CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Did you find what you wanted?” asked Sturrock.

Mendick explained about the crew of the whaleboat being murdered one by one, with only two left: Old Andy and the man who might be Durward. “It appears he is murdering the others,” he said, “together with the three masked men.”

“Do you know where Old Andy lives?” Sturrock took a corner on three wheels, winced as the gig clattered back down, bounced on a prominent stone and righted itself.

“No, but I would wager the publican does.” Mendick held on to the edge of the gig as they jolted over a succession of potholes. “Can’t you drive this thing?”

“The horse is tired, Sergeant!” Sturrock said. “And the oil in the lamps is getting low so we can’t see the potholes in the road.”

Although there were gas lamps in the principal streets of Dundee, the approaches were dark and the gig banged and rattled its way into the town. A sliver of moon reflected from the Firth of Tay and glinted on the twin tracks of the Arbroath Railway, pointing the way to Dundee. It was three in the morning when they rattled along Dock Street, wind whining through the rigging of the ships only a few yards away and the last of the night’s drunks weaving their way home.

“Pull up in front of the pub,” Mendick ordered. He jumped out of the gig as Sturrock patted the horse.

“Open up in there!”

There was no answer. The Greenland Inn remained in darkness. Mendick hammered his fist against the door. “Halloa! Dundee Police!”

Sturrock joined him; “Let me, Sergeant.” He reached into the gig and pulled out his staff. “They’ll hear this, unless they’re deaf.” He hammered the staff against the door and roared out, “Hello in there! Open up for the Dundee Police!”

Lights came on in neighbouring houses, some the slender flicker of single candles, others the more diffused glow of a lantern. Voices floated through the dark.

“What the devil is all the noise out there?”

“Answer your bloody door, why can’t you?”

At last the window above the pub scraped open and a bald man peered out. “What is it?”

“Dundee Police!” Mendick displayed the crown on Sturrock’s staff. “Let us in.”

“Oh, Christ! What now? What time of night do you call this? Go away and come back in the morning.” He reached to close the window.

“We’ll stay here until you let us in,” Mendick yelled, “think what that will do to your custom!”

The man muttered a few curses. “Wait,” he said, “I’ll come down.”

Mendick heard the bolts creak back.

“Come in if you must.” The room was empty, the atmosphere flat, rancid with stale tobacco smoke. He placed the lantern on the table. “Well, what is it?”

“We’re looking for Old Andy,” Mendick said.

“He drinks here, he doesn’t live here,” the bald man breathed whisky fumes over Mendick. “What’s Old Andy done that’s so important? Everybody wants to see him now.”

“What do you mean everybody?” Sturrock tapped his staff on the counter. “Who else wants to see him?”

The man shrugged. “Blessed if I know their names, there were a couple of shipmates of his asking for him. The three of them left arm in arm, friendly as you please.” He lifted a greasy cloth from the bar and smeared it over a ring-marked table. “Mind you, Andy was three sheets in the wind by then. The old bugger was so far gone they near had to carry him out.”

Mendick glanced at Sturrock. “What were these friends of his like? Describe them!”

Cleaning duties completed, the bald man shrugged. “One was a little fellow, slight, like. He never said a word. He had a big hat on . . .”

“A wide-awake hat?” Mendick asked.

“Aye, one of them. A stupid thing to wear in the evening, I thought.” The man slumped on to a seat and glared at Mendick. “Anyway, does it matter? Andy’s a useless wretch anyway. He just scrounges drink off everybody, scratches his belly and moans that song of his.”

“And the other man? What was he like?” Sturrock took over the questioning.

The bald man scratched his head. “Do you know, I cannot recall, he was a nothing. I can’t think of a single feature of him that stands out.”

Mendick nodded. “That’s our man,” he said. “Now, in which direction did they go, and how long ago was it?”

“Oh, it was a fair time back now,” the bald man said. “Before midnight anyway, maybe quarter of an hour before. They left in a dark coach. It was covered though, not an open gig like yours. Stupid things, gigs, in this climate . . .”

