CHAPTER ELEVEN

He was flat on the floor, unable to move, looking at a collection of legs and feet. Six legs; there were three people then. He tried to rise, reached for his revolver and saw a foot casually kick it away from him.

“So what do we do with him now?” The man spoke as if there was gravel in his throat.

“Take him out to sea and dump him.” The voice was so muffled that Mendick knew he would never be able to identify it again.

“It would be easier just to shoot him,” the gravel-voiced man said.

“No,” the muffled voice came again. “Any fool can shoot a man. I wanted him ripped to shreds by the dogs but that can no longer be, so I want him to vanish without trace. Make sure there is nothing on him that can be identified.”

“His face will identify him.” That was the female with the harsh gutter voice.

“Not after the fishes have been at him,” gravel-voice said. “They go for the eyes first and then the soft flesh.” His laugh echoed around the room. “Within two days he will be half gone. Within a week he will be a skeleton.”

Mendick moved his hand, his revolver was too far away. Instead he formed a fist and punched hard behind the nearest knee. The gravel-voiced man staggered backward and Mendick rolled over, braced himself and stood up, just as the woman landed a mighty kick in his ribs. Mendick grunted with surprise at the force. He tried to push up, but somebody jumped on his back, thrusting him to the floor and the woman began to kick again, remorseless, gasping at each blow. The light glinted on the steel caps on her boots.

“Bastard, bluebottle bastard!” Her vocabulary was limited, Mendick thought, but she was handy with her boots. He tried to catch her ankle to trip her and she dodged, crashing her boot into his ribs then his face. Mendick saw the green cloak swirling then curled into a ball as the kicks hammered on.

“Beth is doing fine there. We could just kill him here and now,” the gravel-voiced man said casually, “and just dump the body.”

“Take him on board and pitch him over the side.” The other man gave the order.

“As you wish,” gravel-voice grunted.

Mendick felt a powerful grip on his collar hauling him upright. He allowed himself to be lifted, winced and swore as Beth slapped him hard across the face, and looked into her bitter eyes.

“You’re going to die, bluebottle,” she said, rolling the words around in her mouth. “Your wife will be waiting for you to come home, day after day after day . . .”

For a second, Mendick remembered Emma lying dying in childbirth. Her eyes liquid with love, her voice gentle but racked with pain in their bedroom that smelled of life and blood and her imminent death. The memory was agony.

He kicked out, catching Beth on her knee and sending her yelling to the ground. He lashed backwards with his elbow, missed the floating rib of gravel-voice by a whisper but made him relax his grip a fraction. The third man was tall and bulky with a dark mask concealing his face. He stepped back as Mendick lunged for the mask, but the woman had recovered quickly, slipped on brass knuckle-dusters and landed a powerful punch that slammed Mendick’s teeth against his lips and sent him staggering sideways. He shook the blood from his mouth, just as gravel-voice wrapped an arm around his throat.

“Burke the bluebottle bastard!” Beth screamed, “Go on Captain! Burke the bastard!” She came closer and spat in Mendick’s face. “Hold him like that, Captain.”

Mendick felt the pressure on his throat increase and the captain’s hand clamp over his mouth and nose. He was being burked; suffocated. He struggled but the Captain was immensely strong. He kicked and the woman stepped back, smiling. She swivelled, aimed and punched him in the stomach. The impact of the knuckle-dusters seemed to tear his muscles apart.

“Burke him now, Captain,” she said, watching.

“Wait.” The masked man approached Mendick. He was the largest of the three, slow-moving and clumsy, his voice hissing as if he were a foreigner struggling with the language. “You disappointed me, Sergeant. You really were so easy to trap.” He shook his head. “And you told me your weakness yourself.”

“The hunt is not finished yet, China!” Mendick kicked backward, but the captain had his legs splayed well apart and Mendick’s heels missed their target.

“It is.” The masked man said. He nodded, and the woman checked her knuckle-dusters and swung, first low into Mendick’s belly and as he doubled up, hard at the point of his jaw.

