CHAPTER THREE

The interior of Bell Street Police Office was solid, unpretentious and cold, despite the false promise of the pale sun that peeped between the tenements opposite. A chill wind blasted through the slightly open window, it rustled the papers on the desk Mendick had been given and caused him to reach for his coat until he noticed Sturrock watching. Instead, he pretended to search in his pockets for his pipe, placed it beside him and looked up as Superintendent Mackay entered the room.

“Yes, sir?”

Mackay motioned for Sturrock to leave his chair and dragged it over beside Mendick. “All right, Mendick, we must discuss these coins.” Mackay carried the bag of money Mendick had found at the murder scene. With a brief nod to Sturrock, he placed it on top of Mendick’s desk. “I confess that the significance of these coins eludes me, and I implore your assistance. What can they mean, Mendick?”

Mendick sighed. “I have been pondering the same question, sir.” Mendick emptied the bag on top of the desk and counted the coins. “There are twenty-nine shillings, and all with the same date: 1842. Some appear hardly used and others are worn. I am not sure if they are genuine or bit-faker’s forgeries.”

“They are genuine, Mendick.” Mackay placed capable hands on the scarred surface. “Considering where and how they were found, I would imagine there is great significance here.”

Mendick drew on his pipe. “I am intrigued sir. There are so many mysteries here that the whole thing is just a tangle. The murder was horrific but I cannot see why anybody would leave a bag of silver behind.”

“Nor can I, Mendick. Twenty nine shillings is a good week’s wages for a skilled artisan.” Mackay looked through the coins again and frowned. “The murderer is leaving us a message here, but I’m blessed if I know what it can be.” He looked up abruptly. “Now listen Mendick, and you too Sturrock,” Mackay waved the constable closer. “What I am about to say must not go beyond these walls until I say so. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Mendick said, while Sturrock looked suitably solemn.

“There have been rumours for some time of a new force in the Dundee criminal classes.” Mackay said. “We became aware of this when some of the more notorious of our thieves left the town. They were scared of a man known only as China Jim.” Mackay stopped and repeated the name. “China Jim, and now we have this murder of unparalleled horror within an Oriental emporium.” When he looked up his eyes were like chips of granite. “I believe you know China, Mendick?”

Mendick lowered the shilling he had been studying. “Yes, sir. I was with the 26th Foot through the China War.”

Mackay nodded. “Is the number twenty-nine of any special significance there? Or is the date 1842 important to China?”

Mendick shook his head. “I have never heard of twenty-nine being important sir, but 1842 may be. That was when the Chinese War ended.”

Mackay nodded. “Of course. Perhaps there is a Chinaman who resents us winning that war and who has come to Dundee to take his revenge?” He tapped his fingers on Mendick’s desk and looked up. “What kind of Chinaman would do that sort of thing? What sort of man could do that?” He looked away for a moment and took a deep breath. “I understand they have criminal gangs in China, Mendick?”

“They do, sir,” Mendick agreed.

Mackay stopped tapping. “Have you ever heard of the Triads?”

Mendick wondered if Mackay had ever been a gambler, the way he played his cards one at a time, never revealing the full strength of his hand until the final play. He looked up slowly. “Yes, sir, but I do not believe they have any reason to operate outside China.”

“Tell me of the Triads, Mendick.” Mackay said.

“I am no expert, sir. We did not have much to do with them.” Mendick began.

Mackay held Mendick’s eyes. “Tell me what you do know of them, Mendick.”

Mendick lifted his pipe and began to stuff tobacco in the bowl. He dredged his memory for the little he knew. “There are many different Triad groups sir. They began as secret societies dedicated to getting rid of the present Manchu dynasty that rules China. The Manchus are foreigners, you see, from Manchuria, and many of the Chinese want the old Ming dynasty back.” For a second he was back in the humidity of Chusan, with fever decimating the ranks of the 26th and the men muttering of mutiny. He remembered the nerve-wracking patrols outside the town and the terrible fate of the men captured by the Chinese.

“Carry on, Mendick. They began as secret societies, you said? And what are they now?” Mackay was listening intently, his eyes fixed on Mendick’s face.

Mendick pulled himself back to the present and concentrated on the Triads. “Some triads are still politically minded, but many are mere bandits or thieves. Although some are depicted as Oriental Robin Hoods, in reality they just terrorise the countryside. The ones we met had a slogan—Plunder the rich to relieve the poor—but I cannot recall much relief given.”

Mackay grunted. “Were they pleasant people?” He gave a wry smile, “Would you introduce them to your mother?”

