The Coffins Of The Aberdeen Ruse
Lorient Montaner
'It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.'—Edgar Allan Poe
Mystery was always the obvious inducement for my fascination to unravel its uncertain enigma. Therefore, I had pursued, with constant resolution, the goal of solving all the inscrutable mysteries that were considered irresoluble; and from amongst those unsolved mysteries was perhaps the most challenging yet to resolve. This formidable case, which I disclose candidly, was to be known by many as ‘The Coffins of the Aberdeen Ruse.'
It was the year 1899 when this incredible case occurred, in the city of Aberdeen, Scotland. For those who are not acquainted with my illustrious name, allow me to present myself through the mere admission of my character. I am Jack Cauvain, a punctilious and determined chief inspector. I had never before encountered a foe who was not unpredictable in his subterfuge, nor a case that was impossible to unmask in its intricate derivation. The nature of the contrivance exploited in this case was one of arrant deception.
I was at the building of 23 Whitehall Place in London when I was informed, through an urgent telegram, of the shocking murders occurring in the city of Aberdeen. I was aware of the insufficient details of the case, but there was one thing that had not been related to me: the unusual discovery of unmistakable coffins containing unsightly cadavers. The day was Monday, the first day of the week, and the month was November—a cold and unwelcoming time in the north-east of Scotland.
I took the train from London to Aberdeen, and once I arrived at last, after a long trip across the extensive countryside, I immediately spoke to the officer in charge of the Aberdeen Police Station, whose name was Officer Duncan Galloway. I could see in his expression that there was an unsettling solicitude distressing him. He gave me recent information on the case that I had been unaware of during my journey to the city.
Then, I was escorted to the crime scene, where, instead of discovering the gruesome evidence in one of the city’s transited streets, the crime scene was located in the eeriest place imaginable: a room of the Town House of what was known as Old Aberdeen, which had once been a separate burgh.
When I reached the building and descried the horrific cadaver within the coffin, what I saw was a stiff and decaying body that reeked of extreme putrefaction. It was manifest that the corpse was of an unidentified individual, but the identity was undetermined, as was the question of who had placed the cadaver in the coffin within that area in the first place.
The cadaver resembled the guise of a middle-aged woman, but it was too gloomy and opaque to decipher my enquiry with any certainty. There was another notable detail of the coffin: the unusual symbol located at the centre of the wooden coffin’s lid. This peculiar symbol warranted my full participation in the case.
‘Whit dae ye surmise has occurrit, inspector?’ Officer Galloway asked, with his thick Scottish brogue.
‘Judging from the scant evidence provided, Galloway, there is very little at the moment we can truly surmise. However, there are undeniable details that have arrested my attention forthwith’, I replied.
‘And whit are these details?’
‘If you look closely at the decomposition of the body, you will see precisely what I have seen—the rigor mortis, or rather, the process of expiry’.
‘The process o' the expiry—whit dae ye mean?’ Galloway insisted.
I exemplified what I was alluding to. ‘There, look at the fine lineaments, the gaunt discolouration of the countenance, and the markings on the neck—for they are evidence of strangulation, in my expert opinion. The victim was choked to death, by what most likely appears to have been constant pressure applied to the gullet’.
‘And the mysterious symbol? Whit is yer conclusion?’
‘My conclusion, you ask? First, the symbol appears to represent a bound chain of some archetypal fixation, which could denote the symbol of a cult. Second, the murder was committed within the span of one to four days. Finally, the cadaver was placed here specifically for a purpose. Therefore, it is clear that we are dealing with an unsolved murder, and based on the limited facts of the case, the likelihood of the involvement of a furtive cult seems feasible—though not yet proven’.
‘Then whit is the neist step?’
‘That all depends on the murderer, and whether what we are confronting here in Aberdeen is the work of the unhinged mind of a madman, or the irrational acts of a contemptible cult in the area. Sadly enough, I have dealt with many cases involving the obsessive inclusion of cults or secret societies, which have resulted in an inordinate amount of time wasted in futility’.
After we departed the Town House of Old Aberdeen, we headed towards the police station in the city, where we gleaned what we could from press cuttings and the depositions of the few witnesses interviewed. Along the way, I marvelled at the wonderful scenery of the city and pondered the contingency of a series of premeditated murders transpiring within the majestic composition of Aberdeen. It was my first visit to the city, and my knowledge of Aberdeen was neither abundant nor instructive.
Once we arrived at the station, I met the other officers who were assisting us. We then spoke to the earlier witnesses, who had discovered the decomposing cadavers in the coffins that were found. None of the witnesses divulged any pertinent information that precluded or concluded any incontrovertible facts.
They all seemed to corroborate each other’s version and maintained that they had not seen anyone present when they discovered the coffins. The lack of any description of the culprit severely limited our attempt to make an actual depiction of the murderer’s constitution.
