CHAPTER FIVE

Mendick thought there was always something sad about a workplace empty of people, and the Dundee Arctic Whale Fishing Company yard was no exception. He glanced around. Tall and slightly sinister, the shining copper boiling vats dominated everything in this long yard that stretched from the Seagate to Dock Street. It was littered with pieces of whaling equipment and thick with the lingering putridity of stale, boiled blubber. Despite the size of the yard the only building was the warehouse, situated a good fifteen yards from the Seagate entrance. Although only a seagull’s call from the centre of Dundee, the yard seemed a bleak and lonely place.

“In here,” a white-faced constable opened the great door of the warehouse.

There was no need to be directed to the corpse. It lay like a pile of raw meat and coiled intestines on the centre of the floor. Blood pooled all around and formed little rivers that ran along between the flagstones.

Mendick did not walk immediately to the body. Instead he paced the floor and looked around as a rising wind rattled the door against its frame and howled around the outside of the warehouse. He looked up, the fine weather had not lasted long and March was making up for its temporary smile with a roaring fury that battered for entry to the charnel house in the whaleyard. The interior of the warehouse was stark. Four oil lamps cast bouncing shadows on stone walls that rose to a timber-framed slate roof. Bloody footsteps around the body were small and many.

“More than one person involved then,” Mendick said. “Three people, I think?”

“Hitchins saw four at the Candle Lane murder,” Sturrock reminded him.

The Police Surgeon had arrived at the same time as Mendick. He pursed thin lips as he saw the bloodied pile of human body parts. “Good God! I’ve never seen the like!” He looked at Mendick. “You must be the Scotland Yard man. I am Dr Webster.”

“That’s the second atrocity inside a week, Doctor.” Mendick shook his hand. “Is Dundee always as dangerous for its inhabitants?”

Webster looked away. “This is normally a quiet town, Mendick. Murders are quite a rarity here.”

“So I see.” Mendick moved closer, leaving Sturrock to stand against the wall, white-faced and shaking. This body had been spread-eagled on the ground and had been emasculated and eviscerated, with slices of flesh cut from the thighs and buttocks. Clothes were laid in a neat pile on the floor, slightly away from the congealed blood, and there was a small linen bag placed on the chest.

“Has anything been moved or touched in here?” Mendick prodded the body with the tip of his cane.

The white-faced constable swallowed hard. “Nothing, Sergeant.”

“Very good,” Mendick lifted the bag, opened the drawstring and looked inside. The silver sheen of shillings was not unexpected. He lifted the top coin.

“Eighteen forty two,” he said. In case of coincidence, he checked a handful. All had the same date.

“We have a madman on the loose, Sturrock,” he said.

“And a cannibal,” Sturrock said quietly.

The oil lanterns gave sufficient light to see the plate of cooked meat that stood on the long wooden table which took up an entire wall of the warehouse. The ashes of the fire on the ground were cold, but when Mendick stirred them there was a faint red glow that quickly died.

“This unfortunate fellow was killed during the night, then.” He looked at the surgeon. “Do you have a more precise time for his death, Doctor?”

Dr Webster probed a finger into the body and felt the muscles of the arms. “I would estimate around midnight, Mendick, to judge by the stiffening of the limbs.”

“He was killed in a similar fashion to David Thoms in Candle Lane,” Mendick raised his voice. “Do we know the identity of the victim?”

“He’s – he was – Robert Milne.” The white-faced constable did not look at the horror spread-eagled on the ground.

“How do you know that? Is he known to the police?” Mendick signalled for Sturrock to take notes.

“This is my beat, Sergeant. I used to speak to him most nights.” The constable glanced at the body and away again.

“And your name is?” Mendick asked.

“Abbot, Sergeant.”

“All right, Abbot, take your time now, lad. Don’t think of the body, the man is dead and that is all there is to it. Just answer my questions as best you can. Do you know what Mr Milne’s occupation was?”

Abbot took a deep breath. “He was a night watchman.”

“Where?” Mendick stepped away so Abbot did not have to look at the mutilated body.

“Here,” Abbot said. “He watched the whaleyard.”

