The Greatest Challenge of Them All

by Stephanie Laurens

  From beneath heavy lids, Drake stared at Finnegan, then he humphed and slanted a glance at Louisa; she’d been sleeping on her side beside him, but had come up on her elbow to peer at Finnegan and was now wide awake and looking interested. “All right.” Glancing at Finnegan, Drake added, “Coffee, tea, and toast in the breakfast room in five minutes. Now get out.”

  “Indeed, my lord.” Finnegan bowed toward the window. “Consider me gone.” He spun on his heel and made for the door.

  Louisa fell back on the pillows. The instant she heard the door click shut, she said, “More dead bodies.” A second later, she added, “I wonder whose.”

  Drake had remained sitting up. He reached over and slapped her derriere. “Up! Apparently, the day has started without us. We need to catch up.”

  CHAPTER 49

  G riswade sat at the window of the tavern on the eastern corner of Lower Thames Street and nursed a pint of ale while he watched the world go by.

  Truth be told, he had no interest in the activity on the river or about Tower Stairs, just visible across the cobbles. His attention was fixed on the steady stream of carts and drays making their biweekly or weekly trip through the arched entrance of Middle Tower, rumbling into the Outer Ward to make their deliveries of all things comestible.

  Including ale.

  Apparently idly—outwardly as patient as the day was long—Griswade waited and watched. He felt like biting his nails; anxiety over this one-but-last step, the need to ensure that nothing went wrong at this penultimate stage, pricked worse than burrs under his skin.

  More than any other stage of this long-winded plot, this one held the greatest potential to go awry. The old man had insisted that this step be accomplished by subterfuge alone, without any direct involvement. That would definitely not have been Griswade’s choice, but the old man’s planning had been exemplary thus far; although it went against his grain, Griswade had stuck with the old man’s plan.

  Now he waited and sipped and watched.

  Then he saw them. He almost doubted his eyes, but there they unarguably were—two drays marked with the distinctive logo of Hunstable’s Wines and Ales rolling slowly along in the queue of carts waiting to pass into the outer precinct of the Tower, both drays driven oh-so-carefully by the lads Hunstable had been forced to hire to replace his missing delivery men.

  The lads were mere boys, so inexperienced they wouldn’t register that some of the barrels they’d loaded for delivery to the Tower that morning hadn’t felt right.

  From where Griswade sat, peering through the smeared glass of the small leaded panes of the tavern window, he could see that the goods stacked on the drays included the critical barrels.

  Relief flowed like wine through his veins, a far more potent elixir than the weak ale he was drinking.

  And that relief was further sweetened by a rising sense of impending triumph. He—and by extension, the old man—was nearly at the end of the plot. Success was in sight. Once the delivery was completed, there was only one more stage to go, and that was entirely in Griswade’s hands. As he wasn’t about to fail at the very last hurdle, ultimate success was as good as assured.

  The old man’s estate was virtually in his grasp.

  Nevertheless, it was time to make sure of the delivery.

  He drained his mug, set it down on the small table, then pushed to his feet and made his way to the tavern door.

  He stepped into the street, paused for an instant to take stock, then walked with a confident, assured stride toward the archway that passed through Middle Tower. As he went, he drew out his gloves and tugged them on. He’d dusted off his old uniform; once he was attired in it and properly accoutered, there was nothing to say he wasn’t a serving officer. He’d long been told that even in mufti, everything about him screamed “guardsman.” It tickled him to bend what others saw as a weakness to his advantage; within the wards of the Tower, he would be entirely unremarkable—as good as invisible.

  Without the slightest hitch in his stride, he walked straight to the entrance, nodded briskly to the guards stationed there, and passed on and through.

  Once in the Outer Ward, he marched on.

  He’d seen the lads driving Hunstable’s drays ask directions. As expected, the guards had directed them to the Bloody Tower and the passageway that led to the Inner Ward. As Griswade approached, the drays rumbled through the arched passageway and continued on. With another round of crisp, officer-like nods to the guards stationed there, he followed.