“I never knew her sir, so I cannot say.” Mendick refused to venture on that dark walk of his own history. “But the Triads were not pleasant people. There was one occasion when a whole mob of Chinese captured two of our lads. They stoned one to death there and then and gave the other to the Triads. The Triads locked him in a bamboo cage so small his face was pressed against his knees, and took him around the villages so they could torment him. Other Europeans they captured were stripped naked and crucified. When a bunch of pirates boarded the ship Black Joke they murdered the crew except for one man. They cut his ear off and stitched it in his mouth . . .”

Mackay held up a hand. “All right Mendick, that is enough now.”

“Yes, sir.” Mendick nodded. He tried not to think of that terrible campaign in China, but when the images returned it was hard to shake them away.

“We have an increasing amount of Oriental trade, Mendick, and I am fearful that this China Jim and other such people are now operating in Dundee.” Mackay’s mouth hinted at a smile. “It was no accident you came up here to pick up Thatcher, Sergeant. I spent quite some time searching the police forces of Britain for a criminal officer with knowledge of China. The accidents to my men just provided the excuse.”

“Yes, sir,” Mendick did not know what else to say.

Mackay continued. “I am anxious to resolve this abominable affair.” He glanced around the dim, cool room. “You may have Constable Sturrock here to assist you and I will send along Constable Deuchars whenever he can be spared from his other duties.” He rose from the chair. “If the general populace learn the details of this outrage, Mendick, there will be an outcry. I am depending on you to use your utmost exertions to find this China Jim.”

“I will do my best, sir.” Mendick looked up as a constable carried in the rope ladder which he dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Another young constable placed a small wooden box on the desk with only slightly more care.

“That is all the evidence from the scene,” Mackay turned away, straight-backed and alert as a hungry bird. “I will leave you to it then. Catch me this Chinaman, Mendick.”

Mendick watched Mackay leave the room. He stuck his pipe in his mouth and leaned back in his chair, wishing he had never come back to Dundee.

“Get up there, you little dog, and get it swept.” The words came out of nowhere, an ugly reminder of his childhood and he shivered. He could almost smell the soot.

Sturrock stomped across to Mendick and lifted the first rungs of the rope ladder. “This is a lovely piece of workmanship,” he said. “It was certainly not just cobbled together by an amateur, but I have never heard of a burglar using anything like this before.”

“Nor have I,” Mendick looked closely. “The rungs are of pine, I think. One side is plain and the other side painted green. It looks as if the maker took the wood from something else, a box perhaps, in order to make it.”

Sturrock looked and nodded but said nothing.

“And the rope has been cut from smaller pieces and spliced together, see? It’s not new rope, it’s discoloured. So that was taken from somewhere else and not bought new for the ladder, either.”

Sturrock nodded, “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Somebody has gone to a lot of bother to make this,” Mendick said. “Look at these knots. That is a round turn and two half hitches: used for tying a boat to a mooring ring or a piling. It is a maritime knot. This ladder was made by a seaman.” Mendick looked up. “Do you know of any burglars in Dundee who used to be seamen?”

Sturrock shrugged. “Dundee is a busy port, Sergeant. There are thousands of seamen here and lots of them end up in the police court, mainly for petty stuff.”

“I am not interested in drunken brawls or riot,” Mendick said. “I want theft or burglary. Check the court records, Sturrock and see what you can find. I don’t want a youngster either: an experienced seaman made this ladder.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Sturrock took a note.

“Now, let’s see what else we have here.” Mendick tipped open the box. The saw and chisels rattled onto the desk, along with a single silver shilling. He checked the date. “1842 again,” he said, and placed the coin with its brothers inside the bag. “This one must have fallen out when I kicked the plate.”

“Do you know what that means, Sergeant?” Sturrock lifted the bag. “You now have thirty shillings.”

Mendick nodded. “Thirty pieces of silver, Sturrock. The price paid to Judas Iscariot to betray Christ.” He stuffed the pipe back in his mouth and bit hard on the stem. “We may have found a motive. It would appear that Mr Thoms betrayed somebody very badly. If we can find out whom, we may have found this China Jim fellow.” Mendick spread the coins over his desk and hoped for inspiration. “That is something else to check, Sturrock. See if Thoms had any Chinese connection apart from his Oriental Emporium.”

Sturrock smiled, “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Is something amusing you, Constable?” Mendick looked up from the desk. “Tell me what, pray?”

“I was smiling at the thought of a Chinese connection, Sergeant.” Sturrock said. “I have never seen a Chinaman in Dundee in my life.”

