Murdered On The 13th

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Murdered On The 13th - book excerpt

Chapter 1

APRIL 1863

Watters took a final pull of his pipe and tapped out the glowing ash on the garden wall. Somewhere close, a cockerel greeted the dawn, the sound faintly nostalgic, like a folk memory from a rural past. Sighing, Watters ascended the stone steps to Firthview Lodge and rapped on the front door with the weighted end of his cane. Behind him, Constables Scuddamore and Duff stood still, saying nothing.

“You two know what to do,” Watters said. “Don’t speak unless anybody speaks to you.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore agreed. “Sturrock’s lucky he’s getting all three of us with crime rising in Dundee. He must be a friend of Mackay’s.”

“Just keep your lip buttoned,” Watters said.

The servant who answered the door looked Watters up and down before speaking. “Yes, sir?”

“I am Detective Sergeant George Watters of Dundee Police to see Mr Abraham Sturrock.”

“Does Mr Sturrock know you are coming, sir?” The servant did not look impressed.

“He does,” Watters said and entered as the servant opened the door a few reluctant inches. “Please inform him I am here.”

The interior of Firthview Lodge was as luxurious as Watters had expected. Standing behind high walls in the select area of West Ferry, east of Dundee, Sturrock had allegedly supervised every stone of its building to his famously exacting requirements.

“Nice place, I suppose,” Scuddamore said.

“Aye, no’ bad,” Duff agreed, glowering at the panelled walls and expensive original paintings. “No’ what I’m used to, though.”

“No,” Scuddamore said. “Not as good as a single-end in the Overgate, eh?”

Swinging his cane like a golf club, Watters waited in the outer hall until echoing footsteps announced the arrival of Abraham Sturrock.

“Ah, Sergeant Watters.” Sturrock looked worried as he shook Watters’ hand.

Watters took in the man at one glance. Middle height, middle-aged, and wealthy, he wore his expensive clothes carelessly.

“It’s a bad business, Watters,” Sturrock said.

“Give me a rough outline, Mr Sturrock,” Watters asked.

“It’s theft, Sergeant Watters,” Sturrock said. “I laid a five-pound note on my desk before I went shooting, and when I came back, it was gone.”

“I see.” Watters took another practice golf swing with his cane. “Who has access to your desk?”

“Everybody in the house,” Sturrock said. “I never lock my study door. I’ve never had any need.”

“Who is in the house?”

“Two manservants, the cook and three maids,” Sturrock replied at once.

“Anybody else?” Watters asked. “Is there a Mrs Sturrock?”

“I am not married,” Sturrock spoke as if he should be ashamed of his single status.

Watters nodded. “Were there any visitors in the house?” He looked around. “Your butler was efficient.”

“We have had no visitors recently,” Sturrock said.

“May I see your study?” Watters asked. “My men can wait in the kitchen.” He followed Sturrock up a broad flight of stairs to the upper storey, and through a six-panelled door to a corner room. Immediately he entered, Watters confirmed Sturrock was a bachelor, for the papers littered the desk, a shotgun leaned against a chair and prints of ships, and wild birds hung at different angles on the wall.

“Only one door into the room, I see,” Watters said.

“That’s right, Sergeant,” Sturrock agreed.

Watters looked out both windows, ascertaining the wall beneath was too smooth to climb, and there was no ivy or other vegetation for a burglar to use. “To come in here, the thief would have to enter the house and mount the stairs unseen, then leave the same way past six servants and yourself. Unlikely. How many doors do you have in this house?”

“Two, Sergeant,” Sturrock said. “The main door and a back door that the servants use.”

“To where does the back door lead?”

“From the kitchen garden straight into the servants’ quarters,” Sturrock said.

A quick check convinced Watters that nobody could enter by the back door without one or more of the servants seeing them. “And the front door is kept locked,” Watters said. “How about the windows?”

“The ground floor windows are barred,” Sturrock said. “Although we’re in a good area, the Dundee thieves are not far away.”

“Quite,” Watters said. “I’d like to speak to the servants. All of them.” He liked Sturrock more when the man looked uncomfortable.

“I don’t think any of my people would do such a thing,” Sturrock said. “They’ve been with me for years.”

“We’ll soon find out,” Watters said. “Let’s congregate in the kitchen where they feel at home.” He grinned. “I heard a cock crowing a few moments ago. Is that yours?”