What was known of the case was that the coffins were being found in distinctive areas of the city, each containing ghastly cadavers of recently killed individuals. As for the unique symbol on the coffins, that, I felt, was the indicative clue to the identity of the murderer’s agenda. The question was: what was the prime objective and ultimate aspiration?
Unfortunately, I did not have the time to speculate much, nor to formulate with precise accuracy my ratiocinative theory or presuppositions. I had already expounded my reasoning behind the possible motive for the murders to Galloway and the others, as we gathered pensively around the table.
I pondered the period that had elapsed before and after the coffins and cadavers were first reported. It was paramount that we established a timeframe for the murders, even though we were basing our conclusions on indeterminate conjectures that, at that moment, were largely impartial to the truth.
From my lengthy experience with such cases, I knew that the evidence left behind by criminals was intrinsically intertwined with the cause being evoked, serving as a veracious intimation of their supposed grievances. Deciphering the symbol was perhaps not the most demanding issue to resolve. What I considered more elemental was constructing the profile of the killer, for the fundamental component of the criminal was his ability to evade capture and detection by any watchful witnesses. I was not yet wholly concerned with the vivid description of the culprit; rather, my focus was on the scant facts retrieved. I was fully cognisant of the pertinence of that responsibility.
That night, a curfew was imposed on the inhabitants of Aberdeen. Although there was mild remonstrance demonstrated by a segment of the population, the curfew was authorised nonetheless. It was uncomfortable to implement such a drastic measure upon any city, but the number of murders had increased to eight with this latest crime.
From the indistinctive pattern deduced according to the evidence collected, the need to apprehend the criminal—and to investigate any attachment to a cult—was essential and necessitated our urgency. It would require superb introspection and further deliberation to denote the true initiative of the murderer.
For the time being, we remained highly attentive throughout the night, wondering and pondering whether the culprit would be emboldened to commit another murder, and if we would discover yet another cadaver in a coffin. That night, no murders of this nature were reported.
When I awoke the following morning, lying in my bed at the local hotel, I was informed that the killer had struck again. This time, the cadaver in the coffin had been located in the cellar of Gilcomston Church, on the corner of the main thoroughfare of Union Street. It took me only several minutes to arrive from the Caledonian Hotel to the church. When I did, Galloway was there in the cellar waiting for me.
‘Sir, the murderer has perpetuatit another crime in Aberdeen. Apparently, the murderer’s regard tae religious sanctuaries disnae say much for his respect.’
‘Respect, you say, Galloway? I am afraid you are sorely mistaken in your analogy. Religion has no part in the matter—except when madmen choose to elicit its name for their cause. That is called manipulation for profit, and regrettably, I have seen that often in my time as a sleuth. Now, tell me, what have you to inform me?’
He proceeded to tell me the details of the coffin that was located in the dark and clammy cellar of the church. ‘Whit I can acknowledge is nothin different from the previous murders—another cadaver in a coffin inside. There is somethin very important that’s pressin, sir’.
‘What is that, Galloway?’
‘We have a potential clue that could steer us in the right direction!’
‘At last, a worthy intimation to follow. Good God—don’t tarry any longer, and tell me, what is this potential clue?’
He showed me a train ticket that had been found on the floor outside the coffin and said, ‘I hope this piece o evidence can begin tae unravel the mystery’.
‘Perhaps! Nevertheless, we must proceed with caution—for although it might signify a valuable clue, we are not assured of its true importance. We must investigate the origin of the train ticket at once’.
Whilst I remained at the crime scene, Galloway left the church and headed to the railway by the square. I had instructed him to query at the station for the hours and routes of the train. What we knew about the ticket was its destination and its departure point, as well as the timings.
The destination was Aberdeen, but the departure was from the village of Cruden Bay, which was forty-two kilometres north of Aberdeen. I was somewhat sanguine that Galloway would ascertain the required information, or at least obtain a schedule. During the time that Galloway embarked on his task, I began to examine the cellar meticulously for any other pertinent clues. What had been proven so far was that the cadavers were still recent, and the deaths were due to definite strangulation.
There were conflicting thoughts in my mind that gradually converged, and one of those varied thoughts was the possibility of the killer being an undertaker or a sexton. I noticed, as with the previous cadavers, that the shroud bore specks of residual dust—the same dust one would expect to find within the soil of a graveyard.
There was another strange clue that I had failed to construe from the first murders: the coffins were freshly made, and this did not escape my sharpened perception. It was another indisputable indication supporting my growing supposition, which was becoming more feasible by the minute. I departed the cellar of the church and allowed the rector to continue with his regular duties, whilst I returned to the Police Station in anticipation of Galloway’s report.