“It’s not who you have seen that matters, Sturrock. It’s who Thoms saw.” Mendick scooped the coins back into the bag. “This case just gets more complex by the minute, what with Chinamen and seamen and bags full of shillings.”

Sturrock grinned to him. “It is certainly an intriguing case, Sergeant. I’ve never seen a murder like this before.”

“Really?” Mendick was in no mind to be charitable. “What kind of murders do you usually deal with, Constable?”

Sturrock looked away. “This is my first.”

“Well, if you are a very fortunate policeman, this will also be your last. Murders are always dirty, sordid, unpleasant affairs. The stench of death and despair lingers forever.” Mendick stopped himself, “Have you discovered who owns the flat above Thoms’s shop?”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Sturrock lifted a ragged scrap of paper from the top of the desk he had commandeered. “It’s a woman called Johanna Lednock.”

“You have her address?”

Sturrock nodded. “Unicorn Cottage, down in the Ferry − that’s Broughty Ferry, Sergeant.”

“I know Broughty Ferry, constable.” Mendick reached for his hat and cane. “All right, Sturrock. Call us a cab and take me to Miss Johanna Lednock.” He touched the rope ladder with his foot. “She might be able to explain this beautiful piece of craftsmanship.”

An easterly wind whipped the tops off the grey rollers in the Firth of Tay and lifted a haze of spindrift across the exposed sandbanks. Mendick stepped out of the cab, threw the driver the one and sixpence fare and shivered. He had grown used to the comparative warmth of the south and now the climate of eastern Scotland seemed cold and raw to him. He tapped his cane off the door of the cab, “Come back for us in an hour,” he ordered, and looked over to Unicorn Cottage.

Set back a garden’s length from the edge of the beach, it was built of light sandstone, tall and solid, the roof complete with an impressive cupola and large windows facing the sea.

“What’s this woman’s name again?” Mendick asked. He watched as a three-masted ship dipped into the swell, rose again and tacked with the wind. The sails descended in a cloud of canvas. God, he wished he was on board her, away from the bitter memories of Dundee.

“Johanna Lednock,” Sturrock said.

Mendick pulled the black iron bell and was surprised at the speed with which the door opened. The maid was young and her black uniform clean and neat.

Mendick responded to her quick curtsey with a nod. “I am Sergeant Mendick, at present with the Dundee Police. Could you tell your mistress I would like a word?”

The servant showed them into a light and airy room with tall windows overlooking the Tay and walls covered in pastel oil paintings of scenes and people. Mendick glanced around and walked straight to the fire that sparked in the hearth. “Now that is a welcome sight!”

“Oh, make space for me!” The woman rushed through the door and stood close beside Mendick, holding out both hands to the fire. “It’s freezing out there! I do so wish summer would come. I know winter has lovely crisp days but I do dislike the cold so.” Green eyes laughed at him. “You must be the sergeant?”

“I am Sergeant Mendick . . .”

“Oh good,” the woman, looked at her hand, shrugged and held it out. “I do apologise about the stains but I have been painting you see.”

Mendick grasped her hand. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss.” He fought to restrain his smile. “You are cold,” he said.

“That’s why I am pushing you away from the fire,” the woman had already eased herself to take most of the heat. “Excuse me,” she stopped for a moment to lift a small boy who had followed her into the room. She balanced him on her hip with the ease of long practise. “Now what can I do for you?”

Mendick glanced at Sturrock, who shrugged. “I am waiting for the mistress of the house, miss . . .” he looked to the boy who was cuddling in to the woman’s shoulder. “Am I to understand you are the governess?”

“Good heavens, no! I don’t have a governess for my John. I am perfectly capable and more than willing to look after him myself.” The woman held his gaze, her eyes were very clear. “I am Johanna Lednock.”

“My deepest apologies, Ma’am; I meant no insult−” Mendick began, but Johanna silenced him with a shake of her head.

“How can thinking of me as a governess be in any way an insult?” Johanna waved away Mendick’s apology. “Now, Sergeant. Is it that terrible business in my Candle Lane properties you want to ask about?”

“Properties? Do you own both the shop and the flat, Mrs Lednock?” There was no wedding ring on Johanna’s finger but the presence of the child was surely proof of marriage.

“Mrs Gordon,” Johanna corrected easily. “Lednock is my maiden name although I use it most of the time.”

“Is there still a Mr Gordon?” Mendick asked.

“Very much so,” Johanna told him. “David is very much alive and kicking. Really Sergeant, I am very surprised you do not know him. He is one of the most successful merchants in Dundee.”

