CHAPTER EIGHT

“So there we have it,” Mendick sat on top of his desk and addressed Sturrock and Deuchars. “We are slowly gathering a great deal of information, but none of it seems to make sense.”

Deuchars fingered his scar. “We keep hearing about this China Jim fellow, Sergeant, but nobody knows anything about him. We don’t even know what he does or what he looks like. How the devil are we to find a man nobody knows anything about?”

“Well,” Mendick said, “let’s see what we have got and maybe one of us will spot a connection.”

Deuchars sighed and slumped into a chair. “On you go then, Sergeant.”

Mendick lit his pipe. “We have a tenuous link between two of the people who may be involved. They both have names from Walter Scott’s novels, so they may be pseudonyms for the same man. We also know that Gordon owns a brougham and had an extensive connection with China.”

“Scott’s novels?” Deuchars snorted. “Of course, you know that Gilbride names all his ships after Scott’s characters? Hence the Waverley Whale Fishing Company, after the Waverley Novels.”

Mendick thought of the young businessman with the bad leg and the lack of witnesses the night of the murder. “In that case we should interview Gilbride again. We also know Gordon hid information from us but that just makes him an uncooperative fellow rather than a murderer.”

Deuchars grunted. “Now there’s a gentleman I would love to see locked away for a very long time.” He shrugged. “It seems that both Gordon and Gilbride are suspects: neither have witnesses to support them on the day of either murder.”

“The only man who has is Leslie,” Mendick said. “He was with me.”

“Mendick,” Superintendent Mackay pushed quietly into the room, “I am sorry to break up your conference but China Jim has done it again, and this time he’s killed a soldier.” His eyes were bleak. “Here are the details,” he handed over a single sheet of foolscap and raised his voice. “Now get out there, gentlemen, and for Heaven’s sake sort things out! The last thing we need is trouble with the army.”

“Another one?” Mendick sighed and reached for his hat. “Dear God. Is this monster determined to kill everyone in this town?” He nodded to Sturrock and Deuchars. “Right, lads, let’s step out together now.”

Dundee Law rose five hundred feet above the town, a landmark for seamen and a guardian for the spreading tenements beneath. In summer it was bright and clear, with views across the Firth of Tay to Fife and around to the Sidlaw hills, but on this spring morning of howling wind it was cold and stark and unforgiving. Mendick stopped for a second to gather his thoughts. He gazed over Dundee, seeing a panorama of blue-grey tenement roofs and tall factory chimneys. The whim of the wind gusted smoke eastward towards Broughty or south towards the silver-grey sheen of the Tay, where the ships waited with furled sails for the weather to improve.

“Let’s hope this one’s not as bad as the last.” Deuchars grunted his doubt. “Wee Donny said it was China Jim’s work, so don’t expect anything pretty.”

They walked the final few steps and stopped. The latest victim had been killed in the open and his remains spread across the southern slopes of the hill. A dozen policemen guarded the spot, holding their tall hats firmly against the assault of the gale and with their faces closed against shock and disgust. Mendick tried to envisage what had happened up here, and when. A killing in this wild and windy place was unusual, it was unlikely to be a drunken brawl or an argument between a man and his wife.

Within the circle of uneasy policeman, what was left of the victim lay in the usual hideous mess of blood and flesh. A few yards outside the circle, a hostile group of soldiers and bystanders were hunched under the battering storm.

“Aye, there’s plenty bluebottles now,” a scarlet-coated soldier glowered at Mendick through poisonous eyes. “What were they doing when the lad was being murdered? Sitting in the warmth drinking drams, that’s what.”

When Sturrock turned to face the soldier Mendick took his elbow and hustled him onward. “You can’t argue with a frightened and angry man,” he said, “particularly when he’s wearing a scarlet jacket.”

“What was the victim’s name?” Sturrock asked.

“David Torrie,” Mendick said, “He was a private soldier.”

“You’d better catch him, coppers,” a saturnine corporal shouted. “Or we bloody will!”

“Oh my eye!” Sturrock looked away, “this one is even worse!”

Mendick nodded. As before, the man had been stripped stark naked but this time he retained all his limbs. His intestines had been neatly removed and the now-expected linen bag placed in the bloody cavity. There was a piece of what looked like bone placed on his forehead.

“What sort of man would do that?” Sturrock shook his head. “We’re dealing with a monster here, not a man.”

