part0023

'Of course, Sergeant.' Beaumont put down his pen and looked up. The portrait of the late Mrs Beaumont smiled down upon him. 'You did better than I thought with that Confederate fellow, Sergeant.' He shook his head. 'You may be assured that I let Amy know I was out of temper with her.'

Watters took a deep breath. 'I wouldn't be too hard on Miss Amy. I suspect that Miss Elizabeth Caskie had a hand in choosing the guests. Her brother, Mr William Caskie, appears to be quite close to the Confederate gentlemen.' He stepped back slightly, ignoring the anonymous Cattanach, who handed Beaumont a document. 'I believe that Mr William has shipping business with them.'

Beaumont looked suddenly wary as he read the document. He signed it with a flourish. 'Possibly, Sergeant Watters, but in business, a man must abide by the law and deliver whatever he has promised despite any political complications that turn up.' When he looked at Watters, there was no smile on his face. 'A man must keep business separate from his family concerns.' He sighed. 'Damn it, man, we know each other well enough by now.'

Beaumont dismissed Cattanach and sent the servants to bed before lighting the candles in his room. He settled in his favourite chair beside the fire. 'We can relax a bit now, Watters. What is it you wish to ask me? More about that damned murder in Calcutta?'

'It may be related, sir.' Watters remained standing. 'It is about a vessel named Alexander MacGillivray presently building at Rogers' Yard.'

Beaumont's face lost all expression. 'What about it, Watters?'

'I have heard rumours that your company may be involved in this vessel. Is that correct?' Watters held Beaumont's stony stare.

'That's business,' Beaumont said.

'If this vessel is intended for the Southern States, sir, it may be the reason that somebody is attempting to damage your business.' Watters tapped his cane on the floor. 'I would like you to be honest with me so I can assess the danger to you.' Watters paused for a moment. 'And I can assess the danger to your family. Neither of us wishes any harm to come to Miss Amy or Mrs Charlotte Caskie.'

As Watters had intended, Beaumont looked away. 'Sit down, Sergeant. Before I begin, I want you to swear that you will not repeat what I am about to tell you. Understand?' Standing up, Beaumont opened a cupboard and took out a decanter and two glasses.

'That would depend on the legality of the matter, sir.' Watters accepted the brandy-and-water that Beaumont poured for him.

Beaumont grunted. 'I don't know your feelings about this American affair, but I am in the business of making a profit. Morals must take second place.'

Watters said nothing.

Beaumont sipped at his drink. 'You must understand that I have hundreds of families depending on my companies for a livelihood. Men who are not in business do not understand how precarious the margin is between success and failure, profit and loss. There is no place for idealism in the marketplace.'

Watters wondered if Beaumont was trying to persuade himself more than anything else. 'I am a policeman, Mr Beaumont. My job is to uphold the law, not to judge people for their morality or political beliefs.'

'As you say.' Beaumont looked at Watters over the top of his glass. 'I trust in your honesty, Sergeant Watters. Now, I'm not sure how much of this affair you already know, so I will start at the beginning. Please bear with me.'

Watters placed his glass on a small table and took out his notebook. 'I will only write down matters pertinent to the case, sir, and nothing personal.'

'Thank you,' Beaumont said. 'You are fully aware that my elder daughter, Charlotte, was recently married to William Caskie. You do not know that the Caskie family are not as wealthy as they appear. They are not an ancient family, Mr Watters. The grandfather was a merchant in India around the turn of the century.'

'Well, Grandfather Caskie returned to Scotland with a fortune; he was what people term a nabob and bought property in the area. Pitcorbie is an ancient house, so he bought history too. However, his sons spent lavishly, so that by the time William came along, the Caskies of Pitcorbie were on their uppers.'

'Yet you let him marry your daughter, sir.' Watters knew that he should not make such a personal comment.

Beaumont sipped at his brandy. 'I knew that the family was strapped for cash, but I did not know that they were virtual paupers, damnit! I'd never have agreed to the match else.'

'Yes, sir.' Watters pondered that kindly, affable Mr Beaumont, as pleasant and companionable a man as it was possible to meet, had agreed to his daughter's marriage without checking out the groom nearly as carefully as he would examine a business deal. 'Did Charlotte agree to the marriage?'

Beaumont looked up sharply. 'What the devil has that got to do with it? Charlotte knew that her marriage would add lustre to our name by connecting us to a landed family. It was her duty to get married, and that's all there is to it.'

'I see, sir.' Watters began to see that all was not gold under Beaumont's urbane charm.

Beaumont's complexion mottled. He placed his brandy down and leaned closer to Watters. 'Let's face it, Watters, my Charlotte is a fine woman, but she is hardly a prime catch. Amy is a peach, but Charlotte is—a bit plain, shall we say?'

Watters grunted. 'It is not my place to compare the attributes of your daughters, sir.'

