, Shaw, I want you to find the two men who were attacked for their watches and ask them for a description of the attacker. Anything. Garrotters and their ilk don’t habitually work alone, so I think this fellow might have an accomplice.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“See if he matches the description of our shopbreaker. If so, we only have one queer fellow to catch.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Shaw said.

“Duff, you know what you’re doing. Scuddamore, use your charm again. Ask your informants for news of this shopbreaker.”

“Sergeant,” Duff raised his head. “I’m a wee bit concerned about the lad that Bessie Cartwright had.”

“That’s Anstruther’s case,” Watters said. “He’s chasing after the child strippers.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” When Duff looked unhappy, Watters took pity on him.

“Ask him, then,” Watters said. “Then get about your duty.”

Lieutenant Anstruther looked surprised when Duff approached him. “Yes, Duff?”

“It’s about the child stripping case, and I was just after asking about the wee boy, sir.”

“The boy is perfectly all right, Duff,” Anstruther said. “I’ve put him in a cell until we trace his parents.”

“He’ll be scared in a cell all alone, sir.”

Anstruther shook his head. “I’m not a monster, Duff. The lad’s warm and dry, and the turnkey’s supplied him with a sandwich and a mug of tea. He’s not suffering.”

“Yes, sir,” Duff said. “If you can’t find his parents, I’ll take him home tonight. My Rosemary is good with children.”

Anstruther nodded. “Thank you for the offer, Duff. I’m sure he’ll be happier with you than spending a night in a cell. I have the doctor coming to check him over later.”

Duff nodded. “Dr Musgrave will be thorough.”

“It’s not Musgrave, Duff. It’s another fellow, a man called Beaton.” Anstruther frowned. “Anyway, I have other cases besides a woman who strips children. I have gambling hells to locate and close down before they inveigle more gentlemen into their snares.”

Duff frowned. “I didn’t know that gambling was illegal, sir.”

Anstruther sighed as if talking to a man of low intelligence strained his patience. “Gambling itself is not illegal, Duff, but cheating in gambling dens is. Mr Forsyth, one of our more esteemed councillors, wishes me to locate the gambling hells and end their practice of shaved dice, marked cards and any other illicit practice. Now, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

Anstruther realised he was unbending too much and frowned. “Don’t you have duties to perform?”

“Yes, sir,” Duff withdrew hastily. “As long as the wee boy is all right.”

Many local residents had complained about the cab stance in elite Panmure Street, and as he approached, Watters understood why. The ten cabs, some the old-fashioned hackney growlers but most the two-wheeled Hansoms, with spare horses, a pump for the horse’s water and servicing equipment, took up a great deal of space. However, the major complaint was the mess. Horse manure mingled with chaff, straw, hay, and oats, creating a stinking morass that spilt further down the street. The waterman, bundled up against the cold, looked like a tramp in his ragged clothes as he piled up bundles of straw to insulate the water pump.

Eddie the Cab did not look surprised when Watters approached him. “Good afternoon, Sergeant. I thought you might be looking for me.”

Watters fed a piece of carrot to one of Eddie’s horses while the second was busy with his nosebag. “You are one of my most reliable helpers,” Watters said. “I am asking about the break-in at Rimmer’s shop last night.”

“I heard about that,” Eddie admitted. “A bit of a rum do, though, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Watters agreed. “Have you heard anything?”

Eddie screwed up his face. “I heard the boy bashed old man Rimmer’s shop up and escaped.”

“I already know that much,” Watters said, stroking the nearer of Eddie’s horses. “Did you hear of any cabbie picking up a fare in the Overgate area early this morning?”

“Not at that time,” Eddie said at once. “Night shifts aren’t popular, Sergeant Watters. There’s never enough fares to justify the time spent.”

Watters found another carrot. “Did you hear anything about a man smashing watches? We’ve had a couple of incidents where somebody has robbed a pedestrian and broken his timepiece.”

Eddie shook his head. “Sorry, Mr Watters, I’d help if I could, but I’ve heard nothing.” He lowered his voice. “If you want to know what I think, I think this fellow didn’t like Rimmer.”

“Why might that be?”

Eddie glanced around the street. “Rimmer likes the ladies, Sergeant Watters. Maybe somebody’s husband was upset.”

“Thank you, Eddie. I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Sergeant,” Eddie said. “I was thinking about changing my vehicle.” He tapped the old hackney coach he drove. “I’ve had this chariot for years now, and it’s out-of-date. Nearly everybody else has a Hansom cab.”

“We like you with the growler,” Watters said. “Hansom cabs only hold two passengers, while your hackney holds four.”

“I’m losing fares, Sergeant. My customers want a fast, manoeuvrable Hansom.”

“We need you to carry prisoners,” Watters reminded. “And we give you plenty custom.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Eddie said miserably. “I’ll keep the old hackney.”

