CHAPTER SIX

Mendick dismounted from the gig and surveyed the street as he waited for Leslie to join him. The Leslie residence was in Magdalen Place in the western suburbs of Dundee. It was one of a number of substantial villas arranged in a quietly curved street where trees rustled unseen in the dark. Mendick tapped his cane on the tall garden wall which sheltered this residential idyll. The name Juniper Lea was carved into the stonework beside the gate.

“This is really very good of you, sir . . .”

“Nonsense my dear fellow, you are more than welcome. Besides which, Mrs Leslie has constantly asked who it was who rescued me on the ship.” There was sufficient moonlight for Mendick to make out the intertwined initials, AL and CC that formed the centrepiece of the wrought iron gates Leslie opened. “I do not oil this gate,” Leslie explained away the terrible screech as he pushed the gates open, “so we can hear if a burglar enters the garden.”

“Of course, sir,” Mendick agreed. It was an old trick that sometimes worked.

Ranks of daffodils and crocuses ranged beside the gravel path leading to a bold doorway flanked by doric columns that denoted status to the outside world. The four stone steps were freshly scrubbed, the boot scraper clean, ready for the next dose of city muck, and the brass handles and nameplate gleamed. A maid-servant opened the door even before Leslie had fumbled out his key; she dropped a swift curtsey and failed to hide her smile.

“Welcome back, sir. Mrs Leslie is in the drawing room.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I would walk warily sir, if I were you. The mistress was expecting you home this last hour and already the young ladies have heard the rough side of her tongue.”

Leslie drew in his eyebrows, which unbalanced his spectacles so he had to grab them before they slid from his nose. “Thank you for the warning, Mary.” He handed his coat and hat to the servant, and indicated that Mendick do likewise. “Mrs Leslie gets a little worried sometimes,” he explained softly, “so pray forgive her if she seems a trifle short with me.”

Mendick gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I was married myself once,” he said, and once more cursed himself for giving too much away.

“This way, sir, and shall I announce the gentleman?” Burdened with coats, hats and cane, the servant still managed another bobbed curtsey as she stood with her hand on the china handle of the door.

“I would rather like to do that myself, Mary,” Leslie said. “Now, you had better be about your business before Mrs Leslie puts a flea in your ear.” He smiled as Mary bustled away, her black and white dress neat around her ankles and a single strand of dark hair flopping free from her cap. “She’s a good girl, Mary. Mrs Leslie rescued her from the poorhouse.”

The drawing room was a haven of ordered peace, with a glowing fire contained within a tiled hearth, a longcase clock ticking quietly in one corner and a glass-fronted bookcase taking up most of the space on the back wall. A blonde girl played a rollicking but strangely melancholic air on an upright piano, a dark-haired girl sat, closely examining a piece of sewing beside an older woman who looked up, put down the sampler she had been working on and stood.

“You are back late, Adam.” There was an edge to her voice, but her eyes were friendly. She glanced towards Mendick, “and you have brought company, I see.” She clapped her hands and spoke sharply to the girl at the piano, “Sarah, desist! We have a guest.”

The blonde girl stopped playing immediately, carefully folded away her sheet music, closed the lid of the piano and walked to sit beside her sister. She smoothed her skirt beneath her and sat with her hands folded demurely in her lap.

“I have brought very distinguished company, my dear.” Leslie paused then, with his eyes bright behind the spectacles and obviously bursting with pride. He looked more relaxed than Mendick had seen him; a man at home, king of his own castle. “This is Sergeant James Mendick of Scotland Yard, the very man who saved my life when I was at sea.”

“I have no wish to inconvenience you, Mrs Leslie,” Mendick began, but Mrs Leslie shook her head. “Nonsense, Sergeant Mendick! Step inside and find some warmth, do!” Mrs Leslie gestured him inside. “Come on, man!”

