The Case of the Threatened King

by Robert Newman

  “That’s what I was thinking. Not just that they don’t fit, but that there are too many of them. It’s like trying to fix a broken clock and thinking you’ve put it together and then discovering you’ve got parts left over. I can understand why whoever sent Harry the bootblack to pick up the money would want to keep him quiet. But why should this person—and it probably was the same person since he used a knife in both cases—why should this person kill an old tosher, and what does that have to do with Maria’s father’s trip or King Alexander’s visit or–”

  Wyatt’s chair, which had been tipped back on two legs, came down on all four with a crash.

  “Oh, my sainted aunt!” he said, jumping to his feet. “If Tucker gets back before I do, keep him here!” and he was out of the office before Andrew could blink, much less ask him what had struck him so suddenly.

  Tucker came in a few minutes later, his notebook in his hand.

  “Where’s his nibs?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. He said if you came back before he did, you were to wait here.”

  “But you’ve no idea where he went?”

  “No. He was sitting there with the grumps about the way things were going when suddenly he jumped up, said I was to keep you here and went running out.”

  Tucker nodded gravely. “That’s it, then. It happens almost every time. He’ll be sitting there all dumpish because he’s such a dunderhead, and suddenly he’ll jump up like a bee stung him and he’s got the answer.” He paused. “Are you hungry?”

  “A little.”

  “So am I. If he’s not back in ten minutes, one of us’ll slip out and bring back something for our lunch. Some Scotch eggs, maybe. Or perhaps some cheese and pickles. Do you like cheese and pickles?”

  “Yes.”

  “So do I. Not as much as a beef sandwich, of course, but …”

  Wyatt returned with what looked like several rolled-up maps or charts.

  “So you’re back,” he said to Tucker. “Find anything?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. You can tell us about it on the way. Forward, the Greys!” And he swept them out ahead of him.

  “Where are we going?” asked Andrew.

  “Back to The Four Bells.”

  He hailed another four-wheeler, and when they were bowling west along the Embankment for the second time that morning, “Well, sergeant?” he asked.

  “Does the name Barney Barnett mean anything to you?”

  “Of course. He was the best known fence in London for about twenty years. But he’s dead.”

  “Right. Died three years ago. But his widow, Addie Barnett’s still alive. There are those that said she was the real brains of the combination, told Barney what to do and how to do it. And there have also been some rumbles that she’s taken over Barney’s pitch and expects to do even more with it than he did, spread out into other things besides fencing.”

  “That’s interesting. But what’s it got to do with our friend Sam?”

  “Barney had a demander and enforcer named Sam, sometimes called Smiling Sam. You know what that kind is usually like.”

  “Ex-pugs or wrestlers, physical types who’ll black your eye or break your arm, as easy as kiss my hand.”

  “Right. Well, Sam isn’t like that. He’s little and dark, but the word is that the coves were more afraid of him than of the biggest bully that ever was. Because, besides Smiling Sam, he was also called Sam the Shiv, and he’s supposed to be as mean as a starving stoat.”

  “I gather the thought is that he’s now working with Addie Barnett.”

  “That’s it.”

  “What’s she like, this Addie Barnett?” asked Andrew.

  “Probably in her fifties, wears a red wig, limps a little so that she has to use a cane and smokes cigars.”

  “They sound like an endearing pair,” said Wyatt.

  “Do you think they’re the ones who have Sara and Marie?” asked Andrew.

  “If they don’t actually have them, they were certainly involved in the kidnapping.”

  “For ransom?”

  “No. I think there’s more than that involved—a lot more.”

  “Like what?”

  “There are some things I want to look into. When I’ve done that, if you haven’t guessed, then I’ll tell you.”

  That was all he seemed to want to say, and knowing him, neither Andrew nor the sergeant pressed for more.