“That was providential for the murderer,” Mendick looked up. “And you are the beat constable? Tell me what happened.”

Abbot looked about ready to collapse but he pulled himself erect. “I checked the door every half hour and it was securely locked. I normally see Rab – Milne – when he comes out for a pipe, but not last night. When the day watchman arrived he found him like this, all cut to pieces.”

“So either the murderer had a key, or picked the lock.” Mendick said. He tipped back the brim of his hat and looked around. The ground was bare. “What is this place normally used for?”

Abbot swallowed hard. “It’s used to store barrels of blubber when they’re unloaded from the whaling ships and before it’s boiled into oil.”

Mendick nodded. That would account for the smell. “Is there only one entrance, where the barrels are loaded and unloaded?”

“Just the one,” Abbot confirmed.

“I see,” Mendick pointed to the furthest corner, where a green painted door carried a notice that stated: Private: Keep Out. Property of DCC.

“What the devil does DCC mean?” He strode across and tried the door. “Who has the key for this, Abbot?”

“Rab – Milne – would have,” Abbot could not look down at the body.

Sighing, Mendick went through Milne’s clothes. His silver watch and chain were still intact and there was a handful of loose change and a single key. He had not been robbed and there was nothing else. “There is only one key here.” He tried the key in the outside door, it fitted perfectly. “Has somebody told Mr Milne’s wife?”

“He was unmarried,” Abbot said.

“That is a mercy. It is always hard for those left behind.” Mendick stepped to the interior door. The key fitted that door too, so he pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was empty save for a pile of stones, each one about half the size of a man’s head, carefully shaped and polished and with a handle on the top.

“Curling stones,” Sturrock had followed him in. “DCC must be the Dundee Curling Club, they will use this room for storage.”

“Curling stones?” Mendick touched the nearest with his boot. “Why keep chunks of granite behind lock and key?”

“These stones are valuable property, Sergeant. Look,” Sturrock lifted the nearest stone and tested it for weight. “This is blue granite from Ailsa Craig, the very best. The stones come from all over the place: Ailsa Craig, Perthshire, some are even made from Greenland stone . . .”

“I don’t care where they come from,” Mendick stopped him.

Sturrock shrugged. “Sorry, Sergeant. The DCC is a remarkably prestigious organisation.”

Mendick grunted to show his opinion of prestigious organisations. “Thank you for that information, Sturrock. Since this key also fits the warehouse door, every member of this club is a suspect, however prestigious they may be. If they have access to this room, rest assured I will be talking to them.” Mendick glanced around. “You will continue to search for China Jim and these other men. Have all the beat constables question their informants about anything Oriental. And Sturrock, contact every other major police office in the country and ask if there have been any similar murders. Check as far back as 1842.” Mendick rapped his cane off the table. “I have some enquiries to make and a curling rink to visit. Step out, man.”

Mendick coughed softly, so as not to disturb the concentration of the players. All around him the crowd was watching as Sir John Ogilvie, the club president, squatted upon the crampit and lined up his curling stone. The carriages of the players crowded the road that coiled up the Law to the curling ponds at Stirling Park, with most coachmen gathered in a patient huddle, smoking their pipes companionably. One nondescript man sat on the driving seat of a gig, reading avidly with his tall hat pushed back on his head. Mendick ran his gaze across each man, looking for the familiar signs of guilt but the faces were anonymous and he dismissed them as perpetrators of so-far undiscovered crimes.

Instead he concentrated on the players. These were the elite of Dundee: the linen barons, shipowners and merchants who knew little, and cared less, about the seething poor in the wynds and closes; these were the men who owned the chimneys he had once swept. Mendick watched them at play and wondered if one hid behind the alias of China Jim.

Scattered like butterflies among the monotony of dark-clothed men, a handful of women provided both distraction and colour. Presumably the wives of the merchants, they watched through bored eyes, clapped gloved hands together for warmth and spoke quietly, the condensation of their breath forming little grey clouds as they walked. Mendick narrowed his eyes when one of the women met his gaze; she was straight-backed with a wisp of auburn hair across her left eye. Alone of the women, she carried a curling stone, but with such casual grace it was obvious she was no mere spectator. She watched the progress of this particular match with keen interest. Only when she waved did Mendick allow himself to smile. He had not expected Johanna Lednock to be here.

