CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mackay appeared even more ascetic than normal as he looked over his men. The hectic colouring of his face around high cheekbones was more pronounced under the hissing gas light, his nose even sharper and his full dress uniform, complete with the long curved sword in its scabbard, was faintly ridiculous. But any sense of ridicule ended as he began to speak.

“Settle down, lads, and take note! We have ascertained that China Jim is involved with the supply of whisky to Dundee and we think he operates a distillery, or a number of small stills, in the Blairgowrie area.” Mackay smiled at the ripple of comments. “I have contacted the County force and they are looking into that situation.”

Mendick shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Can we not go after the distillery ourselves, sir?”

“We have enough to do in here, Sergeant,” Mackay said. “Now, pay attention. We have spoken to every publican in Dundee, both respectable and unlicensed, and we know there is a shipment of whisky coming to Dundee tonight. We know of at least five different pubs who are expecting supplies, so that speaks of more than a couple of pack horses. I think we can fairly say there will be a wagon-load.”

Mendick watched his colleagues stir restlessly at this intelligence. There was a slight murmur of approval, a stamping of booted feet and touching of hands on the shafts of staffs.

Mackay continued, speaking slowly. “Now, remember. Although we are hunting for whisky today, we are still on a murder hunt. This man we only know as China Jim has butchered and,” he lowered his voice, “actually eaten parts of three men. He also tried to murder Sergeant Mendick here.”

Some of the men turned around to stare at Mendick as if they had never seen him before until Mackay rapped his knuckles on the desk for attention. “We know the whisky wagon is coming from one of the towns in Strathmore, which means it must go through the Sidlaw Hills. And that is where we will stop it.”

Mendick spoke again. “The Sidlaws are quite extensive, sir. How do we know which way they will come?”

Mackay held up a map and used a length of stick as a pointer.

“There are three main routes suitable for a wagon,” he said. “The western route by the Coupar Angus Road that passes Tullybaccart, the central route through the Glack of Newtyle or the eastern route from Glamis.” He paused, “We do not know which route China Jim will take so we will cover all three. I will take six men and an Excise officer to Tullybaccart and inspect all traffic there, Lieutenant Cameron will do the same on the Glamis route and Sergeant Mendick will guard the Glack of Newtyle.” He folded the map. “I have arranged for a mounted man to call on every party in turn so as soon as we find the whisky, the others will be alerted. That will be all, gentlemen. Remember to do your duty; this man must be removed from Dundee.”

Two of the groups stood and left the room but Mendick’s men remained seated, waiting for him. He nodded to each officer individually. He had handpicked these men and they included Sturrock and the scarred, saturnine Deuchars.

“Right boys, you heard Mr Mackay. We all know what China Jim is capable of, and we know about Beth with her knuckle dusters and her razor so be careful. Watch each other’s backs out there. Now, let’s step out together and get these monsters behind bars.”

They stood up, lifted their tall hats, checked their batons, fastened the leather neck stocks that were to protect them from strangulation and followed Mendick outside. They moved in disciplined silence that would have not been out of place at Horse Guards but Mendick wondered how they would cope if they met China Jim. They were mainly young men, some still with cheeks that hardly recognised the bite of a razor, and they were mostly from Dundee. They were experienced in dealing with pub brawlers and drunken rioters, but a murderer who dissected and ate his victims was something on a completely new level.

Used to the marching columns of redcoats that had fought in the China War, he was still impressed by the long convoy of hired hackney cabs that rolled out of Bell Street, each one carrying its cramped quota of blue-uniformed policemen. Faces turned to stare as they growled past, the great wheels grating over the cobblestones and then grinding over the roads as the convoy split into pairs and jolted out of Dundee.

“Here we go again,” Sturrock grinned at Mendick in the stuffy interior of the cab. He shuffled his feet in the straw and tapped his fingers against his staff.

“Let’s just hope China Jim is driving the whisky himself,” Deuchars fingered his scar. “He might well be sitting in his den pulling strings and not becoming involved in anything at all.”

