But he ran, away from slavery and away from death. He ran to freedom in the ports of the north, where the oceans beckoned and where he might turn his strength to a lifetime of liberty. It would be the limitless horizons of the sea that gave him new birth.
Beneath the sails of his new life, he made a vow. Never again would he permit another man to put chains on him or imprison him. He had been silenced, but he would live for pleasure and savour every day. He would dress as finely as his pocket would allow; he would eat to satisfy his stature; he would walk tall with pride and be subservient to no man. And he would retain that band of iron about his ankle to remind him of these promises to himself . . .
Benjamin lowered his hands, breathing more heavily now with the force of his narration. Sweat glistened on his face in the candlelight and the seeing eye burned with its flame.
Mr Cullen felt his mouth dry and his palms damp. He searched for something to say in response, and, finding nothing commensurate, merely nodded. He understood.
The candle guttered and died.
The cell was thrown into utter blackness.
TWENTY-FOUR
By no measure could Inspector Newsome be termed religious. He had seen enough evil to know that Man’s sin was eternal and never to be cleansed – not even if an ocean of salvation were to wash through the metropolis. Nevertheless, a childhood of forcible scripture remained with him, flickering unbidden across his thoughts when stirred by some circumstance or other. One such line now seemed particularly insistent: And Jonah was in the belly of the fish three days and three nights.
In those first moments of realization that he was abandoned, he had fought to remain composed. There was no immediate danger. He had light from the chest-strapped bullseye lamp. He was not exposed to extremes of temperature. He had not yet experienced thirst or hunger. In his coat pocket, he had a roll of oilcloth containing a sheathed dagger and a pistol loaded with shot lest his life fall into danger. No, the greatest threat in such a situation was the fragility of one’s own soul. Men went mad in gaol or on vessels adrift at sea; might not the same occur within the very bowels of the city?
The thing was to remain calm: to ignore the endlessly ramifying darkness all about and to think about one’s options. Perhaps the tosher would return at the next tide to see what had become of the policeman he had abandoned. In that eventuality, Mr Newsome’s best course of action was to remain as near to his point of abandonment as possible and to simply pass the hours with patience and fortitude.
On the other hand, would the tosher willingly return to face the inevitable wrath caused by his unannounced departure? Admittedly, another of his soiled brotherhood may happen along the same tunnel in a few hours’ time . . . or he may not.
Such uncertainty was not to be tolerated. Action was required. Should the inspector assume that all water flowed towards the river and take that direction in the certainty of arriving at a broad sewer mouth? Or would such an avenue lead to drowning as the tidal flood washed about the tunnels? Though most outflows were, he knew, sealed with iron baffles that opened and closed with the pressure of the river, the older sewers were still open to the flood. He looked at his watch – there were perhaps five more hours before the tide changed in his favour.
Had not the tosher said that it was sometimes possible to glimpse the city through the gulley holes in the streets themselves? If so, it might therefore be possible to seek out one of the broader tunnels that ran beneath the broad thoroughfares and call to a passer-by that he was trapped. In such a way, his exact location could be discerned and a tosher sent to rescue him. It seemed a fair solution . . . with the single caveat that he would thereafter (and in perpetuity) be known as that unfortunate detective who was trapped down a drain. The idea was therefore rapidly dismissed from his mind.
One clearly desirable action remained: he would endeavour to continue the investigation unhindered by the inconvenience of his imprisonment deep beneath the earth. Neither night nor inclement weather could hinder him here within the endless caverns of filth. It had, after all, been the search for clues that had led him here, and there was no reason why he might not utilize the next few hours precisely towards that end.
Thus determined, he unwrapped the pistol from its oilcloth and slipped it snugly behind one of the lamp straps across his chest. The sheathed dagger, he tucked behind his belt where he might grasp it at a moment’s notice. Then he stilled his breathing, the better to listen and calmly attune his previously fevered thoughts to his environment and the task at hand.
The tunnels dripped and gurgled with distorted echoes. Distant splashes be-spoke rats and splats of matter slopping down drains. A plutonic wind brought variously the heat of vegetal decay or the cold aroma of the grave. But there seemed no sign of human life – no rhythmic step or cough or scrape of shoe. The answers were all here, below; he was sure of it. Where to begin?
Somewhere among the multiplying channels of that putrid Hades was the reeking little man of Pickle Herring and Nightingale-lane. When last glimpsed, the fellow had been carrying a Davy lamp rather than the cumbersome specimen upon Mr Newsome’s chest. Such lamps were arguably brighter than the bullseye, but they also contained less oil. Therefore, unless the enemy had an extra supply with him, his lamp would not last until the tides changed . . . which rather suggested he was heading to a place where he might access more oil – a place, perhaps, where he might bide his time while the waters sealed all within. Certainly, the stench and general appearance of the chap suggested that he spent much time in the sewers.
