CHAPTER SEVEN

Mandarin House stood within a large well-tended garden just outside the planned village of Newtyle, where the smiling fields of Strathmore stretched from the flanks of the Sidlaw hills across to the distant Angus Glens. Mendick turned the hired gig through the pillars of the front gate and pulled up in front of the door. He waited for a second as the dust settled around him and the horse stamped within its harness, then mounted the two steps to the front door. The square pilasters reached to an austere pediment that guarded the arched door itself, while birdsong sweetened the sky.

Mendick grunted; he thought of the weeping villages he had seen in China, where men lay in the slow death of opium addiction, and agriculture and work was neglected in favour of the drug. That horror had been caused by the owner of this property and men of his type. Louise had been right to term him evil, but she had only seen the shadow of his crime, never the full appalling reality or the contrast between the palaces of those who profited from opium and the misery of those who suffered the effects. Mendick pulled the black knob of the bell and listened to the rapid patter of a servant’s feet.

An aroma of oriental spices wafted towards him as the door opened.

“Yes?” The servant was small and obviously unimpressed by Mendick. “Tradesmen use the back entrance.”

“Do they indeed?” Mendick pushed the man aside with his cane and stepped inside without being invited. “Pray inform your master that Sergeant Mendick of the Dundee Police is here to see him.”

“Sergeant Mendick of the Dundee Police?” The servant looked Mendick up and down as if he was something unpleasant he had stepped on in the fields.

“And be quick about it,” Mendick put the edge of authority in his voice. He looked around, tapping his cane against his leg.

The outer hallway was decorated like a miniature Chinese palace, with a pair of man-sized urns immediately within the door and quilted wallpaper with dragon designs covering the walls. A large Chinese throne squatted in one corner.

“Mendick?” Gordon carried a Purdey shotgun broken over his shoulder as he pattered down the stairs. “What the devil are you doing inside my house?”

“I am about to ask you why you did not tell me you were an opium trader in China,” Mendick tapped his cane against the nearest urn, “and have brought half the country back with you.”

“My business has nothing to do with you, Mendick,” Gordon inserted a cartridge into the breach of his shotgun and snapped the weapon shut.

Mendick rapped the barrel of the gun with his cane. “I sincerely hope you are not carrying that weapon to threaten me, sir?”

“I have no need to threaten in my own house, Mendick.” Gordon said. “A house to which you were not invited and which I demand you leave.”

“We are searching for a man who calls himself China Jim,” Mendick ignored Gordon’s outburst, “and you seem best qualified for that title.” He indicated the Chinese memorabilia that decorated the house.

“How dare you, Mendick,” Gordon moved his shotgun but did not point it towards Mendick. “I am a gentleman!”

“Indeed, sir, but even that does not necessarily mean you are honest.” Mendick kept his voice even. He fought the surge of anger he always felt when faced with the high-handedness of self-proclaimed gentlemen. He knew gentlemen liked to believe their position made them invulnerable, but he had dealt with embezzlers and card sharks from all walks of society and saw nothing special about presumed gentility. “I would seek permission to search your house, sir.” He watched Gordon’s face flush with fury.

“Get out!” Gordon’s hands twitched on his shotgun.

Mendick kept his cane poised to deflect the barrel.

“It would be easier for us both if you were to agree, sir, else I have to obtain a magistrate’s warrant and return with a group of uniformed constables.” He tapped his cane on the wall, just below a shelf on which stood an intricate jade chalice from the Ming dynasty. “Could you imagine their great clumsy boots clattering around your beautiful house?”

“Good God, Mendick! Do you think you can threaten me with your bully boy tactics? Do you know who I am?”

“At present, Mr Gordon, you may be a murder suspect.” Mendick told him. “Do you wish me to leave and return with a platoon of police? Or shall I stay and search your house on my own, quietly and without fuss?” He helped Gordon ponder his choices by tapping his cane around the priceless artefacts in the hall.

“Damn you, Mendick,” Gordon said at last, “search if you must, but be assured I will put in a strong word with your superior.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mendick gave an ironic bow. “My superior’s name is Donald Mackay. I am sure he will be pleased to hear from you.”

Mandarin House was not a huge mansion but every room was more splendid than the last, all decorated with Chinese art and crammed with Chinese artefacts. Mendick walked around slowly, not sure what he was looking for and more concerned with unsettling Gordon than finding anything incriminating.

“Well?” Gordon followed him step for step, “See anything, Mendick?”

“Not a thing, sir,” Mendick said.

He glanced in the bedroom − a man’s room without a doubt. The large, plain bed sat squarely in the centre of the room, on bare, polished floorboards. The walls were of panelled wood, with three hunting prints for decoration, a leather armchair in one corner and not a single piece of Chinese artwork in the room.

There was nothing of Johanna. No dressing table, no mirror, no female fripperies and not a single scrap of feminine clothing. There was no reciprocal bedroom for Johanna, or for John. It was as if Gordon’s wife and child did not exist. He lived a bachelor’s life in this grand house, and they lived their life in Unicorn Cottage.

The gun room hosted an impressive display of firearms, with shotguns sitting beside the latest rifles and smoothbore sporting pieces by Joseph Manton of London. The wine cellar was stacked with barrels of port, sherry and French wines, with brandy and gin in reserve.

“No whisky?” Mendick rapped the nearest barrel with his cane.

Gordon snorted. “Not unless I purchase it from the Scouringburn Distillery, which is rotgut, or from some glorified shebeen keeper. I really wish you people would do something about that.”

Mendick grunted, “I will be sure and mention it to Mr Mackay, Mr Gordon but at present we are a trifle too busy to concern ourselves with the supply of your whisky.”

“It’s a damned inconvenience, Mendick.” Gordon poured himself a brandy and swallowed it in one gulp.

Mendick nodded. “I am sure Mr Mackay will act immediately. We can’t have you inconvenienced by a mere murder. Just one point, Mr Gordon,” Mendick stopped at the head of the stairs, beside a life-sized statue of a Buddha. “You told me you spent the night of the murder at home with your wife, yet there is no trace of her here. She does not live with you. Could you explain that to me?” He held Gordon’s eye.

“My domestic arrangements are my own concern,” Gordon said.

“You were alone in the house then, on that night.” Mendick said. “Now, if you will just show me your stables, I will leave you for the present.”

There were six horses in the stable block. Four were thoroughbred, fine, blood horses for riding and hunting. The remaining two were carriage horses used for drawing the black brougham that sat just within the arched doorway of the principal stable.

“The men who murdered Mr Thoms travelled in a brougham,” Mendick said. He replaced his hat.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Gordon. You may depend on me to further pursue this investigation, and I may well return later.”