  When they entered The Four Bells, they saw that Abner was still there, as he had said he would be. And though the pub was fairly full now, either because most of those there knew him and knew he wanted to be alone or because of the way he looked and smelled, he was sitting by himself in the corner where they had left him, staring morosely at his hot gin and lemon.

  “Can I ask you some more questions?” said Wyatt, sitting down opposite him.

  “Oh, it’s you again,” said the old tosher. “Ask away. If I can tell you what you want to know, I will.”

  “Did you and Ernie cover the same beat, work in the same sewers?”

  “No. That wouldn’t make sense. Each tosher has his own sewer and works that. I been at it longer than anyone, so I got one of the best, the main one that runs back from Pimlico Pier.”

  “And Ernie?”

  “He worked one that branched off it to the right.”

  Wyatt nodded as if that was what he had expected and unrolled what Andrew had thought was a map. It proved to be a blueprint with a network of white lines on it.

  “This is a plan of the London sewer system. Can you point out Ernie’s sewer to me?”

  Abner drew back from the blueprint as if he was afraid it would bite him.

  “I don’t know nothing about plans,” he said.

  “A plan is like a map.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about maps neither.” Then, with an effort, “I can’t read.”

  “Oh. Well, you don’t have to be able to read to understand a plan or map. For instance,” he pointed to the bottom of the blueprint, “this is the Thames. And these,” indicating the heavy white lines that ran into it, “these are the main sewers.”

  “I still don’t know what’s what. All I can tell you is that mine’s the one that comes out next to Pimlico Pier.”

  “That’s this one. And Ernie’s?”

  “I told you. His is the first branch that goes off to the right.”

  “That would be this one,” said Wyatt, pointing. He unrolled the second chart he was carrying, and this did prove to be a map—a large scale map of those parts of Chelsea and Westminster that lay just north of the Thames. He compared the map with the blueprint, then said, “Will you take us into the sewer with you tomorrow and show us Ernie’s beat?”

  “Who’s us?”

  “The sergeant and me.”

  “I’ll show it to you, but you won’t be able to go into it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re too big. It’s all right, almost as big as mine later on, but where it comes into the main sewer there’s a squinchy little place that you couldn’t get through in a hundred years.”

  “Could I get through?” asked Andrew.

  The tosher studied him.

  “You’re about Ernie’s size. Yes, you could get through.”

  “I don’t remember suggesting that you come along,” said Wyatt.

  “You didn’t, but I told you you’d need me.”

  Wyatt looked at him, then at Tucker.

  “Height requirements,” said the sergeant. “We don’t have any constables that small. I could probably find a boy who’s done some work with us—”

  “Haven’t I worked with you?” asked Andrew angrily. “Besides, if it has anything to do with Sara, you’re got to let me come along!”

  Again Wyatt looked at him.

  “All right. You can start out with us anyway. We’ll see whether you go into the branch sewer or not.” He turned back to Abner. “When do we meet, and where?”

  “Low tide’s a li
ttle after six tomorrow. We’ll meet at six just back of Pimlico Pier. But there are things you’ll need, boots and duds and so on.”

  “I’ve got boots,” said Andrew. “What else?”

  “Bull’s-eye lanterns and poles.”

  “I know about a tosher’s pole,” said Tucker. “I’ll get those. And the lanterns and duds.”

  “You’d better discuss this particular expedition with your mother,” said Wyatt to Andrew. “If it’s all right with her, we’ll pick you up at five fifteen. And we’ll meet you back of the pier at six,” he said to Abner.

  The old tosher nodded unhappily. “No more Ernie,” he said. “Don’t seem right. Things ain’t going to be the same without him.”

