by Anne Perry
Tellman waited.
Jones looked at the high, barred window, at the steel door, then back at Tellman.
Tellman straightened up again to leave.
“I took a lot o’ money down ter Shadwell,” Jones said, his voice shaking with fear. “Ter New Gravel Lane.”
“Where?”
“Second ’ouse from the end! I swear, as—”
“God’s your judge,” Tellman finished for him. “Who did you give it to? If it was a lot, you must have had very clear intentions. You wouldn’t pass it to just anyone.”
“Skewer! Big feller wi’ one ear, called Skewer.”
“Thank you. You don’t need to swear anymore. Just remember the hangman’s name if you’ve lied to me. You’ll need to be nice to him, so he goes easy by you when the time comes.”
Jones choked.
Tellman remembered Scarborough Street and felt no pity for him.
He left the prison and spent the next four or five hours checking all that Jones had told him. He could not afford to be mistaken. He went to the Shadwell Docks and found New Gravel Lane. It was bleak even in the summer sun and the wind whipped up off the water with a knife-edge to it. The river was busy with barges going from the Pool of London, lightermen, ferries, tugs, and cargo ships moored and waiting to dock. It would be an easy place to store dynamite. Loads of one sort or another were coming and going all the time.
He did not know enough to make a report yet to Pitt. They could afford only one search of such a place. Every trace of the dynamite would be moved long before they could mount a second. He had no choice but to risk asking the River Police for all the information they could give him. He would be oblique, as if asking a professional courtesy.
By midafternoon he knew that one of the old boats moored by New Crane Stairs belonged to Simbister, and it was due to be moved that night. It had not been as difficult to find, or to prove, as he had expected. Was it a double cross? Even a triple cross? He had no way of knowing, but it was time to find Pitt and tell him. He could no longer afford discretion.
“The Josephine, at New Crane Stairs in Shadwell Dock,” Tellman said when he finally found Pitt in among the ruins of Scarborough Street. He had not known where to look for him, because he had no idea if Narraway even had an office, let alone where it might be. He was certain Pitt would not be at home, and he knew of no other investigation that would occupy him. He had tried Long Spoon Lane, but there was no one there, so he went to Scarborough Street next.
Pitt was tired and filthy, covered with ash from looking through the debris. Much of it had been removed. The houses still stood—their jagged, blackened walls showed skeletal beams the fire had missed. Splintered slate and glass lay scattered all over the cobbles. The smell of stale burning was still thick in the air. “Who does the Josephine belong to?” Pitt asked, pushing his hand through his hair and smearing more ash across his face.
“Simbister,” Tellman replied. “The River Police say it’s being moved tonight. We’ve no time to waste. What are you looking for here anyway?”
“Bodies that don’t belong,” Pitt replied. “We’ve found two so far that didn’t live here, and nobody knows who they were. We might tie them in to the explosions.” There was little hope in his voice.
“Anarchists?”
“Probably. On the other hand, they might just have been visiting someone who’s not alive to say so.” He straightened up. “If I find this boat and it has dynamite still in it, or traces left, will there be any proof of Simbister’s connection with it?”
“Yes.” Tellman told him briefly what he had learned from Jones the Pocket. “But I’m coming with you.”
Pitt gave him a quick smile, which was the more startling because of the dirt on his face.
They were walking together out of the wreckage of the center house when they saw the elegant figure of Charles Voisey coming towards them, escorted by a constable. When he saw Pitt he increased his pace, barely glancing at Tellman.
“We can’t wait!
“They’re reading the bill again tomorrow,” he said simply, a note of desperation in his voice. In the setting sun his face looked tired. There were bruised-looking circles around his eyes. He was struggling against defeat. “God, this is awful!” He did not turn his head to see the ruins of the street around him, roofless chimneys jagged against the pale sky, the debris of people’s lives strewn across the cobbles, pieces of furniture, pots and pans, clothes reduced to shreds of rag. The only things that had been removed were the dead bodies. It was plain in his expression that he had already seen them and did not want to mark it even more deeply into his consciousness.