Leaving Eddie, Watters tried his next informant. Arbroath Betty ran a public house she called Betty’s Welcome in Dock Street, with the masts and spars of the shipping a biscuit toss across the road. Betty was busy behind the bar when Watters pushed open the door and walked in, passing the man with the moleskin trousers and navvy boots with barely a glance.

“Good afternoon, Mr Watters,” Betty was a widow in her early fifties. She did not smile as she polished a glass. “What trouble are you here to cause?”

“No trouble, Betty,” Watters said. “I’m looking for information.”

“I didn’t think you came here for the pleasure of my company,” Betty put down her glass and attacked the bar counter as if she were trying to scrub it to extinction. “What’s the to-do this time?”

“The break-in at Rimmer’s jewellery shop.”

“Oh, that,” Betty threw her cloth into a pail. “Some young i***t who likes breaking things, I reckon.” She managed a twisted smile. “Lads nowadays have no self-discipline. They need a few years at sea to teach them what life is all about.”

“Not like our youthful days, eh?”

Betty stopped scrubbing for a moment and looked up suspiciously. “What do you mean by that remark?”

“We were no angels,” Watters reminded. “Can you think of any other reason to smash up clocks and watches?”

Betty snorted. “Maybe it was a man who didn’t like Rimmer.”

“Why wouldn’t somebody like Rimmer?”

Betty shrugged. “He’s a lady’s man.”

“So I’ve heard,” Watters said. “There’s also a man robbing pedestrians and smashing their watches.”

Betty glanced at the large clock behind the bar. “Just let him come in here, that’s all! I’ll soon show him the way out!” She touched the ancient cutlass that decorated the wall beneath the clock. “I can deal with any man.”

“I know that, Betty. Thank you,” Watters tossed over a shilling.

“Is that all I get?” Betty complained, staring at the silver coin.

“If your idea is right, I’ll add more,” Watters promised.

A lady’s man? Perhaps a betrayed husband? In that case, why only break up the timepieces? Was there a reason? Watters left Betty’s Welcome, swinging his cane. I’ll follow that lead at present, but I think there is more to this case.

Watters’ third informant was Jim Bogle, who used to haunt the brothels in Couttie’s Wynd. Now Jim worked as a porter in the docks and supported Hairy Meg, a one-time p********e trying to leave the profession.

“Jim! My young friend!” Watters warned of his approach.

Jim was less nervous than he had once been but still started when Watters put a hand on his shoulder. “I haven’t done anything wrong, Sergeant Watters.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Jim,” Watters swung his cane like a golf club. “I’ll wager you still need some extra money, though, now you have a woman to look after.”

Jim’s smile appeared genuine. “Meg looks after me, Sergeant Watters.”

“I thought she would. She’s got a good heart, so you treat her right, young James, or you and I will fall out.” Watters reversed his cane and swished it again, smacking the lead-weighted end into the palm of his left hand.

“I will, Sergeant Watters,” Jim nodded vigorously.

“Good lad.”

Both men looked around as the foreman arrived. He was a distinctive, burly figure with a pheasant’s feather thrust through the band of his low-crowned hat. “Good afternoon, Mr Ambrose,” Watters said.

“It’s nearly evening,” Ambrose said sourly. “Has Jim been causing trouble, Sergeant?”

“Not even a shadow of trouble,” Watters said and returned to his questioning.

“You’ll know about Rimmer’s jewellery shop, Jim.”

Jim nodded vigorously. “It’s in the Overgate,” he said helpfully. “Abe Rimmer is a tight-fisted bugger with a roving eye, and he undercharges any looker to get under her skirts.”

“Thank you for the overview, Jim. Do you know why somebody turned his place over last night?”

Jim shook his head. “No, Mr Watters. I never heard. The boys in the docks here think it’s a lark, though, somebody larking at Rimmer’s expense.”

“Thank you, Jim.” Watters extracted a shilling from his pocket, thought of Meg and handed over a florin. “Ask around, Jim, will you?”

“I will, Sergeant,” Jim said.

“You’d best get on with your work.” Watters touched a finger to his hat in Ambrose’s direction and walked away, wondering about the possibilities.

A womanising jeweller? A jealous husband or the old favourite of insurance fraud? Neither theory seemed correct unless the attacks on random pedestrians were only a coincidence. Even then, Constable MacPherson had noticed a light on in Rimmer’s shop and heard the smashing of watches, while Rimmer was a portly man in his forties. Watters could not imagine Rimmer scrambling up a chimney in the dark.

It’s an intriguing mystery that I can’t yet figure out.

Sergeant Murdoch looked up from the booking desk when Watters entered. “Good evening, George.” He put his mug on top of the folded newspaper at his side.

“Evening, Murdoch. You’re having a busy shift, I see.”

“Hectic, George, hectic.” Murdoch took a deep gulp of his tea, shaking his head. “In the last eight hours, I’ve had one man complaining about a smashed watch, a youngster who lost his dog and a mill worker complaining about her overseer.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how my pen can cope with so much work.”