  The shadows of the Bloody Tower fell behind him. Walking purposefully but without hurry, Griswade continued straight ahead, on course for Waterloo Block. No one would think anything of an officer making for that block, presumably heading to one of the many offices located within it.

  Although he gave no sign of looking around, Griswade surreptitiously checked his surroundings, but no one gave him a second glance. Not one of the numerous military men he passed took any special notice; only the officers bothered to actually look. Of course, none recognized him, so the extent of their interaction was the typical officer-to-officer dip of the head.

  He remained on the gravel path leading to the main doors of Waterloo Block until a corner of the White Tower screened him from the Bloody Tower and the guards at the passageway. Not that he imagined they would be watching him, but there was no need to take chances. To do anything unexpected that might fix him in their memories. Once out of the guards’ sight, he smoothly corrected his course and headed toward Martin Tower.

  Anchoring the northeast corner of the Tower, Martin Tower housed several offices and barracks, but Griswade didn’t need to go farther than the corner of Waterloo Block to confirm that the lads from Hunstable’s had been given the correct directions; as he halted by the corner, the two youths were already unloading casks and barrels from the drays, which they’d drawn up in the shadow of Martin Tower.

  Griswade watched as one of the youths opened the trapdoor set at ground level in the side of the building that clung to the inner curve of Martin Tower and scrambled down into the cellar. The second youth rolled the first of the Bright Flame Ale barrels stamped with the Tower’s logo to the trapdoor, and between them, the lads manhandled the barrel down the ramp and into the depths. One lad remained inside, receiving and presumably stacking the barrels in the cellar, which had been claimed for storage by the officers’ mess located in Waterloo Block.

  Griswade seized the moment to study the building in the cellar of which the barrels were being stored. The two stories stood hard against the stone of Martin Tower, but were constructed primarily of timber rising above stone foundations. Considering the preponderance of stone all around, Griswade found it frankly astonishing that particular building had been built in timber.

  So very easy to blow to kingdom come.

  Amused by his unintentional play on words, he smiled, then he turned and walked away.

  On passing the White Tower, he picked up his pace and determinedly retraced his steps out of the Tower and into the weak light of the gloomy gray day. He had a few final preparations to make, and then… What had the old man said? Smiling, Griswade murmured to himself, “All will be well.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Drake and Louisa arrived at the morgue to find Sir Martin scowling at the cloth-covered mounds occupying two of his marble benches.

  Predictably, he turned his scowl on them. “Two more!” he rapped out. “And what’s more, they were pulled from the area just east of Castle Street—same as the last two.” Sir Martin waved farther down the room to where the bodies they’d seen two days before lay unclaimed. “That’s the first time we’ve had him put bodies into the river from exactly the same place. The river rats tell me the spot he used is certain to be the steps at the bottom of Castle Street. Yet the first two were found on Saturday, and I’m as sure as I can be that they were killed on Friday night, while he did for these two”—Sir Martin nodded gravely at the most recent bodies—“on Saturday night.”

  Sir Mar
tin grimaced. “The River Police are going to keep a close eye on that stretch, although what are the chances he’ll slip more of his victims into the water just there, heh?” Sir Martin blinked, then humphed. “Then again, who can say with a madman?”

  Drake eyed the shrouded bodies, but made no move to lift the sheets. “Same method of killing?”

  “Exactly the same. Almost perfect copies.” Sir Martin frowned. “Actually, that’s a point you might want to consider. He’s trained, so to speak. He’s done this—killed like this—a lot, I would say.”

  From beyond the doors, they heard the clomp of boots approaching.

  “Ah—that will be the brewery manager,” Sir Martin said. “Crawford remembered that one of your four missing brewery workers hasn’t yet turned up, so he sent for the manager. Thought we’d give that poor Chartist chappie, Beam, a rest.”

  The tramping footsteps slowed, then halted. A burly sergeant swung open the door and ushered a thoroughly reluctant Mr. Flock inside. “In you go, sir. Won’t take but a minute.”