'I am proud of them both, Sergeant Watters.' Beaumont was smiling again. 'However, neither my pride nor their good qualities are the subject of this conversation. Mr William Caskie is.'

Watters nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

'Now, William is a proud man. He wishes to raise himself, and his family, from the precipice of poverty. Quite naturally, he is using the opportunity of this American war to make money, and how better than to exploit the skills that Dundee has to offer? When he asked me for a loan at a moderate rate of interest, naturally, I did not at first agree. I thought that he was building a ship for the French government. But when I heard he was building a blockade-runner, well, where's the harm in sailing food into a beleaguered town? So I agreed and allowed my name to be used in case Mr Rogers was wary of William's embarrassed situation. It's a work of charity in its own way, feeding the starving.'

'A blockade-runner, sir?' Watters approached the subject with some caution. 'I thought Rogers was building a warship.'

' Alexander MacGillivray is to be a blockade-runner, Watters. The Confederate government is prepared to pay a quite sizeable sum of money for such a vessel. Oh, I know that they have been buying up all the surplus ships that the Mersey and the Clyde have to offer, and even vessels from Dublin, but William's vessel is something special, I hear.' Beaumont stifled a yawn and stood up. 'So there you have it. That's not so bad, eh? William is doing his best to care for his family by engaging in legitimate business while helping hungry people at the same time.'

Watters stood up and wondered if he should tell Beaumont what he had overheard in the Royal Hotel. Best not to. Yet . 'Thank you for letting me into your confidence, sir.'

'Nonsense. You did a good job in keeping the peace between these squabbling Americans.' Beaumont tilted his head to one side as if examining him. 'Well, you'd better get back to your duty.' He chattered cheerfully as he ushered Watters to the door of his office. 'Good night to you now.'

Superintendent Mackay listened as Watters related his discoveries. 'You say that Mr William Caskie is having an ironclad built in Dundee for the Confederate States of America with Mr Beaumont footing the bill. That would explain Mr Beaumont's current financial constraints.'

'Yes, sir,' Watters said. 'I don't think that Mr Rogers is aware of the intended destination. Caskie sold him some tomfool story about the ship being destined for the Emperor of China.'

'You have already told me that,' Mackay said. 'Last time you were here, you believed the ship was for French owners. Now you believe it is for the Confederates. Have you any proof, Watters? '

'I overheard a conversation, sir.' Watters gave details.

'Hmm.' Mackay's fingers began their drumming on the desk. 'No court in the land would take heed of that evidence, Sergeant, as you are aware. Nor is Mr Caskie doing anything illegal. No. We cannot act on it.' Mackay made his decision. 'There is nothing there that advances our case of the murder on Lady of Blackness .'

'It may give a reason for the attacks on Mr Beaumont, sir,' Watters explained, 'if some anti-slavery group thinks he is advancing the cause of the South.' He waited a moment for Mackay to consider his words. 'Mr Caskie's actions may even create some interference from the Federal government.'

'What?' Mackay's fingers stilled, and he looked up frowning. 'No, no, Watters. I doubt there will be anything of that significance. The United States has too much to worry about to be concerned with one Scottish merchant. Forget this blasted metal ship. '

'As you wish, sir,' Watters agreed, fully aware that he would continue to follow any lead that may help solve the case.

Mackay sighed, with his fingers drumming the pas de charge . 'I will agree that there's some damned awkward double dealing going on here, Watters.' He leaned forward over his desk. 'French boats and American agents and diplomats and God knows what else.'

Watters waited for Mackay to get to his point.

Mackay forced his fingers into stillness. 'Remind me, Watters, what is the case? You were ordered to find a murderer and to stop the fire-raising in Mr Beaumont's mills. You succeeded in the latter and have tried every avenue with the former. I also sent you to protect Beaumont and his family from possible danger. You were with the family for some days, and Mr Beaumont said that although nothing transpired, you were instrumental in keeping the peace in a possibly delicate situation. However, I think we can safely agree that Mr Beaumont is correct when he says that any danger has passed. '

'I am not sure I agree, sir. I am still unsure why Mr Beaumont was targeted or by who. There is also the matter of the mannequin in his bed.'

'Forget the mannequin; some childish prank, no doubt. As the fire-raising has stopped, we can be fairly sure it was by that abolitionist group.' Mackay shook his head. 'Now as for that French vessel, you think she is a coper and working with William Caskie. I am not so sure. I am coming around to your French theory. I think she might be here to spy on our shipping.'

'If she is, sir, all she can spy on is the Nesshaven fishermen.'

'Go out and have a look.'

'With respect, sir, I am a policeman, not a spy. Surely that's the Navy's job.'