And what of the mysterious animal tooth? Was it not the only tangible clue as to the death of first mate Hampton, as well as a suggestion of something lurking in the sewers? Was it really a leap of the imagination that the beast was some manner of protector or deterrent? Here, beneath the city, where no customs man or detective would think to investigate, the cargo of that missing vessel could be hidden beyond all eyes.
So he walked, no longer noticing his saturated feet and legs, and searched the brickwork about him for any clues to the regular passage of men. Had the water been splashed above its natural level by a passing foot? Had successive hands left a greasy mark on a ledge? Was there some natural, intuitive route to be discerned through the larger tunnels as one sometimes navigates unknown city streets with an accumulated urban sensibility? His senses were alive for the merest clue.
And then he saw it.
It was easy to miss in the dimness of the lamp’s illumination, but clarity was achieved by directing the beam immediately upon the curious marking: a pale chalk sign made at shoulder level by some human hand. The hieroglyph (a circle bisected horizontally by a line that extended each side beyond the diameter) resembled no letter or symbol he recognized. He had not previously noticed such things as he accompanied the tosher, and the man had apparently shown no inclination to look for them. Even so, the chalk circle surely had to be some marker or directional aid used by the sewer hunters – or by others using those dank passages.
Mr Newsome considered the device for any inherent meaning. Did the circle represent the tunnel itself and the bisecting line an arrow of sorts? Appearing as it did on a corner where a large sewer formed a junction with two more, perhaps the sign related to that specific arrangement of tunnels and directed its reader in a particular manner. But what manner?
He knew enough of the criminal codes of burglars and pickpockets to appreciate that no single, isolated symbol was intelligible. Only by drawing conclusions from a number of them could some pattern be deduced. And excitement gripped him – here, it seemed, was the key to his deliverance from the underworld, if only he could interpret the code.
He splashed across the sewer to check the other corner for similar marks and was satisfied to see a chalk circle there also. This one, however, featured an inconclusive vertical bisecting line. What now?
Neither direction seemed more obviously propitious than its alternative, so he took the right-hand (more inviting?) option indicate
d by the vertical line and trudged ankle-deep along the tunnel in search of another mark. As he went, he reflected the truth of what the tosher had told him: that the smell became, after some time, no worse than certain streets above. There were rats, true, but they showed little inclination to trouble him and seemed content to swim from his approach. Indeed, in the dull beam of the lamp, he might almost imagine himself on a midnight beat among the rotten pre-pyrean alleys of Wapping or Rotherhithe.
Another division of the labyrinth presented itself and other symbols emerged from the darkness: on one corner a circle with three vertical lines bisecting it, and on the other a repetition of the first sign he had seen. A deduction – the vertical lines denoted how many apertures stood between the walker and his next direction, while the horizontal line marked a closed avenue? There was only one way to confirm it: to venture in the direction suggested by the tri-linear mark and note what markings occurred between that point and the third furcation. If he was right, the horizontal line would appear at the first two apertures and some other vertical device at the third.
It proved to be the case, and the third tunnel he encountered presented two vertical lines through a circle. Nevertheless, Mr Newsome restrained his pleasure. He was so hopelessly lost that he knew not in which direction he was proceeding. Was this a route to freedom, or one deeper into the innards of the city? Some time-withered and primitive faculty of his brain told him that the latter was most likely, and that he was moving – or being drawn – inexorably towards some essential core. Whatever the case, it was surely better to be at the end or the beginning than in the futile and featureless centre.
Thus did he navigate, peering at walls, counting channels and travelling ever deeper into those unmapped and unknown regions. By now, it was becoming clearer that he had long since left the masonry of his own century and was venturing within the forgotten constructions of a more distant history. Hereabouts, the tunnels were narrower and fashioned from an eclectic combination of material. Water stood stagnant and unmoving in pools dammed by refuse. The beam of the lamp picked out foundations of long-ruined structures. It seemed barely credible that any tosher had come this far, but the chalk markings continued to lead him.
Remembering the instructions of his guide, Mr Newsome was careful to avoid touching the roof of the tunnels as it became lower. In fact, it was while crouching to pass a particularly precipitous piece of hanging stonework that his dagger slipped from his belt into the murky water. Without hesitating, he plunged his hand into the coldness and brushed fingers among slimy crevices before he was able to grasp the handle and retrieve the weapon, dripping strands of unspeakable matter back into the water.
