Charles Fletcher lived in Danzig Cottage, a detached house in Carolina Port, a seagull’s call from Dundee Docks and within a brisk walk of the Baltic Exchange. As he walked up the short drive to the house, Watters glanced at the flowerbeds on either side, hoping in vain for a footprint.
“Here we are, Sergeant,” Scuddamore rapped with the brass door knocker and stepped back.
A smartly dressed maid opened the door, glanced at Scuddamore, adjusted her flag, 1 and curtseyed to Watters.
“Good morning, sirs,” she said, addressing Watters but with her eyes constantly swivelling to Scuddamore.
“We have come to see your master,” Watters told her. “Is he at home?”
“Yes, sir,” the maid gave a brief smile. “Who shall I say is calling?”
Watters touched his cane to the brim of his hat. “Sergeant W
