The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3)

by McCreet, James

  The two criminals looked at each other and then at this gentleman who so affably threatened them with violence.

  ‘What is it worth to you?’ asked the proprietor.

  Noah sighed and shook his head. His right arm flashed out in a blur and the edge of his hand struck the throat of the ‘one-armed’ man, who fell loudly to the dusty wooden floor. He writhed there, groaning, with his hands about his neck.

  ‘That is the end of my patience,’ said Noah to the proprietor. ‘The swan, if you please, or I will similarly disable you, search this place and take it.’

  The shopkeeper peered over the counter at his fellow on the floor. Then he opened a drawer to his right, rummaged briefly among its contents and placed the swan on the counter with a defiant glare.

  ‘That would have fetched me a pretty price,’ he said with a clenched jaw.

  Noah examined the brooch and saw that the stones were real, as well they might be for a lady resident of Mivart’s Hotel. ‘Well, now you may go home to supper with a throat that works. Good day to you, gentlemen.’

  And to expedite the conclusion of Noah Dyson’s day, he did indeed make his way to that hotel, where he handed the brooch to an effusively grateful Miss Roberts and received the five guinea reward. If it looked like chivalry to her, it had been merely an afternoon’s entertainment for him: a diversion from the tedium of which he had grown so tired.

  Indeed, he did not even keep the money. Within minutes of collecting it, he had dropped the coins into the basket of a pale and sickly girl selling watercresses on an Oxford-street corner. It was, after all, an insignificant sum to him, but one that, to her, would be the certain difference between life and death.

  Such ennui was soon to end, however, for his next call was south across Waterloo-bridge towards Lambeth, where the door he knocked upon was opened by a gentleman of our recent acquaintance: one George Williamson.

  SIX

  ‘What can you tell me about this body I found yesterday, doctor?’

  Inspector Newsome looked at the naked form on the examination table in the surgery of the Thames Police station house at Wapping. It was a man of about thirty years, moderately built, with little bodily hair and with a number of obvious wounds about the torso and limbs. Now washed clean of the river’s filth, the pale body appeared less horrifying than when found, though it had been opened and sewn closed again in the meantime.

  ‘I can tell you, Mr Newsome, that this is no place for me to be doing work of such a variety,’ said the surgeon, an earnest gentleman more accustomed to reviving half-drowned would-be suicides or dockworkers. ‘This is neither a dissection room nor a morgue.’

  ‘Your help is most gratefully received, doctor. I need to know everything: the provenance of every wound, and the cause of death.’

  ‘Is this not a matter for an inquest? I really do not see the need for me to have examined the body here in the station.’

  ‘No doubt there will be an inquest, doctor, but justice occasionally does not appreciate waiting – particularly if there is a murderer on the loose.’

  ‘Do you suspect as much?’

  ‘I suspect only what I have cause to – which is why we are in this room.’

  ‘Well, he did not drown – I can tell you that. There was no water in his lungs. The chain about his ankles may have been to weigh him down in the water, but he was already dead when thrown in.’

  ‘Not enough chain, evidently. What of the cut on his left cheek there?’

  ‘Difficult to say. It seems to have been caused by a significant impact rather than by a sharp instrument. The skin has been torn from the bone in an irregular shape: a rip rather than a cut.’

  ‘Have you any idea as to the cause of that impact?’

  ‘It could be anything really. If he has been in the river some time, it might be the hull of a boat, a ferry platform, something on the riverbed . . .’

  ‘Or the weapon that killed him?’

  ‘I think not. The cheekbone is not broken so the force was not colossal.’

  ‘And this ragged area about his left shoulder? That does not look like a blow.’

  ‘I will come to that in just a moment. If you are seeking the cause of death, however, I rather suspect it was the blow to the back of his head here.’ The doctor indicated a shaved area of discoloured scalp. ‘The scull is quite shattered beneath the skin.’

  ‘I see. What of those minor abrasions about the wound? He has them also on his elbows and knees.’