“Did you see which direction they travelled?” Mendick asked. “Hurry now, a man’s life could be at stake here.”

“That way. Upriver,” the bald man jerked a thumb towards the west. “Which man’s life might be at stake?”

The horse responded without enthusiasm as Sturrock cracked the reins, and they pulled off along Dock Street, heading west.

“Three hours ago?” Sturrock shook his head. “Old Andy will be long dead and cut into collops.”

“We have to try. Whip up.”

The horse was drooping but Sturrock applied the whip and it gained a little life, pulling the gig past the railway station and onto the Nethergate. Constable Deuchars stared when Mendick hailed him.

“Deuchars! Have you seen a dark coach pass by during your beat? It may be a brougham.”

Deuchars pushed his hat up with his staff. “Aye, Sergeant, I’ve seen two tonight. One headed north, up Tay Street, the other went west.”

“When was this? What hour?”

Deuchars checked the time on the Steeple clock. “The Tay Street coach was maybe an hour past, Sergeant. The other was long before that, maybe ten after midnight.”

“That’s our man.” Mendick said. “Whip up, Sturrock! Perth Road, man!”

The mist thickened, great swathes rolling in from the sea to writhe around the villas of Perth Road and send clammy grey tentacles along the narrow streets on either side.

“Which way?” Sturrock asked.

“I have no idea, keep on the main road and look for a brougham.”

They moved on, wheels grinding on the packed stones of the road and the lamps now throwing a mere glimmer of light in front of them. They passed the Sinderins: the Y junction that sent a road back to Dundee along the Hawkhill, and pushed on into thicker mist and with hope fading at every turn of the wheels. They passed the Western Cemetery and the mansions of Farrington Hall and Hazel Hall with the slopes of Balgay Hill steep but hidden to their right.

“Sergeant!” Sturrock spoke in a hoarse whisper. “What’s that ahead?”

Mendick looked: there, dead ahead, was a square, bulky coach on the road, almost invisible in the mist. “Slow down and pull up beside it.”

The brougham lay at a drunken angle: the spokes of its back nearside wheel splintered, the end of the axle almost touching the ground. The horse was head down in its harness and the nearside door swung lazily open. Mendick examined the coach. “That’s our man,” he said. “Look, this wheel has been damaged before. The iron rim is buckled and there’s fresh paint on the spokes. Remember the killer crashed his coach after Grant’s murder? He must have weakened the wheel then.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Sturrock said. “But where is he now?”

“I think the murderer is a woman,” Mendick said. He looked ahead; the road disappeared into the mist, empty as far as they could see. “They have left the carriage and gone on foot. Where does this road lead?”

Sturrock shrugged. “Perth, eventually” he said. “A woman? For God’s sake, man . . .”

Mendick ignored the outburst. “What’s before Perth? They will want somewhere quiet and isolated to murder Cleghorn. Think man! You have the local knowledge here!” Mendick rapped the side of the coach with his knuckles. “Come on, think!”

“There’s a quarry at Kingoodie, or the old Church of St Peter’s at Invergowrie. That’s long deserted now, nobody ever goes there.” Sturrock nodded towards the unseen coast. “It’s down that way.”

Mendick lifted a scrap of cloth that lay amidst the clean straw on the floor of the coach. “What's this?”

“A handkerchief?” Sturrock hazarded. “It smells strange, if it is.”

Mendick sniffed carefully and pulled away quickly. “There’s something not right with this, Sturrock. My head is spinning.” He tucked the cloth in his pocket. “We’ll investigate further when we get back to the office. Now, take us to this church of yours.”

“There’s not much left in the horse,” Sturrock warned.

“She can have a rest the minute I do! Get her moving!”

Another ten minutes and they were well outside Dundee with dark fields and rustling orchards on either side. Already there was the faintest glim of dawn in the east, a preliminary of a bright day to come, but the mist remained, shading everything in thin white moisture, altering the shapes of trees and houses, distorting sound and vision. They heard running water and Mendick ordered Sturrock to halt the gig at one end of a wooden bridge.