'With respect, Sergeant Watters, I have given you an order.' Mackay tried to smile. 'I do not know if your vessel is engaged in espionage, Watters, but if the Navy hauls up an innocent French vessel, then it's a diplomatic incident. If an overzealous Dundee policeman examines her, people will shake their heads and then forget it. '

'Yes, sir,' Watters said. 'Will the time I take out at sea be included in the four days I have left to solve the murder on Lady of Blackness ?'

'Don't be damned impertinent, Watters!' Mackay's hands clenched into fists. 'I've given you your orders; it's your duty to carry them out.'

'Yes, sir.' Watters reached for his hat. 'I'll need to hire a boat. May I draw some funds to cover the cost?'

A pair of oystercatchers piped Watters clear of the beach, their calls somehow reassuring above the crash of the surf. Both birds circled the boat, their black and white plumage contrasting with the orange bill and legs.

With her name Joyce painted in simple black letters on her white hull, the boat was smaller than Grace , with a single mast and a pair of oars. Hoisting the lug sail, Watters concentrated on the tiller, hitting the waves at an angle so they broke on the bows and dashed aside. Keeping well clear of the surge around the Sisters, he caught the land breeze to steer out to sea. The Nesshaven fleet always fished the same two areas, either near My Lord's Bank, two miles to the north and within sight of the growing village of Carnoustie, or ten miles out in the lee of the Inchcape Rock. Watters knew by experience that the gin coper did not come close inshore, so the fleet would be off the Inchcape, where the Bell Rock Lighthouse thrust itself from the sea.

Spindrift pattered inboard, streaking the foredeck with salt as Joyce cleared the Sisters. Watters touched the New Testament that Marie had insisted on giving him.

'I worry about you,' Marie had said. 'Take this with you.'

'You know I'm not particularly religious,' Watters reminded.

'I am, though,' Marie said. 'Please take it.'

Now, strangely, Watters was glad to feel its bulk in his breast pocket.

'You manage the sail, Ragina!' Watters called above the crash of the sea and the whine of wind through the rigging. He eased the tiller a little as the wind shifted a few points to the north. He watched Ragina fight to adjust the sail .

'I hope you bluebottles are going to pay me for this,' Ragina grumbled.

'So do I,' Watters said, 'because as sure as God, I can't afford it.'

The land was far behind them now, with the waves rising sharply, not the great greybeards of the North Atlantic or the horrifying mountains of Cape Horn, but short, steep, and ugly. Watters ignored the seagulls that circled the boat, constantly calling in their quest for food. He could see sails rising on the horizon, but visibility was restricted at the level of this small boat. The oystercatchers had deserted them.

'Are those our boats?'

'I'm not sure!' Ragina said. 'They might belong to Arbroath or Broughty, even Easthaven or Westhaven. I won't know until we're closer.'

The sea was rising faster than Watters had expected, and he eyed the bank of dark cloud that was rising to the northeast. 'I don't like the look of that!'

'Nor do I,' Ragina said. 'We might be better returning to harbour.'

'I have my duty to do,' Watters said .

'You can't do any duty if you're drowned.' Ragina altered the angle of the sail.

Watching the run of the sea, Watters gradually eased the boat around as waves slapped against their starboard bow, splashing inside. Purple-black clouds were racing over the horizon, already concealing the pencil-thin finger of the Bell Rock Lighthouse. The sea was changing, with the waves higher and longer, tipped with hissing beards of foam. Watters could not see the fishing boat sails, while belts of driving rain even obscured the land.

'You were right, Ragina. We should have turned back.'

'Too late now, Sergeant. We'll have to ride the squall,' Ragina shouted.

Watters abandoned all thought of reaching the Nesshaven fleet as the waves raised Joyce , shook her like a cat playing with a mouse, and tossed her back into a trough of the waves. The wind veered, coming from the north, then the east, hammering walls of chill water against their hull. Sudden darkness descended as the squall closed and rain scythed horizontally.

'We're being driven back!' Ragina said .

Watters nodded. He could hear a rhythmic pounding, and somewhere ahead was a high ridge of white.

'The Sisters! We're being driven onto the Sisters!'

A sight that had been ugly from the land was terrifying at sea. From here, the Sisters formed a long, wickedly-fanged barrier of rocks across which the sea surged and broke in mast-high spray.

'We'll have to get out to sea until the weather breaks!' Ragina worked the sail, fighting the taut canvas to try to head them away from the rocks.

Watters swore as the sea struck them broadside on, half filling the boat as he steered her away from the Sisters. For a long moment Joyce hovered a few yards from the rocks, and then a backlash forced her further away. The wind altered again. It blasted from the land, strengthening until the sail filled and the rigging strummed with the strain.

Watters felt the muscles in his arms ache as he wrestled the tiller, pushing against the weight of wind and sea. With the wind still veering, Watters eased the bows further east, out to sea, away from one danger and straight for the froth-crested rollers that hissed toward him.