“Yes.” Sturrock was taken aback at the question.

“Where is he kept?”

“Why, in the henhouse,” Sturrock said. “You don’t think he stole the money, do you?”

Watters smiled, taking another practice swing with his cane. “No, I don’t, but I think he might help me find who did.” He grinned. “Would you mind if I take a short walk around the grounds? I will meet the servants in the kitchen in half an hour.”

“Do whatever you think necessary.” Sturrock looked bewildered, as well he might, Watters thought.

A middle-aged gardener joined the indoors staff who gathered in an uneasy cluster inside the kitchen. Watters sat on the edge of the table, keeping his tone light as he told them why they were there.

“This is just routine,” he said pleasantly. “Mr Sturrock assures me that I am wasting my time because you are all honest.” He watched the reactions, which ranged from anger to frustration and resignation. The oldest maid gave a bright smile and touched a horseshoe on the wall while the youngest looked on the verge of tears.

“I like that.” Watters slid off the table, lifted the horseshoe, examined it for a full thirty seconds and replaced it upside down. As he hoped, two of the servants immediately rushed forward, with the older turning the horseshoe, so the legs pointed upwards. “What’s the matter?” Watters asked innocently.

“The horseshoe has to face upwards,” the middle maid said seriously. “Otherwise, all the luck runs out of the legs.”

“Ah.” Watters nodded. “I’m sorry. I did not know that.” He waited until the servants settled down before he continued. “You will know about the missing five-pound note. Does anybody here know what happened?” He expected the negative replies, the shaking heads, and the looks of innocence shielding shadows of worry. “My name is Sergeant Watters, and my superintendent sent me here to try and find the fiver.”

“We don’t have it,” the gardener said. “Can I get back to work now?”

“Not yet,” Watters said. “First, I will try some magic on you. You may have heard about my friend, the black cockerel.” He was not surprised when all the servants denied any knowledge, with the gardener looking contemptuous and the middle maid slightly scared.

“No? Oh, well, in that case, I will educate you. Cockerels are magic beasts, with astonishing powers. My black cockerel can tell when a thief touches him.” Watters looked around the servants, seeing their sceptical faces. “He is normally quiet during the day, but if a wrongdoer puts one finger on him, he cries out, like this.” Watters imitated the call of a cockerel as the servants stared at him in disbelief. The youngest made began to laugh, looked at her companions and stopped. Watters gave them another moment to settle. “I use my black cockerel as a thief detector. He is quite famous in the force.”

The servants looked at Watters as though he were crazed, which he quite understood.

“If you could come with me, please.” Watters led them outside, to form a queue outside one of the stables, with Duff looking confused at the back. Watters ordered Scuddamore into the house. “You know what to do,” he said quietly.

“This is bloody stupid,” the gardener said.

“Yes,” Watters agreed, smiling. “Now, when you enter the stable, you’ll find it dark, and empty save for my black cockerel. All you have to do is stroke him once. If he remains silent, then you are innocent, but if he calls out, then I will suspect you of being guilty. Keep the door shut, or the light will make him call anyway.”

“You’re not a detective,” the gardener said. “You’re a bloody clown.”

“You first,” Watters ordered.

One by one, Watters ushered the servants into the stable, allowed them a few moments and brought them back out, until all seven stood in front of him, brushing loose feathers or straw off their clothes and grumbling at the waste of their time.

“Now then.” Watters beamed at them. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“The cock didn’t make a bloody sound,” the gardener said. “Can I get back to work now? The weeds don’t stop growing!”

“Neither they do,” Watters said, then altered his tone to a stern command. “Show me your hands!”

“What?” While most of the servants obeyed instinctively, the gardener glowered, keeping his hands at his sides.

Leaving the gardener to the end, Watters glanced at the others. Five had dirty hands while the sixth, you youngest maid, was clean.

“What’s your name?” Watters pulled the youngest maid aside.

“Julie, sir.” The girl was already crying.

“Look at the gardener’s hands, Duff,” Watters ordered, glanced down, and dismissed him. “Where is the five-pound note, Julie?” Watters asked.

Julie jumped, looked at Sturrock and shook her head. “I haven’t got it, sir.”

“Perhaps not,” Watters said, “but you did take it. Where did you put it?” Watters was aware that Sturrock was looking at him oddly, while the other servants were milling around, denying that Julie would ever do such a thing.

