In the event, the worst of his fears was confirmed. Having approached on foot for the last half mile, cutting through muddy alleys and loitering in doorways to confound any persistent pursuer, he emerged at a street corner facing the warehouse to witness another desecration of his privacy.
The massed Chinese workforce was standing moodily outside in their white ‘pyjamas’ and the large wooden loading doors had been thrown open to the street. Customs men (denoted by their brass arm badges) seemed to swarm about the place, directing the burly lumpers in their employ to confiscate all that could not be accounted for – which was everything. The chimneys gave forth but the merest vapour, having evidently been smothered by the torrent of authority.
Noah’s fists clenched in white-knuckled fury. The game had just changed irrevocably. What had seemed a test of investigative wit was now a matter of cold retribution. Eldritch Batchem would pay for this – not only by losing the challenge, but also by losing everything else he had to lose. Those were the rules he had established when he had the article inserted into the pages of the London Monitor.
Still lurking on the corner there, Noah became aware that his foreman, Hong Li, had seen him. The aged Chinaman, who rarely communicated anything as revelatory as a facial expression, remained as teak-faced as usual and made no sign he had seen Noah. Rather, he made the most subtle shake of the head and his eyes sought out his employer with a clear enough message: go now . . . flee while you can and we will meet again in this or another life.
Noah nodded and withdrew. He had urgent work to do.
As Noah had demonstrated those few days previously with his pursuit of the missing swan brooch, the city’s receivers of stolen goods are clear enough in their categorization. The riverside ruffian – who most likely also runs a shop, a crimp-house or some other maritime business – will take whatever flotsam and pocket-smuggled contraband that dockworkers bring him, but can sell it to a greater practitioner of the trade only if he saves up his finer specimens and sells them on en masse.
These more professional receivers, in turn, will specialize in their trade, be it jewellery, spirits, fabrics or tobacco. They may even maintain a small storehouse or floating repository of goods that buyers can visit as they do a shop, for let us not imagine that smuggled goods are in any way rare. It is said that those materials attracting the greatest duties (silk, essences, furs and the like) account for as much as forty per cent of the goods sold legitimately in our respectable gas-lit emporia.
As is ever the case, though, the grandest criminals are the ones who operate in plain view and maintain all the hallmarks of esteemed respectability. While Customs investigators chase after the minor operator in a muddy alley somewhere off the Ratcliff-highway, the glittering store on Oxford-street or Regent-street sells vast quantities of goods that have come into the city without the sacrificial blessing of a duty warrant.
It was with this knowledge that Noah re-entered the city centre – still taking the greatest care to check his wake for anyone of an Italianate cast – and made his way to that grand shop on Ludgate-hill, which is known to all ladies of the metropolis as quite the premier vendor of silks, muslin and linen in all of London.
He was not at all surprised to find the place a-bustle with females of the finer sort gleefully cooing over the cool touch of the latest import from Paris or Brussels. Nor was the proprietress surprised or disappointed to see a man waiting patiently at the counter. He was, if she were fortunate, one of those who maintain a mistress and who will do whatever necessary to fulfil her pleasure that he might continue to enjoy his own. Her professional smile flashed accordingly into life.
‘Good day to you, sir. I perceive that you are seeking the finest cloths for a special lady . . .’
‘I am indeed inclined to buy some silk products,’ said Noah, adopting a loftily pompous tone. ‘Gloves and shawls.’
‘Very good, sir. I have a wonderful selection for you to choose from . . .’
‘I should say that I am minded to buy rather a large quantity.’ Noah took a piece of paper from his pocket and pretended to read from it: ‘Forty-three pairs of long ivory-coloured gloves, an equal number of short silk gloves in black, and one hundred silk scarves in at least three colours. I have sizes for the gloves. All must be of the very finest quality, which I have been assured you can supply.’
‘Why . . . that is rather a large order. I am not sure . . .’
‘I represent the Swiss National Opera, ma’am, and I am charged with procuring costumes for the entire cast of a production that will entertain the crowned heads of a number of nations. If you cannot supply me with what I need, I must go elsewhere – Paris directly if need be, though I admit I am somewhat pressed for time . . .’
‘I . . . did not say we could not manage an order of such a size, sir. It is just that—’
‘And I should add that I expect to receive a substantial discount for buying such quantities.’
The proprietress maintained her smile only with the greatest commercial rigour. Her eyes showed that calculations of an entirely different sort were taking place in her brain. This customer seemed genuine enough; his story had a certain air of plausibility; his clothing appeared well made; his arrogance was of the sort to be expected from one with power and money. Her decision was made. She beckoned Noah towards a door behind the counter.
‘Let us adjourn to the back room, sir, where I think we can come to an agreement that will satisfy all parties.’
Noah stepped past the counter and through a door into a large storeroom in which the bulk of the shop’s stock was arrayed on serried shelves lining every wall. Shipping crates marked in French (and further appended with sizes in chalk) were stacked in the centre of the space, with aisles between them so that the assistants might have quick access lest a customer suffer the indignity of delay.
‘Well, it seems you have plenty of stock here,’ said Noah. ‘I will take this.’
