‘Nothing more than that? I do not like to feel that I am being observed.’
‘Mr Jackson – it is the work of the Thames Police, among other duties, to be vigilant for any depredations upon the water. It matters not who commits them or where. You tell me that there is no corruption among your ranks and I am obliged to accept your word. Should events prove otherwise, we will speak once again.’
‘We certainly shall.’
‘Very well. I thank you for your time and I presume you will be most welcoming to my clerks when they arrive tomorrow morning.’
Thus did Sir Richard retire from the office of the inspector general and return to the quay, where the launch was waiting for him. Indeed, he was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he barely noticed the gentleman who brushed roughly against him while disembarking from a steam ferry. Had Sir Richard noticed, he would surely have recognized the man as one whom he had not only previously imprisoned, but whom he had also once engaged on a very unusual case.
The two would be meeting again soon enough, but it may prove interesting nevertheless to take a few steps backwards before revealing the identity of that particular ferry passenger.
FIVE
As Sir Richard had travelled beneath the arches of Blackfriars-bridge that morning, he would have passed the stately row of merchant’s houses on the north shore: testaments to the diligence (and rapacity) of those traders in timber, coal, spermaceti and spices who had made London the destination of the world’s fleets. From the river, these edifices appeared even taller and grander, their façades diminished not a jot by the many leaning masts and the rows of ochre-sailed barges settled on the mud before them.
One of these residences, between Puddle Dock and the bridge stairs, was a particular curiosity. A thin, two-storey building, it seemed to have been shouldered into place by the taller ones each side. Indeed, one might not have said from the river whether it was an independent structure or an extension of its neighbours. From Earl-street at the rear, it was quite invisible and offered no apparent door to the thoroughfare.
As for the inhabitants of that singular home, there was much debate among other residents of the row. Some maintained that the owner was one Harold Smith, an importer of linen. Others knew the gentleman in question as William Smart, a minor ship-owner holding cargo somewhere in the east of the city. All remarked on the somewhat terrifying aspect of the gentleman’s manservant: a lofty Negro with a damaged left eye that presented but a milky film to the world. Neither resident brought trouble to the area, however, and so the merchants thereabouts did not – as merchants generally do not – enquire too closely into the other man’s business.
That morning, then, as Sir Richard had passed under the bridge, the master of the narrow riverside house had been reclining in a sturdy leather chair with his back to the window. He was holding an old edition of the Times on his knee and scanning the personal advertisements with his light-grey eyes. One might have said, from his well-made clothes and the good taste of the room, that he was a gentleman. But the crooked nose and lightly scarred knuckles suggested a more eventful past than most of our gentlemen are accustomed to. His real name was Noah Dyson.
‘Listen to this, Ben,’ he said, reading to the large Negro sitting in a similarly accommodating chair by the fire. ‘“The writer of the anonymous note to Mr Swales makes an erroneous assumption as to the identity of the person referred to.” If that is not a blackmail case, I do not know what is. Or how about this one: “If Mr Parrack, formerly butler to the late Lord Young will make his address known to G.D. at 14 Rathbone-place, he may hear something to his advantage.” What do you make of that, Ben? A legacy? Or more blackmail?’
Benjamin gave a great basso laugh and put down his book. He was indeed a unique specimen, the opaque eye and his large size – all of it hard muscle – lending him a fearsome air. A horrifying scar of twisted skin about his throat suggested a too-near acquaintance with the gallows at some point in his past, while further scarring at his temples and nose hinted at some time in the prize ring. He did not respond in speech to Noah’s question, but instead described a number of curious shapes in the air with his hands, swooping, squeezing and punctuating with his fingers until he had completed his thought in that language.
‘No, I am not bored, Ben. These entries are quite fascinating. Each one is a story in itself; one must only pull at its strands to uncover the larger truth. Do you not occasionally look at the faces on the streets and wonder at their secrets, their cares, their guilt – their crimes? Do you not see in these pages those secrets laid bare?’
Benjamin, now reading again, smiled and used a single hand to indicate ‘no’ without looking up from his page.