Mendick ignored the implied reproof. “Perhaps I should speak to him then? Is he the owner of the properties? Does he deal with the leases and the tenants?”

Johanna allowed the boy to slide to the ground but retained hold of his hand. “No, Sergeant Mendick. I am as capable of looking after my property as I am of looking after my own son.” There was no mistaking the steel in her eyes, “Are you determined to insult me today?”

Mendick ducked his head in an apologetic bow. “Indeed not. In London it is a bit unusual for a married lady to own property, obviously Dundee is different. Or you are special in some way.” Mendick looked to Sturrock for help, but the constable was admiring the pictures on the wall.

“I can’t imagine why you should think that,” Johanna’s brows began to draw together and there was a tiny curl at the corner of her mouth.

Mendick decided to move on as quickly as possible. “Could you tell me what was being done to the flat above the shop, please?” He signalled for Sturrock to take notes.

“Oh, I have workmen in there making the place habitable for the next tenants.” Johanna gave the workmen’s names to Sturrock, who scribbled them down.

“We will speak to them,” Mendick promised. “Now, Mrs Gordon, I would be obliged if you could tell me everything you know about the night of the murder.”

“I know where I was, if that is of any interest to you,” Johanna said. “I was at home with John,” she indicated the small boy who was busily engaged in unpicking the edge of the hearth rug with his fingernails. Johanna sighed and picked him up again.

“Were you aware of any unusual activity around the flat or the shop in the days previous to the murder?” Mendick felt a pang as he watched Johanna with her son, his daughter would have been about that age, had she lived. He pushed that thought away to concentrate on the matter in hand.

Johanna shook her head. “No more unusual than normal for that part of the world,” she said.

Mendick glanced at Sturrock, who was busy with his notebook. “This may sound a strange question, but have you seen a suspicious-looking seaman in Candle Lane? He may have been looking up at the flat?”

“The flat is only a few steps from Dock Street. There are hundreds of seamen passing every day.” Johanna’s smile brought life to her face. “And may I be permitted to ask you a question, Sergeant? Have you ever seen a seaman who did not look suspicious?”

Mendick could not help his own smile. “I have one final question.” Mendick said. “Does the name Rose mean anything to you? Do you know anyone of that name?”

Johanna shook her head. “I don’t recall anyone called Rose.”

Mendick stood up, “Thank you for your time, Mrs Gordon. I will leave you in peace now.” He glanced back as he left to see Johanna watching him with her head tilted to one side and a small smile twitching on her lips. He was still thinking of her as his cab pulled away. A dark brougham coach passed on the opposite side of the road and he noticed the curtain at the coach window move and a woman’s face peer out at him. She saw him, pulled her green cloak about her and closed the curtain again. He filed the incident away in his mind but said nothing. When he closed his eyes he saw Johanna’s smile.

“How did you get on with the workmen, Sturrock?” Mendick sat back at his desk, shuffled through the fresh pile of papers that had miraculously appeared since he was last there and took out his pipe. He sighed, he had not anticipated so much paperwork when he became a detective, sometimes he missed the simplicity of life on the beat.

“None of them were at the flat on the night of the murder,” Sturrock pulled his notebook from his pocket. “I checked on them and their stories seem firm.”

Mendick frowned. So was this a case of dead ends and mystery. He began to stuff tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “Did you learn anything?”

“Only fragments, Sergeant,” Sturrock consulted his notes. “I asked if anybody had been sneaking around the flat, and they said there had been a couple of people looking to rent it, a man and a woman, but separately. The workmen sent them to the factor and I had a word with him.”

“Did you get names and descriptions?” Mendick put down his pipe and added the information into his own notes.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Sturrock read out loud. “They were a Mr Robert Marmion and a Mrs Elizabeth Deacon. I could not find an address for Marmion: the one he gave the factor was false, but Mrs Deacon was genuine. A woman with three daughters, looking for a place to live.”

Mendick nodded; “Well done, Sturrock. Did you get a description for Marmion?”

“I tried,” Sturrock said, “but the factor could hardly remember him. He said Marmion was just a man with nothing out of the ordinary about him at all.”

“That’s not much help,” Mendick said. “Did you check out the factor as well? He will have access to the flat.”

“He is a very respectable gentleman,” Sturrock’s forehead puckered in confusion.

Mendick nodded. “I have no doubt he is, but I have known the most respectable gentlemen to be blackguards and scoundrels too. Go back and question him; find out where he was the night of the murder and if anybody else has access to the house.”