When Galloway returned from the train station, he informed me that he had spoken with the ticket collector, who knew the hours of the departures and destinations of every recorded trip. This was not the momentous news that would prove germane, but rather, it was the rest of the information he provided that proved indispensable to the investigation. Galloway disclosed a correlative supposition that had yet to be considered: the criminal was not from Aberdeen, but from outside the city.
In this case, he was possibly from the small village of Cruden Bay. Although there was still not adequate proof to directly substantiate that premise, the thought of that eventuality was rational. The contemplation of the murderer being a sexton or an undertaker was not irreconcilable, but increasingly aligned with the details uncovered in the case.
I pondered the modus operandi of the killer with acute attention and came to the sudden realisation that this possibility was becoming ever more probable. This would require reliable confirmation. There was still much evidence to retrieve and further information on the culprit to determine. I revealed my discovery and theory of the murders at the Town House to Galloway, and he concurred with my assumption regarding the undertaker or sexton.
That night, we preconceived that the killer would strike again and attempt to conceal his victim in a coffin within the city. The pattern of the murders was proving to be predictable—except in one circumstantial aspect: the location of the murders and the placement of the bodies.
Despite the curfew imposed, it was inevitable that the morning would bring fresh terror that would continue to disturb and affright the inhabitants of Aberdeen. It was my duty as a man of law to apply my utmost diligence to every case under my charge.
I was conscious of the gravity of the case and the strategy we were undertaking, but I did not have a positive identification of the murderer. I could not sleep that night, as I sensed another murder was imminent. I was not mistaken, and before long, there was a knock on my hotel chamber door.
It was Galloway informing me that another cadaver had been discovered in Aberdeen, this time backstage at the Music Hall on Union Street, right in the city centre. Upon arriving at the Music Hall, I found myself deep in thought, reflecting on my tentative theory regarding the identity of the murderer. Without delay, I carefully examined the coffin and the deceased to determine whether the clues I had previously uncovered at the church corresponded with those of the coffin found in the theatre.
'Without a doubt, we are dealing with a cult, Galloway!' I exclaimed.
'How dae ye know that, inspector?' Galloway asked.
'Trust me, I can state unequivocally that no single man is behind these murders. Moreover, look at the coffin—there’s no soil present, nor any evidence suggesting the same dishevelled condition as the others. This coffin is newer than the rest. I would even venture to say it is finely wrought oak'.
'Aye’m afraid I don’t quite follow'.
'It’s simple! An undertaker or sexton would not so cleanly place a body into a coffin—especially one as refined as this—on a whim. Either the murderer is aware of us and is attempting to mislead us, or, as I suspect, he has an accomplice'.
'But who?'
'That’s for us to ascertain—and it won’t be an easy task'.
'So, what are we to do next?' Galloway pressed.
'Find the murderer!' I replied.
'But where?'
'That is the question yet to be answered. Trust me, we shall find him sooner rather than later. He will inevitably make a careless mistake. That much I have learnt from dealing with the criminal mind. They are always self-indulgent and proud by nature—behaviours they cannot suppress'.
Whilst we were still backstage, I became aware of someone’s presence inside the theatre. Quietly, I stepped into the auditorium and looked up towards the lofty balcony, where I caught sight of a hand swiftly pulling the velvet drapes shut. I hurried up the stairway to the balcony, but upon arrival, I found no one—only the theatre’s curator, who stood there, apparently undisturbed by my presence. Seeing nothing suspicious, I left him tending to the folding seats in the aisles and descended the staircase once again.
Galloway asked why I had gone up to the balcony and what our next course of action would be. I calmly explained that I had perhaps seen something odd but, in the end, it had come to nothing. Regarding his second question, I made a bold suggestion—one that would ultimately change the course of the investigation: I proposed that we visit Aberdeen’s graveyards. At first, Galloway seemed uncertain whether I was serious, but I made my intentions clear in the most straightforward manner.
Whether or not I was correct in suspecting that multiple individuals were involved would depend entirely on what we discovered next. At that stage of the case, it was the most viable lead we had. We visited numerous graveyards—from Dyce Cemetery to Newhills and Hazlehead. Nothing of much significance presented itself at those locations until we arrived at Trinity Cemetery, at the far end of Errol Street, between King Street and the road to Old Aberdeen.
The cemetery was remote and desolate, as one would expect, and we were met with a damp, chilly mist that cloaked the city’s outskirts. I was less concerned with the visible fog than with the suspicions I had been mulling over.
Once at Trinity Cemetery, we sought to speak with the local sexton. At first, he was nowhere to be seen, and despite scanning the tombstones, I could not locate him. Perhaps he was absent, or perhaps his services were simply not required that day. Galloway remained unsure what exactly we were searching for.