  12

  The Sewer

  Wyatt admitted later on that Andrew had handled the matter very well. He took Andrew home and waited while Andrew talked to his mother, telling her that because of a new development in the case, which he didn’t completely understand, Wyatt and Tucker were going down into the sewers the next morning with an old tosher. He wanted to go with them but Wyatt had said that he must get her permission first. He had to pause and explain what a tosher was and then went on to say that of course he’d wear old clothes, but even then he’d probably smell awful and need a bath when he got back, as if that were Wyatt’s only reason for insisting that he get her permission. Verna looked at Wyatt and said that if Andrew didn’t understand the significance of the new development, it wasn’t likely that she would, so she wouldn’t ask him about it. And since she assumed that Andrew would not be in any danger—because if there were any, Wyatt would not let him go, permission or no—it would be all right for him to go.

  So that’s how it was that Andrew was waiting under the porte-cochere at a little after five the next morning when a four-wheeler rumbled up through the misty, before-dawn greyness, and Wyatt opened the door and told him to get in. Andrew had been afraid he would oversleep, even after Annie the parlormaid had assured him that she was always up at a quarter of five and would wake him. When he had first gotten into bed, so many things had been going through his head—anxiety about Sara, speculation about what Wyatt expected to find in the sewers—that he was convinced he would never fall asleep. But as it turned out, one fear was as groundless as the other. He did fall asleep at last and was already up and almost dressed when Annie knocked at his door. He apologized to cook, who had been very upset when he told her he couldn’t wait for breakfast, and was greatly relieved to hear that neither Wyatt nor Tucker had had any either. The result was that they stopped at a stall on Marylebone Road, and they and the cab driver all had mugs of tea and buns at which cook would have turned up her nose, but which Andrew thought were very good.

  They were at the meeting place back of Pimlico Pier at a little before six, and Abner was already there. He was wearing the same outfit he had worn the day before: boots, watch cap, long corduroy jacket and canvas trousers. But now he had a bull’s-eye lantern strapped to his chest, and he carried a gunnysack and a pole about six feet long with an iron hoe fastened to the end of it.

  He watched as the cabby handed down three similar poles from the rack on top of the four-wheeler, one a little shorter than the others, for Andrew. The poles received his grudging approval, but he was sniffy about the oilskin jackets that Tucker had bought at a ship chandler, pointing out that they only had two pockets while his jacket had six. When Wyatt explained that they weren’t actually going to be doing any toshing, only needed the jackets for protection, he shrugged and told them to hurry since they were wasting valuable time. He waited impatiently while they put on their jackets and tied the bull’s-eye lanterns to their chests. (When Andrew asked why they did that, he looked at him scornfully and asked him how he expected to do anything if he didn’t have his hands free.) Then he led the way to a round iron manhole cover just down the street and pried it up with the hoe on the end of his pole. Since it was fairly heavy, Tucker tried to help him, but he scowled and said he’d been lifting the covers since he was a boy and didn’t need help from anyone.

  When he had slid the cover aside, Andrew saw that an iron ladder, bolted to the side of the round opening, led down into the dark depths below. Taking out a box of lucifers, the old tosher lit his lantern; then, holding his pole and gunny sack in one hand, went nimbly down the ladder. Tucker lit Andrew’s lantern, then Wyatt’s and his own.

  “All right, Andrew,” said Wyatt. “Go ahead.”

  Shortening his grip on his pole, Andrew went down the ladder. As he did, he descended, not just into darkness, but into the most fetid stench he had ever smelled—a full-bodied version of the smell that had come from Abner in the pub. It was so powerful that for a moment his stomach heaved and he thought he was going to be sick. By the time he had gotten hold of himself, Wyatt and Tucker had come down also—Tucker having replaced the manhole cover before he descended.

  Fascinated by this new and previously unimagined world, Andrew looked around. He was standing on a narrow walkway at the bottom of a round, brick-vaulted tunnel that was about ten feet high. A few inches below the walkway was a wide channel through which a foul-smelling torrent ran, foaming and gurgling as it carried all the city’s soil and waste to the Thames.

  Outside of the small area lit by their lanterns, the darkness was absolute, with no other sign of light anywhere.

  Old Abner, who had seemed particularly twitchy and irritable before, was now quiet and calm, as if he were only happy here in these nether regions that were peculiarly his own.