‘Well, listen to this one: “If M.R. will write immediately, M.S. will go to see her”. That is evidently a story of romance. He is pursuing her against the will of her parents, but they have been maintaining an illicit correspondence all the same. It seems her parents have been getting the upper hand and this is his desperate attempt to renew that correspondence. That is my interpretation.’
Benjamin, still focused upon the book, simply shook his head. He had not the slightest interest.
‘And this is an interesting one: “: ” – some manner of vulgar Greek by the looks of it. One does not often see foreign tongues in the personal advertisements. I wonder what it—’
Benjamin slapped the covers of his book together and remarked (one might assume from the pointed nature of his gesticulations) that he had had enough of his friend’s incessant talk and was taking his book to a place where he might read in peace.
‘Suit yourself, Ben. I will see you at supper,’ said Noah.
Alone now, he applied himself once more to the paper and saw on the next page that Benjamin, despite his professed lack of interest, had circled one of the advertisements in dark pencil for Noah’s interest: Five guineas reward – lost on Tuesday this week between Custom House quay and the Tower, a gold and diamond brooch in the shape of a swan. Bring the article to Mivart’s Hotel and ask for Miss Roberts to claim the reward.
He smiled. Many mistook Benjamin for his manservant, but no man could wish for a truer and more loyal friend. They had fought back-to-back on more than one foreign shore, sailors’ knives in hand and their clothes hanging in bloody strips from their bodies. They had known such privation that a shared forecastle bunk was their only comfort, and yet they had also enjoyed wealth beyond many men’s imaginations. That, however, is another story entirely.
Noah tore the circled message carefully from the paper and folded it into his trouser pocket. He then stood and turned to look out at the river, where a fully loaded steam ferry was leaving a churning wake for a coal barge to traverse on its way up to Westminster. The manufactory chimneys of Southwark were pouring their incessant smoke into a grey sky. Idly, he looked at the mantel clock and seemed to weigh how best to spend his afternoon.
He looked again at the advertisement Benjamin had circled, and, as if making a sudden decision, he quickly extracted a dagger from a drawer and slipped it into a leather sheath beneath his jacket. His top hat and dark overcoat were next, and then he was descending carpeted stairs to emerge into a narrow alley that brought him onto the private wharf facing the river. In just a few minutes, he was standing with a dozen others at the Blackfriars ferry pier.
As they waited thus, the gathered passengers heard the unmistakable chant of a street hawker coming down the stairs from the bridge:
‘Eldritch Batchem! Eldritch Batchem! The greatest detective of modern London and investigator by royal appointment!’ cried a man in a garish rust-coloured suit as he walked among them. ‘Hear him speak on “The Mind of the Murderer” at the Queen’s Theatre . . . !’
A playbill was thrust into Noah’s hand by the cryer. He scanned the first few lines:
THE MIND OF THE MURDERER REVEALED
Esteemed private investigator by Royal Appointment
Eldritch Batchem addresses the people of London
on
the science of detection and on the special case of
the murderer . . .
He crumpled the paper and threw it into the river, where it was almost instantly sucked into the boiling water beneath the arriving ferry’s circular paddles. The swell splashed up against the pier, a billow of acrid smoke washed over faces, and the hatch-boy on board yelled ‘Stop ’er! Stop ’er!’ down to the hidden engineer.
The gangplank was lowered into place and, after a sudden cataract of passengers off and on, the hatch-boy was relaying the skipper’s hand signals from the bridge to the engine: ‘Half-a-turn-astern! And another . . . easy now! Easy now! Full speed ahead now!’
Noah climbed the stairs to take a seat on the upper deck that he might better observe the passengers, who presented a common enough selection: here a group of enthusiastic visiters from the provinces in their outdated fashions, pointing vigorously at the shoreline as if every warehouse were a palace and every spire the dome of St Paul’s. Here a minor clerk heading for St Katharine’s, his mind occupied with how many wagons would be available to transport his hogsheads of beer. And here, sitting before Noah, was a governess with her young charge: a boy whose clothes said he was from a wealthy family, but whose unkempt hair and muddy knees said he was still just a boy at heart. His inquisitive eyes seemed to be fixed on Noah’s wrists, which, where they emerged from the coat cuffs, revealed the kind of scarring that comes only from incarceration in irons.