He was not unconscious. He felt the bone-cracking pain and the dissipation of his strength as he slumped. He heard voices as if from a distance. He felt himself dragged down the stairs, saw the dim shape of a coach and felt hard contact with the floor as he was thrown in on top of rustling straw. Beth and the man called Captain came in beside him, with Beth landing the occasional kick as they rattled through the streets.

Mendick drifted in and out of consciousness as he was hauled out of the carriage again. He saw masked faces, heard the snort of a horse and smelled the familiar twist of the sea mingled with tar and wet canvas.

“Cover him up securely,” gravel-voice spoke again, “and get him down below.”

Mendick looked up, saw the gently swaying masts of a score of ships and then a canvas was thrown over him and he was hustled away again. He struggled for a moment but the canvas pressed against him, stifling him in darkness and he passed out again.

Mendick could feel the surge and sway of the ship. He understood ships. He recognised the tang of salt, the friendly scent of tar, the rough feel of planking beneath his face and body, the never-ending creak of deck and bulwarks, the whine of the wind through the rigging and the flap of canvas from a sail somebody had badly stowed. He was on board a ship, or some sort of vessel anyway. Why? He could not remember. Had he signed articles? He tried to recall the previous few days. Had he been in a dockside pub and had some boarding master drugged his drink or blackjacked him so he was thrown aboard some hell ship bound for Sydney or the West Coast of South America?

He shook his head, the pain did not help. Random images crowded into his mind; the dark tunnel of a flue; the packed forecastle of a coaster, reeking of sweat and damp, with Larsson the Swede coughing his consumptive lungs out; the sweat patches under the arms of the scarlet uniforms as his colleagues of the 26th Foot marched into action; Emma smiling into his eyes as she waited for him before the altar; that rocking swaying carriage beneath him on the nightmare attempt to rescue Queen Victoria.

Who was he? He was Sergeant James Mendick of Scotland Yard and now of the Dundee Police, trying to find China Jim and solve the murders of David Thoms, David Torrie and Robert Milne. Mendick tried to rise but something was stifling him, pressing him to the deck. He shoved upwards, struggled with folds of stiff canvas and gradually wrestled the cover to one side. He rolled over and swore again at the various pains throughout his body. His head was pounding, his jaw, stomach and ribs ached and he had a loose tooth or two where Beth had punched him with the knuckle-dusters.

He pushed himself upright. It was dark so he knew he was below decks, probably in the hold or the ‘tween decks of some vessel. There was no engine sound so she was a sailing vessel, and judging by her lively movement in the water, she was not very large and under way. He put out his hands and touched something wooden and curved, with metal bands around it; definitely a barrel of some sort. A few more moments fumbling confirmed he was in a hold jammed with barrels and kegs. They were stacked eight high, leaving him only a small space in which to move. A quick tap on each told him they contained liquid. What, he could not tell. It was much more important that he find a way out.

Fighting the pain in his head and the nagging ache of his stomach and ribs, Mendick tried to climb up the nearest barrel, but his fingers slipped on the convex bevel; he could get no purchase on the smooth sides and slipped back down to the deck. He tried again, broke two fingernails as he clutched desperately at the iron hoops, but dragged himself up, inch by agonising inch until he was wedged between two barrels. He used the most immediately adjacent for support and thrust with his feet, walking himself up the curved staves towards where the hatch had to be. The strain on his arms and legs was terrific, but he managed to scale the first six barrels and reached upward towards the hatch that was secured so close above his head. He reached up again, balanced with his feet and knees and tried to ease back the hatch cover.

The ship was bouncing, rising and falling in short, steep seas and Mendick guessed they were not far from shore, perhaps still in the Tay. He tried to push upward again but his feet slipped from the curve of the casks. He swore, clutched at the iron bands, missed and clattered in a cursing heap to the deck below. He lay for a moment as a sharp, familiar scent surrounded him. He grunted: whisky. It was whisky leaking from one of the upper casks.

