The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3)

by McCreet, James

  He signed.

  Mr Newsome scowled.

  ‘Very well,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Let us begin.’ He reached for the pile of paper on the table. ‘As I say, I spoke at length with Mr Timbs this morning and learned all I could from him about the circumstances of his missing ship, a four-masted brig out of Calais. Unfortunately, he told me that he has already given precisely the same information to Eldritch Batchem. Perhaps it would be most expeditious at the outset if you both simply asked me questions to discern what you need to know. Who will begin?’

  ‘Do we know exactly when the vessel vanished and from where?’ said Mr Williamson, taking out his notebook.

  ‘We know from Custom House records that the ship arrived at Gravesend six days ago,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Mr Timbs, however, did not go to St Katharine Dock to view his cargo until the morning of Eldritch Batchem’s performance. It was then that he discovered no sign of it, or of the Aurora herself.’

  ‘What was the cargo?’ said Mr Newsome.

  ‘Almost entirely French silk: shawls, handkerchiefs, gloves and a large number of bolts in different colours. I have the exact quantities and colours if you need them. Also, there were some few packages containing scammony, radix rhataniae and quassia – sundry ingredients of the apothecary, I understand.’

  ‘Hmm. They are all products with an exceptionally high duty,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Smuggling is the obvious motive, although it would be exceptionally bold to take an entire cargo. But one thing above all confuses me: the ship sailed from France with silk of that country, yet I believe those other items originate in the Orient.’

  ‘You are correct, George,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Although the ship had sailed from France, it had first been in the Orient. It seems to have been one of those vessels that collects and delivers its cargo according to whichever ports are on its route: cedar wood here, tortoiseshell there et cetera. This was the final leg of the voyage.’

  ‘Have any crewmen come ashore?’ said Mr Newsome.

  ‘The master of the ship came ashore with some seven sailors aboard a lighter, owing to the designated landing place being temporarily unavailable. This master, who lives near the docks, has been thoroughly questioned and his answers are gathered here. I am afraid he has nothing useful to report – the ship lay at anchor in plain sight before St Katharine Dock when he left it. He cannot recall a single suspicious circumstance. Oddly, none of the seven sailors has yet applied to the shipping office to collect his money from the voyage. My constables are seeking them as we speak.’

  ‘They will be utterly intoxicated by now,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘In a few days, they will go to the office accompanied by their crimps and hand over all of their earnings.’

  ‘I am assuming the vessel was legitimately registered,’ said Mr Williamson.

  Sir Richard consulted his papers once more. ‘Indeed. A landing-waiter logged the ship’s correct name and cargo manifest, both of which were later recorded in the Long Room at the Custom House. A notice also appeared in the Times the following day to that effect. A tidewaiter was then put on board to oversee the cargo until a berth could be secured at St Katharine’s. However, when an unloading warrant was eventually supplied by the Custom House, the ship, its crew and its cargo had vanished.’

  ‘And the tidewaiter? Did he also vanish?’ said Mr Williamson.

  ‘He, too.’

  ‘There must be a record of his name,’ said Mr Newsome.

  ‘I have it here,’ said Sir Richard. ‘His details appeared on the docket supplied by the landing-waiter to the Custom House. His name was William Barton.’

  ‘Wait . . .’ Mr Williamson felt a tremor of recognition. ‘Was Barton not the man who committed suicide on Waterloo-bridge four mornings ago?’

  ‘The very same. Perhaps you see now, gentlemen, why I give so much attention to this case. The gauntlets thrown down by Eldritch Batchem or Josiah Timbs are the least of it. How does a tidewaiter from a stolen ship find himself dead upon an empty bridge?’

  ‘What do we know of this Barton?’ said Mr Newsome.

  ‘The man was quite a recent employee and was not well known to other tidewaiters. He was also under investigation for sundry irregularities. Clearly, we must all question the unofficial verdict of suicide in the light of what we now know. As for that particular avenue of investigation, I fear it has gone cold. The body has been buried and the bridge itself has since had many thousands of feet over it. We have Eldritch Batchem and the Bridge Company to thank for that travesty of justice.’