Mrs Leslie held out a welcoming hand as the two younger women, obviously her daughters, looked up and smiled together. Mrs Leslie took control of the conversation. “Sergeant Mendick, we have heard all about you! Mr Leslie never tires of telling us about the brave Scotland Yard detective who chased away the pickpockets!” She frowned slightly and spoke over her shoulder, “Come along girls, say your good evenings to the Sergeant!”

“Good evening Sergeant Mendick!”

The voices came in a musical chorus from the two girls. They bobbed in a curtsey, and held Mendick’s gaze. Although they behaved like identical twins they were as different in appearance as if they came from different worlds. The blonde piano player was a true beauty with a smile that lightened up her face; her sister was more solemn and in comparison, merely handsome, with dark hair drawn severely to each ear, high cheekbones and a hint of hectic colouring that could have resulted from shyness. Mendick judged them to be anywhere between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one.

“Our daughters,” Mrs Leslie said as Leslie looked on, smiling. “Our oldest, Louise,” she indicated the dark-haired girl with a slightly dismissive movement of her hand, “and Sarah.” Her voice and attitude warmed as she gestured to the smiling girl.

“Good evening, ladies,” Mendick tried to bow, but Mrs Leslie tutted her impatience at him.

“There is no need for that, Sergeant. Come, sit by the fire.” She glanced at her husband. “It is a bit late for a formal meal, but I will ring for something.”

“There is really no need,” Mendick began, but Mrs Leslie had rung a small handbell and Mary appeared in seconds. Mendick noticed the maid curtseyed far lower to Mrs Leslie than she had to Leslie, and scurried away with all haste once she had her orders.

Leslie guided Mendick to the deepest armchair in the room, hard by the fire. When he looked up, both the girls were looking at him as if at a belted earl or a military hero. He smiled back as four big eyes fixed on him.

“The girls heard the story too,” Leslie sat down in an armchair. “How you saved my life on the voyage home.”

“Hardly that, Mr Leslie: they were pickpockets, not murderers.”

“Maybe so, Sergeant, but you never know. A blackguard is a blackguard, and a pickpocket today could end up a murderer tomorrow!” Mrs Leslie settled down between Mendick and the girls. “Now girls, I am sure Sergeant Mendick would not mind if you had some questions for him.”

“Not at all, Mrs Leslie,” Mendick agreed.

“My father said you were a police sergeant, Mr Mendick,” Louise’s voice throbbed from her throat, “but you are not in uniform. Are you off-duty, perhaps?”

“I am a Criminal Officer, Miss Leslie and as such I am obliged to work out of uniform. It is my duty to detect crime.”

“You are a police detective?” Sarah’s eyes widened even more until they were nearly round in that perfect china-doll face. She glanced at her mother. When Mrs Leslie nodded Sarah continued, “I’ve never spoken to a detective before. May I enquire what your work entails, Sergeant?”

Mendick hid his smile. He could not count the number of times he had been asked that question, so he had his answer ready “We protect the respectable from the non-respectable, Miss Sarah.” He stopped, realising how pompous he must sound. “In short, we try to catch criminals and ensure justice is done.”

“I agree, Sergeant Mendick.” Louise spoke very slowly. “I strongly believe that justice must be done.”

Sarah nodded slowly and repeated the words. “Justice must be done. The Old Testament tells us ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’ and that is surely God’s word.”

“Louise is a very serious-minded young woman,” Leslie said in the silence that followed. “She is a veritable bluestocking.”

Mrs Leslie snorted. “Never you mind about her, Sergeant. I want to know if you are about to catch the monster who murdered that poor man Thoms.” She shook her head, “And now there is this other terrible business in the whaling yard. Are you detecting that murder too, Sergeant?”

“That is my intention, Mrs Leslie,” Mendick said.

“And are your investigations progressing satisfactorily, Sergeant?” Mrs Leslie looked up as Mary entered the room with a laden tray. “Put that on the round table, Mary, and bring it over here.”

“I think I may have ruffled his feathers.” Mendick said. He thought of the woman in the green cloak who followed him.