Seeing the boy’s glances, Noah winked and reached beneath his waistcoat to extract the dagger, which he used affectedly to scrape a clot of mud from his boot heel, enjoying the wide-eyed stare it elicited.
The game soon ended, however, when the intended object of Noah’s trip walked by with a scent of perfume to counteract the river’s stink. Her linen and lace were suggestive, and the flash of ankle as she strode made that suggestion fact: she was a street girl using the ferry to advertise herself to the many professional men upon the Thames. Noah stood and walked towards where she stood at the rail, the line of her outthrust hip exhibited to best effect in the black dress.
‘Good morning to you, miss,’ he said.
‘I don’t talk to policemen, sir. Call me superstitious, but I just don’t.’ Her smile said that she might, nevertheless, make an exception for Noah.
‘What makes you think I am a policeman?’
‘I can just tell.’
‘Well, I assure you I am not – and if I were, I would be legally bound to tell you. Is that not correct?’
‘I . . . I suppose so.’
‘Miss – I believe you can aid me greatly. I see that you have rather an attractive brooch there at your breast . . .’
‘Why, and I thought you were a gentleman! A fine one you are, looking at my—’
‘Please, let us dispense with such banter. I can see immediately that it is not a genuine diamond, no matter what your benefactor may have told you. Even so, I will buy it from you.’
‘It is not for sale, at least not to one so rude as yourself.’
‘It is worth perhaps two shillings, but here is a sovereign.’
‘I . . . well . . . all right.’
‘But before you remove your brooch so readily, let me explain my terms. I will give you your sovereign but you will keep the brooch. For the money, you will disembark at the Custom House and simply make your way to the Tower. If I do not meet you there after ten minutes to collect the brooch, you may keep both the brooch and the sovereign.’
‘I say, what is this all about, sir? I am no criminal.’
‘It is simply as I say. All you need to do is walk to the Tower with my money in your pocket. Do you agree?’
The ferry passed under an arch of London-bridge, casting a shadow over them. For a moment they might have been in a watery cave rather than at the centre of the world.
‘I will do it,’ said the magdalene, finally seeing no disadvantage in the deal.
‘Good girl. Go now so that you are among the first across the gangplank. I will observe you and will follow.’
The engines altered their tone. The paddles slowed their thrashing of the water. From up on deck, the broad Custom House quay looked like chaos: all hawkers, clerks, merchants, idlers, visiters to the Tower and, of course, the lines of continental passengers with their luggage.
Noah looked carefully over the crowds. As a child of the streets, he saw the city unlike other Londoners. Those raised in the comfort of a home lived their lives among a limited network of roads, seldom venturing beyond the known shops, offices and residences of friends. To one who called the whole city his home, every metropolitan space had a life and character of its own. At a glance, and often from their pace or gait alone, he might pick out the stranger, the worker, the beggar and the thief. He saw not mere streets, but catalogues of characters.
And there was one who attracted Noah’s attention after just a few moments. The man was waiting, but evidently not for a vessel, for he showed no urgency or interest in moving closer to the embarkation points. His left arm appeared to hang limply in a soiled sling around his neck, yet he showed no awareness of caution for his damaged limb as the people pressed all around him.
The gangplank was lowered and the ferry passengers surged across it. Noah watched the man with the sling, who had positioned himself in a place where the people would flow past him. As they did so, each one was scrutinized with a rapid up-and-down glance . . . until the street girl walked by, looking over her shoulder to see if Noah was watching her. At that moment, the ‘injured’ man stepped in front of her, causing her to almost trip. A swift mutual apology was effected, and then both went on their ways.
Noah smiled and stepped quickly to join the remaining disembarking passengers, all the while keeping his target – the ‘one-armed’ gentleman – in sight. He would never again see the girl, who had earned her sovereign but lost her brooch.