“A smashed watch?” Watters peered at Murdoch’s Incident Book. “Did you get the fellow’s name?”

“Michael McPake,” Murdoch said. “He claimed that a young fellow saw him checking the time, knocked his watch to the ground, stamped on it and ran away.”

Watters scribbled down McPake’s address. “I’ll have a word with him. It may be a coincidence, but I’m looking for a man who smashes timepieces.”

“Ah, for the good old days of Chartist marches, civil disturbance, foreign spies and murders,” Murdoch said.

“You’re a sarky bugger, Murdoch,” Watters told him, smiled, and stepped away until Murdoch spoke again.

“You’re lucky you only have one child, George,” Murdoch said. “My eldest is searching for a position, and I don’t want him working in a mill.”

“It’s a steady job,” Watters said.

“It’s a steady job until trade becomes dull, or the lad reached manhood, and the mill throws him onto the streets,” Murdoch said. “I’m hoping to gain him an apprenticeship,” he indicated the newspaper. “I only saw two advertised in the paper. One was for a hatter, a trade I know nothing about, and the other was a trawler owner down in Hull looking for apprentices. You were at sea, George. How do you think my lad would do on a trawler?”

Watters realised that Murdoch was serious and stepped back to the desk. “I was a Royal Marine, Murdoch, not a sailor, but it’s a hard life at sea. I’ve heard that trawler apprentices have a terrible time, but they can rise to be skippers and even boat owners if they’re hardy and determined.” He paused for a moment. “I’ve also heard some dark tales of cruelty out there on the Dogger Bank.”

Murdoch sipped at his tea as he scrutinised Watters. “Would you send your Patrick to a Hull trawler?”

“No,” Watters shook his head. “I would not recommend it. Have you thought about the whaling trade? There’s good money in that when the catches come in and the chance to rise to harpooner or even shipmaster.”

Murdoch grunted. “Thanks, George. I’ll consider that.”

“If I think of anything, I’ll let you know. Good luck, Murdoch,” Watters swung his cane and hurried to his desk, where his men were already waiting.

“I can’t see Rimmer smashing his own stock,” Duff echoed Watters earlier thoughts. “The man was nearly in tears at the mess in his shop.”

“No, unless he employed somebody to do the wrecking,” Scuddamore said. “Make it look like a break-in for plausibility and claim the insurance.”

Duff shook his head. “The insurance people showed me the documents,” he said. “Rimmer has underinsured his stock if anything. The clerk at the Dundee and Edinburgh Insurance Company told me that Rimmer was so tight-fisted he kept a hedgehog in his pocket to ensure he never spent money.”

“Ah, a man with deep pockets and short arms,” Scuddamore added.

“Did you manage to check his bank account?” Watters asked. “If he’s financially embarrassed, he might need a quick windfall. Or maybe one of his lady friends is blackmailing him.”

“I’ve made an appointment with Mr MacBride, the manager of the Tayside Bank. I’m seeing him tomorrow morning.”

“Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

Duff looked slightly embarrassed. “That’s Matthew chapter twenty-five, verse twenty-three,” he said.

“See what Mr MacBride says,” Watters could not argue with Duff’s theological knowledge. “Now, Scuddamore, I want you to investigate Rimmer’s lady friends. Find out who they were and if they were married.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore stroked his whiskers. “And I’ll find out about jealous husbands as well.”

“That’s right. We might be barking up the wrong tree, but it’s the only lead we have at present.”

“How about me, Sergeant?” Shaw looked slightly disconsolate.

“I have a vital job in mind for you, Shaw, but not yet,” Watters told him. “At present, you are taking over the routine duties of Scuddamore and Duff.”

“Checking pawnshops for stolen items?” Shaw sounded resigned.

“It’s a never-ending part of police work,” Watters said. “And then you walk about the town, listening and watching for dippers.”

“Dippers?”

“Pickpockets,” Watters explained. “You’ll have to learn thiefology, the terminology of the criminal classes, Shaw. They speak a different language from us, a mixture of cant and slang, so that ordinary people, or flats, can’t understand them. If you learn their words, you can listen to their conversations.”

Shaw nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“That’s your jobs sorted for tomorrow. Tonight, Shaw, you’re on duty until midnight with Constable Carstairs, 68. He’s a vastly experienced man, so listen to his advice and act accordingly.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“One more thing, Shaw, always remember that the most successful thieves are the ones with smart clothes and a comfortable house. They are the ones we don’t catch. The men and women in the poorest quarters of the city are the unsuccessful.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Right. Off you go.”

When the duty room was clear, Watters emptied a teaspoon of tea into his mug, added boiling water from the kettle that always sat on the fire and stirred it until it was black.

“That’s how tea should be made,” he told himself and sat at his desk, reading his detectives’ reports. “Tomorrow, I’ll interview this fellow McPake and see what progress I can make.”