‘Sir – if you wish to benefit from a . . . a more competitive price, I would ask you to wait a day or so. We are expecting shortly to take an order for a very large quantity of silk items and I will make certain your needs are met.’
‘But I can see many gloves here! Did I not express myself clearly upon the urgency of my need?’
‘Yes, indeed, sir. But as I say, the goods we are expecting are of the very finest quality and . . . they come to us by way of . . . from a more beneficial source regarding cost . . . which naturally we pass on to our most special customers . . . men such as yourself, sir, who will not be satisfied by anything other than the very, very best French silk newly imported into the city.’
‘The best, you say?’
‘O yes, sir! Nothing like it! France must weep to lose such finery from its shores.’
‘I see. Well, that is the quality I am seeking. When can I have it?’
‘A man will come here in a day or so – it is always around this time of the month – and he will take our order. The merchandise is then delivered the very next day.’
‘A man? What man? I hope there is nothing underhand here . . .’
‘Certainly not, sir! He is . . . he is,’ she wrinkled her nose as if in distaste, ‘he is the agent of our supplier. I cannot be more specific about his arrival as he is somewhat . . . eccentric. But if you return here on Saturday I am sure we will have your order packed and ready to take away. If you are able to pay us a percentage of the price as a deposit . . .’
‘Yes, yes . . . I suppose that will be all right. Saturday, you say? Well, that is rather late, but if the price compensates me for the wait . . .’
‘O it will, sir. You will not find a better price in London.’
‘Good, good. Then I thank you for your service.’
And so Noah was obliged to pay rather more than he would have wished by way of a deposit for goods he would never see, let alone buy. He had, however, got the information he needed and could now act upon it.
Doffing his hat to the ladies at the c
ounter, he turned to exit the shop . . . and walked directly into a man entering at some velocity. Their eyes met. They knew each other.
‘You!’ said Inspector Newsome.
‘Inspector Newsome – that is a particularly fine uniform you are wearing.’
‘I should . . . I should . . . What are you doing here?’
‘A little shopping. I needed some new gloves.’
‘It is pure coincidence, I assume, that the missing brig Aurora was loaded with silk of the exact variety sold by this shop?’
‘Precisely that: a coincidence. I was indeed at Eldritch Batchem’s performance – as you know – but why would I be interested in locating that vessel? I have no need of the money—’
‘That may change. Have you been to Limehouse recently?’
‘Ah, you are referring to the article in the Monitor. I was most amused to read about your recent experience at the Continental Club, though I admit I already knew of it. Your visits to “houses of ill repute” were perhaps more of a revelation . . .’
‘The author of that libel will pay, you can be certain. Are you working with George Williamson?’
‘What on earth do you mean by that? I am here for gloves, as I said.’
‘You cannot work with him. It is not permitted.’
‘“Permitted”? Are you my keeper now?’
‘I could arrest you, Mr Dyson. You are known as an escaped transportee.’
‘I thought we had resolved that discussion some time ago.’
The inspector glared into Noah’s pale-grey eyes and remembered the night some months past when he had retired to bed to find a dagger and a warning under his very pillow.
‘Why are you here, Inspector? Is it also a matter of purchasing gloves?’
‘It is police business and none of your concern.’
‘Well, I will leave you to your business. The proprietress is most helpful.’
‘If I discover that you are working with George on this case . . .’
‘You will be quite helpless to do anything about it. What are you afraid of, Inspector? That you are not the investigator you believe yourself to be?’
The two men remained standing, almost chest to chest, at the door of the shop. Customers inside nervously avoided glancing at the scene, while the girls at the counter looked to each other at a loss what to do.
The situation might well have turned to violence, but at that very moment there came a boyish shout from the street outside. At first indistinct, it soon came closer: a newsboy heralding the headlines of the afternoon editions.
‘Horrible discovery at London Dock! Bodies found in vault!’
Noah and the inspector stared at each other once again.
Then they were both suddenly out of the shop as swiftly as their legs would carry them.
FIFTEEN
The day had started much as any other at the magnificent London Dock, whose tireless labour sang to the tune of chains, hammers, boots and the coarse oaths of lumpers as they attended to the many acres of tobacco, wine and spirit warehouses. In packets, crates, bottles, bundles, bindles and chests, the produce of the entire world was there hoisted, wheeled and pushed into its duly allotted place: the hides, horn, spices, coffee, tea, rum, brandy, cork and precious perfumed essences to supply the capital of commerce with its daily desires.
In the spirit vaults, the air was dense with the cold-stone mustiness of the barrels. Great diaphanous webs of black mould swayed from the ceiling, while rats could be heard skittering invisibly among oaken ribs. At one end of that vinous nave, a team of warehousemen were re-weighing a consignment of French brandy by the dim light of Davy lamps before loading it into the iron callipers to be lifted to the wharf for shipping. Any sign of inconsistency with the original unloading warrant and there would be questions from the Custom House men.
‘Wait!’ called one of the men as the large Limousin hogshead dangled ominously on the measure before him. ‘This one is below weight.’