Julie fought back her tears. She bit her lip, looked imploringly at Sturrock, and then lifted her chin in defiance. “I haven’t got it!” she said.

Watters nodded. “The rest of you may go now.” He watched as the servants filed away, whispering to one another and glancing at Julie. The oldest maid stretched to pat her arm in sympathy. “Now, Julie, you can tell me all about it,” Watters said. “Come now, I know it was you, all I need to know was why you stole the money, and where you have hidden it.”

“Are you sure it was Julie?” Swinton tried to defend the distraught girl. “I have always found her the best of workers.”

Watters sat down. “I am afraid there is no doubt. You see, when I borrowed your cock, I smeared it with soot from the nearest lum and told the servants that the cock would crow when the guilty person touched it. Every one of your servants has soot on their hands except this unhappy young lady, so only she was afraid of being discovered.”

“Ah.” Sturrock looked at Watters with new respect.

“While we had the servants out here,” Watters said, “Constable Scuddamore has been searching their rooms, and here he comes now.”

“Sergeant!” Scuddamore arrived, nodded to Sturrock, and spoke to Watters. “Under a loose mantelpiece tile.” He handed over a five-pound note, folded in two.

“Thank you, Constable.” Watters took the money. “Which bedroom?”

“The maid’s bedroom, Sergeant.” Scuddamore was a tall, handsome man with neatly trimmed whiskers.

“Oh, Julie,” Sturrock spoke more in hurt than anger. “Why, for goodness sake? I never took you for a thief.”

“You two go away,” Watters spoke to his constables. “Have a pipe and patrol the grounds for poachers.” He waited until the constables clumped away, already enveloped in tobacco smoke.

“Now, Julie, why did you steal the fiver?” Watters asked sternly. “You could not spend it. No thirteen-year-old maidservant could come by that amount of money honestly so that any shop keeper would be immediately suspicious. So why?”

By that time, Julie was sobbing, sitting on a stone bench with her head down and her shoulders shaking. Watters knew he had to break her to get the truth, so persevered, hating this part of his duty.

“Why, Julie?” Watters leaned closer, hardening his voice and his heart. “You are a thief, Julie, you have broken your faith with your master, and you’ll go to jail with the other thieves and blackguards!”

“Go easy, Sergeant Watters,” Sturrock sounded concerned. “The girl’s upset enough.”

“Aye, I’ll go easy,” Watters said. “I’ll go easy when this thief is locked up where she belongs. Ten years on bread and water, solitary confinement behind cold stone walls, if she is lucky, then a life of poverty because nobody will ever trust her with a position again.”

“I had to,” Julie looked up, her eyes swollen, tears streaming down her face, “it’s my ma!”

“Your mother?” Sturrock put a hand on Julie’s shoulder, glaring at Watters.

“Some excuse!” Watters said. He pulled a set of handcuffs from his pocket. “Come on, little thief! Let’s get you to jail where you belong!”

“No!” Julie backed away, shaking her head. “Please! If I’m in jail, who’ll look after my ma!”

“What’s wrong with your ma?” Watters asked. “Nothing, I’d say! You’re gammoning us, Julie.”

“I’m no’! She’s sick, that’s what!” Julie nearly screamed. “And we cannae afford a doctor’s bill, and she might die unless I get a doctor!”

“Is that why you stole the money?” Watters pressed, still looming over the maid.

“Aye! Please, sir, send me to jail if you like but don’t let my ma die!”’

“No, of course not, Julie. I won’t allow your mother to die.” Sturrock put a hand on the maid’s shoulder, looking genuinely upset. “Julie’s mother is Mrs Milne. She was the housekeeper here in my father’s time.”

“Take me to her,” Watters ordered. “Take me to her, Julie, and we’ll see if she is as sick as you claim.”

Mrs Milne lived in a one-roomed cottage at the edge of Broughty Ferry. The thatch was worn, and dampness discoloured the walls. The elderly woman was in bed, looking extremely frail when Watters entered the house, although she tried to rise, pushing herself partly upright with stick-thin arms.

“Stay put, Mrs Milne,” Watters said. “Please don’t rise for us.” He nodded to Sturrock. “Julie is correct; we need a doctor. Who is your family doctor, Mr Sturrock?”

“I’ll arrange all of that,” Sturrock said at once. “Julie, why did you not tell me about your mother rather than steal from me?”

“I didn’t know what to do,” Julie said, through her tears.