China Jim had taken his revolver and his cane was broken, but he still had his packet of lock picks. He extracted a long sharp spike and thrust it into the nearest cask, twisted until he penetrated the wood and slowly withdrew. He licked the blade. “Whisky again,” he said. He moved along the casks, testing at random and in each case tasted whisky on the blade of his spike.

“So,” he said to himself, “China Jim is transporting an entire boatload of whisky. Let’s see what we can do to reduce his profit.”

Returning to each barrel he inserted the spike and gradually made each hole larger, soon the tiny trickles of whisky increased to a slow stream. After half an hour he had penetrated only five barrels, but there was a growing puddle on the deck, swilling from side to side as the ship gyrated with the sea. Mendick gave a grim nod. “You might kill me yet, Jim, but that’s a few pounds less for your pocketbook my lad!”

The vessel heeled right over and Mendick had to clutch at the barrels to avoid falling. He heard the patter of bare feet on the deck and dim light eased in as the batons securing the cover scraped open. Two faces peered down: one, a thin-faced seaman, the other was Beth.

“He’s conscious again,” the seaman sounded nonchalant, as if holding a man captive in his hold was an everyday thing.

“Good,” Beth said. “That way he’ll know when he’s drowning. I want to watch him suffer. Fetch him up.”

Mendick stepped back, ready to fight. A rope uncoiled slowly from above and thudded onto the deck at his feet. Two men appeared with a net and dropped it on his head, as he struggled in its mesh a succession of seamen slid down the rope. They dragged the net tight, pinioned his arms and hoisted him to the deck with such ease it was obvious they had performed this task before. As he fought within the net, Mendick saw that he was on the deck of a small sloop; black-painted and with weather-darkened sails bent on a tall mast of Baltic pine.

“There you are,” Beth gave him a casual kick as he lay entangled within the rope mesh. “Strip him of anything that might be recognised and throw him overboard.”

Mendick snatched for her ankle in a gesture of pointless defiance. “You bitch!” He writhed and struggled until the nearest seaman grabbed a marline spike from the bulwark and cracked him over the head. He slumped into semi-consciousness. Three men grabbed hold of him, their hands hard around his arms and legs. Mendick retaliated weakly as they unravelled the net, dragged him free and and stripped him naked. Beth watched, smiling.

“Cold, Sergeant?” She leaned closer, “Never mind, when you get to hell, Lucifer will keep you nice and warm.” She nudged one of the seamen with her boot. “You! Check his pockets for money or anything valuable.”

The thin-faced seaman lifted Mendick’s waistcoat. “I’ll have his watch. It’s only silver but it will pawn for a few shillings.”

A second man rubbed finger and thumb over Mendick’s shirt. “I’ll have this, it’s good quality linen.”

Beth stood on Mendick’s hand and smiled down on him. “You’re not so arrogant now are you, Sergeant?” She twisted her foot, driving her heel into his palm. “Right, boys, bind him securely and toss him overboard.”

The thin-faced seaman looked over the side. “We’re not clear of the Tay yet. That head wind held us back, and the currents here are uncertain . . .”

Beth kicked Mendick again. “I want rid of this rubbish before I leave the boat. Throw him over and let the sea have him.”

“Another twenty minutes and we will be out of the Tay and heading south; the current off Fife Ness could take him anywhere.”

“Get rid of him,” Beth ordered.

The man shrugged. “As you will.” He signalled to the other seamen “Right, lads! Over the side with him.” He clasped Mendick’s watch tightly in his hand and winked. “Thanks for this, Sergeant.”

With his hands and feet tied, Mendick could only writhe as two men lifted him and carried him to the low gunwale.

“You look after that watch, you blackguard,” he warned as they balanced him on the rail. “I’ll be coming back for it.”

When the thin man laughed his lower lip writhed around the remnants of an old scar. For an instant Mendick wondered where he had picked that up: a dockside brawl perhaps, or in some sterner encounter with Mindanao pirates or African slavers.

“Davy Jones has other ideas,” the seaman said and they tossed him overboard with as little concern as if he had been a bucket of dirty water. The last thing Mendick saw was Beth’s face, smiling.