“We’ve connected Simbister to the dynamite,” Pitt told him, and felt Tellman stiffen with surprise that he should trust Voisey so far. “I’m going to Shadwell to see the boat where it’s kept.”
“When?” Voisey asked.
“Now.”
“You can’t go alone!”
“I’m not. Tellman’s coming with me.”
Voisey looked at Tellman for the first time, and with undisguised interest. He had barely had time to acknowledge him when another figure picked his way through the scattered rubble, from the other end of the street, and, after the briefest word with the constable, came straight to Tellman, who obviously recognized him.
“Mr. Tellman, sir,” he said breathlessly. “You’re needed back at the station, sir. There’s bin a robbery, and Mr. Wetron sent me ter fetch yer. It’s a big one, an’ ’e says as it’s too important ter leave ter Johnston. Seems they knocked the poor butler around summink awful, an’ scared the lady o’ the ’ouse ’alf out of ’er senses.”
“Stubbs, tell…” Tellman began, then realized his predicament. Wetron had sent for him. Stubbs had found him with Pitt. He would not leave Pitt to go to Shadwell Dock alone.
“Mr. Tellman?” Stubbs said urgently. “It’s already took me near an hour ter find yer!”
Why had he even looked here? Was Wetron so suspicious already? More likely he knew. There was a misery and defiance in Stubbs’s eyes. Tellman remembered his family, dependent upon him, the one old enough to work. He could not return home empty-handed, and Wetron would use that.
“It sounds ugly,” Pitt said decisively. “You’d better hurry. I don’t think we’ll find anything to do with your forger here, but if we do, I’ll let you know.”
White-faced, Tellman followed after Stubbs, a stiff, angry figure disappearing into the lengthening shadows.
“Shadwell Docks,” Voisey said with distaste. He glanced down at his elegant boots. “Still, Sergeant Tellman is right; it would be most unwise to go alone. I think this is one of those situations where cooperation would definitely be in our mutual interest. It’s not far from here, is it?”
Pitt had no choice. Whatever he thought of him, Voisey could gain nothing by protecting Simbister and the dynamite. And the bill was being read tomorrow.
“Come on,” he said. Please God it was not a fool’s decision.
He knew his way to New Gravel Lane and the Shadwell Dock. It was close enough to walk if they had to, and the chances of picking up a hansom in this area were slight. It was a good two miles as the crow flies. Along the narrow streets with their dog-leg bends, it would take them the best part of an hour. He had no idea whether Voisey was used to such exercise.
“If we go up to Commercial Street, we might find a cab,” he said dubiously.
Voisey looked at the mud in the street, then at the darkening sky. “Good!” He set off without waiting for Pitt to debate it any further.
They found a hansom, and in the event it took less than twenty minutes. They alighted some hundred yards from New Gravel Lane, and Voisey paid the driver. “Now what?” he asked, looking around at the vast warehouses and wharf buildings. The cranes were black against the sky, which was now completely dark except for the sulphurous glare from the patchy streetlamps. They could smell the salt of the river, and the damp of it filled the air and clung to the skin. They could hear wa
ter slapping against the stakes of old piers, sucking and splashing as it washed over the stone steps down to the river, and the bump of moored barges and boats against the bank.
“We go down to the water and find the Josephine,” Pitt replied quietly. “This way.”
“How are we going to see anything?” Voisey followed him gingerly. It was difficult to pick out more than outlines, and in the shadow of buildings nothing was distinct. Everything seemed to be moving very slightly, but it was an illusion carried by the light dancing on the water and the constant sound of creaking and dripping.
“Matches,” Pitt answered, coming close to the old pier and the steps.
“We’re looking for dynamite, for God’s sake!” Voisey hissed.
“Then we’ll have to be very careful,” Pitt replied.
Voisey swore, and walked softly behind him to the steps.
“Tide’s coming in,” Pitt said after a minute or two. “We’re lucky.”