Mendick nodded. He recognised the signs of nervousness; the desire to speak, the hectic eyes, the fidgeting. These men knew they could be heading into great danger.

“Once more into the breach . . .” Miller intoned. He was a young man with thin whiskers just forming around his mouth and obviously had some literary knowledge. He looked around, met Mendick’s eye and looked away again.

“Now, you just do as you are ordered, Miller,” Mendick said, “and if you get into difficulties, for God’s sake, call for help. Don’t look for glory, look for a successful arrest.”

Miller nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.” He glanced over to Deuchars, who winked at him and resumed his normal bulldog glower.

“This road seems devilishly long,” Sturrock said. He glanced out of the window. “We are just leaving Dundee now.”

Mendick nodded. They were sliding past the variegated fields of Forfarshire now. He cursed as they negotiated a corner and all four men slid together.

Sturrock grabbed hold of Mendick’s sleeve for support, realised what he was doing and let go immediately. “Is this driver trying to tip us over?”

“I think he works for China Jim!” Miller said as they banged into a pothole that rattled their teeth.

Mendick grunted. Compared to marching day after day through the humidity of China, this was a life of ease and comfort but he allowed his men to assuage their nerves with complaints until the cab eased to a halt. For a second they sat still until Mendick opened the door, peered outside and stepped onto the hard surface of the road.

“Right, lads,” Mendick said. “Out we come.”

The constables stepped out of the cab and looked around. They stamped their feet and stretched their arms to straighten cramped limbs. Miller tapped the side of his coat to ensure his staff was securely in place.

“I’ve never been out of Dundee before,” he admitted.

“This is the Glack of Newtyle,” Deuchars said. He pulled out his pipe and examined it as if he had never seen it before. “Good place for an ambush.”

Mendick looked around. Dark and narrow, the road twisted around the flank of a wooded hill. Dislodged by the passage of vehicles and the action of wind and weather, fallen twigs created an intermittent carpet while a number of rivulets trickled from the forest, across the road surface and descended to the wooded gorge on the opposite side. Overhanging trees gloomed above, with sunlight flicking and dancing between the spreading branches. To the right of the road and at the foot of the shallow gorge, the tracks of the Newtyle Railway shone in intermittent silver between the dark green of the trees, and beyond them cattle grazed in fields that rose to the slopes of the Sidlaw Hills. Mendick felt as if he was in a dark, shifting tunnel of green.

He shook his head. “This won’t do,” he said. “I want somewhere more open where I can see in both directions.” He jerked a thumb to the north. “What lies that way, Deuchars?”

“The hills pull back right and left and there’s the village of Newtyle,” Deuchars said. “There’s a crossroad there, and a church.”

“And Mandarin House,” Mendick remembered. He shook his head. “No good.” He looked south towards Dundee but they had just travelled that road and it was equally unsuitable. “I don’t fully like this but it will have to do.” He pointed to Miller. “Go ahead and watch for vehicles. If you see a cart coming, signal to us: don’t do anything on your own. Understand?”

Miller nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.” He clasped a hand to his hat to hold it steady and walked long-strided down the road.

Mendick looked for the largest of the officers. “Menzies, you go further up towards Dundee. You are the cork in this bottle. If by chance one of China’s boys gets past us, it is up to you to stop him, you are the most important man here.” He watched as Menzies strode off. “The rest of us will get off the road and in among the trees,” Mendick said. “Keep hidden and only move on my word.”

Mendick knew the waiting was always the worst part of any engagement. He stepped into the fringe of trees and listened as the wind shifted the branches and the small sounds of nature sounded all around. He waited as the tension rose and every movement irritated. He waited as his heart thumped in his chest and he watched a small red spider crawl around his thumb.