‘By how much?’ said another.
‘By enough. Put it to one side and let us weigh the remainder.’
The suspect barrel was rolled to the wall, but the next and the next and the next – five in all – also proved to be underweight. Tense glances were exchanged – the manifest declared that the entire consignment had entered the vault at the correct weight. Somebody was going to have to face the head warehouseman.
‘Let us consider this closely,’ said one of the men as they all stood with folded arms around the five suspicious barrels. ‘Is there any sign of a leak?’
They each took a barrel and examined its staves, hoops, head and stopper. Then they went among the frames to look for evidence of puddles. Nothing – no signs of spills.
One of the men rapped on a barrel with his hammer. ‘Ho! Do you hear that?’
Each sounded their barrel, tapping the correct specimens for comparison.
‘There is something in these barrels that is not only brandy,’ spoke one for all.
‘Let us be sure. A barrelful of fluid rolls straight,’ said another.
Space was cleared and they laid one of the five hogsheads on its side. A hefty kick sent it crunching across the floor, wobbling on its axis as it went: proof enough of what they suspected.
‘There is something solid inside these barrels,’ said one.
‘Who puts a solid thing in a barrel? Spirits and wine, yes. Grain or syrup, perhaps . . .’
‘Whatever is in these five, it is not only brandy. And it is not on the manifest.’
‘We must open one. Who will fetch Frederick?’
The head warehouseman, Mr Frederick, arrived with grave demeanour and checked all documentation. The merchant in question was sent for and informed that five of his barrels were underweight. He agreed that they should be opened in order that an investigation might be started. A cooper was called.
And so it was that Mr Frederick and the five warehousemen stood by, casting sidelong glances at each other as the cooper set about the head loop and quarter loop with his hammer and chisel. As he worked, brandy began to bleed from between the loosening staves. Was it just the fevered imagination of the observers, or was it perhaps a redder hue than normal?
‘You might want to stand back,’ said the cooper as he prepared to remove the barrel head.
The staves parted like the segments of a large wooden orange and brandy flowed freely through them, washing towards the observers and filling the vault with its heady aroma. Then the cooper fully extracted the circular head and peered inside, squinting against the powerful alcohol vapour and the dim light of the lamps.
‘What is it?’ asked Mr Frederick.
‘I cannot be certain,’ said the cooper. ‘Bring a lamp, won’t you.’
All gathered round with their Davy lamps to look into the dark round eye of the cask.
‘My G—!’ whispered Mr Frederick as the thing became clear in the light. ‘Fetch a policeman. Quickly! Go!’
There was certainly some surprise when Sir Richard Mayne himself appeared at the docks with a number of constables from division A. Noah Dyson and Inspector Newsome were next to join the already gathering crowds, followed shortly afterwards by Mr Williamson, who had heard the news from a ferry full of excitable passengers heading west up the river and rushed to the scene.
By that time, all five of the barrels had been opened and tipped on their sides so that their grisly contents could be dragged out into the lamplight for inspection. It was indeed a sight to challenge the strongest of constitutions.
Five male corpses, each fully dressed in seamen’s clothing, lay arrayed upon the warehouse floor. Though entirely whole in terms of limbs, their exposed flesh had been rendered spectrally white and wrinkled into premature old age by the potent effect of the strong spirit in which they had been pickled. Rather than humans, they appeared instead to be effigies moulded coarsely in ridged pork fat: lips swollen and twisted, eyes dead and milky, fingernails warped like damp wood shavings. Mercifully, the o
nly smell was that of the sweet brandy itself.
For his part, Mr Frederick was maintaining a polite defiance under the interrogative assault of the policemen.
‘Sir Richard – the unloading warrant specifies a hundred barrels of fine French brandy. They were unloaded and weighed a month ago and have been here since. I see no way that these bodies could have found their way into the barrels in the meantime. I assure you that these vaults are exceptionally secure.’
‘It would seem not,’ said Sir Richard, trying not to look upon the five forms before him. ‘Is it possible that a cooper could have gained access at night and opened the barrels to put the bodies within?’
‘It is very unlikely, sir. We have watchmen of course, and the vaults are locked at night. Even if a cooper were to gain access and do as you say, the loss of spirit would have been evident on the floor the next morning.’
‘Unless he and his accomplices – whose existence is beyond question in this endeavour – collected and took away the excess spirit to hide their crime,’ said Inspector Newsome, pushing his way to the front of the crowd and nodding a greeting to Sir Richard (who did not seem especially surprised to see him there).
‘But . . . why?’ Mr Frederick turned to his other warehousemen for support, of which there was none. ‘Why would somebody go to so much trouble to put these unfortunate men in barrels? It makes no sense whatsoever.’
‘And that is precisely why it is so suspicious,’ said Sir Richard. He turned to the constables by his side: ‘Men – these bodies are to be removed to a police surgery and examined minutely under the supervision of the Detective Force. There may be no obvious cause of death other than immersion in brandy, but I want to know precisely what killed each of them. I also want every stitch of their clothing to be examined to discover any clues to their identities.’
The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) Page 16