He looked away. He had no time to admire women, however attractive. He had a job of work to do. One or more of these people could be his murderer, a monster hiding behind a facade of respectability. He could not afford the distraction of Johanna. As Ogilvie lined up his stone, Mendick looked down the steep hill and over the town of Dundee where the hazy light of late afternoon was already waning, street lights were being lit and smoke from a thousand chimneys congealed above the grey slates of tenement roofs. Beyond was the silvery streak of the Tay dotted with the pin-pricking lights of ships.

“Go on, Ogilvie,” a man encouraged, and others gave sycophantic cries of agreement as the club president aimed, swept forward his arm and released his stone.

“That’s a beauty for the final stone of the end!” someone yelled.

Mendick understood enough about curling to know that each game was termed an ‘end’ so this was an important moment. He watched as Ogilvie gave his wrist a subtle twist to impart draw to the stone which roared across the ice with the sweepers slithering in front, wielding their besoms frantically as they brushed away any loose particles of ice that might impede its progress.

One section of the crowd cheered as Ogilvie’s stone crashed into that of another player, sending it spinning aside and out of the scoring area.

“Well done, Sir John!”

Ogilvie’s stone continued, scraping across the ice to land within the centre of the three circles, side-by-side with a squat piece of blue granite.

“That’s Johanna Lednock’s Ailsa Craig beauty,” someone pointed out, as the rest of the spectators shouted their triumph when it became apparent that the two stones were exactly level.

“It’s a tie between Ogilvie and Johanna.” The speaker looked up and caught Mendick’s gaze. “And who the devil are you? You are not a member.”

“The name is Sergeant Mendick of Scotland Yard.” Mendick flourished his official staff. He examined the man. Middle aged, he tried to conceal his lack of height by standing erect, his weather-beaten face thrown into shadow by the flaring torches that lit the match, his dark waistcoat and trousers contrasted with the starched white of his shirt. His head was tilted back and his gaze held that of Mendick, unyielding. This was a man used to getting his own way.

“Pray tell me your name, sir.”

The raised voice attracted the attention of others, and faces turned towards him. Some were merely inquisitive, others hostile, but all carried the unmistakable stamp of wealth, power and authority. Mendick allowed them to stare; he knew he would be speaking to them in the fullness of time.

The man remained silent and Mendick repeated his question, this time adding an edge to his voice. “Tell me your name, sir, if you please?”

“I am Gordon.” The man spoke as if he expected Mendick to recognise his name.

Mendick did not. He nodded and raised his voice so that everybody within five yards could hear him. “I am investigating the murder of Robert Milne, Mr Gordon. I will be questioning every man here.”

The faces became expressionless until a younger man gave a hesitant smile. “You are investigating the murder of whom, Sergeant? I don’t think I know the man.”

“Robert Milne,” Mendick explained. “He was the night watchman who was murdered beside the curling stone store of this club. And you are, sir?”

“I am Gilbride of the Waverley Shipping Company.” Gilbride’s suit was cut so close it emphasised the breath of his shoulders while disguising his lack of height. “Of course, he was the unhappy fellow down by the whaling yard. That was a desperate business, terrible.”

Others added brief sympathetic noises before returning their attention to the curling.

“A bad business, certainly,” Gordon agreed, “but obviously nothing to do with us, Sergeant. We are gentlemen. So I suggest you get about your business and let us get on with our game.”

“Gentlemen or beggars,” Mendick said, “we are all subject to the same laws.”

Gordon gave a mocking bow, “You have your duty to perform, Sergeant. I leave you to get on with it elsewhere.”

“Is that you, Sergeant Mendick?” This voice was jovial enough and the man who bustled forward had his hand outstretched in welcome. “Good God, man, why did you not make yourself known at once? You remember me? Adam Leslie – you saved me from pickpockets on the London!” He raised his voice. “This is a tale worth repeating, gentlemen. Two flicks of his cane and two blackguards sent reeling. ‘Be off with you!’ he said, and sent them scampering away as if the hounds of hell were howling at their heels!” The handshake was warm and firm, the myopic blue eyes friendly behind their thick glasses. However nervous Leslie had seemed in the boat, he was in his element here. “Now, sir, what’s all this about a murder, eh?”