I was about to explain my reasoning when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, the unmistakable figure of the sexton in the far corner of the cemetery, shovelling earth for what looked to be a freshly prepared grave. Galloway followed as I approached him, eager to secure answers to the troubling question of the culprits’ identities.
'Good evening, sir. I’m Inspector Cauvain, and I shan’t take much of your time, but I’d like to have a word with you'. I said.
'Good evening, inspector. Whit can I do for ye?' the sexton replied.
'I was wondering if you might answer a question for me'.
'O’ course, whatever service I can be'.
'Excellent. As you are the sexton here, you are in the best position to offer an informed answer'.
'And what exactly is it ye want to know?' He asked.
'I’m curious—how long would it take to transport a coffin from one location to another?'
'Och, that depends!'
'Indeed. For the sake of discussion, let’s say from any of Aberdeen’s cemeteries to the city centre'.
'I reckon it wouldn’t take long by carriage—but that’s just speculation, mind'.
'Fifteen to twenty minutes—would you agree?'
'Aye, I should think so'.
'Thank you. And your name?'
'Mr Craig'.
'Much obliged, Mr Craig'.
'What’s so relevant about that question?' Galloway asked curiously.
'Relevant enough to give me a solid lead on the murderer’s pattern', I replied.
'How so?' Galloway pressed.
'I’ll explain my theory. First, the murderer is shrewd enough to know and calculate the distance from the cemeteries to the city’s heart. Second, by masquerading as a sexton, he can appear to be performing an innocent duty. Third, there’s the strong possibility of a cult’s involvement. Fourth, the murders and their locations have been meticulously planned. The clinching evidence is the soil. Go on, feel it for yourself—you’ll see that it’s the same soil as that found in the coffins. Yes, Galloway, we are not dealing with a lone suspect but multiple culprits. Now, the question remains—are they locals, or are they coming from outside the city, perhaps from Cruden Bay?'
We left the cemetery and returned to the police station, where we reviewed our options. I had not forgotten the mysterious symbol and instructed Galloway to liaise with editors of the local newspapers.
From previous experience, I knew that although the press was not always reliable in its reporting, criminals were often drawn to the lure of publicity. Whilst Galloway was busy with that task, I pondered the motives behind the murders and the hidden significance of the murderers’ actions. It was essential that these lingering questions be resolved decisively. It wasn’t long before we received a crucial breakthrough regarding the enigmatic symbol.
A gentleman named Montgomery Morrison came forth, offering his expertise. He was a scholarly young man, well-versed in the symbol’s history and the cult it represented.
According to Mr Morrison, the symbol was the insignia of a secret society known as the Oddfellows—a fraternity with lodges established both nationally and internationally.
'Can you elaborate?' I asked.
'Certainly, inspector. The mysterious symbol you found—the triple links—is a well-known emblem of the Oddfellows, symbolising their motto: "Amicitia, Amor et Veritas"—Friendship, Love and Truth. The Oddfellows fraternity dates back to 1730 in London. Following the Jacobite risings, the fraternity split: the Patriotic Oddfellows in southern England supported William III, while the Ancient Order of Oddfellows in northern England and Scotland favoured the House of Stuart. The Scottish branch has been established for nearly a year, and their seal is that of the Sovereign Grand Lodge of the Independent Order of Oddfellows, a non-political, non-sectarian organisation. Their mission is to elevate moral standards for the betterment of humanity. I have never heard of any member admitting to murder', Mr Morrison said.
'They never do, Mr Morrison'.
He went on to recount a similar case in Manchester a decade earlier: coffins had been discovered across the city, and a man was later apprehended and convicted of the crimes.
'Do you recall his name? It’s crucial to the case'.
'I believe his name was Callum MacClure'.
At last, a solid lead. Whether Callum MacClure was the murderer or the mastermind behind the scheme, he was now central to our investigation. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, and I was prepared to pursue this lead with resolve. The next step was to determine whether this elusive figure was alive—or dead.
This anonymous man held the key to unlocking the enigma of the case, and I was fully prepared to meet him. We needed to determine whether this obscure individual was still alive or dead. All that was known about him was his name—and the dastardly crimes he had perpetrated in Manchester.
That was ten years ago, but I was uncertain whether he still lived in Manchester. I remained optimistic that he was alive and connected to the series of murders, either by association or by a burden of guilt. I had sent a telegram to Manchester, specifically to the Manchester Police, requesting critical information about the case. I would have to wait until morning for their response.
Meanwhile, the only thing we could do was maintain the curfew and continue our diligent investigation. Instead of waiting in my hotel chamber, I decided to join the officers patrolling the broad streets of Aberdeen that night, hoping to uncover new clues that might advance our evidence.
Galloway had also wished to join the patrol, and I acquiesced. Identifying the suspicious cult of the Oddfellows had given me enough reason to organise my thoughts in a clear, sequential manner. I was more resolute than ever in my intention to solve this compelling mystery with the utmost assiduity and certitude.