Leslie rose to help Mary carry a circular table to the front of the fire, but Mrs Leslie waved him back to his seat. He obeyed without a murmur and Mary struggled on alone.

“Sergeant Mendick is searching for a Chinaman,” Leslie said. “I already informed him we are not aware of any Chinamen in Dundee.”

The three Leslie women shook their heads. “Sergeant Mendick,” Mrs Leslie said, “I can tell you with all my heart that I have never seen a Chinaman in my life, and I have travelled to Edinburgh and Aberdeen.”

Mendick watched as Mary poured out tea from a porcelain teapot with a pattern of summer roses. “Perhaps you might be aware of a merchant with an Oriental connection?”

Leslie removed his spectacles and began to polish them vigorously. “Indeed yes, Sergeant, many of the Dundee merchants trade with Bengal, if that is any help.” He wriggled in his seat, rather like a dog wagging his tail to please his master.

“Do you have names, sir?” Mendick asked. He hoped to hear more about Gordon. He watched as Mary used a pair of silver tongs to place slices of cake onto plates with the same floral pattern.

Leslie nodded so vigorously that his spectacles nearly slid from his nose. “I certainly have names sir. I have a list of every merchant in Dundee and their areas of trade. I could have a copy made and dropped off at the police office tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir. I would be extremely grateful for that.” Mendick bowed from his chair as Leslie beamed at him.

“I do hope you find this Chinaman, Sergeant Mendick. I fear for Mr Leslie sometimes, working all hours of the night.” She lowered her voice. “We are all concerned in the administration of justice,” Mrs Leslie said softly, with such an edge to her voice it merely confirmed who the head of this household was.

Mendick nodded assent. “If more people took that view, Mrs Leslie, my job would be easier and the streets would be a great deal safer.”

Mrs Leslie sipped noiselessly at her tea. “I believe it is everybody’s duty to help remove blackguards and the unworthy from the streets, Sergeant. I have brought up our daughters to think likewise and they are both actively involved in making Dundee a safer place.”

Mendick looked over to the two girls. Louise had her earnest, serious gaze fixed on him but Sarah seemed more intent on studying her profile in the glass front of the bookcase. He tried to imagine them walking the beat as constables, but the idea of female police officers was so ludicrous that he could not help but smile.

Mrs Leslie explained, “Louise helps teach the intermediate class at the Castle Street School, Sergeant, and Sarah does charity work at the King Street Infirmary.”

“It is our Christian duty.” Louise told him, unsmiling.

“Your parents must be very proud of you both,” Mendick said.

“We are a very affectionate family,” Mrs Leslie claimed, although Mendick noticed there were no supporting nods from her children. She completed her lecture on the importance of justice and retribution before dismissing the maid with a flick of her hand and passing round the plates.

As they ate the superb cake and the girls bowed their heads to sewing, Mendick admired the family portraits that covered two walls. There was a splendid oil of the sisters as toddling infants, another of them as young girls with solemn faces and a third when they entered their teen years, all arms and legs and satin clothes. Their brother, however, seemed destined for the sea from childhood, to judge by the paintings. He wore a white sailor suit as a baby, a blue one as an infant and blue and white as a gawky youth.

Mendick frowned. Although he could trace the development of the children from infancy to near adulthood, the only picture of Mr and Mrs Leslie showed them in middle age. Mendick smiled at the pride behind these pictures and stifled the surge of sadness he felt for loss of his wife Emma and stillborn daughter. The black frame around the solitary portrait of the young man told its own story.

Leslie noted his interest. “Do you like them, Sergeant? A professional artist painted the earlier ones but now Mrs Gordon has honoured us with her skills.”

Mendick nodded. “She does it well.” He had no knowledge of art, but he liked the way Johanna had caught the character of each member of the family, from the hesitant Leslie to the dominant Mrs Leslie, the captivating Sarah and Louise with her straightforward gaze. Yet even as Mendick looked, he could see the difference between the professional and the amateur; in Johanna’s images every face had a slight flaw so that when the candle flickered their characters altered. He looked away. He was glad Emma had never been painted in that style.

