He had, however, been offered the chance to associate with all manner of lumpers, balers, hoisters, packers, whippers, shovellers, warehousemen, lockers and general seamen in his activities about the dock. And his initial stilted attempts to glean information had become, with regular practice, the occasional artful expletive and some acquired riverine idiom, a relatively effective interrogation technique. The tough working men of the docks may have been frugal with their words, but a phrase here or a hint there was enough for the investigator to catch a scent.
On that particular day, he could be found inside the sixteen-foot treadwheel with five others, working the ropes that powered the cranes that hoisted the bales from holds and swung them into the warehouses. The noise of footfalls and the grinding axle was constant, but the men liked to talk as they completed their halting thirty miles a day.
‘’Ow long yer been dockin’, mate?’ said Mr Cullen (in his improvised argot) to the fellow walking to his left.
‘O, for a couple of years. I am a watchmaker by vocation, but . . .’
‘Aye – I knows ’ow it is. Times is ’ard. Yer ’ave to do what yer can to bring in the pennies.’
‘That’s certainly the case, Mr . . . ?’
‘Call me John, mate. Look ’ere – I’ve heard talk that there’s ways to make a bit extra. Some of the old ’ands say there’s extra unloadin’ to be done, “unofficial” like. Yer ’eard about that?’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘We’re all mates here, ain’t we? If there’s a shillin’ to be made on the sly, I’m not particular about who’s payin’.’
‘I have not done it myself . . . but I have heard other men say that some vessels are unloaded further after leaving the dock. They take some lumpers with them. That is what I have heard . . .’
‘Aye, that’s the work I’m after. Enough of this ——— walkin’ in circles, says I!’
The six men trudged on, boots resounding, all of them gripping the rough rope supports for balance. Around the dock, other treadwheels ground away at their own labour for hour upon hour. Then finally came the shout to halt for a break. Mugs of beer were passed hurriedly through the struts so the walkers could refresh themselves before turning to walk in the other direction.
‘You should talk to Rigby, the foreman of the eastern wharfs,’ muttered the man to Mr Cullen’s left, wiping the drink from his lips with the back of a hand. ‘He sometimes has extra work.’
‘Is that right, mate?’ replied Mr Cullen in a similarly conspiratorial undertone. ‘I’ll see about it when I get out of this ——— wheel. My thanks to yer.’
Benjamin’s expression as he sipped his coffee was one of intermingled disgust and incredulity. Before the large plate-glass window of that Ludgate-hill coffee house, an itinerant ‘Negro band’ was going about its performance with the absurd gusto of their kind. Replete with coarsely blackened faces, exaggerated woolly wigs and tattered straw hats, the five-man troupe jigged spasmodically and sang travesties of American slave songs to the unfaithful tune of a lone guitar – all quite oblivious to the genuine specimen of ebony humanity observing from the window behind them.
He was dressed, as ever, in the manner befitting a gentleman about town: a fine dark suit, well-made boots, and his silk top hat worn at a quirky angle. Indeed, he seemed even more resplendent than usual, perhaps as a sign of defiance against the attempts of that article in the London Monitor to cow him. One-eyed he may have been; half-strangled he may have appeared; tongueless and silent though he was, a mere journalistic slur was not enough to keep him at home.
And as Benjamin watched the mock Negros bring shame to their true race, one of them – perhaps sensing the gaze of ageless accusation upon them – turned and saw his dark audience. His song dried in his mouth. His feet ceased their idiot jig. He elbowed his neighbour to turn. The others also stumbled to a pause. Then all five stood transfixed: preposterous of garb, risible in endeavour, and diminished in dignity.
One ventured to raise a smile and a wave of ‘brotherhood’, but abandoned the gesture in the face of its piercing monocular response. In a moment, they were gone.
Benjamin returned his gaze to the silk emporium directly opposite: the reason for his continued tenancy at the coffeehouse window. Noah had earlier recounted the details of his encounter at the shop and made clear the task: keep a lively eye for anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary. At some point in the day, an agent of the smugglers was likely to arrive (provided Inspector Newsome had not since returned to reveal the truth about that spurious representative of the Swiss National Opera). As to the possible appearance of that agent, there was but a single tenuous clue: the woman in the shop had referred to him as ‘somewhat eccentric’ and had wrinkled her nose on thinking of him. It was barely suggestive, but perhaps it would be enough.