He thought of all the other times he had waited, in all the other places, for all the other events. Waiting for the ice to break and free his ship in Riga, waiting for the typhoon to strike in the Indian Ocean, waiting for the order to be sent into battle in the sultry, heavy heat of China. Each event had seemed vital at the time, but now they were consigned to the past, done and forgotten, the days survived, added to the store of experiences that made him who and what he was now. He heard the subdued mumble of Sturrock’s voice and smelled the perfume of Deuchars’ pipe smoke. They were waiting too, living the span of their life temporarily parallel to his own but separate, with their own thoughts and hopes and fears.

A fly buzzed around him, exploring. He ignored it and looked up the length of the road. He touched the butt of his revolver, checked his staff was in place and hoped this day was successful so he could return to his real life in London.

And yet, within him there was a nagging ache that he could not deny. He thought of sunlight coming through those tall windows in Broughty and highlighting the rich dark red of Johanna’s hair. He thought of that gurgling laugh and the changing glow of her eyes. He wanted her, not just for her body. He wanted her mind and her company and her presence to infiltrate every strand of him. He shook his head, still unable to admit this truth even to himself. It had seemed so clear in Unicorn Cottage, but now, with the passage of time, he was less sure of himself and his own feelings. What had been certain was now merely possible.

He focussed, placed Johanna square in the centre of his mind and knew that despite his intense loyalty to Emma, he had fallen in love. The old Dundee, the Dundee of nightmares and oppression, was gone. He had killed it in the Greenland Inn. The past was a closed book and he was already rewriting his future; it was based around a woman who was married to someone else.

“Sergeant!” The voice interrupted his reverie. Sturrock was looking directly at him. “Sergeant, it’s the signal!”

Half an hour had passed deep in thought. The day had stretched on that much further and China Jim was still at large. Mendick nodded. “Right, Sturrock. I see him.”

Miller had stepped into the middle of the road at the sharpest angle of the bend. He whistled, removed his hat and waved it back and forth three times.

When Sturrock responded in kind, Miller retreated into the trees. There was the sound of jingling harness, the heavy grinding of wheels and the sharp clap of a whip, and Mendick saw a team of six horses drag around the bend with the carter walking at the side. The carter’s mixed shouts of abuse and encouragement were clear and loud but stopped as Mendick stepped in front of him, followed by two uniformed police.

“What the devil . . . what’s this all about?” The carter held his whip in front of him.

“There is nothing for you to worry about,” Mendick said, “provided you are not carrying anything illegal, of course.” He nodded to the constables, “Right lads, take it apart.”

“If you tell me what you are looking for . . .”

“We are looking for whisky,” Mendick replied, “and China Jim.”

The carter glowered as the officers engulfed his wagon. “I can save you a lot of bother then. I have no whisky in my wagon and I am not China Jim.” He lifted his whip as Deuchars unfastened the canvas tarpaulin that protected his load. “You had better put everything back properly!”

There were bundles of flax and sacks of potatoes, new dug from their winter homes; bundles of linen from Forfar and carefully parcelled personal packets addressed to all quarters of Dundee. There were no kegs and no barrels. No whisky. And the carter watched, shaking his head critically as the policemen tried to repack the wagon and replace the tarpaulin on top.

“Who in creation taught you how to pack . . .?”

“Right, off you go.” Mendick pointed towards Dundee. “If you meet China Jim, tell him that Mendick will put salt on his dragon tail.”

The carter grunted. “I’ll be making a complaint to Mr Mackay in person.”

Mendick jerked his thumb to the rising woodland to his left. “You’ll find him about three miles in that direction on the Couper Angus Road.”

The carter spat on the ground, cracked his whip and trailed on towards Dundee.

“That was a waste of an hour,” Sturrock said.

“We might waste the whole day,” Mendick told him, “or meet China Jim in two minutes time.”

Three more fruitless searches were undertaken within the next two hours, and then Miller whistled and waved both hands.

“He looks a bit excited,” Mendick said, “Sturrock, go and see what’s happening.”

Sturrock ran down the road, spoke to Miller and returned, waving his tall hat in the air. “It’s a whole convoy of carts,” he shouted, “three of them!”