“Steal?” Mrs Milne looked up. “Julie?”

Sturrock knelt beside Mrs Milne. “It’s all right, Mrs Milne. We’ll have a doctor to you shortly.”

“Never mind me.” Mrs Milne gathered strength from somewhere inside her wasted body. “My daughter did not steal. I did not bring up a thief!”

Sturrock took Watters outside the cottage, where the waves of the Tay hushed against a shingle beach. “Could we drop the theft case, Sergeant? I don’t wish to waste your time, but I think Julie has learned her lesson, and she meant well.”

Watters considered the growing pile of pending investigations on his desk and nodded. “I came here to investigate a theft, Mrs Milne, but instead I found only a caring if confused daughter. As far as I am concerned, there was no crime committed.”

Sturrock put a hand on Watters’ arm. “You’re a clever, devious man, Sergeant Watters.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Watters said. “We’ll be getting back to the Police Office now. I have real criminals to catch. There is a rising tide of crime at present.”

Chapter 2

“You’re wanted, Sergeant,” Duff nearly whispered the words as Watters sat at his desk in the duty room. “Himself wants you.”

Watters placed his pen neatly in its holder, looked at the pile of pending investigations, and sighed. “I’d better go, then.” Rising from his chair, he made his way upstairs to Superintendent Mackay’s office.

It was always trouble when Mackay called for him. However successful Watters had been in tracing stolen property, or in finding the drunken brute who beat up his wife, Superintendent Mackay never seemed pleased. So, it was with some trepidation that Watters tapped at the panelled wooden door.

Mackay was at his desk, with a splendid view of the prison next door and a cutlass hanging on the wall, a reminder that however exalted his position, the head constable of the Dundee Police could still work on the front line. “Ah, Watters,” Mackay looked up, “You spent rather a long time on a simple case of theft when we have rampant crime in the town.”

Watters stepped inside the office. “Yes, sir. I thought it best I resolved the cause as well as the mystery.”

“You’re here to solve crimes, Watters, not put the world to rights.” Mackay treated Watters to a glare from his cold-blue Caithness eyes. “As it happens, Mr Sturrock was pleased with your efforts. He sent a case of beer for the Duty Room, so no doubt you’ll get your share later.”

“That was very generous of him,” Watters said.

“Too generous. More importantly, I have a case for you.”

“Sir.” Watters stood at attention beside Mackay’s desk.

“I was going to give it to Inspector Anstruther,” Mackay said, “but Mr Sturrock specifically requested that you’re the man for the job.”

“Did he, sir?”

“He did, sir. And as Mr Sturrock is a councillor and a highly important man, I had little choice.” Mackay sighed. “It seemed he was impressed with what he called your tact and ingenuity in that incident in his home.”

Watters nodded. “It was nothing, sir. An open and shut case of a mislaid five-pound note.”

Mackay grunted. “That’s not how Mr Sturrock reported it. Very well, then. You may find this next case more difficult. We have a murder at Dalcumbie Golf Course.” Mackay smiled faintly. “You play golf, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At Dalcumbie?”

“No, sir. That is the elite course in Dundee. I play at the Dundee Artisan Course.”

“Ah,” Mackay said. “I thought golf was a democratic game.”

“In theory, sir, but some courses are not.”

“Well,” Mackay said. “You will have your chance to place your plebeian boots over their hallowed turf. There is a dead body on the thirteenth green.”

“You said it was a murder, sir?”

“As the man was stark naked and ripped to shreds, I’d say so.”

“Do we know who it is, sir?”

“Not yet.” Mackay returned to his paperwork. “Take Scuddamore with you, Watters, and keep me informed of progress. This is not a good time for a murder.”

“Is there ever a good time for a murder, sir?” Watters asked, but Mackay only lifted a hand to wave him away.

Scuddamore and Duff were waiting as Watters returned.

“We have a murder case,” Watters said.

“That will make a change from sooty cockerels,” Scuddamore said.

“Get the mugs out, lads.” Watters was very aware that Inspector Anstruther was watching everything he did. I’ll give him a show to watch.

With both of his detectives holding a mug, Watters fetched his own and poured in tea from the pot that he kept beside the fire. “Here’s to us lads, wha’s like us?”

“No’ many,” Scuddamore continued the ritual.

“And they’re a’ deid,” Duff completed the formula as they clicked their mugs together and drank the black, unsweetened tea.

“Right,” said Watters, “let’s get to work.”