The warmth of his welcome almost brought a smile, but Mendick merely matched Leslie’s grip. “You may have heard about the body that was found in the Arctic Whaling Company warehouse?”

Leslie’s smile dropped away. “I did, Sergeant − terrible business, terrible. My wife was quite overcome: she fairly swooned away and poor Louise nearly had hysterics. Sarah had to apply smelling salts.” He shook his head and turned away to remove and polish his glasses. “It was some poor fellow named Milne, I believe? My clerks speak of little else, Sergeant. It was a shocking business. The newspapers are full of speculation: wild animals on the loose, packs of stray dogs, a madman in Dundee. They are saying all sorts of things.” He looked at Mendick with suddenly concerned eyes. “Is that why you are here, Sergeant?”

Mendick nodded, “I am afraid it is, Mr Leslie. The body was found in the warehouse where this club’s curling stones are stored, so I fear I must make enquiries here.” He pitched his voice to carry to the other club members but most had returned their interest to the curling or their own business affairs. Only Johanna continued to watch him, her eyes curious as she cradled the curling stone as if it were her son.

Leslie raised his hat, scratched his head with podgy fingers and asked. “Do you believe it was one of us, Sergeant?”

“I do not believe anything, Mr Leslie.” Again Mendick spoke loudly so everyone present could hear. “I am merely investigating.” He allowed the murmur of discontent to die down. “I will see you one at a time in the clubhouse.”

The clubhouse was little more than a wooden hut a few paces from the side of the curling pond, illuminated by flaring torches and flanked by a group of men selling whisky and hot pies. Mendick stepped inside the open door and turned to watch as two new players placed their smooth chunks of granite on the ice and then stepped back. They laughed quietly as if unconscious or uncaring of the butchery only the previous night. Mendick was aware of breath clouding around cold faces, of men vigorously flapping their arms and ladies clapping kid-gloved hands together as they wished they were home in the warmth. When he shifted his head to the side he caught Johanna’s gaze on him, and the startling clarity of her green eyes. She held the look for a few seconds before slowly lowering her eyelids.

Mendick could almost taste the wealth; it was in the scent of tailored clothes and the atmosphere of power, it was in the confident tones and movement of the players. There was something indefinable that marked these men apart from the mass of the population that crammed into the closes and tenements of the city spread out below. And yet, one of these successful, dynamic businessmen could well be the monster who had already murdered and feasted on two unfortunates. Most of these oh-so-respectable gentlemen were taller and broader than the average Dundonian, but evil could disguise itself behind a hundred cloaks. Mendick knew that Fate had made him an outsider, a man living on the precipitous oxymoron between respectability and chaos, protecting the one from the other, accepted by neither, distrusted by both. He could not allow himself to trust these men simply because of their position. He straightened, tapped his cane against the brim of his hat and looked around again.

“Whenever you are ready, Sergeant.” Leslie was watching him, holding a nicky of whisky. He offered the glass to Mendick, who shook his head.

Lifting his cane, Mendick crashed it half a dozen times against the side of the hut. One of the ladies gave a small scream but the noise effectively broke the concentration of the players and they turned to face him.

“What the devil do you think you are doing, sir?”

“You blasted roughneck. This is a gentleman’s club!”

Raising his voice, Mendick bellowed above their protests.

“Quiet! Now listen to me!”

Unused to being spoken to in such a peremptory manner, the club members stared at him. He brandished his staff. “By the authority of the Queen I am going to ask every person here a few questions.”

“What the deuce for, sir?” Gordon glared at him. “I have already told you not to waste our time. Be about your business or I’ll have your position!”

“Mr Gordon, I warn you not to interfere in the workings of the Dundee Police.” Mendick pointed the tip of his staff at Gordon to alleviate any possibility of mistaken identity. The golden VR of authority reflected the torchlight. “We are none of us above the law, sir. You included.”