  ‘My guess would be that they are the result of the body churning along the gravel of the riverbed for some time, abrading through his clothes in those bony places. I pulled a good many fragments out of the wounds.’

  ‘How long do you think he was in the water?’

  ‘Based on the numerous suicides I see, I would guess no more than two or three days. The cold water has preserved the body if anything.’

  ‘Is there any way to tell whether that blow to his head occurred before or after he went into the water?’

  ‘I am afraid not, Inspector Newsome – only that he did not inhale river water.’

  ‘Well, the chain tells us he probably did not slip and fall, hitting his head as he toppled into the river. Somebody wanted him not to be found.’

  ‘It seems the most likely conclusion. I did, however, find something exceptionally curious in that wound on the shoulder. It is rather inconsistent with the other injuries.’

  ‘Yes?’

  The surgeon went over to a stone basin and returned with a small metal bowl, which he held out for examination.

  ‘What do you make of that, Mr Newsome?’

  ‘My G—! Did you find that in the body?’

  ‘In the shoulder, as I say. I had to dig it out of the flesh.’

  ‘Is it really what it appears to be?’

  ‘Indeed – it is an exceptionally large mammalian tooth. An incisor, most probably, though I could not say from what animal.’

  ‘A very big one, it would seem.’

  ‘Certainly. And not one indigenous to the river or its environs either. It is like no fish tooth I have ever seen.’

  ‘Could this have happened prior to the body going into the water?’

  ‘That is even more curious. There was some sand inside the wound beneath the tooth. It may have worked its way in there, of course, but it suggests the tooth went into the body after the body had been submerged and washed about the river. I might even venture that the body was washed up on a bank during low tide and attacked there as carrion.’

  ‘This is most interesting, doctor. What manner of beast could do that?’

  ‘I cannot say. Certainly none that seems native to the city. Of course, there are stories among the mudlarks of “beasts”, but they are simple people and prone to idiocy.’

  ‘Is that right – the mudlarks? I may look into it further. In the meantime, I wonder if you can tell me anything of the man’s profession?’

  ‘From his naked body alone? I am a doctor, not a necromancer. I would expect his clothes to tell more about that story. Have you not examined them?’

  ‘I have, but a man may wear any clothes he likes – or be dressed in them by another. You raise your eyebrows, doctor, but such things are part of my experience. Let us look at his hands, for example: no calluses upon the palms and no oakum or tar beneath the nails. That tells us he was not a common seaman. Likewise, there are no fresh cuts or abrasions on the fingers, which reinforces the assumption he was no mere river labourer. As for the feet, they are also relatively free of calluses or misshapen toes, meaning . . .’

  ‘He wore good boots.’

  ‘Precisely. He was wearing them when found, but the body tells us they were his own.’

  ‘What else did his garments tell you, Inspector?’

  ‘The pea coat is indicative of a mariner, it is true – as are the canvas trousers. As with the boots, they were of a reasonably good quality, so I presume our man was a ship’s mate. We also found a folding marli
ne spike in his pocket with the initials “M.H.” branded into its handle.’

  ‘So we can safely assume the man was a sailor.’

  ‘It would seem so. He had a pocketbook with some money in it – alas, nothing more that would identify him. The chain about his ankles was standard medium-gauge iron that might be found anywhere along the Thames. It must have been attached in a hurry, or else there was initially more, for as we know, it was insufficient to act as an anchor.’

  ‘Well, I am sure this is all most intriguing, Mr Newsome, but I have finished my examination and I have other duties. Shall I arrange to have the body interred as usual?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, doctor. But before you do so, I would like Constable Jones to make me a detailed pencil likeness of the victim’s face. You may leave it on my desk when it is done . . . and I will take that tooth with me.’

  ‘I was hoping to keep it as a curiosity . . .’

  ‘It is a clue in an investigation. I must take it from you.’

  ‘Very well, Inspector – if you must. Where does your investigation go now?’

  ‘Back to the accursed river again. I need to discern, if possible, where that body might first have entered the water.’