***

Dalcumbie Golf Course was two miles north of Dundee between the city and the range of the Sidlaw Hills. Watters took his usual cab, with Eddie at the reins.

“There’s been a murder at Dalcumbie,” Watters said. “Do you know anything about it, Eddie?”

“I heard about it, Sergeant.” Eddie was about forty, with agile brown eyes, and ears that heard everything. In his job as a cabbie, he roamed all around Dundee and often picked up snippets of information that Watters found useful.

“Anything for me?” Watters spun half a crown in the air with the weak sunlight glinting from the silver coin.

“Not yet, Sergeant,” Eddie said. “Just one of the lads – another cabbie – said it was a ritual killing, whatever that means.”

“A ritual killing?” Watters spun the coin again. “In what way?”

“I dunno, Sergeant Watters. Old Eck, that’s his name, Old Eck, says it was like a human sacrifice.” Eddie gave a twisted grin. “Do you know what I think, Sergeant? I think he was such a bad golfer that his partner bashed his head in with a club.”

“Thank you, Eddie.” Watters pocketed the half-crown. “That wasn’t worth a penny, let alone silver. Take us to Dalcumbie.”

“Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police,” Watters introduced himself at the clubhouse. “And this is Detective Scuddamore. I understand you have a dead body.”

“On the thirteenth green.” The club secretary looked stunned. “Andrew Forsyth was our club captain.”

“The Andrew Forsyth?” Watters asked. “The chairman of the Tayside Bank?”

“Yes,” the spokesman spoke in hushed tones.

“Has anybody moved the body?”

“No,” the secretary said. “We thought it best to leave things for the police.”

“Who found the body, and when?” Watters asked.

“I did,” the secretary said. “I was playing a round early in the morning, and I saw poor Mr Forsyth, just lying there,” he lowered his voice, “naked.”

“I’ll speak to you later, Mr…” Watters said.

“Carberry. Jack Carberry. Do you have to tell people how he was found? We have a reputation as a respectable club.”

“Show me the body, please, Mr Carberry.” Watters thought it significant that Carberry was more concerned with Forsyth’s state of nudity than with his murder.

As the secretary had said, Andrew Forsyth lay face-down and naked across the thirteenth hole. A middle-aged, successful banker, his body was covered in scratches, some deep, others merely on the surface, from his neck down to his knees.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.” Watters bent to examine the body. “It’s like some wild animal attacked the poor fellow, yet none of these scratches is serious; certainly, none of them killed him.” He glanced around. “There is no blood on the grass and no sign of a struggle. I’d say that somebody murdered Mr Forsyth elsewhere and dumped his body here.”

“Yes” Carberry seemed fascinated by Forsyth’s corpse, unable to tear his gaze away.

“Is there any sign of Forsyth’s clothes?” Watters asked.

“None at all,” the secretary said. “Nor his golf clubs.”

“Do you know what Mr Forsyth was wearing?”

The secretary nodded. “Mr Forsyth always wore the same clothes. Light brown trousers, brown boots, a fancy Indian scarf, and a short grey jacket.”

Watters ensured that Scuddamore took notes. “Scout around for them, Scuddamore. If you can’t find them, we’ll look for them in the pawnbrokers. Was Mr Forsyth married?”

“No.” Carberry shook his head. “He was a single man. He always claimed he was married to the bank and the golf.”

“Aye,” Watters said. “Well, he’s not married to anybody now.” He turned the body over, to see Forsyth’s front was as scratched and cut as his back. “Somebody did not like the man. Did he have any enemies?”

“None that I know of,” the secretary said.

“What’s that in his mouth?” Watters failed to prise Forsyth’s jaws open. “The surgeon will find out for us.”

Carberry glanced down at Forsyth’s mutilated body and visibly trembled. “Who would do this sort of thing?”

“That’s what we’ll try to find out,” Watters said. “I want to interview all the members of the golf club. “You’ll have a membership list in the clubhouse. And I want to see the people at his bank, and his neighbours.” He looked at Scuddamore. “We have some work to do, Scuddamore.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore said. “I’ve never seen the appeal of golf.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Watters said. “Very few women play.”

Scuddamore grinned. “That must be it, Sergeant.”

“I want you to go to the bank and interview everybody,” Watters said. “Find out if Mr Forsyth had any enemies, and how he lived. I want to know his friends, hobbies, family and everything else.”