The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  Already there were crowds at the entrance to each wharf. A press of men thronged in the street, each reaching over the other in a desperate bid to find work. Graves saw punches thrown and feet stamped upon. Shouts and curses echoed down the narrow streets to the Thames. At each door stood a foreman. It was upon them that the men pinned their hopes. Each foreman stood with a ledger and pencil, marking names as they called them.

  “Siddons!”

  “Rigby!”

  “Havell!”

  Each name was met with a cry of victory from the man concerned and a chorus of disapproval from the rest. Occasionally another cry would be heard from the foreman.

  “You! Name?”

  A new face would light up as he gave his name to the foreman and the stranger would be permitted to work for the morning. This would set a dozen other arguments blazing in the crowd. Graves noted that younger men would always take precedence over the elder of the crowd. He mused that Mr Charles Darwin would be happy to see his theories at work at St. Saviour’s Dock. Graves drove further into the throng, setting his face to catch the foreman’s eye.

  “Oi, watch yer step, mate!”

  Graves made his apologies to the stocky man next to him. He peered at he sergeant through deep-set eyes, his lantern jaw chewing on a matchstick. “Tryin’ your luck?” he asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  Graves nodded. “I am that.”

  “See that man over there?” The man was gesturing over his shoulder at a mean looking man in shirtsleeves and a faded cloth cap. The most remarkable feature about him was his left eye, which seemed opaque and clouded. “That’s Ichabod Sallow,” the man was whispering. “Watch ’im.”

  Graves’ heart raced. Had he been discovered so quickly?

  The man laid a finger aside his nose as if imparting a state secret. “He doesn’t take to new faces. But if he says jump, you ask “how high?” Or you’ll go the same way as Jonas Cook. Got it?”

  Graves relaxed. “Thank you,” he said with half an eye on the man in shirtsleeves.

  “You!” the foreman bellowed. Graves realised with a start he was looking straight at him. “Name?”

  “Graves!” the young sergeant called. There was little point in giving a false name.

  The foreman scratched at his ledger then gestured with a sharp stab at his pencil that he should enter the wharf.

  To jeers and whistles, Graves pushed his way through the crowd. The man with the clouded eye glared after him, clearly making a mental note of the newcomer’s name.

  The double wooden doors opened into a vast space. Many men had already been admitted. They swarmed across the flagstones to the opposite wall where a door opened to the dockside. Galleries rose the height of the room, laden with crates and sacks of produce awaiting distribution. The galleries were supported on sturdy pillars designed to withstand the great weight of their load, and lengths of metal fencing were affixed to secure the produce. A network of lifts, ropes, pulleys and trap doors provided access to the galleries. Graves could see many men leaning over the balustrade in anticipation of the morning’s deliveries. Light was admitted via arched windows set, at intervals, into the nearest wall. Still, Graves noticed, this huge cavern of a room was a fog of tobacco smoke and dust that danced in the air before him.

  “Get a move on!” rasped a voice from behind. Graves turned to see he was holding up a horde of dockworkers keen to start their toil. They streamed past as he stood aside, each one of them eyeing him with the suspicion always reserved for a newcomer. Graves followed the crowd through Corder’s Wharf to the dockside on the other side. Already he could see a great schooner berthed at the quay ready to disgorge its load. Planks were laid from the quayside to permit access to the hatches that were now thrown open in expectation. Carts stood ready at the wharves to carry the produce inside. There, they would be emptied, their loads transferred to the great galleries around the walls, and sent out again to be reloaded. It was human endeavour on an industrial scale.

  “You!” Another shout pierced the air and Graves turned to see a man in an old pork pie hat. “They need hands in the hold, get yerself down there.”

  Graves tugged at his cap and crossed the planks to the ship, feeling the deck shift beneath his feet as it moved on the swell of the tide.

  The Eastern Star was over a hundred feet long and crammed with men going about their business. They heaved sacks onto their shoulders and scuttled across the deck like beetles. They carried heavy crates upon their heads or slung them off the boats to be caught by an accomplice. The air was full of the heave-hoes of dockworkers and many curses besides. Graves stepped nimbly between them and headed for the row of hatches that ran from stern to aft. They were thrown open to the air and the sergeant could smell the musty odours of tea and spices rising to meet him.