“Right, lads. This may be it.” Mendick said: “Back into the trees with you so we don’t alarm them. Come out on my signal.”

The three wagons filled the road as they approached at a steady pace, the carters snapping their whips at the incline, and slowing when they came to the bend. The strings of horses plodded on, leather harnesses creaking. Mendick waited until they were at their slowest and stepped in front of the leading cart.

He raised his hand. “Dundee Police! We want to search your wagons.”

The carter swore loudly, looked at the uniformed men easing from the trees and swung his whip at Mendick’s head. “Get out of my way!”

Mendick had expected this, he ducked and moved in close. The long lash whistled above his head as he swung his staff at the carter’s upper arm.

“You blackguard!” The carter dropped the whip and clutched his injured arm. Bereft of guidance, the horses walked on. Mendick grabbed the harness and pulled. The following carts pulled up behind the stationary wagon amidst a confusion of yells and protests.

“This sounds promising,” Mendick said. “Deuchars, call in Miller and Menzies; two men every wagon.” Mendick gave quick orders and stepped back. “Sturrock, get this cover off! Deuchars, once Miller comes up, you and he take the third wagon.”

The leading carter watched sullenly, holding his injured arm as Mendick untied the canvas cover from its ringbolts. The knots gave easily under his fingers and he tossed the opposite end of the cover to Sturrock. The officers dragged the canvas back and Mendick smiled.

“What have we here?” he smiled at the array of barrels. He raised his voice. “That’s us lads!”

The sharp crack of a pistol took Mendick by surprise and he flinched, and dived behind the cover of the wagon. He smelled the powder smoke but could not see the origin of the shot although he thought it had come from trees on the opposite side the road. He waved the suddenly retreating policemen past to safety, saw Menzies’ hat tumble off. Menzies hesitated and turned back to retrieve it.

“Leave the blessed thing and get under cover!” Mendick roared. He leaped out, grabbed Menzies’ arm and hauled him behind the wagon just as a second shot rang out. Splinters exploded around him and Mendick ducked underneath the wagon beside Menzies as the injured carter laughed openly.

“Not so tough now, bluebottle!”

Mendick pulled the pepperpot from inside his coat and peered between the back wheels of the cart. He glanced at the carter.

“You keep down as well, you stupid bugger! Whoever is shooting might well hit you!”

The spokes gave minimum protection, breaking Mendick’s view into segments that were themselves shadowed by the trees. The leading two horses of the next wagon were in sight, the last hidden by the curve of the road. There was no sign of the gunman.

He could hear nothing save for the soft rustle of the trees, the occasional snort from the horses and the harsh breathing of the carter. The birds had been shocked into silence and the officers too. The carter leaned against the side of his cart, sniffing snuff from a whalebone box. His sneeze took them all by surprise.

“Sorry gents, I did not mean to startle you.” His laugh proved the lie.

“Sturrock, take this bloody man in custody!” Mendick emerged from behind the wheel and swore as another shot barked. This time he saw the jet of white smoke among the fringes of the trees but did not see the fall of the ball.

“Dundee Police!” Mendick stood beside the wheel, counted the seconds it took to reload and hoped there was only a single gunman. He aimed his pepperpot at the smoke and fired, feeling the kick of the recoil.

Three shots volleyed from the trees, one of which ripped close to Mendick’s head and another slamming into one of the barrels behind him. Liquid spurted onto the road, formed an amber pool around the nearside rear wheel and trickled towards the gorge.

Mendick grunted and crouched low. He aimed and fired twice, each shot kicking the revolver back into his hand. There was no return fire from the trees and Mendick wondered if the remaining carters had just fired a defiant volley and then run. Perhaps there had been an escort who had been prepared to fight off a single highwayman but had fled when he realised they were facing the police. He raised his voice.

“Dundee Police! Give yourself up!” There was no reply. “I am coming for you!” He glanced over his shoulder. Sturrock had the injured carter in handcuffs while the other officers had left their places of shelter to advance on the wagons. He raised his voice.