Once on the quay, Noah assumed the role of a passenger waiting for the Havre ferry, all the while watching with growing amusement as the ‘one-armed’ man bumped into numerous other people too distracted to notice that they were missing their pocketbooks, bracelets, tiepins, handkerchiefs or brooches. Finally, after about half an hour, good sense dictated that it was time the thief left his workplace lest somebody find their property missing and remember being jostled by him.
Noah followed, himself accidentally colliding with a fellow he recognized instantly as none other than Commissioner of Police Sir Richard Mayne. The eminent gentleman was mercifully too preoccupied to pause, however, and Noah managed to keep his quarry in view while reflecting ironically on how the city threw people together.
Moving north, he was not at all surprised to be led around the Tower, up Rosemary-lane and then into that warren of alleys north of East Smithfield, where sundry low receivers of stolen goods are to be found. With many a backward glance (but little observation) the ‘one-armed’ man turned repeatedly left and right through a maze of filthy passages before finally entering a dilapidated marine store whose unsellable wares spilled out into the narrow passage before it.
A few moments later, he was joined by Noah in a shop that was tiny and made to seem smaller still by the improbable multitude of rubbish piled on its shelves and floor. The tin cups, rusted tools, oiled capes, sacks of mouldy ship’s biscuit and coils of well-worn rope together gave off a powerfully musty scent. Behind the counter, the proprietor was talking to the thief but paused mid-sentence to look dubiously at his new ‘customer’.
‘Sure yer got the right shop, mate?’ he said.
‘I believe so,’ said Noah. ‘I am looking for . . . excuse me a moment . . .’ He took the newspaper clipping from his pocket and unfolded it. ‘Yes – I am looking for a “gold and diamond brooch in the shape of a swan”.’
‘Ha! You must have problems with yer peepers, mate. I can do yer a length of rope or a tin bucket, but I don’t sell no jewel’ry. Yer want old Levi down the alley – he’ll do for yer.’
‘N
o – I am sure this is the place. I have just followed this poor fellow here, having spent part of my morning watching him steal from passengers at Custom House quay. I trust that you are his customary receiver and that – as thieves are wont to do – he has reserved that particular plot as his own. Therefore, this is the most likely place for me to find my brooch.’
‘I don’t think I like your tone,’ said the ‘one-armed’ man, squaring up to Noah. ‘Call me a thief to my face, will you?’
Noah smiled and casually extracted his dagger, which, without a moment’s hesitation, he thrust downwards into the arm within the dirty sling. It stuck there, upright, and quivered slightly at the handle.
The ‘one-armed’ man showed not the slightest reaction of pain, but the proprietor let forth a throaty laugh and slapped the counter in his mirth.
‘Balsa wood, I presume. Or is it pine?’ said Noah, tugging the dagger free of the false arm.
‘Ha ha! He’s got yer there!’ said the proprietor to the man with the sling, who – seemingly nonplussed by the boldness of the gentleman with the dagger – was now sheepishly releasing his concealed arm from a hidden vent in the side of his jacket. He looked Noah up and down. ‘You are no policeman. What are you?’
‘I have come for the brooch. Not the one you took today from the street girl – you can keep that. I want the one shaped like a swan.’
‘What makes yer think it’s here, if it ever was,’ said the proprietor, his smile fading rapidly.
‘Because a small receiver such as yourself does not sell his spoils piecemeal to the larger receivers – you store up your treasures until you have a quantity to tempt them. Because it was taken only a few days ago. Because if you do not give it to me now, you will both be very sorry.’
‘You are only one and we are two,’ said the proprietor with mathematical assuredness.
Noah merely grinned. ‘Gentlemen – let us be civil. It would not inconvenience me at all to use my dagger on you. But in truth I am not remotely interested in your thievery. I have no intention of harming your free-enterprise endeavours – nor do I intend to inform the local constables what goes on here. All I want is that swan. Then I will bid you good day and never return to bother you again.’
The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) Page 5