  Wide eyed, Mr. Flock took one step inside and halted. He looked around rather wildly, saw Louisa and Drake and blinked in surprise, then jerkily bowed. “My lady. My lord.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Flock.” Louisa took pity on the man and went forward to meet him. Flock was deathly pale and was compulsively turning his bowler hat around and around in his hands. Gripping his arm, she led him to where Sir Martin waited. “We truly appreciate your willingness to assist the authorities, Mr. Flock. If you’ll just do as Sir Martin requests, this will be over in just a few minutes.”

  She released Flock to Sir Martin with a warning look at the surgeon.

  Sir Martin elected to take pity on Flock as well and attempted to be gentle. “If you would, sir, we’d like you to take a look at these two men and tell us if either is your still-missing worker.”

  Flock’s eyes grew wider. “Our apprentice cooper?”

  “Was he an apprentice?” Sir Martin blinked. “I hadn’t heard that. These men are older and both have calluses from reins, so I imagined…” Abruptly, Sir Martin shook off his distraction. “But now you’re here…”

  Sir Martin reached out and gripped Flock’s arm in what the surgeon probably thought was a comforting grip, but appeared more like an implacable restraint. He drew—almost dragged—the reluctant manager forward, then with a certain reverence, Sir Martin lifted the sheet from the first corpse’s face. He glanced questioningly at Flock.

  Flock looked and paled even further. But then he gulped and resolutely shook his head. “He’s not one of ours.”

  He was less reluctant to look at the second man; once he had, he shook his head decisively. “No.” Some color returned to his face. As with a frustrated grunt, Sir Martin let the sheet fall over the second corpse’s face, Flock looked hopefully at Drake and Louisa. “So…can I go now?”

  Louisa had been thinking. “Are all your workers Chartists, Mr. Flock?”

  “No, my lady. Only some of them.”

  “I see.” She glanced at Drake, then looked at Sir Martin. “We only asked the secretary of the association to look at the two bodies retrieved from the river on Saturday.” She turned her gaze on Flock. “For completeness’s sake, sir, if you wouldn’t mind, given, as Sir Martin mentioned, that you are here…” She waved Flock and Sir Martin toward the end of the room.

  “Good idea!” Sir Martin seized Flock’s arm again and towed the manager to the other two slabs.

  Flock appeared to sigh and waited patiently as Sir Martin raised the sheet from the first body. Flock glanced at the corpse’s face. His entire body went rigid.

  Louisa swept down the room with Drake on her heels. “What is it, Mr. Flock? Do you recognize him?”

  His gaze riveted on the dead man’s face, Flock nodded woodenly. “Yes. It’s… My God, that’s Mellon.” Flock raised his head and, eyes wide with shock, stared at Louisa. “He’s one of our delivery men.”

  She nodded. “But he’s not a Chartist.”

  Flock swallowed. “Not as far as I know, my lady.”

  “And the other?” She waved to the other corpse.

  Flock visibly steeled himself, then gestured to Sir Martin, who raised the sheet so Flock could look.

  One glance was all it took; Flock straightened, gulped, and nodded. His voice was weak when he said, “That’s Cook. He’s—he was Mellon’s partner.” A frown gradually appeared on Flock’s face. “Just before I received the inspector’s summons and left the brewery, my head clerk came in to say that they—Cook and Mellon—hadn’t turned up.” Puzzled, he looked at Louisa, then at Drake. “I’ve never known them to be late, but how could they be here…?” Flock swung to stare at the sheet-draped bodies.

  Sir Martin harrumphed. “We believe these two were killed on Friday night.”

  Flock’s frown deepened. “I suppose that’s possible…” He turned to Drake and Louisa. “Cook and Mellon are bargemen, and the barges don’t go out on Saturday, so if they’d been killed on Friday night, we wouldn’t have known—we wouldn’t have noticed until this morning when they didn’t turn up.”

  “Indeed.” Having exchanged an alert and meaningful look with Drake, Louisa asked, “Are you sure Cook and Mellon made their scheduled deliveries on Friday?”