“What difference does that make?” Voisey was on his heels.
“Steps will be dry,” Pitt answered. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a box of matches. He struck one briefly, sheltering it with his hand. It stayed alight just long enough for him to read the name on the stern of the nearest boat. “Blue Betsy,” he said softly. “There are three more. Come on.”
“I suppose you do know it’s here?” Voisey asked.
“No. But I will in five minutes.” Pitt went farther down the stairs. The water was only a couple of feet below him now. It looked solid, like molten metal, as if he could walk on it out to the moored ships a dozen yards away, their riding lights skittering brokenly across the ripples.
The second boat was not the Josephine either. They were obliged to board it, climbing with extreme care across its deck and crouching with another briefly flaming match to peer at the third.
“Josephine!” Pitt said with intense satisfaction.
Voisey said nothing.
Pitt led the way, moving with great care in case the wood of the deck should be slippery. A fall might injure him, or even send him into the water. Perhaps the worst risk of all would be that of raising the alarm, at least from one of the larger boats, which would have watchmen.
The Josephine was lower in the water, and they had a slight jump down onto the deck. Pitt moved forward, dropping to his hands and knees to be less conspicuous, and to make balancing easier as the boat tipped with his weight.
Voisey copied him.
They moved in silence, feeling for the hatch, and then for the way to open it. The boat was very old; there was a smell of rot in the wood and several planks were spongy to the touch. It was certainly not seaworthy; it was no more than a floating container in which to store things that would not be hurt by the damp.
The hatch opened easily. There was no lock on it, just a simple handle. Pitt was faintly disturbed by this. Had the dynamite gone already? Or was there some other way in which it was protected?
“What are you waiting for?” Voisey whispered.
Pitt wished it were Tellman with him. Reason told him Voisey could not afford to betray him now, but his instinct said he might.
Was he going, or not? Suddenly the glimmering lights of the river and the sense of space, the salt and fish smells of the tide, even the stink of the mud, seemed like freedom. The air in the dark hold was stale, with a faint chemical odor.
In the shelter of the open hatch cover, Pitt lit another match and lowered it very carefully. Whatever happened, even if it burned his fingers, he must not drop it. He could feel Voisey only inches behind him.
The hold was almost empty. It was several moments before he saw the packages wrapped up and piled in the farthest corner. They could be dynamite, but they could also be any number of other things—even old newspapers, for all he could tell from here.
“I’m going down,” he said quietly. “So are you,” he added.
“Don’t you want me to stay up here and keep watch?” Voisey asked, a trace of amusement in his voice.
“No, I don’t!” Pitt snapped. “I need someone to hold the match.”
Voisey gave a soft, nervous laugh. “I thought perhaps you didn’t trust me.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, we can’t get through the hatch at the same time,” Voisey pointed out. “One of us has to go first. No point in tossing a coin, couldn’t see which way it landed anyway. Since I trust you, I’ll go first.” And he pushed past. After a moment’s consideration of exactly how to do it, he dropped fairly lightly onto the floor of the hold.
Pitt followed him, and they went over to the corner where the packages were. Voisey struck a match and held it while Pitt examined them. It took only seconds to ascertain that it was dynamite.
“Simbister,” Voisey said with intense pleasure and a very slight lift of surprise. The match went out. It was profoundly dark. It was impossible to make out anything at all, not even the paler square of sky through the open hatch.
Then Pitt realized that the hatch was not open. And he had not heard it slam!
Voisey was beside him. He knew it only because he could hear him breathe. He could see absolutely nothing at all.
“Did it fall?” Voisey whispered, although he already knew the answer. The fear was in his voice, almost steady, but with an overpowering effort. “Is there another way out?”
Pitt’s mind was racing, trying to stop panic. Since Voisey was with him, this was not his doing. It must be Grover, or even Simbister himself. “No,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Not unless we make one.”
“Make one!”
