Free The Secret Life and Curious Death of Miss Jean Milne by Andrew Nicoll Page B

Jean Milne of Elmgrove, Broughty Ferry, information is sought on any foreigner coming to the notice of the police.”
    I know these days, after Dr Crippen was hunted down in the middle of the ocean, after help was sent racing to those poor souls on the Titanic , such a thing is regarded as a commonplace, but I still think of it as a kind of miracle that communication can be achieved instantly from one end of the country to another in moments. From the extremes of these islands and, if needs be, across the breadth of the Empire, men could be put on their guard, thousands of pairs of eyes watching for our killer.
    But beyond “a maniac or a foreigner” they had little enough to go on, so Mr Sempill set us to finding out.
    “Fraser, from now on you are to consider yourself as Mr Trench’s right-hand-man. Abandon all other duties. Make yourself useful to him. Sleep when he sleeps and obey him in all things.”
    Mr Trench said: “Glad to have you, Sergeant. Let us begin with the funeral.” And so I found myself travelling one stop on the train from Broughty Ferry to Barnhill and then the step up the brae to the new burial grounds.
    After two days of newspaper reports and the Chief Constable’s handbills and a whole washing day of gossip, you may guess at the throng of folk who had come to gawk and gawp. The ladies, of course, did not approach the burial, as it would be both indelicate and unhealthy, especially in November. But the womenfolk of Broughty Ferry were well represented around the gates of the cemetery – not the fisher wives, you understand, for they were ordinary working women who could hardly take time away from baiting lines and caring for their children for a mere show – but ladies of quality who found themselves at a loose end on a Tuesday morning. I recognised several ladies prominent in the Anti-Suffragette League, of which Miss Milne had been a trenchant supporter. They had taken the trouble to find a bit of sombre black in their wardrobes, a mourning hat with perhaps a seemly veil to keep the chill wind off their complexions, and they were prepared to go out, see their friends and make sure that they were themselves seen. Our little murder had turned into quite the social event.
    The men, of course, were a little different. They made up all types and conditions; some of the quality had strolled along with their ladies, and the magistrates and baillies of the burgh council were there, of course. They would not normally attend the funerals of any but the most prominent citizens, but, in this case, a show of concerned fellow feeling was very much required. The Chief Constable, naturally, had gone on ahead and I noticed him making determined effort to avoid the gaze of Norval Scrymgeour, who, though his notebook was in his hand, at least had the good grace to arrive without his photographer while Mr Mackintosh, the Fiscal, could hardly bear to look at either of them and, filling out the crowd, were the usual idle loafers who might have been turning their hand to an honest day’s work but, instead, had chosen to come along for the fun.
    While they all crowded round the cemetery gates, I stood a little way off, on the other side of the street, with my detective lieutenant. He perfectly understood that a man in the midst of the crowd could see nothing of the crowd and the only way to keep a proper watch was to maintain a distance.
    There was a murmuring in the street until we heard the sound of horses’ hooves on the road and the crowd began to notice the approach of Coullie’s glass-panelled hearse.
    Coullie himself was walking in front, swinging his cane, top hat in hand with its long ribbons of black fluttering in the wind. He had provided two black horses to draw the hearse – he hired them in as needed – and it was driven by his elderly father, who sat on the box with the ease of a man who had performed such a service for his neighbours these many decades.
    Behind the hearse, with its grim cargo,