  This was one of the main sewers, he explained. He would take them to the branch they were interested in—the one Ernie used to work—and then he’d have to leave them because he had his own work to do. But first, there were some things he must tell them.

  They should carry their poles at all times. When they came to a narrow place, they could use it to balance with. If they came to a place where the footing was uncertain, they should use the hoe at the end to try the ground before they tried to cross it. And if they should slip and fall into the stream, they should try to hook something with the hoe so as to pull themselves out. But besides these uses, the pole and hoe was also a weapon—and a necessary one. The sewers were overrun by large and ferocious rats, and while it was unlikely that they would be troubled when there were three of them, he—Abner—had been attacked by rats several times when he was alone and had to fight them off with the hoe.

  Then, glancing around to make sure they were ready, the old tosher set off along the walkway. Andrew followed him with Wyatt behind him and Tucker bringing up the rear.

  Abner walked along slowly, eyes roving, and every few feet he would plunge his hoe into the reeking stream. Like the fishermen Andrew had watched tonging for oysters in Cornwall, he seemed able to feel things he could not see and, with a dextrous twist, would bring them out of the dark and turbid water onto the walkway. Sometimes it was a piece of rusty iron that he would put into his gunny sack. Sometimes it was a bit of china or a pot and once it was a small but heavy canvas bag. Abner was quite excited at this, but when he opened it, it proved to contain a collection of various size nails, probably dropped by a carpenter. Shrugging, the tosher stowed that in his sack too and went on again.

  Andrew had been prepared for the darkness and, at least partly, for the smell. What he had not been prepared for was the noise—for the sound of the rushing water was not only loud, but it echoed in the confined space so that it was almost impossible to hear anything else.

  On they went, walking carefully in single file on the narrow walkway beside London’s own River Styx. At one point, instead of fishing in the torrent with his pole, Abner thrust his hand into a fissure between the bricks at the side of the walkway, felt around and brought out a spoon. He wiped it on his coat and showed it to Andrew. It was dark and tarnished, but it looked as if it were silver and quite old and therefore might be rather valuable. Andrew nodded his congratulations, and Abner grinned as he put it into one of his coat pockets.
r />   Andrew was not sure how long they had been walking—perhaps ten minutes, perhaps a little longer—when Abner stopped again. They had passed a few branches that entered the main sewer on the other side of the stream but now, for the first time, there was one on their side.

  Abner put his mouth to Andrew’s ear.

  “This is it,” he said above the noise of the rushing water. “That’s old Ernie’s branch.”

  Wyatt and Tucker joined them, and when Wyatt raised an inquiring eyebrow, Andrew nodded. They all looked at it, and it was easy to see why Abner had said that neither Wyatt nor Tucker could get through there. The branch was not only smaller than the main sewer they were in, but the overhead arch had broken down and the opening was more than half-choked with fallen bricks and rubble.

  “Wouldn’t be much trouble to clear that away,” shouted Tucker. “Then we could get through easy.”

  “Don’t you dare touch that!” said Abner excitedly. “You pull out any of those bricks, and the whole roof could come down on you!”

  Wyatt examined what was left of the overhead arch by the yellow light of his lantern.

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” he said. “The bricks here do look pretty rotten.”

  “I still don’t know why you want to go in there,” said Tucker, “but if it’s important, can’t we get in from the other side?”

  “I suppose so,” said Wyatt. “I think this is the branch that runs past Victoria Station, and I imagine that someone in the Board of Works could tell me where the manholes at that end are.”

  “There’s no need for that,” said Andrew. “You may not be able to get through there, but I can.”

  “Well, you’re not going to try,” said Wyatt firmly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s too dangerous. If the roof came down with you on the other side, then we’d really be in a pickle.” He turned to Abner. “Did Ernie ever tell you how far this branch goes?” he asked.

  “No. I know it goes on a good way, then starts to get smaller, but …”