“If we cross that in the coach we will alert everyone,” he said. A chance slant of wind brought the crash of waves and he shivered. To him, breaking surf always seemed sinister at night. He looked over the river, to where the ground rose in a wooded mound and on top, set amongst a yard of tumbled gravestones, hunched the remains of the church of St Peter.

“What a perfect spot for a murder.” Mendick reached for his staff and swore when he remembered he had neither staff, cane nor revolver. He was completely unarmed, about to confront the most savage murderer he had ever known.

They guided the gig off the road and left the horse grazing beside the churning burn.

They headed through the tangle of bracken and weeds guarding the churchyard wall. Mendick swore as he tripped over a trailing branch of bramble and halted as a wail rose, high and shocking in the air. The sound raised the small hairs on the back of his neck and Sturrock stopped and lifted his staff.

“What in God’s name was that?”

“I don’t think God has anything to do with it, Sturrock. Elizabeth Elder was right, there were demons in that coach.” The sound had been unlike anything he had heard before but he knew it was Andrew Cleghorn screaming in agony. “Come on man! Step out!” Wishing he had at least his staff, he plunged on through the grasping vegetation of the graveyard and towards the ruin that rose dark and forlorn in the mist. Even as he watched, a slight glow appeared, followed by two more. Yellow light reflected from the mist, highlighting the clutching branches of snarled trees.

The four walls of the church were intact but the roof was missing and the gables crumbling, drooping under the assault of wind and weather. The moan crawled through the graveyard like something dragged from the deepest pit and Mendick lifted a length of fallen wood from the ground. He tested it. About two feet long and as thick as his wrist, it was not much.

He paced the final few steps, feeling the sickness of tension mount inside him and Sturrock crashing beside him with as much finesse as the Brigade of Guards on field exercises. He could hear a man singing, the words obviously forced, there were frequent breaks punctuated by intense gasps of pain and obvious fear. Between the words, Mendick heard a woman’s voice, sharp with menace. For a moment he thought he recognised the voice, but the idea was so ludicrous he dismissed it.

The song continued and he shuddered. It was Old Andy’s voice and Old Andy’s words, but rather than a rollicking song of the High Arctic, it now sounded like a funeral dirge.

“The whale was struck and away she went,

With a flourish of her tail

Alas, alas! And we lost four men,

But we did not catch the whale, brave boys,

But we did not catch the whale.”

The tune was familiar – he had last heard it played in a comfortable drawing room – Sarah Leslie at the piano and her mother sitting embroidering at her side. Mendick shuddered. Were these respectable women involved in this horror? Or had China Jim – Adam Leslie – merely used them as an excuse for his slaughters. The next verse began:

“And when the news to the captain was brought,

He down his colours drew,

Crying, alas, alas, for my four pretty men,

The darlings of our crew, brave boys,

The darlings of our crew.”

A hideous scream interrupted the song and was immediately cut short. Mendick glanced at Sturrock now even whiter than usual in the deep dark of the pre-dawn, and then he intoned the mantra Sergeant Restiaux had taught him in the teeming slum of the Holy Land.

Lord, I shall be very busy this day; I may forget thee, but do not forget me. Lord, I shall be very busy this day; I may forget thee, but do not forget me. Lord I shall . . .

Mendick spotted a doorway in the west gable, protected by a devil’s web of semi-rotting vegetation and thorn-edged branches of bramble. Using his stick to push his way through, Mendick peered inside and immediately felt the nausea rising hot from his stomach.

The interior of the church no longer resembled sacred ground. Bright spring grass battled rampant nettles and leafless brambles, while tumbled stones protruded like lost souls bewailing their lack of redemption. Oil lamps sat on three of the four interior corners to create a devil’s triangle of light.

“Oh, sweet God in Heaven.”

Within the walls was an image he could never have imagined in his most tormented nightmare and in a moment that stretched to an eternity, and which he knew would always remain with him, he attempted to make sense of what he saw.