  ‘I do not wish to ask a foolish question,’ said Mr Williamson, ‘but may we understand that the Aurora has not docked anywhere at all?’

  ‘Officially – at least, under that name – she has not. It is the paradox of the river that at any moment there are scores of vessels loading and unloading in plain sight. Each one should be under the control of a Customs man, but does anybody ask if the papers are in order? It is likely that the cargo was unloaded somewhere before the very eyes of those paid to prevent such depredation.’

  ‘Did I not read that this suicide Barton was found with numerous blank unloading warrants?’ said Mr Newsome. ‘If he had them with him while aboard the Aurora, he might have signed the name of any ship and any wharf to them and offloaded anywhere he liked.’

  ‘That is precisely right,’ said Sir Richard with a tight jaw. ‘A ship is in that sense like a man: change his name, change his clothes, change his customary place and he becomes invisible though he stands beside you in the crowd. I rather suspect that the Aurora sits somewhere on the river as we speak.’

  ‘I may be wrong, but I believe a four-masted brig is a relative oddity,’ said Mr Newsome, surprising even himself with the knowledge. ‘They are built for speed and to carry a smaller crew. There cannot be too many of them in port.’

  ‘I will bow to your greater experience on that matter,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I hope you are correct. So, gentlemen – what can we surmise from the facts as they stand?’

  The two detectives appraised each other, evidently unwilling to be the first to speak.

  ‘O, come now,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I am certain that two men of your ability have already reached the same conclusions. Let me hear your thoughts, if only to clarify them in my own mind. Mr Williamson, I am certain you have observations on the matter . . .’

  ‘Hmm. My first is that unloading a brig is likely to take approximately eight or ten hours and to involve a good number of lumpers. Were it not for the fact that there must be ten thousand such men at work in the Port of London, questioning might have begun with them. Even then, it would be a huge task for the police.’

  ‘Quite so. Although, as the inspector has said, a four-masted brig is perhaps more memorable than other ships of that size. It may be remembered.’

  ‘The receivers around the river may know something,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘The huge amount of silk must find its way into the nefarious marketplace one way or another.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Most of those fellows deal in smaller quantities. Unless that cargo is broken up and distributed piecemeal, I suspect we are largely unaware of those who form the superior category of receiver – they who handle such high-risk consignments. Perhaps the silk merchants themselves may be approached . . .’

  ‘And give up the source of their illicit, duty-free sources?’ scoffed Mr Newsome. ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Hmm. I rather suspect this is not the first occasion such a notable theft has occurred,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘The majority of large-scale depredations are likely settled between the merchants and insurers. Sir Richard – may I assume you are already working with the Custom House on this question?’

  ‘You are correct, George,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I have men in the Custom House as we speak searching the records for irregularities. Moreover, there is one further piece of evidence that I have so far withheld from you. Mr Timbs gave it to me during our interview.’

  Sir Richard took a piece of fold
ed paper from his sheaf and unfolded it to reveal a small handwritten note, which he held up by the corner so the two other gentlemen could examine it. As he turned it, they saw that the text in fact appeared on the back of one of the ubiquitous playbills for Eldritch Batchem’s recent show.

  ‘Mr Timbs received this note on the same day he discovered that his ship had been stolen. It was delivered to his home address – no doubt to demonstrate that the writer knew where he lived. It is, as you see, handwritten, but the hand is not especially distinctive.’

  He laid it on the table for Mr Williamson and Mr Newsome to read.

  Timbs

  We have your brig Aurora. Do not look for it. Do not go to the police. Take your insurance and be content. If you do not heed this warning, you will be sorry.

  Mr Williamson picked up the playbill and sniffed. He examined the folds. ‘It smells of the river: mud and sewage. The folds are grubby, suggesting a writer or deliverer with dirty hands. Was there an envelope?’