  Flock blinked, then lightly shrugged. “They must have, or we would have heard from our customers by Saturday morning.” He shook his head. “We didn’t have any complaints come in, so they must have completed their deliveries before they were killed.”

  “To whom do they deliver?” Louisa asked. “Merchants, individual inns, or both?”

  “Well, they have the barge, so they usually only take the big orders.”

  “So they delivered to merchants.” Drake kept his voice even as he asked, “Can you tell us to which merchants Cook and Mellon delivered over the four days from Tuesday to Friday last week?”

  Flock shook his head. “But that will be in the ledgers. Mellon and Cook were experienced men, and they’ve been with us for an age, so they have a regular schedule.” Flock nodded at Drake. “I can get your lordship a list as soon as I get back to the office.”

  “In that case”—Drake glanced at Louisa, then turned to Sir Martin—“if you could convey the gist of this to the inspector, Cranthorpe, her ladyship and I will accompany Mr. Flock to the brewery, avail ourselves of his ledgers, and compile the list of merchants whose premises we need to search.”

  Sir Martin nodded his shaggy head. “I’ll tell Crawford.” He waved them to the door.

  Louisa led the way, with Flock behind her and Drake bringing up the rear.

  As Drake reached the door, Sir Martin bellowed after him, “And don’t forget I’ve still got two unidentified bodies here.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Despite the fact it was Monday morning and the streets were choked with every sort of conveyance, at Drake’s directive to get them to the brewery with all possible speed, Henry whipped up the horses, employed a style of city driving that only an employee of a ducal house would dare attempt, and in record time, had them in Stoney Lane, drawing up at the curb before the gates of the Phoenix Brewery.

  Although rendered white-faced all over again, once his feet were on solid cobbled ground, Mr. Flock led Drake and Louisa straight to the office, and in just a few short minutes, the head clerk was compiling the required list.

  Drake asked and was assured that the loading of barges as well as drays was overseen by clerks and that only barrels earmarked for particular customers were sent out. Fifteen barrels that weren’t on the clerks’ lists could not have found their way onto any barge and been removed from the brewery as a pseudo-delivery.

  Ten minutes later, Drake and Louisa walked out of the office and halted in the yard. Together, they scanned the list Drake held.

  Drake quietly swore. “Over those four days, Cook and Mellon delivered to merchants all along the river from Westminster to east of the Tower. Virtually every major government building as well as al
l the Parliament buildings lie within easy reach—delivery reach—of that stretch of riverbank.”

  Louisa was busily counting the deliveries. “They did three deliveries each day. We need to send word to St. Ives House—someone there will know where Sebastian and Michael are. Their thirty-six merchants just reduced to twelve.”

  She glanced at Drake and sensed his impatience, not that any emotion showed in his sharply cut, angular features. “That’s promising. Sebastian, Michael, Cleo, and the others can easily search twelve premises within the day.”

  When Drake made no response, she closed her hand about his wrist. When he looked at her, she met his eyes. “We need to leave searching the merchants to them and concentrate on the avenues they aren’t in a position to pursue. You’ve said it several times—we can’t afford just to find the gunpowder, we have to expose who’s behind this plot as well. If we don’t, we’ll never know if the threat—the mastermind—is still there, thwarted in this instance, but able to come about and try again.” Studying his eyes, she raised her brows. “As things stand, we don’t even know who or what his target is.”

  Drake held her gaze for several seconds, then exhaled. “You’re right.” His lips set in a grim line. He reached into his pocket and drew out his fob watch, checked the time, then tucked the watch back. “It’s just after ten o’clock. Let’s send word to the others, then—”

  “We should check again with the family of the missing apprentice, who, as we now know, still numbers among the missing.”

  Not only had the apprentice not turned up dead, but no one at the brewery had heard anything of him, either; Mr. Flock had inquired of his workforce while their list was being made.

  “That,” Louisa insisted, “was what we were scheduled to do.”