“Menzies, you and Smith begin the search. Miller, you and Scrymgeour come with me. Spread out and walk steady, but if you see smoke or hear a shot, run for the trees. Don’t let the bastards see you bob!”

With the pepperpot held low in his right hand, Mendick walked forward, very aware the unseen attackers would recognise him as being in charge and would single him out. Every step brought him nearer to danger. His smile was twisted. It would be bitterly ironic if he had survived the typhoons of the Indian Ocean and the nightmare of the Chinese War only to be murdered by an unseen criminal, a few miles outside Dundee. The always present thought returned. Death did not matter as Emma was waiting if he was killed.

Unexpectedly he felt the renewed hammer of his heart. There was another aspect to his life now, for Johanna was waiting if he lived. The thought of danger was suddenly much more alarming. Mendick moved faster, jinking right and left. There was no movement from the trees. He entered the outer thickets, pushed back the spring growth of bracken and fresh thorn and peered up the hill. There was no sign of movement except the slight sway of undergrowth in the breeze.

Deuchars pushed back a swinging bough with his staff. “I can’t see a blessed thing.”

“I think they’ve run.” Mendick said. “No matter, we have the wagons.”

The three carts stood in a row, the horses patient, heads down in harness, deserted by their drivers. They looked poorly cared for and forlorn. A whip lay abandoned, its lash stretched towards the trees as if pointing to its owner.

Mendick clapped his hands. “Right boys, get rummaging . . .”

“There’s no need, Sergeant.” Menzies grinned. “Look,” he indicated the leading wagon, where liquid still gushed from the punctured barrels. They were ranged in neat rows, three deep by four across. Menzies hauled himself onto the back, found the wooden bung of the nearest barrel and wrestled it free. Even from the road, Mendick could smell the aroma.

“Whisky,” he said. “Check the others.”

He watched as the tarpaulins were dragged from the remaining two carts and Menzies checked a barrel on each.

“Yes, Sergeant, they’re whisky barrels all right.” He thrust a finger deep into the contents, took it out and licked it clean. “Not the best I have tasted and probably watered down but still, a drop of the real peat reek there.”

“Three carts with twelve hogshead barrels on each. A hogshead holds sixty-three gallons so that’s over two thousand gallons.” Mendick allowed himself a smile. “That’s a fair amount of money saved for the revenue, and a big dent in China Jim’s business.” He reloaded his pepperpot and secured it in its holster, “Let’s get these carts off the road until we can get them to Dundee.” He turned to the first cart just as the woman slipped off the side.

Mendick recognised the green cloak and the bitter twist of cruel lips just before she crashed into the trees. “Stop that woman! That’s Beth!”

Menzies jumped down from the back of the cart, stumbled and held on to Deuchars for support as Sturrock tried to manoeuvre around them.

“She must have been hiding among the barrels.” Sturrock gave up his attempt to follow. “She’s gone now.”

“I want that woman!” Mendick raised his voice: “Stop! Dundee Police!” He strode across the road and followed into the woodland. He saw the flick of a cloak ahead, heard a shrill curse and plunged on, feeling his feet sink deep into the soft ground beneath. A branch flicked against his hat, another whipped his face, briars and brambles hooked thorns into his coat and ripped at his hands; he plunged uphill with the breath rasping in his throat and his lungs already burning. Town life had many advantages but it was poor preparation for thundering up a wooded hillside in pursuit of a suspect.

He stopped to listen. Above the creaking of branches and the whisper of the undergrowth he heard the crash of Beth’s progress, not far above him.

“Dundee Police!” He drew a deep breath and plunged on. The trees were densely packed now, rank upon rank stretching out gnarled branches to impede him and aid the fugitive. He registered green leaves budding, the old green of coniferous trees, the fresh green of grass and bracken underfoot mixed with the rustling brown of last year’s dead leaves. He no longer shouted for Beth to stop and saved his breath for the climb, gasping, swearing as the hill became steeper and he had to support his progress using the boles of the trees.