“I do not know what sort of man,” Mendick said quietly. “But there are some terrible people out there.” He knelt beside the victim and lifted the bone. He pointed to the silhouette of a woman’s face that was carved on one side. “I wonder if her name was Rose,” he said.

“Do you think this was the work of a jealous lover?” Sturrock examined the face. “Not much to look at is she? She looks foreign anyway. Look at the shape of her eyes.”

“Chinese, perhaps,” Mendick said, “a Chinese Rose?” He ran his thumb over the object. “I don’t think that’s bone though. What do you make of it, Deuchars?”

Deuchars took one glance. “It’s scrimshaw work, Sergeant, baleen from a whale’s mouth. Lots of the old Arctic hands do it, but I’ve never seen it on a soldier before.”

Mendick stared at the face in the carving. “So this may be Rose. This woman may be the cause of three murders. One thing’s certain. China Jim did not leave this here for nothing. It’s a message.”

“Aye, Sergeant. Either for us or for somebody else.” Sturrock said. “Maybe he is warning the criminal class that he is top dog and they had better behave themselves.” He looked downhill at the growing crowd. The noise was increasing. “Do we have any more details of Torrie?”

“Not many.” Mendick re-read the piece of paper Mackay had handed him. “He was a new recruit, he’d only been in uniform for three weeks.”

“Only three weeks?” Deuchars frowned. “He’s a bit old for a Johnnie Raw isn’t he? He must be five and thirty if he’s a day. The army are really dragging the bottom of the barrel now.” He turned the body over. “Sergeant! Look at this.”

Mendick looked closer. Both Torrie’s thighs and buttocks were mutilated with great chunks of flesh hacked off and the remainder punctured and torn in the same manner as he had seen with Thoms and Milne. “It looks like he’s been chewed. Those are teeth marks or I’m as Chinese as Jim.” He shivered. “What in God’s name are we dealing with here?”

“A monster,” Sturrock took a deep breath. “I always hoped to be involved in a murder case, Sergeant, but I never expected anything like this.”

“It’s no monster, constable,” Mendick tipped out the bag. As expected, there were thirty silver shillings all dated 1842. “Just a very evil man.”

“We had better catch him then,” Sturrock said quietly. He tapped his fingers on the haft of his staff, suddenly looking very much older than his twenty-one years.

“We need to ascertain why China Jim selected these particular victims. The bags of silver would tell us a lot if only I could work it out, and I suspect this woman Rose is at the crux of the matter. Maybe she was China’s girl and she betrayed him.” Mendick examined the scrimshaw again, the woman’s face was enigmatic; she seemed to mock him.

“With three different men?” Deuchars shook his head. “She’s not the sort of woman I want to have anything to do with, then.”

“Nor I,” Mendick agreed. He tucked the scrimshaw inside his pocket. “I want to know why Torrie joined the army, and I want to know if he was out alone and where he was going. I also want to know where he was in 1842.”

The bottle landed beside them with a soft thud, followed by a stone. While they had been inspecting Torrie’s body, more soldiers had arrived and now there were about fifty with the crowd still increasing; some in regimental scarlet, others in shirtsleeves, but all uniformly angry. Their voices came in fitful snatches, partly carried away by the now dying wind.

“Hey, bluebottles! Why haven’t you caught the beast yet?”

“You buggers are useless! If you can’t catch him, we’ll get him ourselves.”

They pushed forward, angry young men who had learned about the murder of one of their own, all searching for someone to blame. Another stone bounced from the scrubby spring grass and the noise rose as the soldiers encouraged each other. The police line withdrew as the soldiers advanced. Mendick frowned. “Sturrock. Run to West Bell Street and warn the Superintendent there’s trouble brewing. We might need reinforcements.” He frowned. “Top speed, man! I’ve seen redcoats on the batter before. It’s not a pretty sight.”

A small shirt-sleeved soldier swaggered forward, thrust his thumbs into his braces and faced Mendick.

“Are you in charge here?” When Mendick nodded he said, “We want to know who murdered Torrie and why you haven’t done something about it, eh?”

The crowd was now sixty or seventy strong, mostly soldiers. While some were probably out officially from Dudhope Castle barracks a mere quarter mile away to the south, Mendick suspected others were absent without leave, men who were already in trouble and careless of causing more. Voices rose to support the small man.

“Aye, why haven’t you done something about it? Who killed Davie Torrie eh?”