  ‘I wish you luck. The tides are a mystery that few understand. In fact, you might want to speak to a retired pilot many of the constables consult on such riverine matters. He goes by the name of John Tarr, though he is sometimes termed “the Thames sage”.’

  ‘Tarr? I fear you are mocking me now, doctor.’

  ‘I am quite serious. He claims it as his family name. He can be found at Pickle Herring-street, apparently. Everyone knows him there, although I hear he is somewhat eccentric.’

  ‘Perhaps I will seek him out. In the meantime I thank you again for accommodating me regarding the examination of “M.H.” here.’

  In a city born of its river, can there be any place more representative of that heritage than Pickle Herring-street on the Surrey shore? Its stairs, wharf and warehousing were as familiar to those ocean-rovers of glorious Elizabeth as they are to Victoria’s merchants, and the bustle about those alleys has not ceased for centuries of trade.

  Coal dust crackles underfoot, barrels roll down planks from wagons, cries echo from cavernous storage spaces, and the tackle of innumerable cranes rattles and creaks at loading platforms. High above the thoroughfare, criss-crossing wooden walkways convey clerks from office to office so that one might fancy being upon the deck of an enormous brig rather than a street. And everywhere, the smell of cargoes: oranges of Spain, the pungent fish basket, the musty wine cask, tobacco’s sweet scent, and the odd enticement of tar. It is said that dogs go mad here.

  At the shore-side stairs, waves slap at moss-mottled stone and rinse the steps with solutions of sand. And as the river went about its timeless business that afternoon, a police galley crossed between colliers and smacks from the Tower to steer among the tethered wherries of the watermen.

  One might be assured that those particular gentlemen of the river were, as ever, reluctant to meet any Thames policeman, whatever rank he might hold. For as a teacher has to apply the birch now and again to his charges, so the uniformed men of the river are obliged daily to figuratively lash the waterman for his fractious nature.

  ‘Ho! Come to investigate my stolen wherry, have you?’ shouted one.

  ‘Nah – they’ve come about the young feller had his brains splashed all over by that dray Tuesday last,’ offered another.

  ‘Hush your blather!’ said a third. ‘They’ll be here about that body we pulled out two months gone. Better late than never!’

  These jibes raised a collective laugh from the other watermen, which the constables in the galley bore with their usual professional fortitude as they stowed the oars and tied up to a chain. Their inspector, however, seemed less placatory.

  ‘Make way, mongrels!’ said Mr Newsome as he stepped from the galley up the stairs and into the group of ruffians. ‘You think yourself wits, but your humour may have earned you trouble. Constables – while I am about my business, I want you to check that all of these wherries are numbered and logged to the last letter of the regulations. Any that are not will be towed away and destroyed on my return.’

  A mutter of discontent rippled through the watermen and the constables in the galley smiled to each other, momentarily pleased to be working with their unorthodox superior.

  Thus it was that Mr Newsome made his way past the fishing-net frames and smack baskets to the main artery of Pickle Herring-street itself, which, on that afternoon, seemed less like a public highway and more like an eruption of cargo from the overloaded vaults around it. Wire-bound bales stamped with merchants’ marks were piled as high as a man on both sides, and barrels tumbled chaotically in wait for the cranes. Everywhere, men toiled with weight and wheel to process the trade of the world.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Mr Newsome, addressing a foreman supervising the hoisting of tobacco bales into a third-storey aperture, ‘I am seeking a certain John Tarr of this street. He is an ex-pilot, I believe.’

  ‘Aye – ten yards on,’ replied the man, waving an arm but not taking his eyes from the swaying package. ‘Turn right at Walden’s Wool. You’ll find him down Tripe-alley.’

  Mr Newsome walked as directed among the wagons (mindful of the waterman’s allusion to the pedestrian who had recently fallen under their wheels) and saw the sign of the wool warehouse. Turning right as directed, he could see the river and the manifold masts of the Pool at the conclusion of Tripe-alley, but there was otherwise no sign of habitation – just the blank brick edifices of warehouse ends. He muttered a blasphemy and started to pick his way through a muddy tangle of worn rope, rotten timber and cat-chewed rat corpses.