Old Andy was spread-eagled and tied upright between two vertical poles, his eyes bulging in pain and horror. He was stark naked and gagged with a filthy rag. Behind him were four men, all masked. While one sliced carefully at Andy’s buttocks and thighs with a broad-bladed knife the others watched, their faces taut with concentration.

Sturrock touched his arm. “Oh, dear God! Oh, sweet God in Heaven! This is a nightmare. No-one can be that cruel.”

They could. Old Andy writhed in hideous agony as the knife-wielder eased the blade into his left buttock, sliced slowly downwards and handed a strip of bloody flesh to the man on his left, before repeating the procedure twice more. Holding their trophies, all three men walked around to face their victim.

Sturrock made to step forward but Mendick held him back. “Get round the other side. Hurry man! Signal once you are there.”

The three men stood abreast and on a sign from the smallest they removed their masks.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Mendick tried to shake away the truth he had been trying to deny. Mrs Leslie stood in the centre, Louise on her left and Sarah on her right, all three chewing on raw human flesh, warm blood trickling from the sides of their mouths. For a long second, Mendick stared, and then Mrs Leslie began to speak, putting an intensity of emotion in her words.

“You were one of the boat’s crew, Andrew. You were one of the men who swore to me you would look after my boy, and you were one of the men who chopped him up and ate him. You betrayed his trust, Andrew. How does it feel, Andrew? How does it feel to be eaten? How does it feel to have people cut slices off your haunches?”

His eyes bulging in horror and small mewling sounds escaping from behind the gag, Old Andy shivered and tried to pull back from the three women. Mrs Leslie displayed the strip of raw flesh to him and then delicately placed it in her mouth and began to chew. Warm blood ran down her face and dripped onto the already sodden ground below.

The veins in Old Andy’s forehead were prominent as he strained backwards, his mouth working in a scream that his makeshift gag only partially stifled.

Mrs Leslie politely swallowed her raw meat before speaking. “If we leave you like this, Andrew, you’ll bleed to death, but we won’t allow that to happen. We want you to suffer as much as my son suffered. We will castrate and eviscerate you before you die. Justice must be done.”

“Justice must be done,” the other two women echoed, as if the words were a sacred mantra.

“Stop!” Without waiting for Sturrock’s signal, Mendick stepped out from the shelter of the undergrowth. He held his length of wood and hoped he appeared more dangerous than he felt.

All three women spun round. Rather than fear, there was anger and surprise in their faces. Mrs Leslie pointed her knife at him in accusation.

“This is no affair of yours!”

Louise pointed to Mendick. “Mother is right! This is a family affair.” Blood ran down the sides of her mouth and she held a chunk of thigh in her right hand.

“This is murder!” Mendick saw Sturrock make a belated appearance on the opposite side of the church. “This is not justice!”

Mrs Leslie pointed at him, blood dripping from her finger. “My son was murdered, Sergeant Mendick. Justice must be done.”

Her scream took Mendick by surprise and he lifted his staff defensively as she pulled back her hand and lunged, not at him, but at Old Andy’s wrinkled belly.

“No!” Mendick thrust his staff between the knife and its intended target. The force of the blow shocked him, but the blade thudded into the heavy wood and stuck, leaving Mrs Leslie screaming.

“He murdered my son! He killed my Jonathan!”

Beside her, Old Andy gyrated and squirmed, his eyes wide in terror as Mrs Leslie released her hold on the knife and advanced on him, still yelling her hatred.

“You murdered my son!” She slapped at him, raking her nails down the length of his face and his writhing body. “You killed my boy!”

“No!” Mendick grabbed her wrist to haul her back. “Stand back! Leave him be!”

Mrs Leslie’s arm felt taut and as hard as a steel bar. She screamed, breaking free from his grip as easily as if he was a child, and attacked again, Louise and Sarah joining her. Together they punched, clawed and kicked at Old Andy’s writhing body, all the while, horrible choking noises escaping from behind the gag. Mendick threw himself forward as Durward appeared, holding what appeared to be a metal ball on a chain. As Mendick lifted his length of wood, Durward smashed the ball against Mendick’s forehead. Mendick staggered back and Durward followed, coiling the chain to bring the iron ball back to the palm of his hand.

