Traced and Tracked; Or, Memoirs of a City Detective

by James M'Govan

“Jim was aye a gude laddie, and though he was led away he wadna lift his hand against his mother. Joe Knevitt did it, the ungrateful scoondrel, after me daeing him a gude turn. But dinna tell Jim or he’ll kill him, and twa deaths winna mak’ ae life.”

We easily picked up Knevitt, but he denied the whole with such manifest horror, and gave such explanations, that we set out to hunt for Jim, and I was the one destined to unearth him; and also, I regret to say, to inform him of the fearful crime he had committed. That scene I can never describe. He dropped on his knees, rolled and writhed on the floor, tearing his hair in a frenzy of agony, moaning out but the two words—“My mother! My mother! My mother!” Of course he confessed the whole crime in every detail; but his mother was never told of the hand that gave her the death-blow. She lingered for some months, and, the doctors said, did not actually die of the wound, but of some trouble of the heart, brought on by the excitement and pain. Jim was tried and convicted of manslaughter only, and was sentenced to two years’ imprisonment. The sentence may seem light, but that was not his punishment. He carried that within him. Joe Knevitt’s bones now lie in the prison yard, but Jim’s dust is in a foreign land, where he died on a battlefield in a way that made men call him a hero. They did not know the secret of his daring.

THE HERRING SCALES.

The hawker of the herrings was not of the class usually seen in the streets of Edinburgh, where they seldom own more than the wheel-barrow containing the fish. He was a man of some substance, having a donkey to draw his cart, and a number of pigs, and a big garden, in which he worked during his spare hours. The place in which he lived is a town some miles from Edinburgh, and the time when the quarrel began the month of July. The quarrellers were a baker named Dan Coglin, and the herring hawker aforesaid, Jamie Burfoot by name. The baker was also a man of some means, being in business for himself, and he would have prospered had it not been for his uncontrollable temper. Coglin had in his time threatened to murder every friend and acquaintance in the place, and doubtless in the heat of his passion really meant to do so, but fresh objects for his resentment constantly arose to divert him from his purpose. He was one of those unhappy beings who meet with mighty wrongs, and slights, and insults every day of their lives, and feel called upon to set the world right in that respect, no matter at how great a risk to themselves.

The quarrel took place at the bakehouse door, and was witnessed from a stairhead above by a tailor named Thomas Elder, who had already had more than one disagreement with the hot-headed baker.

Burfoot had stopped his donkey cart at the bakehouse door, and offered some of his herrings for sale. They were fresh herrings, but that was just the point on which the dispute began. Coglin said they were stale, and added that Burfoot had cheated him often in the same way before, adding some lively reflections on his character, from which it appeared that the herring hawker ought to have been hanged many years before.

Now, as often happens quite providentially in such cases, only one of the men was violent. Burfoot was a quiet, canny customer, who only laughed at the most outrageous of the baker’s remarks. His character was in no danger from the insane ravings of such a man, and the herrings were there to speak for themselves. He lifted one of the finest, and handed it to the baker, saying simply—

“If that isn’t fresh out of the sea this morning I’ll give you the whole load for nothing.”

This was said laughingly. Coglin took the herring, affected to sniff at it, and then, with an expression of disgust, threw it back. Burfoot’s mouth was open, and the pitched herring dived into the cavity as neatly as if it had really been, what the hawker asserted, “living.” Burfoot sputtered and choked, while the tailor above, though wishing the quarrel to go the other way, could not restrain a burst of laughter at the comical appearance the hawker cut. There is a limit even to the endurance of a peaceable man. Burfoot no sooner was free of the unexpected mouthful than he wildly grabbed a handful of herrings from the cart, and battered them, as fast as he could fire them, in the direction of the baker’s head. Coglin retreated and closed the bakehouse door, and after some storming and threatening Burfoot picked up the missiles he had used, tossed them back into the cart, and drove on, shouting “Fine fresh herrings!” Four or five of them, which had been dashed in at the open door at the retreating baker, that worthy gathered up and complacently put into a dish in the oven for his dinner. He was in a good temper, for he thought he had got decidedly the best of the quarrel. He was to change his mind next morning. Coglin’s business was a small one, and, except at specially busy times, he did all his baking himself. He was therefore the first and only one on the spot next morning. The hour was an early one, but it was quite light, and he noticed at once that something was wrong. The principal window to the bakehouse had been raised, and the lower sash left wide open. The circumstance excited his curiosity and surprise, but did not at first greatly concern him. There was little of value in the bakehouse for thieves to take, and he thought the raising of the sash might be only the trick of some mischievous boy. He unlocked the door and got inside, looked around the place, and then groaned and cursed to his heart’s content. The batch for his early baking had been carefully “set” the night before, that is, the dough had been carefully mixed in a wooden trough, covered over with a board and some empty sacks, and left to “rise.” It had not risen as he had expected, for the coverings had been removed; his bakehouse “bauchles” had been stuck into the soft mass, with all the shapes and biscuit markers, and a dirty can of sugar and water, with its paint-brush, with which he anointed cookies when they came hot from the oven, added on the top. That was not all. A bag half-full of flour, which generally stood in a corner, had been dragged forward and turned out on the floor, while into the white heap had been poured his whole supply of barm.

When he had quite exhausted his stock of language, Coglin rose, and, closing the window and door, made his way to the chief constable’s house, where he roused that worthy man out of bed, and insisted upon him dressing and coming to see the wreck.