I did not expect mere chance to resolve these murders. I relied on determination and methodical inquiry to bring about the result I sought. That night, I believed the dauntless murderer would make his first critical mistake—an error that would betray him. I was stationed at the Tivoli Theatre on Guild Street, whilst Galloway was positioned at the Capital Theatre on Union Street.
Aberdeen’s buildings, constructed of solid quarried grey granite, sparkled like silver in the dim light. I waited patiently for any sign of foul play. As I lingered, I noticed blood trickling slowly into the underground sewer nearby.
Approaching the sewer, I saw a wagon swiftly pass by, and, to my horror, the head of a dead woman dangled from it. At once, I alerted the officers with me, and the sound of whistles pierced the night. The wagon sped onwards, and we pursued it along the path towards Victoria Dock, where its left wheel suddenly lost control and crashed near a row of provision containers.
The driver was still inside, conscious but barely moving. When we reached the wagon to identify him, we were startled to discover it was Mr Craig, the local sexton—and the dead woman appeared to be the latest victim of this case.
She was a lovely young woman, apparently strangled. Her neck bore vivid marks of strangulation, and her expression was vacant and wan. Her eyes remained open, large and ghostly blue.
Mr Craig was bombarded with questions, most importantly: what was he doing with a dead woman’s body in his wagon at such an hour? He replied that he had been summoned to transport the body to Newhills Cemetery for burial. I did not believe him. Instead of pressing with repetitive questions, I asked the most crucial one: who had ordered him to bring the body?
There was hesitation at first, until he muttered the memorable name: Callum MacClure. Yes, the very same Callum MacClure that Mr Morrison had mentioned as the killer in Manchester ten years ago. The answer was vague and insufficient to confirm anything, but it was a significant thread.
It became vital to locate Mr MacClure as soon as possible, and to do that, we needed a reliable photograph of him. One valuable piece of evidence arose from apprehending Mr Craig: the coffins being shipped to the Aberdeen dock. Someone of higher authority was clearly instructing Craig on what to do with the coffins and cadavers.
Mr Craig was taken to the police station for further interrogation. We had solved one piece of the perplexing puzzle, but much remained. The pressing matter now was unmasking the true mastermind behind this elaborate scheme.
At the station, I sensed Mr Craig was unlikely to reveal much more and that his involvement might have been limited to disposing of the bodies. That night, I returned to my hotel, eagerly awaiting news from Manchester about Callum MacClure. Could it be that the sexton’s part in these horrendous crimes was merely his careless participation in hiding the corpses of countless victims?
The next morning, I received the essential telegram from Manchester: Mr Callum MacClure had indeed been apprehended ten years ago, but, disturbingly, he had been transferred to an asylum in Edinburgh two years ago. This meant he was still alive—and either confined in that institution or had escaped.
Galloway arrived at the hotel to escort me to the train station, where I would travel to Edinburgh to unravel the mystery of Callum MacClure’s true identity. I would go alone, while Galloway continued the arduous investigation in Aberdeen. The train ride to Edinburgh was expected to take nearly three hours.
Upon arrival, I took a hansom cab to the asylum, located outside the city. There, I met Dr Brodie, the head of the asylum. We spoke at length in the west wing hall of the main building. He was a very officious and perceptive man.
When I inquired about Callum MacClure, Dr Brodie looked me in the eye and gave a disconcerting response: MacClure was no longer at the asylum. Alarmed, I asked where he might be. Dr Brodie answered that MacClure had been released two months ago.
He did not know MacClure’s current whereabouts or what had become of him. This admission was unexpected, yet disturbingly logical under the circumstances. I assumed that if MacClure had been released, his doctors had deemed him sane. Still, my instincts urged me not to dismiss the possibility that he remained involved in the crimes.
'If I may ask, Dr Brodie, what can you tell me, clearly, about Callum MacClure?' I pressed.
'Simply that the man you mention, inspector, was very disturbed—both when he arrived and when he left', Dr Brodie replied.
'By Jove! Are you implying, doctor, that he was released in a state of insanity? Why was he allowed back into public life if he posed a clear danger to society? It makes no bloody sense!' I exclaimed in sudden outrage.
Dr Brodie nodded gravely and explained the unsettling truth: the asylum had been severely overcrowded with new patients, and its limited resources were stretched thin. 'We were forced to release certain patients, especially those without wealthy families to support their continued care'.
'It is indeed unthinkable that any institution would bow to the reverence of wealth, but certainly, I cannot blame you for this injustice and oversight'.
'I am afraid that if this man, who committed such abominable crimes in Manchester ten years ago, is behind the murder spree in Aberdeen, then you are dealing with an insatiable madman who will not be stopped so easily'.