Benjamin ordered another coffee and leafed through his newspapers once again for any articles he may have missed. The customers entering the silk emporium during the morning had been entirely conventional: well-presented ladies with their mothers, gentlemen of a certain age purchasing for women not their wives, sundry tradesmen . . . but nobody who appeared to be associated with smuggled silk – nobody who appeared conspicuously cautious, watchful or sly. By noon, he had begun to think it a quite futile task.
Then, as the clock struck one and the endless coffee had finally become gall in his mouth, there was a man in the street who looked like he might very well wrinkle a nose or two. A short fellow, with a boy’s face, no hat, and clothes that seemed never to have been washed was looking artlessly about him as he approached the shop and loitered at the entrance to the rancid alley alongside it. Here was no connoisseur of fine silk. The odd little chap gave a final appraisal of the street and then disappeared quickly into the alley.
Benjamin readied himself.
And within minutes, the pestilent man re-emerged into the flow of pedestrians to set off eastwards, appearing not to notice the tall Negro walking some dozen yards behind him.
Noah Dyson was also out among the crowds, reflecting that, despite the maddening clatter of the carts, the pungent dung, the unending bustle of the faceless multitudes and the discordant hawker’s chorus, he was more at home here – a nameless, street-swallowed stranger – than he had been anywhere in the world. Here was his childhood playground, his school, his stage, his home.
At the same time, however, the city was as much foe as friend. Eyes were everywhere and a man might be observed from a thousand places as he walked. Accordingly, Noah was again attired in his ingenious reversible coat and carried a discreet palm-sized mirror so that, by means of innocuous gestures, he could glance behind him any time he felt an observing presence.
Among the numerous other things to ponder as he strolled – Mr Williamson’s increasing oddness among them – foremost in Noah’s mind was Eldritch Batchem. The man’s temporary absence from the investigation, and particularly from the London Dock two days previously was highly suspicious. Could it be that the death of the ship-owner Josiah Timbs and the concomitant loss of reward had diminished the investigator’s enthusiasm? Whatever the man’s activities, the repercussions from his article in the London Monitor could not be forgiven. Something decisive had to be done about the meddling amateur – at the very least by discovering more about him.
Noah had so far discovered that his quarry had refined tastes. Eldritch Batchem customarily ate at the Albion on Aldersgate; he drank porter at the Cock in Fleet-street, and he took his coffee and cigars at the Divan on the Strand (where he was known as a keen chess player, though an obstreperous loser). It had been at the latter address that a corruptible secretary had informed Noah of the weekly delivery of fine Havanahs to a certain ‘E.B.’ resident at Mivart’s Hotel on Brook-street.
Of the many hotels in London, this was perhaps the most fitting abode for ‘E.B.’. Temporary home to deposed princes, disgraced lords, ladies travelling incognito and diplomats engaged in political duplicity, Mivart’s was quite
accustomed to the discretion born of secrecy. Here, a man was whoever his calling card proclaimed him to be, and more convincingly so if it featured a crest. But where money buys silence, it might also buy favours when one knows the right porter, cook or chambermaid.
Thus, not ten minutes later, Noah was dropping a sovereign into the palm of a lad dressed in the hotel’s livery. The grinning fellow reciprocated with a wink and a key drawn ceremoniously from his brocaded breast pocket.
‘Number twenty-four, sir. I must have the key back in one hour sharp or the manager’ll have my guts. The room’s to be cleaned at twelve sharp.’
‘One hour will be quite enough,’ said Noah. ‘Are you quite sure he will not return?’
‘He’s only just left, sir. Won’t be back before supper. Never is – feller of habit is Mr B. For an extra shilling, I’ll send a girl up to warn you if he does, though.’
Noah could not help but smile at the acquisitive skill of the lad, remembering his own days as a wit-driven scamp on the city’s street corners. He handed over the coin and made his way upstairs along silent corridors to the sanctum sanctorum of door twenty-four.