Beth was in sight, her sparse figure flitting through the trees like a wraith. Mendick fixed his gaze on her cloak, rippling green among the green. He saw her stop and redoubled his efforts. Perhaps the hill had defeated her. As he drew closer he saw her cloak had been discarded and lay on top of a battered bramble bush.

Mendick swore, sucked in a hard breath and thrust on, step after step, the muscles in his legs screaming in protest and sweat blurring his vision. Then miraculously he was clear of the trees. The hillside opened up in front of him: wind-cropped grass and budding heather in a long rising ridge, undulating in folds of sunlight and shadow that rolled towards the west. Beth was about quarter of a mile ahead. Bereft of her cloak she looked even slighter as she lifted her skirts high and her bare legs powered her forward.

With his quarry in sight Mendick needed no encouragement. He ignored the burning of his throat and lungs and the ache in his leg and pushed on. He saw Beth stop, saw her face white against the green-brown hill, but she turned and ran again. The summit rose in a series of broad ridges, with the ground falling away in steep heather slopes either side, the sweet farmland of Strathmore on the right and the rippling blue water of a small loch to the left. In front of him the ground rose, dipped and rose again and still Beth ran on, legs white and stick-thin but seemingly tireless.

To his right, far below, Mendick saw a number of carriages pulled up in the driveway of Mandarin House. He heard high male laughter and the blare of a hunting trumpet and wondered how two different worlds could co-exist, so close but so far apart. While he tried to find a murderer, Gordon was holding a party. Unless the murderer and the party holder were one and the same person? He shook his head, he had no time for speculation. He had to concentrate on catching Beth.

“Stop!” Mendick shouted again, but the wind snatched the word and tossed it aside, unheeded and unheard. He had closed the gap on Beth, she was only a few hundred yards in front of him now. She held something in her right hand but he could not see what it was. He lengthened his stride and ran on, his boots thudding on the spongy peat underfoot.

A short, steep rise lay ahead, leading to a distinctly conical knoll. Beth stopped half way up and turned to watch him for a moment. A sudden shaft of sunlight probed the scudding clouds to highlight her face. She was sheet-white, her features set, and even from this distance Mendick could sense her malevolence. She turned and ran on. Mendick followed, cresting the hill, bracing his hands against his knees as the pain in his muscles increased. The ridge broadened slightly now although the slope on the left was steeper than ever. The path narrowed onto the top of a short rocky cliff easing to a near-vertical slope that descended forever to a tear-shaped loch.

Beth moved more slowly now as she felt her way between the top edge of the cliff and a tall drystone wall on the right. She was forced onto a very narrow path, broken in places, and she held onto the wall for support as she clambered along. Mendick followed. He clutched the coping stones of the wall and stumbled as one shifted under his hand and crashed onto the path, bounced once and tumbled over the cliff, down towards the loch. A small avalanche of soil and small pebbles accompanied it. Mendick watched for a second, saw the splash far beneath and continued. Beth had increased her lead now and seemed to glide along the track.

A few hundred yards more and the path deteriorated to only a few inches in width, the slope slithering down and the loch below, dark and chill. Mendick heard the hunting cry of an eagle and blinked as the shadow passed over him. The bird swooped from above, its wings so close he could hear the rustle, and then it was beneath him, gliding above the loch, a splendid vision of gold and brown, so beautiful, so deadly, and a reminder of the precariousness of his position up there.

Beth stopped at the narrowest section of the path. She turned to him, her face lined and set. “So, it is you and me again, Mendick.” She was balanced on the finger-thin path. “How often do I have to kill you before you stay dead?”

“I think you have run yourself out,” Mendick said. He heard the eagle call again and felt the drop suck at him as if in invitation to step over and join Emma. But Johanna was here, in the land of the living. “If you surrender now it will save us both a lot of trouble.”