“I am Gordon.” The man spoke as if his name should be enough to subdue a mere police sergeant.

“And I am Mendick.” Mendick saw Johanna smile at that and cover her mouth with a gloved hand. “I am investigating two murders and you can be first to help me, Mr Gordon. Come this way, if you please.”

“I am no murderer . . .” Gordon began, but Mendick opened the hut door and gestured. “This way, sir.”

The interior of the hut was as stark as the outside. There was a small fireplace, a writing desk with an armed chair that Mendick appropriated as his own, two other hard-backed chairs and little else. Waiting until Gordon seated himself opposite, Mendick placed his staff on top of the desk and took his notebook from his inside pocket.

“This won’t take long, Mr Gordon. At present, all I need to know is your whereabouts last night.”

Gordon glared but responded. He removed his hat and placed it on the table. “I was at home,” he said, “with my wife.”

“And where is home, sir?” Mendick had already begun to write Unicorn Cottage when Gordon replied.

“Mandarin House.” Once again, Gordon spoke as if he expected his address to be known.

“You have two addresses, sir?” Mendick raised his eyes to hold the level bar of Gordon’s gaze. “I believe you also own Unicorn Cottage in Broughty Ferry.”

Gordon snorted. “Unicorn Cottage belongs to my wife, Sergeant. It is hardly a place I would live. She uses it as a painting retreat during the day.” He spat out the word ‘painting’ as if it were an oath.

“I see.” Mendick noted that down. “Is there anyone who can confirm you were at home last night?” Mendick tried to keep the sharpness from his voice.

“Surely I am not a suspect?”

Mendick ignored the outburst and repeated the question.

This time Gordon replied. “My wife may confirm that, sir, and my servants, but I will see you at the devil before allowing you to subject them to this form of questioning.” A deep groove appeared between Gordon’s eyes as he glowered at Mendick.

“Indeed, sir. Now do you know of anybody by the name of Marmion or Oldbuck?”

Gordon grunted and shook his head. “I am sure I do not, sir.”

“You may have met them some years ago,” Mendick said.

Gordon snorted. “I have never encountered such names in my life, sir.” Gordon lifted his hat and pushed back his chair.

“Mendick rolled his staff so the VR pointed at Gordon. “Pray remain where you are, sir. I will inform you when I have finished. Now, does the name China Jim mean anything to you?”

“China Jim?” Mendick saw a slight smile appear on Gordon’s face before he replied. “No, I do not know that name.”

Mendick watched his reaction. “And do you know of any Chinese people living in Dundee, or elsewhere?”

Gordon paused before replying. “No, sir, I do not.”

“And do you have any business connections with China, sir?”

The pause was even longer. “I have been fortunate enough to have made sufficient money not to have to indulge in business at all, Sergeant.”

“Your home is Mandarin House, sir. That is a Chinese name,” Mendick pointed out.

“I like the term, Sergeant,” Gordon said.

Mendick nodded. “I see, sir. Then that is all for just now, Mr Gordon. Thank you for your cooperation. I will be speaking with your wife shortly to have her confirm your statement.”

“You shall do nothing of the sort, sir!” Gordon leaned forward in his seat.

Mendick held his gaze. “I shall, sir and if you attempt in any way to interfere with the workings of the law, I shall put such restraints on you that even you will not appreciate. Now, please ask the next gentleman to come in.”

The club members entered one after the other, truculent, unhelpful and arrogant, and after two hours Mendick was utterly weary. He looked as the door opened again and Mr Gilbride limped in. He sat down carefully and stretched his leg out before him.

“A riding accident, Sergeant,” he explained, as Mendick raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“When was that, sir, if I may enquire?”

“I had a tumble about six weeks ago, Sergeant. I was racing a point-to-point from the summit of the Law to Kilpurnie in the Sidlaw Hills and my horse decided to stop, while I continued.” When Gilbride grinned he looked very young.

“So you are less active than normal,” Mendick noted. “Are you still able to climb stairs or ladders?”

“I climb with care,” Gilbride said, “but I will heal in time.” He began to explain the extent of his injuries until Mendick stopped him.