“I’ve nothing against you, Mendick, but you can’t interfere.” Durward held his hand poised to unleash the ball again. “If you back off now, this will be over soon and you won’t be hurt.”

“We both know I can’t do that,” Mendick blinked as the pain in his head intensified. He lifted his stick, just as Sturrock appeared.

Without any hesitation Sturrock smashed his staff against the side of Durward’s head. Durward staggered and Sturrock followed through, cracking the man’s knuckles and knocking the iron ball from his hand.

Mendick left Sturrock to subdue Durward and ran to help Old Andy. He hauled Mrs Leslie from the writhing man and threw her onto the grass. She fell, shrieking, her knife flying behind her. Mendick knelt, pulled the handcuffs from his pocket and snapped them around her right wrist and left ankle. She screamed at him, blood frothing around her mouth as she urged her daughters on.

“Kill him! Justice must be done!”

Sarah and Louise slapped and scratched at Andy, working with a concentrated intensity that was terrifying to see. Yet beneath his disgust and horror, Mendick felt a twist of sympathy. Mrs Leslie had lost her only son on that whaleboat and she blamed the other members of the crew. He knew what it was like to lose a loved one. The death of her son had clearly unhinged Mrs Leslie’s mind.

“Enough!” As Old Andy cringed under the attack, Mendick hauled Louise back. “End it, now!” He staggered at a sudden weight on his back, twisted his head around and saw Sarah, snarling into his ear. She pressed a pad to his mouth and held it there as he tried to wrestle free. Mendick felt strangely weak. He tried to shake Sarah off but instead saw the ground rising to meet him. The smell was strangely comforting as he slumped down. He saw Louise watch him fall with a twisted smile on her face. She lifted her mother’s knife from the ground and stepped towards Old Andy. Mendick heard her speak but when he tried to move he felt as if he was swimming in treacle.

“Just you and me, Andrew,” Louise said, softly. “Just you and me and justice.”

“Louise!” Mendick tried to speak but his words were slurred and slow. He tried to rise but had no control over his limbs. He half-rose and fell again. He could only watch as Louise stepped towards Old Andy. She held the knife underhand, ready for a groin thrust. Andy watched, wide-eyed in anticipation of unbearable agony.

“No, Miss Leslie. That won’t do at all!” Sturrock appeared, bleeding heavily from an ugly wound in his forehead and Louise turned. She screamed something incomprehensible and slashed sideways but Sturrock blocked with his staff, twisted and smashed it against her arm. The knife fell, bounced once, stuck in the ground, and remained there, quivering.

“All right miss, enough of this.” As Louise held her injured arm Sturrock held her in an armlock. “You keep silent like a good little cannibal, it’s over now.”

Left alone, Sarah lost all her defiance. She crumpled to the ground, shoulders heaving and sobs tearing her apart. Sturrock glanced at her and strode over to Mendick.

“Sergeant! Are you all right?” He lifted the pad, sniffed it and threw it away. “Filthy thing! That will be some oriental drug, no doubt.” He held out a massive hand and hauled Mendick to his feet. “Up you get, Sergeant. Take deep breaths to clear your head.”

The mist was beginning to clear, wafting across the ruins of the church and retreating to the Gowrie Burn. Already there was a sliver of silver above the Tay as the sun crept up, and the darkness of the sky was changing to grey; the song of a solitary blackbird pierced the morning.

“Now Jonathan will never be avenged!” Mrs Leslie writhed on the ground as she attempted to get closer to Old Andy. “Release me! Release me so I can finish the job!”

“Justice has not yet been done!” Louise spoke through her anguish, and clutched her injured arm. Sarah nodded, chewing fervently on a piece of Old Andy’s flesh.

“It shall be, soon.” Mendick controlled the shaking of his hand as he lifted Sturrock’s official staff. “Mrs Adam Leslie, Sarah Leslie and Louise Leslie, I arrest you all on the charge of murder.” He looked at Old Andy, bleeding within the confines of his bonds and added softly, “And cannibalism, God help us all.”