There was a jolt, and then another, and Pitt heard a sound of water a little different from the slap and hiss of the tide. It seemed to be from the other hold rather than the hull on either side. He knew with sickening certainty what it was. They were flooding the ship. They were prepared to sacrifice the dynamite in order to kill their two most dangerous enemies. He should have seen it coming. He could hear Voisey’s breath drawn in sharply between his teeth. He had realized it as well. The floor beneath them was beginning to tilt.
“All we’ve got is the dynamite,” he said aloud. “But there are detonators with it. We’ll have to blow the hatch off. And we’ll have to do it fairly quickly.”
Voisey let out a gasp. “How many matches have you got left?”
“Half a dozen,” Pitt replied. “Unfortunately I did not foresee this.”
“I have about three.”
“Good. Well, start lighting them and hold them so I can see what I’m doing.”
Voisey obeyed, and as soon as there was a flicker, Pitt started to work unwrapping the dynamite, looking for a detonator and molding the damp, slightly tacky substance into a strip that would stick to the edge of the hatch. Voisey lit match after match, first from his own box, then from Pitt’s.
Pitt stuck the dynamite around the hatch and placed the detonator, left it and stepped back, pulling Voisey with him. The boat was now listing heavily and the sound of water running into the other hold was clearly audible.
Nothing happened.
“How long?” Voisey said quietly. “We’re going down.”
“I know. It should have gone off.”
Voisey moved. Pitt grabbed at his arm and held him. “Don’t! It still could!”
“That’s not a lot of use if it doesn’t do it in the next three or four minutes,” Voisey pointed out.
“There are more detonators,” Pitt answered. “We’ll have to blow a hole somewhere else.” His mind was racing. They were sinking by the stern. If they blew the bow, it would be into the air. Anywhere else and the water would rush in, carrying them back, not out. “Bow,” he said, standing up. “Light another match. I need to see the dynamite.”
“We’ve only got three more,” Voisey replied, obeying. “You’d better make this work.” There was no criticism in his voice, just a knife-sharp edge of irony, and fear.
Pitt did not answer. He was aware of all the nuances, and it was better to
think of those than of Charlotte, his home, his children, or the cold, dirty water of the Thames only a few feet away. He worked as quickly as he could, intensely aware that too much haste, the smallest error, and they would not have another chance.
He pressed the dynamite onto the nearer wall of the hold, placing the detonator.
Voisey struck the last match and lit a cigarette, drawing the smoke into his lungs. The hold went dark.
Pitt could see nothing but the glowing end of tobacco. Words failed him.
“It will last longer than a match,” Voisey said quietly. “Put the detonator in and get on with it!”
With shaking hands Pitt obeyed.
Voisey drew on the cigarette again, and again. The end of it shone red.
Pitt checked the detonator a last time. “Ready.”
Voisey touched his cigarette end to the fuse. They stepped back as far as they could. The boat was listing so heavily it was hard for them to keep their balance. The fuse crackled. It seemed to take forever. Pitt could hear heavy breathing. He thought it was Voisey, then he realized it was himself. The river swirled and slapped outside, a couple of feet away in the darkness.
There was a sudden, violent noise and a rush of air. They were both hurled backwards, then ice-cold water struck them and the boat began to slide deeper.
Pitt thrust himself forwards, up towards the gaping hole in the bow. He must get there before the boat went down and the weight of water coming in forced him back. He reached the ragged edge and grasped hold of it. It was only a foot above the water. Any moment it would be too late.
He pulled with all his strength, and felt the air on his face and saw the lights of the river and the sky. He turned to reach back for Voisey and grasped his hand, heaving with all his strength.
Voisey emerged just as the Josephine slid into the river and disappeared. They were left to flounder to the steps, ice-cold, and free.
9
PITT SAT IN front of the stove in the kitchen. He was dressed in his nightshirt and a robe, but he was still shivering. Hot tea helped, but the cab ride in sodden clothes had seemed to go on endlessly, as if Keppel Street were twenty miles away, not five.