Mendick turned away, but Sturrock turned over a leaf of his notebook. “There was one other thing, Sergeant, that was a bit strange. Two of the workmen said the key to the front door had some white powder on it one day, two weeks ago. They thought it was the same day Marmion came but they were not sure.”

“White powder?” Mendick nodded. “It sounds as if the key was pressed into something. That’s an old trick: the thief makes an impression in china clay or some such and then makes a false key.” He scribbled that down. “It seems obvious that this Marmion fellow was involved in some way or other, Sturrock. Did the workmen give any clue as to what he looked like?”

“Only one remembered him at all,” Sturrock said, “and he described him as ordinary, with nothing distinctive to remember.”

Mendick nodded. “The same description as the factor gave. Marmion will not be an easy man to find then: a false name and no description. I’ll pass the name around but we’ll get nowhere.” He sighed, “Now let’s go through what we have so far. We have your notes from the interview, the statement by the surgeon, the bag of silver, the Rose tattoo and the rope ladder. Let’s see the surgeon’s report next.”

Mendick struggled to read the surgeon’s untidy script. “The surgeon thinks the man was eviscerated and the slices of flesh removed before he was killed.”

“He was tortured then?” Sturrock’s lip curled in disgust. “Maybe he eloped with China Jim’s sweetheart, or stole from him. Maybe he stole some money from him.”

“And the murderer kindly gave him a thirty shilling reward?” Mendick shook his head. “That bag of silver confuses me. I have never seen the like before.”

“Why are the coins all the same date? That cannot be a coincidence.” Sturrock re-checked the bag. “Somebody has gone to the trouble of collecting thirty coins all dated 1842 to leave with a dead man.”

Mendick nodded. “We agreed that the number of coins suggests it’s possible this unfortunate man was murdered for betraying somebody. I think the date is significant. Mr Mackay believes it could have a Chinese connection, maybe to do with the ending of the Chinese war in 1842. Now all we have to do is find out who Thoms betrayed and we will have our murderer.”

“It’s as easy as that?” Sturrock puffed blue smoke from his churchwarden pipe. “Was that all the surgeon had to say?”

“Not quite.” Mendick scanned the second paragraph twice. “I can’t quite believe this, Sturrock. Listen. The surgeon thinks he can identify the meat on the plate. He says it was human flesh.”

For a moment the only sound was the hammer of rain on the small window. “Dear God in heaven.” Sturrock lowered his pipe. “This case just gets worse.” He shook his head. “Are you saying China Jim is a cannibal?”

“There is worse to come,” Mendick tried to keep any emotion from his voice. “The surgeon is convinced the flesh was taken from the victim’s leg and cooked in the shop.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven,” Sturrock’s hand shook as he lifted his pipe. “We had better catch this monster quickly, Sergeant. So what exactly do we know about the unfortunate fellow who was murdered?”

Once again Mendick re-read his notes. Even augmented by the surgeon’s report they did not reveal much. “We know he was David Thoms and he rented and ran the Oriental Emporium. To judge by the poor quality of his clothing and the calluses on his hands, the man came from the labouring class of the population. He was in his mid to late thirties, with strong muscles in his arms and upper body but lesser development in his legs, and had a number of minor, healed scars that suggested an active life. That is not a great deal to go on,” Mendick said. “But we do have the tattoo.”

Mendick put his papers down. “Now, let’s put everything together. We have a murderer and cannibal in Dundee. We have a murdered man from the labouring class with a tattoo that says Rose. We have a ladder made by a seaman and a bag of thirty silver coins. That is what we know. We suspect there is a Chinese connection and there is the mysterious Mr Marmion who entered the flat above by a false key and who is definitely not Chinese.”

He rose from his seat and slipped on his Chesterfield. “It’s time to make ourselves known to the good people of Candle Lane.” He grabbed his rattan walking cane and tapped the lead-weighted end into the palm of his hand. “Come, Sturrock, get into your civilian clothes and let’s step out together, we have a murder to solve.”

Mendick did not expect to learn anything from the shifting population that infested Candle Lane but he intended to try. He walked cautiously, checking each doorway as he approached, but although this dockland area was unpleasant and every fourth person appeared to be a prostitute or a thief, there was little possibility of two large men being assaulted unless they provoked the inhabitants. They paced Dock Street, the Seagate and the lanes and wynds in between, knocking at doors, entering lodging houses, asking about David Thoms and enquiring if anybody had seen suspicious activity in Candle Lane. They got the same negative answers from overdressed dolly mops, unemployed labourers and seamen without a berth.

“I don’t know nothing. I never saw nothing.”