  ‘No. It arrived just as it is, folded with the theatrical information outwards and then stuck between door and jamb. Mr Timbs heard a knock at the door, answered it, and assumed it to be a piece of advertising.’

  ‘Has Eldritch Batchem seen it?’ said Mr Newsome.

  ‘Indeed he has, though we do not know his thoughts on the matter. Mr Timbs shared it with him on the night of the performance. What do you make of it, George? You have some experience with letters.’

  ‘As you say, the hand is indicative of nothing but an education. It does not even offer the courtesy of a “Mr”, but uses only the surname. It is a warning plain and simple. I would say that the “we” is significant – a group rather than an individual. It might be an idle choice of word, but, of course, no mere individual could be behind a crime of this size.’

  ‘Do you not wonder that the writer has thought to specify the name and type of the vessel?’ said Mr Newsome. ‘Only one is missing; surely no more detail is necessary?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘The merchant likely has more than one ship. Naming it reinforces that the note is authentic . . . and a seafaring man likes to differentiate his vessels, hence the “brig”. Let us remember that there is such a thing as over-examining one’s evidence, Inspector.’

  Mr Newsome coloured. ‘In that case, ex-Sergeant Williamson, perhaps you might tell us why the note appears on a theatrical flyer for Eldritch Batchem. Surely that is highly suggestive, especially when we recall that the suicide William Barton had such a paper in his pocket also.’

  ‘Suggestive, yes – but conclusive of nothing. A coincidence is often just a coincidence. There are hundreds of the flyers about the streets at the moment. It would be a matter of the greatest ease for our letter writer to take one from a hawker or simply pick one up on an omnibus.’

  ‘I take a different view of coincidence, myself.’

  ‘So what would you have us believe, Inspector?’ said Mr Williamson. ‘That somebody is attempting to implicate Eldritch Batchem in these crimes? It is rather an obvious attempt if so, and rendered futile by the evident pleasure that the man himself seems to have taken from mentioning the flyer found in William Barton’s pocket. That in itself seems entirely dubious. I gather nobody else examined the body of Barton but Mr Batchem, who evidently saw the opportunity for some self-promotion.’

  ‘Very good, gentlemen! Very good,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I am heartened to see two minds such as yours wrestling with the evidence, even if you are at odds. I feel sure that this is a case we can solve before Eldritch Batchem does.’

  ‘Sir – may I enquire: what, if anything, the Metropolitan Police knows of Eldritch Batchem?’ said Mr Williamson. ‘I have read about him in the newspapers, of course, but there must be more information.’

  ‘The man is a nonentity!’ said Mr Newsome. ‘He is a buffoon in a ridiculous hat, albeit with a degree of wit that appeals to the common man. He is a showman – not a detective.’

  ‘I admit that I have very little to offer you,’ said Sir Richard. ‘My first thought was that he was one of the old Runners. You know that many of them have continued to work privately since they were subsumed by the Metropolitan Police. However, I am assured by my contacts that Eldritch Batchem is unknown to them. In truth, the man seems to have appeared from nowhere. His methods are oblique and his clients, understandably, do not speak. It is possible, indeed, that we will learn more merely by investigating this case alongside him.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mr Williamson, closing his notebook and putting it away in his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘I wish you both good luck in your respective endeavours,’ said Sir Richard, now standing. ‘There is much to be gained, and much to lose. Investigate according to the terms of the document you have signed and we may soon be together once more. Until then, I have no plans to meet again until the case is solved.’

  And so the two gentlemen went out into the streets with little more than a wordless glance as their leave-taking. For all their pliant discussion at Sir Richard’s behest, we might be certain that each had withheld more than he had said. Now the real investigations would begin.

  TEN

  Inspector Newsome made his way hastily back to the galley waiting for him at Whitehall-stairs. A light rain had begun to fall during his audience with Sir Richard and the drops were stippling the brown surface of the river. So intent was he in his thoughts, however, that he did not pause to curse the water beading upon his hat and coat, carrying with it the smuts of numberless chimneys and the oily scent of the gasworks.