Beth laughed harshly. “Sergeant Mendick; pray tell me why should I give up when I have you exactly where I want you?” She lifted her hand and pointed a double-barrelled pistol at him. “Or did you think I was running away because I was scared of you?” She shook her head. “That’s twice I’ve caught you with the same trick, Sergeant. I’m surprised at you.”

Mendick realised he had been led into an ambush all of his own making. Beth had lured him up the hill and along the ridge. He wondered briefly why she had come so far when she might have stopped and shot at him at any time since leaving the wagons, but the answer was obvious. Up here she was far from any witness. Now she was breathing easier and on this narrow path he was unable to dodge a bullet. Trapped between the stone wall and the sheer drop, Mendick knew he had nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. He could only plead for his life, retreat, or pull out his revolver and attack.

He lunged forward, yelling, in an attempt to put Beth off her aim. She stood firm, extended her arm and pulled the trigger. Mendick had expected that. The second Beth committed herself to the shot, he dropped to the ground. He saw the flash and the jet of smoke, felt the burning zip of the ball passing just over his shoulder. He rolled towards the wall in the hope it might provide some shelter, tried to release his pepperpot and saw Beth take careful aim with the second barrel. He had not enough time to draw and fire.

Beth’s grip on her pistol did not waver, “Before you die, Sergeant Mendick, I thought you should know that your men will also be dying in a very few seconds. If you hold on you may just about hear them . . .” She grinned and put pressure on the trigger.

The explosion was muffled by distance but quite distinct. The concussion was like distant thunder and Beth began to laugh. “That should be them now . . .” and in that instant, as her concentration wavered, Mendick flicked the stone.

It was no larger than his thumb and he had no time to throw it properly but the impact on Beth’s sleeve was enough to cause her to pull the trigger. There was a spurt of white smoke from the pistol, a momentary flash, a whine and the ball ploughed a long furrow in the dirt near Mendick’s head.

He threw himself forward, almost tripped over an uneven tussock of grass and smashed into Beth. They fell on to the stone wall together and slid to the ground, his arms around her as she snarled obscenities into his ear. She tried to thrust a thumb in his eye but he blocked, she reached for his groin with savage fingers and he blocked again. She twisted free, swearing.

“This way is better than any pistol,” Beth dropped her razor from her sleeve and whipped it through the air. “How does it feel, Mendick? Your men all blown to shreds and you about to be sliced to ribbons? And you still don’t know who China Jim is, or anything about him!” Her laugh was as harsh and cruel as anything Mendick had ever heard. “China knows all about you, Mendick but you will never know about . . .” She stopped in mid sentence and slashed sideways at his face.

Mendick ducked and withdrew step by step as Beth followed, slashing with the glittering silver blade that made such pretty patterns in the air. He gasped as his left foot slipped on the very edge of the path and a small shower of dirt and pebbles cascaded to the loch below. They seemed to hang in the air for agonisingly long moments before landing with a barely audible splash.

Beth laughed again, her pinched, white face convulsed. “I’m going to rip you to pieces, Mendick! And then spit on you as you lie bleeding on the ground!”

“And then cut slices of me and eat them? Is that what you do, Beth? Is that what you and China Jim do to people who cross you?” Mendick feinted forward with his left hand, but Beth did not fall for it. Instead she slashed upwards with her razor, an evil stroke aimed at Mendick’s groin.

Her laugh was as ugly as her weapon. “You really have no idea, do you?” She flicked her wrist, sending the razor into a figure of eight movement that was impossible for Mendick to pass. She stepped forward slowly and he retreated step by step along the crumbling path. “You will die as ignorant as you lived, you bluebottle bastard!”

Darting forward, she sliced at his face. Mendick raised a protective arm; his world exploded in white hot agony as the blade slashed through his jacket and up the length of his forearm, still he pushed forward, smacking his elbow into Beth’s jaw. The impact momentarily stopped her, leaving just enough opportunity for Mendick to snatch at her wrist and snap it behind her back. The razor clattered to the ground and Mendick toed it over the edge.