At first glance, the interior appeared already to have been cleaned – or, at least, to have been unoccupied for some time. The bed was made, the curtains were tied back, all drawers and cabinet doors were closed. There was no sign of the man’s clothing. Only a faint smell of cigars suggested any trace of an inhabitant.
Noah went first to the large mahogany wardrobe and opened its twin doors to reveal contents that surprised even him. Six identical tweed suits hung on the hooks within, accompanied by six identical soft russet caps arranged with seeming eighth-of-an-inch precision on the central shelves. None of the pockets held anything more than lint or the tiniest flakes of tobacco. In the drawers, six sets of black gentlemen’s undergarments and six folded shirts were similarly laid out with geometric exactitude. As Noah bent closer in wonderment, he saw where faint pencil lines had been etched in the baseboard to direct the specific lie of each stocking.
Caught now between amusement and growing unease, he next addressed the bedside cabinets. Here also, there was no obvious sign of use – no used water glass, no cigar ash, no hair strands or marks. But positioned quite centrally inside one drawer, Noah discovered a slim, leather-bound ledger that retained its aromatic new-hide scent.
He sat on the bed and opened the book on his thigh, seeing immediately that it was a collage work of newspaper clippings (each pasted meticulously in date order) pertaining to Eldritch Batchem’s life as an investigator. Assorted headlines told their own story:
DISMEMBERED INFANT DISCOVERED ON BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE
PRIVATE DETECTIVE CLAIMS: ‘I KNOW THE SOLUTION’
GENTLEMAN DETECTIVE SOLVES BLACKFRIARS CASE
DOVER – FUGITIVE CHILD & CO CLERK CAPTURED
THEFT FROM BUCKINGHAM PALACE MR BATCHEM INVESTIGATES THE GREEN DRAWING ROOM
WATERLOO-BRIDGE DEATH WAS SUICIDE SAYS BRIDGE COMPANY
Noah checked the dates: six months from start to finish. Before that grisly case on Blackfriars-bridge, Eldritch Batchem might not have existed at all. Here, between the boards of this ledger and within the few pieces of furniture of this anonymous hotel room were the materials for a character in a story rather than for a living, breathing man. Had there been other stories: other hotels, other suits, other ledgers, other names and other lives for this curious fellow?
Already certain he would find more mere stage properties, he nevertheless made a cursory examination of the bathroom and found scissors to trim the beard, a razor to define its edges, a hairbrush to finesse the russet cap’s perch, a pair of tweezers for . . . for what? To control each individual hair? No other scents or treatments or personalizing items presented themselves.
Returning to the bedroom, Noah sat on the edge of the bed and looked around for some further hint of the inner man, for the soul of Eldritch Batchem – but there was only absence. The roar of the metropolis sounded at the window-panes. The sky beyond was a swirling grey palette of smoke.
What had Noah hoped to find? Had not his experience taught him that there were few easy solutions, and still fewer happy ones? Certainly, there were those who might, with some legitimacy, observe his life in similar terms. The false names, the disguises, the long absences, the past that did not bear too great a scrutiny – such are the characteristics of those suckled at the cold and sooty breast of mother London.
Mr Cullen walked with weary legs towards the eastern wharfs of London Dock. It was now four o’clock and the exodus of working men was flowing towards the gates, their faces drawn, their limbs heavy, their stomachs empty, and their clothes besmirched with sugar, flour, tobacco, pitch and sweat.
As anticipated, the foreman he sought was not difficult to locate. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow and his formidable forearms were a veritable canvas for the tattooist’s art. As he lifted and pulled, those tendon-rigged muscles animated sinuous serpents, uncoiling ropes, storm-lashed seas and ladies in states of unembarrassed déshabillé.
‘Mr Rigby, sir?’ ventured Mr Cullen.
‘’Pends who wants him, don’t it?’ Mr Rigby did not look up from the roped bale occupying him.
‘I’m a day casual, sir. I was told I might ask you about earnin’ an extra shillin’.’
‘Told by ’oo?’
