A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders by Malcolm Archibald

Author:Malcolm Archibald
Language: eng, eng
Format: epub
Tags: Dundee, Scotland, Murder, Mendick, Detective, Victorian, The Darkest Walk
Publisher: Fledgling Press
Published: 2013-08-04T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

He was flat on the floor, unable to move, looking at a collection of legs and feet. Six legs; there were three people then. He tried to rise, reached for his revolver and saw a foot casually kick it away from him.

“So what do we do with him now?” The man spoke as if there was gravel in his throat.

“Take him out to sea and dump him.” The voice was so muffled that Mendick knew he would never be able to identify it again.

“It would be easier just to shoot him,” the gravel-voiced man said.

“No,” the muffled voice came again. “Any fool can shoot a man. I wanted him ripped to shreds by the dogs but that can no longer be, so I want him to vanish without trace. Make sure there is nothing on him that can be identified.”

“His face will identify him.” That was the female with the harsh gutter voice.

“Not after the fishes have been at him,” gravel-voice said. “They go for the eyes first and then the soft flesh.” His laugh echoed around the room. “Within two days he will be half gone. Within a week he will be a skeleton.”

Mendick moved his hand, his revolver was too far away. Instead he formed a fist and punched hard behind the nearest knee. The gravel-voiced man staggered backward and Mendick rolled over, braced himself and stood up, just as the woman landed a mighty kick in his ribs. Mendick grunted with surprise at the force. He tried to push up, but somebody jumped on his back, thrusting him to the floor and the woman began to kick again, remorseless, gasping at each blow. The light glinted on the steel caps on her boots.

“Bastard, bluebottle bastard!” Her vocabulary was limited, Mendick thought, but she was handy with her boots. He tried to catch her ankle to trip her and she dodged, crashing her boot into his ribs then his face. Mendick saw the green cloak swirling then curled into a ball as the kicks hammered on.

“Beth is doing fine there. We could just kill him here and now,” the gravel-voiced man said casually, “and just dump the body.”

“Take him on board and pitch him over the side.” The other man gave the order.

“As you wish,” gravel-voice grunted.

Mendick felt a powerful grip on his collar hauling him upright. He allowed himself to be lifted, winced and swore as Beth slapped him hard across the face, and looked into her bitter eyes.

“You’re going to die, bluebottle,” she said, rolling the words around in her mouth. “Your wife will be waiting for you to come home, day after day after day . . .”

For a second, Mendick remembered Emma lying dying in childbirth. Her eyes liquid with love, her voice gentle but racked with pain in their bedroom that smelled of life and blood and her imminent death. The memory was agony.

He kicked out, catching Beth on her knee and sending her yelling to the ground. He lashed backwards with

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