  He waited his turn at the ladder as a stream of men poured up from the depths of the hold, each carrying a sack upon his shoulders that seemed filled to bursting. “There’s turmeric on the port bow,” panted one as he passed. “Grab it first before the tea.”

  As Graves nodded his thanks, his eyes were drawn up the quayside to the dock head. There, he saw a police constable leaning on the wall. He possessed sharp, angular features and, even from this distance, Graves could make out his heavy brow and prominent nose. With a start, he recognised the man from The Theatre Royal and, in particular, their very quick meeting by the stage door. The actors in Vinegar Yard had referred to Kitty as ‘working out the Kaiser’s share’, and then he had seen the man leave with a heavy carpetbag beneath his arm. Had the bag contained the Kaiser’s share? Graves wondered that the man should be here, several miles from where he had last seen him, but wondered all the more that he was wearing a police constable’s uniform. Pulling his hat further down over his eyes, Graves turned away from him and descended into the gloom of the ship’s hold.

  Pungent smells assailed his nostrils and caught in the back of his throat. Dust stung his eyes and coated his tongue. From a corner, he heard the grunt and toil of men at work. They cursed as the hessian sacks chafed against their fingers or as they lifted dead weights to their shoulders. Stooping low to avoid the beams above his head, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He could see three or four of his fellow dockworkers by a far bulkhead, grappling with sacks of turmeric. Bracing himself against the gentle roll of the deck, Graves pushed on to the corner.

  “Grab this, will yer?” A heavy sack was thrust at his chest and Graves clasped his arms around it. A spicy, citrus smell rose from the bag that the sergeant recognised from Doctor Crane’s dissecting rooms. Turning again, he staggered to the ladder and out onto the deck. There, a chain of men was passing bundles of produce arm over arm to each other, cursing with the effort. Graves stepped carefully down the plank and dropped the sack onto a waiting cart by the mouth of Corder’s Wharf. Rubbing the dust from his hands, he saw that his fingers were already stained an orange yellow.

  “Get that cart inside!” The foreman was standing on the quayside, puffed up with self-importance. “The tide won’t wait for you!”

  Concerned he had caught the policeman’s attention at the dock head, Graves cast his eyes up the quayside. The constable was deep in conversation with a squat man with a cane. Making use of the opportunity, Graves grabbed the cart with both hands and lugged it across the flagstones in the wharf. Once inside, he was pointed to a set of large sliding doors that were suspended from a gallery on the north wall. Graves wiped his forehead with the back of a hand. Already his clothes were damp with sweat. He pushed his way through a queue of men to the anteroom beneath the gallery, heading for an empty corner where he thought he might unpack his load. Just as he stopped, a trapdoor was flung open on the floor at his feet. He stepped back in surprise as a pair of hands reached up from the hole and scrabbled at the floor. A head that Graves recognised poked up from a cellar. The clouded eye and mean disposition marked the man out as Ichabod Sallow. Sallow fixed Graves for a moment with a ghoulish stare, then p
ulled himself up through the hole to his feet.

  “Unload that here,” he rasped, indicating to Graves’ cart with a nod of his head. Graves thought it best to do as he was told. Looking around him, he saw that Sallow was being given a wide berth. The other workers in the wharf walked on by about their chores. Those waiting for work averted their gaze.

  As Graves busied himself about his task, he watched as Sallow swung a rope on a pulley and lowered it into the hole. He puffed at the stump of a cheroot as he worked, seemingly not caring if he was seen. Gesturing to a fellow down the hatch, he walked calmly to the wall and swung hard at a handle fixed there. Graves watched as a wooden pallet rose from the trap in the floor. It was loaded with sacks just like the ones on Graves’ cart and Sallow gestured that the sergeant should swing it away from the hole.

  “Ain’t seen your face afore,” grumbled Sallow.