The wind was gusting, alternatively filling and leaving the sail, but Watters still headed out to sea, aware that these German Ocean squalls often had a nasty kick in the tail. The more distance we put between the boat and the coastal rocks the better . The rumble of thunder came as a shock, the near-simultaneous flash of lightning startled him, and then the world collapsed.

There was sudden, intense, stuffy darkness combined with a stench of burning and a tingling sensation that made Watters's hair bristle. He swore loudly, thrashing his arms to free himself of whatever seemed to be smothering him.

'You're all right!' That was Ragina's surprisingly calm voice. He hauled away the sodden canvas sail.

Watters looked around. The mast had broken, bringing the sail on top of him. He swore again. They were adrift on the German Ocean with the cliffs of Forfarshire a mile away and the wind veering wickedly. The mast hung half over the side, attached by a tangle of loose ropes and canvas .

'Come on, Sergeant,' Ragina said. 'Let's get this shipshape.'

They cleared the raffle from the boat, cutting the loose ropes, lifting what remained of the mast and rolling it into the sea. The residue drifted quickly away, leaving them with a splintered, blackened stump about five feet high.

'Now we row back to Nesshaven.' Watters tried to sound optimistic as he searched for the oars.

'No, we don't,' Ragina said. 'The sea's taken one of the oars. We'll have to scull.'

'Damn!' It was many years Watters had last sculled, and his muscles and hands were soft, but there was no choice as he stood in the stern with the cold numbing his face. 'We'll take spells each. I'll go first.'

'We're caught in a rip-current,' Ragina said. 'It's taking us out fast, so we'll have to work hard to get back to land.'

Watters sculled, cursing, feeling the oar rasp the skin from the palms of his hands as his back and thigh muscles screamed with the unaccustomed effort .

After half an hour, they changed places. Ragina now held the single remaining oar. Their combined strength was not enough to fight the combination of the fast rip-current and the ebbing tide, so they were drawn further out into the wild waters of the German Ocean.

'It will be dark soon,' Ragina said.

Watters did not reply. There was no point in stating the obvious. He looked up, hoping for a sight of a sail, but saw only the waves. Although the storm had abated, there was still a mist on the sea, limiting visibility to less than a quarter of a mile.

Eyeing the waves, head bowed, they worked through the night, fighting the pain, with Watters feeling despair settle on him, hoping for the tide to turn.

'Listen! What's that?'

There was a regular thumping, combined with a faster splashing sound that Watters recognised at once. 'It's a paddle steamer. That's the sound of the walking beam and the smack of the paddles hitting the sea.'

'It's getting louder! It's coming this way!' Ragina waved both hands. 'Here! Over here! '

The noise increased until the splashing was a definite churning, and Watters began to worry that the steamer might run them down. He joined Ragina in waving and yelling as the sound rose to a crescendo, then the shape of a ship loomed from the mist, its starboard paddle threshing the sea only twenty yards away as smoke from its funnel formed an ugly fan astern.

'Steamer, ahoy!' Watters yelled.

The steamer continued, with the wake of its passing rocking the small boat, and it disappeared into the mist leaving only disturbed water and the smuts of its smoke.

'There'll be others.' Watters moved to the stern to relieve Ragina at the oar. 'And the tide will turn soon.' Ignoring the screams from tortured muscles, he bent to his work, feeling the pressure of the wood against the fresh blisters on his hands.

By midnight, the mist had closed upon them, blocking stars and moon, so they steered by the compass alone, hoping the tide was helping. With no bandages in Joyce , Watters tore off a sleeve from his shirt to cover his raw blisters. They fed on a biscuit, drinking half the flagon of water they had brought with them.

'How far out do you think we are?'

'No idea, but the tide's with us now, so we're moving in the right direction.'

'You said that an hour ago, Sergeant.'

It was the sound that alerted Watters. 'What's that?'

'It's a fog horn,' Ragina said. 'Probably from the Bell Rock Lighthouse.'

Watters said nothing. He continued to scull. There was nothing else he could do.

They heard the foghorn one more time, fainter than before, and then there was silence broken only by the lapping of waves and the harsh gasps of whoever was sculling.

Watters saw the lights but waited until they came close before he stood up and waved, yelling. Although he had no lantern, the vessel obviously had an efficient lookout, for there was an almost immediate alteration in her course.

'Ahoy!' Ragina's voice was hoarse with salt. 'Ship, ahoy! '

The vessel steered close, with men reaching out with boathooks to pull them close. There was the gleam of lanterns, the chatter of conversation, and three wiry seamen thumped onto the boat. Bearded faces smiled upon them; friendly hands raised them over a low bulwark and onto the waist of a two-masted vessel.

'Bring them here.' The voice was familiar, but Watters was too cold and exhausted to say from where. There was the whiff of cheroot smoke, the click of hard heels on the wooden deck, and Walter Drummond smiled down at him.