“Why isn’t this Chinese beggar hanging from a rope, eh?”

“We want China Jim!”

The faces were angry, confused, some flushed with drink, some fearful and staring towards the mutilated corpse. As the noise increased, Mendick took another step forward.

“Calm down now, men,” he shouted. “Show some consideration for poor Mr Torrie here!”

“Consideration! If you bastards had any consideration for us you’d have caught the monster by now!”

“Aye! Maybe it’s you who should show consideration!”

Holding his staff high, Mendick took a third step forward to show he was not afraid. He was now a full five yards in front of the police line and wondered if he could withdraw to safety before the soldiers caught him. The prospect of being kicked to pieces by iron-shod army boots was unappealing.

“I assure you that we are doing everything we can to trace this killer.”

“Was it China Jim?” A large and muscular redcoat joined his shirt-sleeved companion. “If it was China Jim, why have you not got him under lock and key?”

“We are following lines of enquiry,” Mendick attempted to sound confident. “And that is all I can say just now.”

“It was that bloody China Jim again,” a small man with a neat moustache said. He had the olive complexion of long service in the East and eyes hard enough to drill through granite. A blue-tinged scar on his left arm revealed he had been in a gunpowder explosion at some time. “We’ll get the bugger!”

“No!” Again Mendick brandished the official staff. “You cannot take the law into your own hands. If you want to help then return quietly to the barracks and let us get on with our job. Every soldier who knew David Torrie will be questioned by a police officer and can then pass on any useful information.”

“Oh aye? By that time the monster will have murdered half of Dundee!”

“Then don’t delay us now!” Mendick held the scarred soldier’s gaze until he turned away and began to walk down the slope of the Law. The others followed, in ones and twos and then in groups, some mumbling, others glancing back over their shoulders.

“That was well done,” Deuchars murmured.

“Aye, but I doubt it’s finished yet.” Mendick slid his staff back into its pocket. “Take two men and follow the soldiers, but be discreet. Don’t provoke them.”

“Oh, I won’t be provoking them,” Deuchars said, “I like to keep my head attached to my shoulders.”

It was nearly an hour before Mackay arrived with reinforcements and Dr Webster, and then the work of removing Torrie’s remains began. Mendick kept hold of the scrimshaw silhouette. He knew it was significant in some manner, but could not figure out why or how. He held the scrimshaw as he read the list of women named Rose he had asked the beat constables to compile.

“Rose Arnold?”

The woman looked up from the clattering machinery. She brushed the hair back from her face and nodded. Her eyes were sunk into a face lined with tiredness. “Yes. If it’s about the rent, I will find the money. Just give me time.”

Mendick showed the crown on his staff. “It’s not about the rent, Mrs Arnold. I am Sergeant Mendick of the Dundee Police and I am asking about a man named David Torrie.” He mentally compared her face with the silhouette on the scrimshaw. She looked a good ten years older and there was nothing oriental about her features.

“I don’t know any David Torrie.” Her eyes flickered with indignation. “Here! What sort of person do you think I am? I’m a respectable married woman! Just because I got a little behind with the rent doesn’t mean I know every Tom and Dick in Dundee . . .”

Mendick stopped her with an upraised hand. “I was not suggesting that for a second, Mrs Arnold.” He sighed as Sturrock reached in his pocket and produced a few shillings.

“How far behind with the rent are you, Mrs Arnold?” Sturrock asked.

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Not far enough that I take charity from a thief-catcher, anyway. I keep my own house.”

Mendick gave a small smile. “Come on, Sturrock. If you tried to give money to every woman in arrears in Dundee you’d need a never-ending purse.”

They left the factory and stood in the narrow confines of Brown Street with the cliff-like walls crowding them on either side, and carts growling past.

“That was the last Rose.” Sturrock consulted his list. “There were eighteen names and she was number eighteen. That’s another possible hope gone.”

Mendick nodded. “You better get about your business, Sturrock. I will get back to the office and write this up. He glanced again at the face on the scrimshaw and was still clutching it when he passed the square pillars of the entrance to the police office.

Deuchars was bustling past, straightening his hat with one hand and trying to push his staff into its inside pocket with the other. “Don’t get yourself settled, Sergeant. Wee Donnie wants everybody in the High Street. The lobsters are rioting. There’s blood and guts and broken heads all over the blasted place.”