  ‘John Tarr! Are you down here? John Tarr, I say!’

  At the alley’s end, the silhouette of a figure appeared: squat, stolid and wearing a formless corduroy cap upon its head. A long, thin cigar protruded from the mouth.

  ‘John Tarr?’ said Mr Newsome, seeing the face properly now. The man had the leathery look of a South Sea mariner, his face etched with lines like a whaler’s hull after a three-year voyage. A lifetime of pulling on oars and ropes had given his arms and shoulders some natural bulk, though he seemed to be doing nothing in this place other than watching the vessels upon the water. A rough-hewn bench by the muddy bank appeared to have been situated for the very purpose, and the ex-pilot beckoned his visiter to come closer.

  ‘Aye, I am Tarr.’ The voice matched the face: a brine-seasoned, weather-hewn instrument that exhaled a cloud of smoke from the twig-like cigar.

  ‘What are you doing down here, Mr Tarr, if I may ask. I see no houses.’

  ‘I might ask the same of you, Inspector.’

  ‘You know me?’

  ‘I saw the galley row over from the Tower and I saw you in it. Two constables and their inspector is standard for a galley. You held no oar. Won’t you take a seat and watch the river with me?’

  ‘Thank you – I will. Your sight is certainly acute. I am Inspector Newsome of the Detec—, of the Thames Police, and I am told that you are the man to speak to concerning the tides of the river and . . . and other related matters.’

  ‘I was a Trinity House pilot. I was a waterman. I have been a ferry skipper. I know the river as well as any man, and I know it as little as any man.’

  ‘Well, you are better placed than I am to answer my question. If a body washes up among the colliers of the Pool on the Surrey side about fifty yards east of London-bridge, where might it have entered the water? Is there any means of calculating it?’

  ‘Ho! Do you know women, Inspector?’

  ‘Women? What has that to do with the question?’

  ‘A woman is a force of nature, Inspector. One might learn no science to predict her actions. She is like fire or the sea – a mystery to men, and a great danger. The river is like a woman – only less predictable, more lethal.’

  Mr Tarr took the cigar from his mouth and pointe
d to his interlocutor with it as if adding a glowing full stop to the proclamation.

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘Perhaps, in my ignorance, I have mistaken the daily change of tides to be a somewhat predictable pattern—’

  ‘“Predictable”, you say? Perhaps before Old London-bridge was demolished – but no longer. Did you know that the flood tide has greater velocity on the Surrey side of Blackfriars when the Middlesex side simultaneously has flat water? Shoals appear and disappear at their own whim. When the north-easterlies blow uninterrupted, the channel chokes on water and breaks its banks. And yet dead water will appear mid-flow, stirring flotsam as the tides flow round. The bed of the river is to blame, of course. It is dredged, it is shifted, it is moulded by accretions of human filth from the sewers. Who knows what it is doing there beneath the cloaking water or what secrets it holds? Predictable? No. No. It is haunted.’

  ‘Haunted?’ Mr Newsome maintained his mask of earnest enquiry with difficulty.

  ‘How many lives are lost to it every year? Fifty? One hundred? There are forty jumpers annually from Waterloo-bridge alone. Multiply that by centuries and ask yourself: where do those damned souls go? Not to heaven, certainly – not with the taint of their sin upon them. No – they remain there in the depths, in the cold blackness. It is their sorrow that animates the tides. They call to others, and keep them at their pleasure before releasing their flesh back to the world.’

  ‘I recall reading a more scientific explanation, but no matter. Perhaps an example will prove more helpful. Last month, a woman’s body was pulled out of the river at Blackwall. She had leapt from London-bridge four weeks previously – but where had she been since then? At the bottom of the river? Moving out to sea and back again in a ceaseless cycle? Is there something in the tides or the patterns of the river that make Blackwall a more appropriate place to find bodies fallen in at the bridge? Then again, some bodies falling from Waterloo-bridge have been reliably found at Cuckold’s Point. Some bodies are never found at all. There must be some knowledge not known to almanacks but known to men such as you.’