  “No,” said Graves, treading carefully. “I just came down today.”

  “Down from where?” Sallow was rolling his cheroot between his lips, thoughtfully. His clouded eye regarded Graves, carefully.

  “Stanmore,” Graves said, truthfully. Bowman had cautioned him that, if questioned, he should only obfuscate when necessary, the better to remember his story.

  “Graves, ain’t it?” Sallow spat on the floor.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you work hard, Graves?”

  “I can that.”

  “And keep your mouth shut?”

  Graves swallowed. He felt he was being sized up. He also felt that Ichabod Sallow was up to no good. The sergeant nodded slowly, his usually expressive eyes conveying nothing.

  Sallow had joined him now. “Then lend a hand unloading these, then we’ll swap ’em over with today’s haul.”

  Sallow worked quickly and quietly, swapping over the sacks of produce. Those from the cellar were piled high against the wall, those from Graves’ cart took their place on the pallet. All the while, Sallow kept the sergeant in his sight. “You ain’t seen none of this, right?” he said when they had finished, the threat implicit in his tone of voice, “Or it’ll be the worse for you. Keep your trap shut and your nose clean and you’ll fit in perfect.” Graves nodded in understanding as Sallow lowered the pallet down into the cellar. Turning to see Graves still standing with his cart, Sallow fixed him with his clouded eye. “Well, be on your way then,” he commanded. “The tide won’t wait for you.” Chuckling at his own joke, Ichabod Sallow lowered himself back through the hole in the floor and closed the trapdoor behind him.

  Graves was left with more questions than answers. Just what was Sallow up to in the cellar? And why had he injured Jonas Cook? Graves guessed his answers lay beneath that trap door, and resolved to return when the day’s work was done. In the meantime, he rolled up his shirtsleeves, clasped the handles to the cart and returned to his duties aboard The Eastern Star.

  XIX

  A Hope In Hell

  Bow Street police station was a solid, inscrutable building of white Suffolk brick and Portland stone. Its high walls and slate roof stood out in stark relief against the blue May sky. Its windows reflected the busy street below.

  In the bowels of the building, with his head in his hands, sat William Tremont. His portly frame was squeezed onto a solitary stool in his cell, the only other furniture being a flat and unforgiving mattress that lay on a shelf against a far wall. No natural light was to be admitted this far below ground. Gas lamps spat and flickered on the walls of the corridor immediately outside the cell. Tremont had been deprived of his coat and so sat, dejected in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, staring at the ground between his feet.

  Detective Inspector Bowman cleared his throat to announce his presence, and Tremont looked up to fix him with a baleful glare.

  “I had not thought to see you again.”

  Bowman nodded. “I wish to speak to you, Mr Tremont.”

  “I have said enough.” Tremont dropped his head again, rubbing his eyes with a filthy hand. “And none of that has been believed.”

  Bowman leaned up against the bars. Meeting his eyes again, Tremont took a moment to consider the man in front of him. His eyes were hooded, with shadows beneath them. His shoulders were slumped and there was something in his stature that indicated a man who bore a heavy load.

  “Have you come to implicate me in the bomb at my own dock?” asked Tremont, sadly.

  “No,” replied Bowman. “I have come to help.” The inspector couldn’t help but note the look of cynicism in Tremont’s eyes. “How long have you worked at St. Katharine Docks, Mr. Tremont?”

  “Man and boy.” Tremont gazed into the gloom, a wistful look upon his face. “It has always given me satisfaction.” Tremont rose from the stool and eased himself over to the bars. “My work is of great import, Inspector Bowman.” He clasped the lapels to his waistcoat and puffed out his not inconsiderable chest. “London must be fed and clothed and it is through my auspices that it is kept so.” Tremont turned back into his cell and lowered himself to the mattress, scratching at his belly as he lay back. “Great advances have been made in the understanding of human anatomy of late, inspector.” Bowman narrowed his eyes. “I have seen maps of the human body that show the vascular system as rivers and tributaries. They all lead to and from the body’s beating heart, just as all trade comes through St. Katharine Docks. We are the beating heart of the Empire, inspector. Or have been so, until now.”