“Mrs Gordon is a lovely lady, so unlike Mr Gordon.” Louise put her sewing down. “There now Mama, I think I am finished.”

“Do you indeed?” Mrs Leslie took the material, examined it closely and pointed out an infinitesimal flaw for Louise to correct.

Mendick watched Louise return, uncomplaining, to her work. “You don’t approve of Mr Gordon, then?”

“He is anything but a pleasant fellow,” Louise was surprisingly candid. “And I do not like how he made his money.”

This was what Mendick wanted to hear. He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? And why is that, pray? I heard he was a respectable merchant. Was that not the case? What was he, a slave trader?” Mendick tried to sound humorous but there was no laughter on Louise’s stern lips.

“He was every bit as bad, he dealt in opium.” Louise said the word as if it was obscene. “Mr Gordon was an opium trader.”

“Opium trading is a respectable business, Miss Louise.” Mendick tried to hide his surge of interest.

It was Sarah who looked up, her blue eyes bright with tears. “No, sir, I fear you are mistaken. You perhaps have never seen the harm it can do, Sergeant Mendick. You have never seen the wasted figures and the dead eyes of men who indulge? Well, I have. I have come across a few in my infirmary work. The overuse of opiates is a terrible thing, Sergeant, and Mr Gordon supplied it by the ton!”

Despite the seriousness of her words and his interest in their content, Mendick smiled. He enjoyed the passion of these young ladies. “I understand your reasoning, Miss Louise and I completely agree with you. I too, have seen the damage opium can do.”

“Oh?” Louise faced him squarely. “And where was that, pray?” Her words were so direct a challenge he was surprised.

“Chusan, mainly, but other parts of China too.” Mendick found Louise’s intense stare fascinating. “Where did you say Mr Gordon traded in opium?”

“I did not say,” Louise was sharp, “as well you know, Sergeant.” She stared at him for a full ten seconds longer than most of his suspects would, then dropped her gaze. “He was in China, Sergeant. That’s where he made his money.”

Mendick nodded. He was not surprised that Gordon had been an opium smuggler in the China Seas. He had seen opium clippers in harbour in Hong Kong. Long, low, raking craft with smooth lines, built for speed. He had admired them for their seamanship but, when he had been a soldier of the queen, he had not thought twice about the morals of their occupation.

“Thank you, Miss Louise. You have been most helpful.”

He looked at the clock, “I really ought to be on my way now, thank you for your hospitality . . .”

“Oh, Sergeant Mendick, you have only just arrived.” Ignoring Mendick’s protests, Mrs Leslie insisted on showing off her house. He spent an uncomfortable hour on a guided tour, from the comfortable withdrawing room to the door of the private chapel at the rear of the house, although Mrs Leslie did not take him inside, as it “was not seemly unless it is the Lord’s Day.” Only then was he allowed away, with Mrs Leslie rousing James, the handyman and coachman, from his quarters in the basement with orders to take Mendick home.

“Here we are then, sir.” James seemed not in the least put out by having to take Mendick across half the town at one o’clock on a wet morning. He pulled up the gig outside the High Street tenement where Mendick lodged, tipped back his hat and opened the door. “You be careful how you go now, sir.” He looked into the darkened close, “Would you like me to accompany you, in case a blackguard may be prowling?”

Mendick shook his head. “Thank you, James, I am but one flight up. I am sure I can make it.” He gestured to the pedestrians who slouched past, cowering from the wet. “This street is busy at any hour of the day, so there is plenty of help at hand.”

“Aye, aye, sir, as you say,” James touched a hand to the brim of his hat. He watched Mendick enter the close, flicked the reins and rumbled away.

When Mendick looked out of his window he saw the woman in the green cloak; she was standing in a shop doorway directly opposite his flat, staring upward.