'I hope that you are mistaken, for the sake of the people of Aberdeen'.
Immediately after I departed the madhouse, I returned to the railway station and took the next train departing from Edinburgh to Aberdeen. I arrived in Aberdeen that evening, and upon arrival, I proceeded straight to the Police Station to speak with Galloway, so that he could be apprised of the troubling disclosure I had uncovered at the asylum in Edinburgh.
The streets of the city were under heavier patrol, as I had instructed Galloway to deploy more officers throughout the area. There had been no significant developments since my departure, save for one piece of information that seemed, perhaps, of notable importance to the investigation.
Galloway divulged that the ticket collector had reported to one of the patrolling officers that a mysterious man had boarded the train with fresh bloodstains on his shoes. The man had not been questioned and was allowed to board the train, but the ticket collector had managed to give an accurate description of him.
Galloway had interrogated the ticket collector but could not issue an arrest warrant based merely on a supposition or deduction. He revealed to me that the sexton, Mr Craig, had requested to speak with me in his cell, but not before I spoke with Mr Morrison, who had been waiting for me at the station. I proceeded to converse with Mr Morrison, knowing that the matter must be of utmost urgency.
'Mr Morrison, it is good to see you again, but if you don't mind, I am on a tight schedule. Have you obtained any further information about the “Oddfellows”?' I asked.
'Inspector Cauvain, I am glad you have returned. Officer Galloway mentioned you were out of the city. Am I to assume you were busy gathering more facts for the case?' He said.
'Yes.'
'Good news, I suspect?'
His eyes exhibited a trace of preoccupation. 'You look a bit concerned', I noted.
'Should I concern myself?' He said with a smile, as if to disguise his unease.
'Then tell me, what new information do you have?'
'I was in my private study, reading documents about the “Oddfellows,” and I found this letter that may be significant'.
'A letter? From whom?'
'Callum MacClure!' He uttered.
'Callum MacClure, you say? Where is the letter now?'
'Here, I brought it with me, inspector. It is a letter sent to me by Mr MacClure. I do not know how he obtained my address or how he knew of my involvement in the case', he admitted.
He handed me the letter, and I read its contents. The letter mentioned the murders in detail and specified my name as well. The harrowing words written in it were palpably felt as I read, driven by a rapid urge to uncover the truth about Callum MacClure.
The date on the letter indicated it was written during the period I had taken over the investigation. It was clear this deranged individual, the author of the letter, had keen awareness of my participation, either through the newspapers or hearsay from someone.
It was alarming that this troubling circumstance had arisen because of my visible involvement. I had dealt with similar situations in the past while investigating other cults. Though the names and details differed, they all bore a striking resemblance in their circumstantial nature. This fact was irrefutable in both action and consequence.
There was no doubt in my mind that Callum MacClure was alive and implicated in the murders. The question that continued to burden me was what his duplicitous association truly was. I asked Mr Morrison what he would do if he were Callum MacClure. His response was somewhat ambiguous.
'If I were Callum MacClure, you ask, inspector? I suppose I would attempt to control my irrepressible rage and seek interment'.
'It is an interesting answer, but do you believe he would not want to be apprehended?' I asked.
'Do you mind if I smoke?'
'Not at all'.
'Now, as for your question, that I do not know—until he has been arrested', he retorted.
Mr Morrison soon left the Police Station, and I proceeded to the cell where Mr Craig was being held, so that I could speak with him. When I arrived, he appeared very frightened and wearisome, as though conscious of his surroundings and of someone nearby.
'Mr Craig, you wanted to talk to me? What for?'
'Aye, inspector, ye must believe me when I say to ye that I am no' the murderer, and that my involvement in the murders was strictly transporting the coffins'.
'What about the cadavers? Surely, you were aware of them', I boldly admonished.
'Och, I swear that I am no' the murderer!' He interposed.
'It is very important that you be honest in your reply. Where is Callum MacClure now?'
'I swear I dinnae ken!' He exclaimed.
'Then at least give me an accurate description of Callum MacClure. Think hard on this question, for it will affect your sentencing'.
He paused, as though meditating on the question, and then said, 'Och, he wore dark spectacles and a top hat, and was dressed in dark colours. He was lanky and fidgety, wi' long hair, and I only remember one convincin’ feature of him—he bore a scar on the right side of his face. He also smokes a particular cigar that is foreign. One other thing—he is missing a finger on his left hand'.
That was all Mr Craig could tell me about Callum MacClure, but I felt he was being sincere. I perceived his injudicious ingratiation and involvement in the murders to be genuine. Therefore, I made the deliberate decision to leave him in the cell until we had solved the case. I had sufficient charges against him to keep him detained. Mr Craig’s testimony enabled me to put into action my audacious plan to trap the compulsive murderer and his remaining accomplices.