“I wasn’t looking out the window.”

“Maybe these people don’t believe we are police officers because we’re not in uniform,” Sturrock glanced over at Mendick in his battered hat and smart Chesterfield, with his cane rapping on the paved street. “You look like a gentleman out for a stroll, save for your hat.”

“These people know full well who and what we are,” Mendick told him. “And if there were a score of murders in broad daylight, they still would not have seen anything and would know nothing.”

“Sometimes I wonder why we even bother . . .” Sturrock began until Mendick stopped him with a gesture.

“Trust me in this, Sturrock, I understand nautical people. Now, the entire parish has seen us asking questions, correct?”

Sturrock nodded.

“So nobody will think it amiss if we ask another man what he has seen.” Mendick stopped outside the open door of a pub they had passed on two occasions. The sign, Greenland Inn, with a picture of a sailing ship against an icebound coast, hung above an open door. Although it was hardly past nine in the morning, the place was already buzzing, with men and women gathered around the tables and a swarm of children playing around their parents’ feet. Alone in one corner, an elderly red-faced man whined an interminable dirge, stopping occasionally to clutch his stomach and mutter something to himself.

“We’ve been here already,” Sturrock said.

“I know,” Mendick agreed. “And that blind beggar watched everything we did,” he pointed the tip of his cane at the man who slouched by the door.

Standing outside amidst a misery of rags that might once have been the proud scarlet of a soldier’s uniform, the beggar proffered his cap in which rattled a worn farthing and a thin piece of metal. The label tied around his neck proclaimed: Please Help a Blind old Soldier.

Mendick dropped a single penny into the cap. “There’s a shilling for you, my man.”

The beggar touched a hand to his forehead. “Thank you kindly, sir. You’re a gent, and there’s not many going around nowadays.”

“Talking of gents,” Mendick leaned against the wall at the beggar’s side, “my friend and I are searching for an old workmate of ours. His name is David Thoms and you might know him by the tattoo on his arm.”

The beggar shook his head. “I am blind, sir. I can’t see a tattoo.”

“Of course you are; please accept my apologies old man.” Mendick touched the man’s arm. “I am not scholar enough to have read your sign. Tell me, which regiment were you in?”

“Twenty-Ninth Foot, sir.” The beggar shuffled to a parody of attention and threw a salute that would have disgraced a first day Johnny Raw.

Mendick returned the salute and casually balanced his cane over his shoulder. “Ah the old Vein Openers, the two and a hook, the heroes of Mudki. You boys showed the Afghans, eh?”

“That we did, sir.” The beggar’s grin showed half a mouthful of yellow fangs. “We won that war all by ourselves.”

“Heroes all,” Mendick said. “I was in the Twenty-Sixth myself, the Camerons. Were we not brigaded together in the Punjab?”

“We were that, sir. I remember the Twenty-Sixth well.”

“Well, for an old soldier of the Twenty-Ninth, I must give more than a single coin.” Mendick reached into his pocket and hauled out a small handful of loose change, dropping two coins as he did so. Surreptitiously standing on one, he lifted the second and placed it in the beggar’s cap. “Well my friend, there’s a guinea somewhere around here, but I’m blessed if I can find it.” Touching his cane to the brim of his hat, he sauntered away, followed by a confused Sturrock.

“Walk slowly,” Mendick warned. “I want to watch that fellow.”

“The blind man?” Sturrock said, “He can’t help us, surely.”

“Don’t be so certain, Constable. That blind man sees more than most. Turn . . . now!”

He turned on his heel, just as the beggar snatched the coin from the ground. “Well spotted, Twenty-Ninth Foot!”

The beggar looked up. “It’s a bloody farthing, not a guinea . . .”

“And you can see as well as I can,” Mendick said. “Block him, Sturrock!”

The beggar jinked backward towards the pub but Sturrock was in his path, so he tried to weave sideways, slammed into Mendick’s outstretched arm and crashed to the ground. He began to roar for help until Mendick placed the tip of his cane on his windpipe and pressed.

“There’s none so blind as these who don’t want to see. Now keep quiet, Twenty-Ninth Foot,” he said, “or you won’t be able to breathe either.”

The beggar glared silent hatred. His eyes swivelled to the pub but with Sturrock’s mighty frame blocking the doorway, staff in hand and grin on face, none of the denizens dared come to his help.

Mendick applied slight pressure to his cane so the beggar gasped for breath. “Now, Twenty Ninth Foot; you are guilty of a number of crimes and offences. I will not list them all but the least of them is begging under false pretences, that is theft. That would mean a nice long stretch in jail. So you and I are going to have a little talk. Let’s find somewhere quiet, shall we?” Mendick looked at Sturrock. “We know the perfect place.”