‘Some feller in the treadwheel . . . don’t know ’is name . . . don’t mind about no names. It’s only extra shillin’s I’m after. Was I directed to the wrong man, sir?’
‘What do you expect to be doin’ for your shillin’?’
‘Anythin’ you like, sir. I’m strong. I’m good with the tackle an’ the trucks.’
‘Know your way ’bout the river, do you? Know your brig from your bark?’
‘I’m no seaman. I lift and I carry; I ask no more than for that.’
‘You certainly look like a sturdy one . . .’
‘I have lifted whole barrels alone, sir.’
‘’Ave yer? Well, there might be an unloadin’ job at Wappin’. Wait about the gates a while as the men go ’ome. I’ll send a man for you before dark if we needs an extra lumper.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Mr Cullen exited the docks as bidden and availed himself of some steaming pea soup from the vendors there. He might have enjoyed the repast better, however, if the air about the gates had not been polluted so by a remarkably malodorous little man who insisted on loitering thereabouts . . .
Benjamin followed the dishevelled little fellow only a few yards to the east before he turned south towards Water-lane. Even at a distance, the odour of the man was highly offensive – a compost of drains, river water and something more unspeakable still that seemed to emanate in all directions and cause people in the street to react with disgust. The fellow himself appeared neither to notice nor care, walking doggedly onwards to Earl-street.
Observing from a careful distance, Benjamin found himself becoming increasingly alert. Though there was no obvious pursuer, he had the oddest sense of being observed. And surely the direction also could be no coincidence: inevitably towards his and Noah’s own abode. Was it imagination, or did the reeking man actually cast a glance sideways as he passed the door of the very house?
He continued on, however, down to the stairs below Blackfriars-bridge where he was fortunate enough (or was it planned thus?) to board a ferry about to depart for Greenwich. Benjamin followed, glad of the crowds, and took a seat towards the rear where he could watch all comings and goings. If the little man knew of his dusky shadow, he showed no concern, electing instead to stand at the rail radiating his odious stench.
Still, there persisted in Benjamin the curious sense of being watched. With his startling appearance, he was quite accustomed to the stares of children and the occasional gasp from ladies, but this was different: a sustained invisible gaze that seemed to have begun almost as soon as he had exited the coffee house on Ludgate-hill.
He scrutinized the passengers
in vain for an observer, but nothing seemed odd or misplaced – nothing, that is, but the absence of oddness where its presence was felt. Dusk was approaching, and with it a sense of foreboding that told him to end the pursuit. The route past his home had been strange enough, but allied with this feeling of ambiguous malice there seemed sufficient reason to disembark at the very next stop.
Only Noah’s sense of urgency prevented Benjamin from doing so. Cautious by nature, he nevertheless recognized that his intuition of danger added credibility to what had been only assumption. Whatever the little man’s connection to the silk emporium, it seemed certain to lead somewhere secret, somewhere illicit – somewhere, indeed, where the trusty Negro was being inexorably lured despite his better judgement.
On leaving Mivart’s Hotel, Noah’s continuing search was little more than guesswork. If Eldritch Batchem was still seeking the Aurora, the most natural place to look remained the river and its environs. That was where any surviving seamen or smugglers might reside, where the bodies of those related to the case had been found and where all the mysteries seemed to vanish into the churning black waters.
Fortunately, Eldritch Batchem’s unnervingly unchanging wardrobe suggested a particular disinclination to assimilate himself into new environments. If he was there among the yards and alleys of Ratcliff-highway, he should be easy enough to locate.
Noah had taken pains not to make the same error. On passing into the eastern regions of the city, he had stopped at the first marine store he came across and purchased an old oilskin coat to replace his customary reversible surtout. Combined with one of those wide-brimmed hats favoured by the criminal classes for its ability to hide the face, the resulting ensemble had transformed him into one who would not attract a second glance among the denizens of the docks.
Indeed, it was no doubt the very aborigineity of his outfit that permitted him the remarkable good fortune he experienced within minutes of beginning his search. He was asking among the cabmen, vendors and common trollops of the street for sightings of the russet cap when he caught a glimpse of something that set his higher instincts buzzing.
The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) Page 19