  Certain as he was of Tremont’s innocence, Bowman suddenly felt a deep sorrow for his predicament. “Do you have any Irish connections?”

  Tremont turned his head directly to the inspector at the bars. “Are you pedalling the Fenian lie, too?” His jowls wobbled in his distress. “The very thought is ridiculous. This is Bracewell’s half-baked nonsense.”

  Casting a glance up the corridor between the cells, Bowman saw a rickety wooden chair by a table. Pulling it to Tremont’s cell, he sat, deep in thought, to pick his way through the dock master’s predicament.

  “Chief Inspector Callaghan believes you may have sympathies with the Fenian cause,” he said.

  Tremont gave a splutter of derision. “You mean Cornelius Bracewell believes so. Or at least tells Callaghan so.”

  Bowman leaned forward on his chair. “What do you know of his relationship with Callaghan?”

  The plump dock master shook his head, forlorn. “Only what I see. That Bracewell has seen an opportunity for advancement. I have long been in competition with St. Saviour’s Dock. Bracewell has fought long and hard for advantage, lowering his port charges and importing cheap labour.”

  “Importing labour?”

  Tremont swung his legs from the bed. “Take a look at his workforce, inspector. None of them are London men, but are brought in from the Shires and paid a pittance. I will not do such a thing to my men, and I am made to suffer for it. Then Tilbury hit us bad.”

  Bowman raised his eyebrows. “Tilbury?”

  “Tilbury Dock has deeper basins so can accommodate larger vessels.” Tremont was on his feet now, pacing with a nervous agitation. “They’ve made greater use of mechanisation, and they have a local workforce grateful for employment. St. Katharine Docks is not long for this world, inspector, mark my words.”

  Bowman nodded sagely. Everywhere, it seemed, there was progress. It was not always to the good.

  “How does Bracewell make his money if he is lowering charges?”

  “He finds it from other sources.” Tremont looked at the inspector, darkly.

  “He says he is in possession of some papers that incriminate you.”

  “Papers be blowed.” Tremont was at the bars, looking down on Bowman. “His men are as crooked as he.”

  “Do you deny the papers’ existence?”

  “I do not, but I refute Cornelius Bracewell’s inferences.”

  Bowman leaned back in his rickety chair, the legs creaking dangerously beneath him. “Bracewell has mentioned certain transactions designed to legitimise Fenian funds.”

  Tremon
t rolled his eyes, resigned. “Presented in a certain light, they might appear so.”

  “What is the truth of them?”

  “The truth lies as far from Bracewell’s story as might be imagined.”

  “I must assure you that I am not part of Callaghan’s investigation. You may be frank with me and be assured that nothing of what you say shall pass beyond these walls.”

  “And yet you know of Bracewell’s accusations?”

  Bowman swallowed. “I am party to certain facts, but I am not of Bracewell’s mind.”

  Tremont walked away from the bars, his expression one of abject sorrow. “The truth, Inspector Bowman, is that I am compromised.”

  “By whom?” Bowman leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees and making steeples with his fingers.

  Sitting again on his makeshift bed, Tremont looked about him. How he wished to be anywhere but here. “They’re known only as the Kaiser. They operate on the south bank.”

  Bowman’s mind was drawn to the moment at St. Katharine Docks, just following the blast, when he had seen Tremont gazing out across the Thames to St. Saviour’s Dock.

  “My records might well show certain discrepancies,” Tremont continued. “But not as a result of any Fenian loyalty.” His eyes met Bowman’s in a moment of frank admission. “Rather the result of extortion.”

  The inspector let the words hang in the air. He could sense Tremont was grappling with his natural reticence. Throwing up his hands in resignation, he dock master continued. “For the last two years I have been threatened with retribution unless certain funds were paid. Business is precarious enough, inspector. I cannot afford anything but a smooth-running dock. I have been told to provide one hundred pounds every month or else risk a catastrophe.”

  Bowman’s eyes widened at the sum. That was more than half a detective’s yearly salary paid every month. “For how long?”