It was propounded and determined that we would have officers stationed at the railway station, others at the city centre, and more at the docks. If another murder were to be committed, we would be ready to apprehend him. Galloway joined the vigilant officers at the city centre, while I waited at the railway station. I had a peculiar presentiment that the killer did not reside in Aberdeen, but instead used the train to enter the city and commit his despicable crimes.
Once more the curfew was imposed, as we closed the Union Terrace Gardens, which were full of roses, daffodils and crocuses. The killer had struck again, and this time the murder had occurred in the Union Terrace Gardens. One of the officers had seen a lone waggon, with a dead person in the rear, and had blown his whistle to alert the other officers. Suddenly, the chase was on, as the waggon headed rapidly towards Denburn Road. We had cut off direct access to Black Wynd, but the waggon passed through and then on to Guild Street, Regent Quay and Waterloo Quay, by the Aberdeen Lerwick.
It turned into Wellington Street, as various officers had blocked off Clarence Street. There was no viable impasse he could take to reach the pier. An unrecognisable man then jumped from the waggon and began to run towards the train station, but we were there waiting for him. As he reached the station, the vibrant sound of the engine could be heard, with a train departing. He soon boarded the train, as we had permitted him to do so. What the desperate murderer did not know was that we were already on board, waiting steadfastly for his arrival.
When he boarded, we arrested him on the spot forthwith. He was wearing the same disguise that Mr Craig had described at the police station. He gave no fierce resistance, but was clearly surprised to find us on the train. I removed his dark spectacles and, at last, I came face to face with the infamous murderer himself. I was not stupefied—for, you see, I had known who he was before he removed his spectacles and top hat. I had known ever since I left the police station earlier. I had not informed Galloway because I did not want to jeopardise the daring plan I sought to execute with absolute precision.
‘Mr Morrison, or should I say, the enigmatic Callum MacClure? You almost succeeded in deceiving me completely with your dissimulation, but you made one fatal mistake—the underlying seal on the letter. I shall expatiate. You see, I too had investigated the 'Oddfellows', and the seal that was used on the letter was almost identical to the original seal of the order. However, there was one tiny discernible distinction—the misprint of the motto’, I said.
‘I should have known that you would ultimately solve this case with your unbending persistence, inspector. But you forget one thing—I shall be found unfit to stand trial, and I shall be interned in an asylum, from where I shall escape anew', he said, those poignant words accompanied by incessant laughter.
‘Perhaps you are correct, but I assure you that I shall be there to arrest you if so’, I asseverated as I stood eye to eye with him.
‘And I shall be waiting, Inspector Cauvain’, he assented with an unfeeling expression.
He was, inconceivably, beyond any expostulatory assistance of mine, but I had solved the obfuscating case that became known as ‘The Coffins of the Aberdeen Ruse’. The ruse was the mysterious symbol, which I had exhaustively deciphered with my wayward insistence.
He was then escorted off the train and taken to the police station, where he was to be kept until a magistrate decided whether he was to be sent to prison or another asylum. His redoubtable reign of terror had abated, as I recounted the facts that had accrued to Galloway ex post facto.
I explained the actualised events to Galloway, that Mr Morrison was indeed the incontinent and ubiquitous Callum MacClure. When I told him, he asked how I had known Mr Morrison was verily Callum MacClure, as I did not have a supportable clue of his real appearance.
My answer was derived from the details Mr Craig had provided of the killer—the missing finger on the left hand and the cigar that he smoked. I had noticed this when speaking to Mr Morrison at the police station, as he handed me the letter and took a cigar out of his coat. Mr Morrison, or Callum MacClure, had been erroneously released from the asylum in Edinburgh and had begun his killing spree in Aberdeen.
He had lived in Cruden Bay and commuted by train to the city to commit his reprehensible crimes of depravity. He paid Mr Craig, the sexton, handsomely to transport the bodies to miscellaneous areas of Aberdeen, whilst he absconded justice by taking the train. Of course, the memorable seal of the letter was what had sealed his decisive demise.
I stood near the edge of the train, my hand resting on the cold metal frame, the view before me blurring into streaks of fading twilight. The evening air was crisp, a sharp contrast to the warmth that seemed to linger in my thoughts.
I wasn’t looking at the horizon, nor the fields stretching into the distance. My focus was inward, my mind turning over the events of the last few hours, replaying the arrest of Callum MacClure—or Mr. Morrison, as he had been known to most. The satisfaction of the case being closed was tempered by a lingering sense of unease, an unsettled feeling that had nothing to do with the case itself and everything to do with the man we had just apprehended.
It was strange, the way his calm had affected me. Most criminals, when caught, were frantic, desperate, or even violent. But MacClure had been none of these things. There had been no wild struggle, no attempt at escape. When we had surrounded him, he simply stopped, as if he had known all along that this moment was inevitable. And that was what bothered me.