  The fact was that he knew something greatly to his advantage in the Aurora case. Unknown to Eldritch Batchem, to the police commissioner and to Josiah Timbs, the inspector had spent the earlier part of that morning seeking out the master of the missing vessel. It had been a matter of the greatest facility for him – wearing his persuasive uniform – to talk to a number of clerks and sundry ship-owners at the Custom House until he learned that the Aurora’s master lived just north of Upper Thames-street. Thereafter, it had been no trouble at all to leave his constables once again lingering afloat in his absence as he called upon a rare survivor from that fateful vessel.

  It was, naturally, the purest ambition that had motivated the journey. Inspector Newsome had decided personally to solve the Aurora case even before Sir Richard’s contractual arrangement, and his keen detective’s mind had made the paralogical leap native to all great investigators: what if the man he had pulled from the river was connected to the case at hand? Did not his clothes bespeak a mariner of a mate’s rank? Was not the body fresh enough to have been in the water those few days since the ship went missing? And was not the chain about his ankles highly suggestive of felonious activity? It was a pattern of supposition too tempting to ignore.

  The master of the Aurora had opened the door within moments of Mr Newsome rapping on it. ‘Yes, officer?’

  ‘Sir – were you the master of the missing vessel Aurora?’

  ‘I am. Who are you? Did Timbs send you? Have you news of the ship?’

  ‘Thames Police, sir. I know that you have been questioned on the matter of the—’

  ‘Quite comprehensively. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The procedure was as always when we dock in London, but for the delay in reaching our berth and the business with the lighter. I believe I have nothing more to say on the matter.’

  ‘There is just one more thing, if you please . . .’

  Mr Newsome reached inside his coat and gently removed a piece of paper folded into quarters. He opened it to its full extent and showed the pencil sketch of the not-drowned man to the master. ‘Do you know this face, sir?’

  ‘Why, yes – that is the very image of Hampton, the first mate. Is he . . . dead?’

  ‘I am not permitted to say, sir. I was merely asked to come to your address and ask you about the drawing – for the purposes of recognition only. I suspect that we have men looking for him.’

  ‘It looks like a mortician’s illustrati
on made after death. What is that mark on his cheek there?’

  ‘I am afraid I have no further knowledge. Thank you for your time, sir.’

  Mr Newsome folded away the sketch, tipped his hat and began to make his way back to his waiting constables.

  ‘Wait! What is your name? Where did you obtain that picture?’ called the master.

  But the inspector was hurrying back to his galley at Dowgate-stairs on his way to that meeting with Sir Richard at Scotland Yard. No doubt news of this impromptu visit would soon find its way back to the commissioner, but not before he had exploited any advantage to be had and destroyed the sketch.

  Accordingly, his first instruction to the constables on stepping back into the galley after his meeting at Scotland Yard was to row east to the large stretch of exposed mud near Blackfriars-bridge.

  ‘Inspector Newsome, sir?’ said the first constable as the oars rattled thickly in the rowlocks. ‘We were talking while you went on your . . . errand . . .’

  ‘Congratulations, Constable.’

  ‘I mean to say . . . we have been asked by the superintendent at Wapping why our galley has not been seen more often in the Pool, where we are supposed to be on duty . . .’

  ‘And what did you answer?’

  ‘That we have been obliged, on occasion, to pursue suspected smugglers or to give chase to a ferry.’

  ‘Very good, Constable. Initiative is a fine skill for a policeman to have.’

  ‘But is it not rather a . . . a lie?’

  ‘A lie is a complicated thing, Constable. Sometimes it is truer than the truth, and often more preferable. You can rest assured that whatever duties you pursue in my galley are in the strictest interests of justice. You may not perceive this immediately, but your job is to row and to observe. It falls to me to think one step ahead of the criminals on this pestilential channel.’