“Indeed we do,” Sturrock agreed at once.

As they neared the shop in Candle Lane the beggar began to kick and struggle and Mendick clamped his arms around him to keep him still. The constable on guard at the door winked at Sturrock and then watched quietly.

The beggar pulled back. “Christ! Not in there! Don’t take me in there!”

“What’s the matter? You’re a big brave soldier, are you not? Wounded in the service of your country, remember?” Mendick nodded to the constable to open the door and wrestled the beggar inside, where the smell of damp clothing and raw blood waited. “Come on, soldier boy and don’t be afraid. We’ll take good care of you!”

Mendick hauled the beggar inside and the constable quietly closed the door at their back. Sturrock lit the gas but, if anything, the flickering light only emphasised the surrounding dark.

“You can’t do this to a blind old soldier . . .” the beggar began. Mendick rapped him on the head with his cane.

“Firstly, you are not blind. You failed my farthing test. Second, you are no old soldier, you failed on every point: the Twenty-Ninth were not present at the Battle of Mudki, the Twenty-Ninth fought the Sikhs not the Afghans, the Twenty-Sixth are the Cameronians, not the Cameron Highlanders and the Twenty-Sixth and Twenty-Ninth were never brigaded together.”

The beggar exchanged his whining for a bout of cursing. “You devious bastards!”

“That’s us,” Mendick told him. “I am Detective Sergeant Mendick of Scotland Yard and the Dundee Police. The gentleman with me is Constable Sturrock. We are going to ask you some questions and you are going to answer them quietly and truthfully, or . . .” he bounced his cane on the top of the beggar’s head again. “Or this interview might become less pleasant.”

“You bastard!”

“We already agreed on that,” Mendick told him. “Is your habitual stance outside that pub?” He poised the cane above the beggar’s head.

“Yes.” The man’s eyes swivelled, following the cane.

“That wasn’t too hard, was it?” Mendick left the cane in position. “And your name is?”

There was a short hesitation. “Jones. James Jones.”

Mendick brought the cane down hard and the beggar yelped and winced. “Now try your real name.”

“John Hitchins, you bastard!”

“See? Tell the truth and there’s no pain, is that not much easier?” Mendick lifted the cane again. “Right, John Hitchins, the civilian with two working eyes. I think you know everything that happens around here because nobody will hide from a man who cannot see. Correct?”

Hitchins opened his mouth, hesitated and nodded. “I know more than most,” he agreed sourly.

“Then tell us all you know about what happened in here. Tell us all about the man who was murdered in this room.”

Hitchins’ eyes swivelled upwards to where the cane was poised above his head. “His name was Davie Thoms. He ran the oriental shop selling rubbish and acting as a pawnbroker. He was just a man trying to make a living.” Hitchins shrugged. “That’s all I know about him.”

Mendick allowed the cane to fall. Hitchins yelled and tried to protect his head.

“Try again,” Mendick advised. “A man like you watches everyone and listens to everything. Tell me about Thoms.”

Hitchins swore but as Mendick raised his cane he started to talk again. “I know he was a seaman but that’s all. He came shore-side a few years back and tried a job in the quarry at Kingoodie, but the gunpowder blew out his eardrums so he rented his shop. I swear that’s all I know.”

Mendick stored away the information. “Thank you, soldier boy. That may be of use. Was he on long haul voyages? Perhaps to China?”

“I don’t know.” Hitchins said, and yelled as the cane cracked down once more. “I don’t know, I tell you!” He flinched as the cane poised once more. “You can bullyrag me all year, Sergeant, but I still can’t tell what I don’t know.”

“Have you seen any strangers around here?” Sturrock altered tack.

Hitchins laughed until Mendick smacked the cane down once more. “Aah! Careful Sergeant! Half the people here are strangers. There are draggletails and pickpockets, footpads and Greenlandmen and Baltic men in every pub from Craig Pier to the Ferry. Do you really think I know them all?”

Mendick lowered the cane. “You know more than you are saying, John, that we know. Why were you scared to come in here? And don’t draw the long bow.”

“Christ, man! There’s no need for tales in this place. Did you see Deaf Davie? Did you see what they done to him? They castrated him, Sergeant, and stuck them in his mouth! Then they sewed his lips together! Jesus Christ alive, Sergeant! And you ask why I am scared to come in here?” Hitchins looked around as if expecting the mysterious ‘they’ to appear out of the dark shadows surrounding them.