“You bastard Mendick! You dirty bastard!”

“That’s me all the way.” Mendick agreed. “Now. You and I are going back to the police office, and we are going to have a nice long chat about China Jim and whisky and dead people being cut to pieces. Then a nice judge will send you to the gallows or to Australia for the remainder of your natural life.”

Beth said nothing as she crashed her boot into Mendick’s shin. The pain was sudden and unexpected. He swore and fractionally relaxed his grip on her wrist. She wriggled free and stepped back.

“You’ll never send me to Van Diemen’s Land, and you’ll never find out about China Jim, bluebottle!”

As Mendick reached for his revolver, Beth spat at him, swivelled and jumped over the edge. For a second she seemed to hang, suspended parallel to the path, her skirt ballooning around her thighs and her legs shockingly white and exposed, then she plunged down, voiceless, her arms flapping.

“Beth!” Mendick reached out too late and he watched her fall for a second that felt like an hour. She landed with an audible crunch on the bank of the loch and lay still. Even from his position far above, Mendick could see the slow stain of blood seeping from her head into the dark waters, but he had no time to spare on sentiment for a dead criminal. He had to check on his men.

He ran with trembling legs, ignoring the rasp of breath in his lungs. He ran back along the ridge with the memory of the explosion uppermost in his mind and the thought that his men lay screaming and in pieces. He ran, aware that the party at Mandarin House was in full swing, hearing snatches of music and the sound of male laughter. As he ran Mendick could smell the drift of gunpowder in the wind. He saw a column of dark smoke smudge the sky and he cursed and threw himself down the wooded slope. Brambles ripped at his face and clothes, branches whipped at him but he ran, sliding, slithering and staggering towards the road where he had left his men. There was a rustle and a muttered curse from a patch of bracken. A ginger head appeared.

“Sergeant!” Sturrock gave his characteristic grin. He carried his official staff held over his shoulder, rather like a recruit with a musket. “Are you all right, Sergeant? We heard gunfire, I was coming to help.”

“I’m fine, Sturrock. Beth is dead. The explosion?” Mendick gasped for breath and spoke in short, staccato phrases.

“Oh, aye,” Sturrock shrugged. “The convoy was a trap. China Jim hid a barrel of gunpowder in the middle of the first wagon. Between that and the whisky there would have been a hell of a mess.”

“So what happened?” Mendick whooped oxygen into his lungs.

“We saw the fuse spluttering so we rolled the thing down the slope.” Sturrock shrugged, “There was a bit of a bang but no harm done. Beth is dead, then? Oh well, we still have a carter to question.”

There was so much left unsaid that Mendick merely nodded. He pictured the scene. The realisation there was a barrel of gunpowder about to be detonated, the brave man who climbed onto the wagon to see what could be done; the scrambled search for the fuse, the seconds of effort to lift the barrel and roll it down the hill. Mendick’s respect for the Dundee police increased.

“You are brave men,” he said. The words were inadequate but all he could manage.

The three wagons were just as he had left them, the police lounging against them or sitting on top, chatting or puffing on their pipes as if they had never heard of gunpowder.

“Who rolled the barrel away?” Mendick asked.

Menzies removed the pipe from his mouth and pointed with the stem. “Sturrock. Him and Deuchars jumped on the wagon and threw it down the hill.” He replaced his pipe then pointed along the Dundee road. “Horseman coming.”

Mendick loosened his revolver and stepped into the road while the others watched with varying degrees of interest as the horseman galloped in. He reined up so abruptly that his horse reared. Lieutenant Cameron slapped the surface dust from his riding cloak and surveyed the cynically watching policemen.

“Where’s Mendick?”

Mendick took a step forward. “I am Sergeant Mendick.”

Cameron nodded. “There are three cabs coming behind me, Mendick. Get your men back to Dundee. While you have been playing in the country, China Jim’s been at it again. There’s been another murder.”