“I am sure it was very painful, sir. Now could you tell me where you were on the evening of the 23rd March, pray?”

“I shall have to check, Sergeant,” Gilbride frowned, “what day was that, now?”

“It was a Friday,” Mendick reminded quietly.

“Of course, the 23rd March.” Gilbride looked up quickly. “We had some trouble that day. One of my vessels was due to sail out on the evening tide but the boys refused to sail on a Friday; some superstition or other, and I had to go down and speak to them.”

“You were at the docks then on the 23rd. Do you have anybody to verify that, sir?” Mendick made a note to check the tides and the shipping movements that day.

Gilbride eased his ankle a little. “I have, Sergeant. The master and entire crew of Evelyn Berenger: that was the vessel involved.”

“Are they still in the harbour, Mr Gilbride?”

“They will be on their way to the Greenland Sea now, Sergeant.” Gilbride seemed to find the question amusing. “But if you want to check, they will be back in August or September, perhaps October. It all depends how successful the fishing is.”

“I see, thank you. And last night sir? Where were you last night?”

Gilbride retained his smile. “I was working Sergeant, I was paying suppliers and sending letters to old customers and new. Business is dull just now and one needs to use every artifice in order to keep afloat.”

For a second a shadow darkened his eyes and Mendick thought of the recent Chartist troubles and the desperate poverty in the wynds and closes. If even a successful shipowner and businessman such as Gilbride was feeling the pinch, times must be hard indeed.

“Is there anybody who can verify that, sir?”

“I am afraid not, Sergeant. My staff finished at seven, while I was in the office until half past ten.” He smiled again. “You may just have to take my word sir, as a gentleman.”

Mendick did not smile, but he resolved to ask the beat constable if there had been a light at Gilbride’s office window. “Could you give me the address of your office, sir?”

“Whale Lane, sir. I am the managing owner of the Waverley Whale Fishing Company . . .”

Mendick cut him off with gesture. “Yes, sir. Mr Milne’s body was found in the whale yard of the Arctic Whale Fishing Company, is there a connection?”

“Good God, no!” Gilbride shook his head. “We are rivals, sir. We have no connection whatsoever.”

“I see. Thank you, sir. I may have to speak to you again, but I have your address. I presume you do not intend to leave Dundee in the near future?” Mendick touched his fingers against his staff so it rolled slightly and the tip, with its gold crown and the VR letters, reminded Gilbride exactly with whom he was dealing.

When Gilbride nodded and left, Mendick completed his notes and barely looked up when the door opened once more and somebody sat gracefully opposite him.

“I suppose you wish to ask me questions as well?” There was music in Johanna’s voice, and her eyes danced over Mendick.

“I do, if you have access to the storehouse key.” Mendick had to suppress a smile.

“I have the same access as any other member,” Johanna had no reservations about smiling at him.

“In that case, I have some questions for you, Mrs Gordon.”

Johanna dropped her smile, sat upright in the seat, held Mendick’s gaze and nodded. “Please continue, Sergeant Mendick.”

Mendick wanted to say it was unusual for a woman to be a member of a curling club as well as owning property, but duty came first. “May I enquire where you were last night, Mrs Gordon?”

“I was at home, Sergeant.” Johanna said gravely.

Mendick nodded. “With your husband?”

When Johanna frowned, there was a little pucker between her eyes and a small groove formed at the side of her mouth. “My husband was at home also, Sergeant.”

“You were together then.” Mendick said. He waited for confirmation, but instead Johanna hesitated and shook her head. She looked up with her lips pressed tight together and her chin thrust slightly forward.

“We were not together, Sergeant. I live in Unicorn Cottage and he lives in Mandarin House.”

“I see.” Mendick thought it best not to pursue that line of enquiry at present. Mrs Gordon looked close to being out of temper with him. “Now this may sound a strange question, Mrs Gordon, but please bear with me. Does either of these names mean anything to you: Robert Marmion or Jonathan Oldbuck?”