Mendick nodded to Sturrock. “Who did it, John? Tell us who did it and we’ll let you go. But if you don’t tell us, we’ll tie you up and leave you here.”

In the dim gaslight, Hitchin’s eyes glittered and swivelled right and left. His lips clamped shut.

Mendick smacked the cane down hard and the lead tip scraped Hitchin’s scalp, drawing blood and causing the beggar to yell and grab at his head.

“Oh, my goodness! Look what has happened. Is it not fortunate you are blind and can’t see the mess? Tell us who did it, John.”

Hitchins raised his hand to his head then looked at the blood on it. “You bastard, Mendick! You’re as bad as they are.”

“Oh, I am worse, Johnny boy, much worse.” Mendick leaned closer. “You see, I have the law on my side. I am invulnerable. I know exactly where the law ends and my rules begin. Now, you have a choice. We can leave you here and spread the word you told us everything. We can arrest you and have you jailed or transported, or we can let you go, once you have told us exactly what we want to know. So who killed David Thoms, and why?”

Sturrock had been a silent spectator until that moment but now he stepped forward and winked. “Sergeant; we don’t want to go too far here . . . remember what happened to the Irishman.”

Mendick glowered at him. “The Irishman was a mistake. If he had done what I said he’d still be alive.”

“But Sergeant . . .”

As intended, the conversation encouraged Hitchins into speech. “I never saw nothing.”

“No, you never did,” Mendick agreed, “because you are blind. But tell us what you heard, Johnny. Tell us what you heard.”

“This!” Ducking suddenly, Hitchins made a lunge past Sturrock for the door, but Mendick had anticipated this and thrust his cane between the beggar’s ankles. The man staggered and swore loudly. Sturrock threw him against the wall and held him firm.

“Shall I break his neck, Sergeant?”

Mendick frowned, then shook his head, “Not yet, Constable. We’ll give him one last chance.” He cracked the weighted end of his cane into the palm of his hand.

“There were four of them!” Hitchins yelled. “I saw four men go into the close beside the shop. It might not have been the murderers but it might have been.”

Mendick pressed his mouth against Hitchins’ ear. “You saw four men? Describe them to me.”

With Sturrock’s forearm thrust against his throat, Hitchins looked from one policeman to the other. He spoke in a hoarse whisper. “One was just normal, ordinary, but he carried a portmanteau. The others were smaller and wore cloaks and hats. One wore a wide-awake hat.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Mendick said. “Pray relax your hold on this most helpful gentleman, Constable Sturrock, but hold him secure.”

Once he had begun to talk, Hitchins seemed reluctant to stop. “They got out of a coach. The normal man drove the coach there and back, it might have been a brougham but I’m not sure.”

“Well done, thy good and faithful servant. Now their faces. What were they like?” Mendick intercepted Hitchins’ glance towards the door and shook his head. “No, you won’t get past us.”

Hitchins looked at the floor. He answered in a whisper. “They never had faces. There was nothing there.”

“What?” Sturrock slammed his forearm against Hitchins’ throat again. “Don’t give us any more fairy stories.”

“Wait now. No faces? Did they have heads?” Mendick asked.

“Of course they had heads,” Hitchins said, “but no faces, just a sort of blackness where their faces should be.”

Mendick nodded, “Don’t throttle him, Sturrock, he’s doing his best. Are you saying they wore masks, John?”

Hitchins nodded as much as he could with Sturrock’s arm against his throat. “Yes! Yes, they might have been wearing masks.”

Sturrock again relaxed his forearm. “Pray tell me again what their names were?” he asked with such casual skill that Mendick hid his smile.

“I never said,” Hitchins was not so easily caught out.

“No, but you are about to,” Sturrock retorted. “If you tell us, we will keep this as a little secret between ourselves. If you do not, then . . .” he shrugged, “the whole criminal class of Dundee will hear how helpful you were.”

“Oh Christ, you wouldn’t?” Hitchins looked from Sturrock to Mendick and back.

Sturrock nodded cheerfully. “Yes we would,” he said. “And then we would use you as bait.”

“Oh, Jesus, no!” Hitchins dropped his eyes. “It was the Ghost.” He spoke in a soft whisper. “China Jim. Oh, dear God, I am a dead man.”

“Not necessarily,” Mendick told him. “Not if we get to him first.”

Hitchins shrunk against the wall. “You don’t understand, do you? You bluebottle bastards never understand nothing! Why do you think he’s called the Ghost? Because nobody knows who he is and nobody ever sees him, that’s why!”