A Carriage For Lochee

LOCHEE, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1869
Detective Sergeant George Watters glanced upwards, where shifting clouds part-obscured the scimitar moon. He grunted, for he had hoped for more light, and checked the time on the sadly battered watch that Marie had given him on their tenth wedding anniversary. Watters valued that watch and smoothed his fingers across the maker’s name. Benson was a quality watchmaker from London. Marie must have paid a packet for you. He waited until the minute hand moved to the number ten.
Ten minutes short of midnight.
“Are you ready, boys?”
Detective Constable Scuddamore nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.” With his immaculately groomed side whiskers, straight nose, and cleft chin, Scuddamore considered himself the most handsome man in the Dundee police force. Watters knew he notoriously tried to avoid situations that might endanger his looks. However, here he was, crouched outside a filthy alley in the village of Lochee, about to raid a shebeen where the inhabitants could prove highly violent. Scuddamore sighed, checked the staff in its long pocket and prepared for trouble.
“Ready, Sergeant,” Detective Constable Duff was the opposite of Scuddamore. Short for a policeman, he was villainously ugly and, with broad shoulders and mighty muscles, could stand toe-to-toe in a prizefighting ring. He flexed his knuckles and thought of Rosemary sleeping peacefully at home.
Behind the plain-clothed detectives, eight uniformed constables gripped their long wooden staffs, stamped their boots on the unpaved ground and waited for Watters’ orders.
Watters rechecked the time, watching the minute hand hovering on eleven. He snapped shut the lid and tucked the watch into his waistcoat pocket. “Right boys, follow me!”
Duthie’s Wynd was long and narrow, with a dog-leg bend in the centre and a sweet scent that Watters recognised as whisky. The moment Watters stepped past the wynd entrance, he heard raucous singing and a high-pitched screech.
“Holy Mary, it’s a banshee,” Constable Halloran said and crossed himself.
“No,” Scuddamore corrected. “Just a drunken woman. We’ll have none of your superstitious nonsense here, Halloran.”
Watters paused as he found a man face down in the central gutter and checked to ensure he was still breathing.
“He’s as drunk as a lord and passed out,” Watters said. “Leave him until later.” He hurried to the dog-leg bend with his men pounding behind him. The tenement on the right was three storeys high, with no lighting and a strong smell of alcohol drifting from an open window. Watters heard more laughter and bursts of drunken singing, with some voices raised in anger.
“Duff! Stay here with two men and stop anybody who tries to escape. Scuddamore, take two men to the back entrance to the close!”
Watters would have preferred to have Duff’s muscles with him as he mounted the worn stone steps two at a time, but the broad detective was the most effective stopper in the force. The noise was louder here, with the sweet smell of whisky strong in the confines of the close. A woman screamed, a man swore, and Watters stopped at the middle door of the second floor.
He banged on the door as his four uniformed constables gripped their staffs and tensed themselves.
“Dundee Police!” Watters roared. “Open up in there!”
When the noise continued unabated, Watters tried again, with the same result.
“Let me, Sergeant,” Constable MacHardy said. When Watters nodded, MacHardy stepped back, lifted his foot, and smashed his boot against the door. The lock burst open, and Watters was first inside, swinging his cane and shouting.
“Dundee Police! I am Sergeant Watters of the Dundee Police!”
MacHardy followed, yelling, “Lochee Police!”
About twenty people crowded the two-roomed house, men, women, and children. Most were singing drunk, some were fighting drunk, and a few had collapsed on the floor in near paralysis.
“Who are you?” A red-faced man leered at Watters. “I dinnae ken you.”
“I am Sergeant Watters of the Dundee Police,” Watters repeated. “Who runs this shebeen?”
“I do,” the red-faced man said. “How?”
“You’re breaking the law,” Watters said. “This house is an unlicensed outlet selling alcohol on a Sunday, contrary to the Forbes Mackenzie Act.”
“Bugger your Forbes Mackenzie Act,” the man said and swung a meaty fist at Watters.