Johanna frowned, “Marmion and Oldbuck? Now there is a strange question for a Criminal Officer! Of course I know these names, but what on earth have they to do with your investigation? What was it? Murder by literature?” Her laugh was not quite in keeping with the serious nature of the discussion but Mendick found it welcome nevertheless.

“I do not understand . . .” Mendick began.

“You don’t read much, do you? Those names are from the books of Walter Scott. He wrote a poem called Marmion, and Jonathan Oldbuck is a character in The Antiquary.” Johanna was smiling, shaking her head. “Is this some sort of game?”

“If it is,” Mendick said, “it is being played on me. I had not worked out the Walter Scott connection.” He looked at her with approval. He had admired her looks and was attracted by her personality, now he had to add respect for her learning and quick intelligence as well.

“Can you tell me more?” Johanna’s eyes widened.

Mendick would have loved to tell her everything but duty forbade. “These names are alibis of possible suspects,” he said.

“And as all these names are from Walter Scott’s books,” Johanna said, “they may have a connection?”

“That is possible,” Mendick said. “But we have to investigate further.” He watched her smile, “When curling and painting palls on you, perhaps you could join us in Scotland Yard.”

When Johanna smiled, the left corner of her mouth lifted. “All my spare time is taken up by my son,” she said.

Mendick noted that one thought of her son had altered Johanna. Her eyes had softened, with small creases at the corners. “Of course, but you would be a great asset to the force. Now, I am afraid I must ask more questions. Do you have any connection with China, or know any Chinamen?”

Johanna shook her head. “No, Sergeant. Save for my husband’s previous business connections, I have no connection to China. I have never been to China and nor do I have any intention of going there. From what I have heard it sounds like a terrible place, full of disease and poverty.”

Mendick wanted to agree with her and share his Chinese experiences but he forced himself to keep to the matter in hand. “You say Mr Gordon had business interests in China?”

Johanna’s frown was unwelcome. “Did he not tell you? Well, if he said nothing about them, I am sure I had better not.”

Mendick scribbled a note to speak further to Gordon but altered tack. “Do you know the Arctic Whaling boiling yard, Mrs Gordon?”

“Of course I do,” once more her laugh was out of place but welcome, “by smell at least.”

“Have you ever been there, Mrs Gordon?” Mendick tried not to smile.

“Why on earth would I ever want to go to a place like that?” She leaned closer, her eyes searching. Her smile entranced him and he had to force himself to concentrate.

“Why indeed? I do not think I need take up any more of your time, Mrs Gordon.” Mendick fought the compulsion to ask more questions, to enquire how this woman with the musical voice and lightning mind could be so delightfully friendly to him but mix so easily with the elite of Dundee. Instead, he watched her leave the hut as elegantly and quietly as she had arrived. He sat for a long moment until there was a tap on the door and Adam Leslie peered in.

“I believe I am last, Sergeant.” Leslie gave the expected answer. “My clerk was with me until around six, Sergeant, and then I was alone. Times are hard, you see, with this prolonged depression, and one needs make every shift . . .”

“I do understand that, sir.” Mendick said. “Now, sir, do you know of any Chinamen in Dundee, or do you have any connection with China?”

“No, Sergeant. I have never seen a Chinaman in my life and I have never heard of one in Dundee. Nor do I have a Chinese connection; I’ve never been further east than London, nor further south either, now I come to think of it!” His laughter was shortlived. “I do apologise Sergeant. Laughing at such a time is unforgivable, with that poor unfortunate man not yet in his grave.” Leslie took off his glasses and began to polish the lenses with a crisp linen handkerchief.

“Now, sir, could you tell me where you were on Friday the 23rd March?”

“Quite easily, Sergeant Mendick. I was on the boat from London, and then caught a cab straight home to my family.” Leslie replaced his spectacles. “That was the day you saved me from those pickpockets, you recall.” He smiled again, but tentatively. “I have never properly shown you my appreciation for that service, sir, and I would like to invite you home tonight. Have a bite to eat and meet the family.”

Mendick was about to refuse when the prospect of a decent meal tempted him. He had not eaten properly since he came to Dundee and Leslie could hardly have a more solid alibi for Thom’s murder. “That would be most acceptable, sir.”