As I gazed out into the fading light, I reflected on his final words. He had spoken with such certainty, as if he had already accepted that his capture would not be the end of his story. 'I shall be found incompetent to stand trial, and I shall be interned in an asylum, where I shall escape anew'. His tone had been almost detached, as if the idea of justice were an abstract concept to him, something to be circumvented rather than confronted.
It was the kind of remark a man might make when he had convinced himself that the rules didn’t apply to him. But there was more to it. I thought about his earlier actions—his meticulous planning, the way he had woven a tapestry of deceit and false identities. He had been playing a game, a game in which he had always been the strategist, always the one pulling the strings. But what kind of man was he, really? What drove him to take such risks, to kill without hesitation, to outsmart everyone around him?
MacClure was not a man driven by vengeance or hatred. There had been no personal vendetta in his killings. He had been driven, instead, by a deeper, more disturbing need—control. Every detail of his plan had been calculated, each move made with the precision of a chess master. The letters, the bodies carefully placed, the cryptic symbols—these were not the actions of a man lost in rage, but of someone who had crafted an entire narrative for himself. A narrative in which he was both the creator and the destroyer, above the law, and, in his own mind, above reproach.
The thought of it sent a chill down my spine. It wasn’t the murder itself that had fascinated him, but the art of evading capture, of manipulating events to his will. He had believed, truly believed, that he could outsmart the system. That even in the face of his capture, he would be able to twist his fate, turn it into another part of his grand scheme. The asylum, his supposed escape—those were his contingency plans, the next phase of the game.
And yet, there had been that small mistake, the detail that finally gave him away—the misprinted motto on the seal of the letter. That tiny flaw, overlooked in his meticulous planning, had undone him. It was as if, in his obsession with control, he had forgotten that the smallest imperfection could unravel the most carefully laid plans. It was almost poetic, in a way. The man who thought he could control everything had been brought down by a simple error.
I let out a slow breath, watching the mist rising from the ground as the train was about to depart. I had caught him, yes, but in some ways, I couldn’t help but feel that the case had left me with more questions than answers. What had truly driven him to this madness? Was it simply the desire to feel in control, or was there something deeper, something buried in his past that had shaped this need for dominance over life and death?
It was a question I would likely never have the answer to, and in some ways, that was the most unsettling part of the entire ordeal. MacClure’s mind had been so compartmentalised, so consumed by his own narrative, that he had ceased to see the lives he had taken as anything more than pieces on a chessboard. And now, as he sat in custody, awaiting whatever fate awaited him, I wondered—would he ever truly understand the consequences of his actions? Or would he continue to view himself as the master of his own story, even from within a prison cell?
I turned away from the window and walked back into the air of the evening, my mind still turning over the complexities of MacClure’s psyche. The case was over, but the reflection on it—the analysis of a mind so different from my own—was far from finished. It was the nature of the work, I supposed. The hunt might have ended, but the puzzle would always remain, pieces scattered, waiting for the next observer to make sense of them.
For now, though, the puzzle was solved. And yet, I knew this would never be the last time I stood at the edge of a train, looking out into the unknown, pondering the workings of a mind that refused to follow the rules.
Subsequently, the murders ceased, and the indefinite cadavers in the coffins did as well. The other accomplices who were arrested had played a minor part in the crimes; nevertheless, they were prosecuted, and the reputation of the cult of the ‘Oddfellows’ was severely tarnished for decades. There was one unnerving thing of which I was not exceedingly confident—and that was whether Callum MacClure would ever kill another innocent person again.
The office was quiet, save for the ticking of the old clock. Most of the officers had gone, leaving only Galloway and me. I sat back in my chair, the case finally closed, yet I felt an uneasy weight. The satisfaction I had expected didn’t come. There was something about the whole affair—something about MacClure—that gnawed at me.
I picked up the letter MacClure had sent, the one that had ultimately betrayed him. It seemed so trivial now, the misprinted seal, but that tiny flaw had unraveled everything. He had been so careful, so meticulous, yet that one detail had cost him. I couldn’t help but wonder about his state of mind when he realised the game was over. Had he known? Or had he been so convinced of his own brilliance that he still thought he could escape?
His calm acceptance on the train—'I shall be found incompetent to stand trial'—echoed in my mind. There had been no fear, only a detached certainty that this wasn’t the end. It was as if he had already planned his next move, even after everything had fallen apart. I found myself admiring his intelligence, even if it had been twisted.
But even as I tried to understand him, I knew the case wasn’t truly closed. MacClure might be confined now, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that, somewhere, there would always be another escape waiting. The mystery of his mind would never be fully solved.
With that, I stood and left the office, stepping into the cool night, knowing that, for me, the work would never truly be over.
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