But there had also been something else down there: some small object wedged betwixt the bricks. He weighed disgust against curiosity. It might be a clue: something dropped by the man he pursued. His hand, after all, was already thoroughly begrimed . . .
Once again, and with a grimace of distaste, he dipped into the murky liquid and groped where he had previously felt the object. And there, standing on its end, was what felt like a coin. He pinched it firmly between thumb and forefinger and tugged it free of the mortar’s grip.
It was a sovereign: grimy, but untarnished by its centuries-long submersion in filth. He rubbed the face with a dirty thumb and read the Latin formulae with an unfamiliarity that soon became wonder: Fra et Hib Regina Elizabeth D.G. A crowned, enthroned figure pressed into the gold made its provenance clearer still.
‘My G—!’ muttered Mr Newsome, putting the coin reverently into a trouser pocket. How far into the city’s roots had he roamed – and how much further would he go?
His pondering was interrupted by another horripilating instance of that sound: the bestial roar and the subsequent agitation of countless rats. Now, however, it seemed much, much closer.
He felt his blood pounding in his temples. A sudden sickening thought occurred: what if the markings he had been following were warnings rather than invitations? Not ‘come this way’ but rather ‘avoid these passages at all costs!’ Was he now within the territory of the beast? Might it smell him and come prowling silently for his bones?
He gripped the dagger and tried to control his breathing. There was no further sound but the endless echoing of the original cry through the sewer system.
The moment of fear slowly ebbed and rationality reined control. If the markings pertained to the beast, they would surely present the same symbol each time: one of prevention and dissuasion as opposed to their clear numerical indications of progress. There was nothing else but to continue as bidden in the hope that whoever had made the markings was familiar with the maze and had safeguarded their own well-being.
So he walked ever further into the city’s deepest ancient seepings, determinedly resisting the urge to look at his watch, or at the level of remaining oil in the lamp, or to consider the immense weight of the world far above him. Instead, he busied his mind with the case at hand, which, like the tangled masonry veins immuring him, was a realm of disconnected junctures in need of a map.
In the light of the London Dock deaths, it now seemed clear enough that the tidewaiter William Barton had been murdered on Waterloo-bridge. Evidently he had known too much of the Aurora’s disappearance. Perhaps he had been greedy, or merely indiscreet. Whatever the reason, it had proved necessary to silence him as it had been necessary to extinguish the lives of ship-owner Josiah Timbs and the crew who had chosen to remain on board.
Such deductions, however, simply generated more confusion. The audacious spectacle of the murders was counter to all good sense and seemed positively to invite investigation. And yet every clue – the tooth, the lack of any possible suspect on Waterloo-bridge, the impossibility of those embarrelled mariners – mocked all detectives with absurdity. The perpetrator behind the missing brig was clearly either an imbecile or a genius. Mr Newsome hoped earnestly for the former.
Strangest of all: nobody knew anything. Of course, criminals were always reluctant to help the police with any useful witness testimony, but his impression on this case was that the ignorance was largely genuine. Why else had the remaining crew of the ill-fated vessel been allowed to live? They had obviously seen and heard nothing. Or perhaps the river workers knew enough to know that an averted eye was the most advisable policy. Those who did see died.
The same conclusion kept occurring: what better place for the root of this criminal endeavour than beneath the city itself? Here, all was hidden from view and sealed tomb-like against sound . . .
He paused and listened.
Had that been the distinctive modulation of a human voice?
There it was again: muffled by stone and carried via the auricular convolutions of the sewers – most definitely a man (or men) speaking.
But which direction? Should the inspector continue to trust the chalk symbols, or rush instead towards the apparent locus of the voice? Caution suggested the former, but at an accelerated pace lest he lose his chance.
He checked his pistol, took the dagger in his hand and followed the hieroglyphs with a rapid but assiduously quiet step, shuffling through the water rather than splashing. As he did so, the chalk circles led him into a space quite unlike anything he had seen thus far.
The tunnel hereabouts was fashioned from uniformly thin, reddish bricks and well finished with fine mortar. Indeed, were it not for the heavy accretion of grime and mould, the work might have been done the week before. Moreover, the passage did not appear to be a sewer at all, but rose gradually out of the water to reveal baked clay paving more suited to pedestrians than to the passage of effluvia. He stepped out of the mire.
The voices became more distinct as he proceeded. They reverberated oddly in a manner that suggested a vast cavern ahead rather than the confining sewer. And as he trod damply over the mercifully dry ground, he perceived the true antiquity of the place he had entered. For there, on the floor ahead, lay a large tessellated image in blue and white: a handsome mosaic of some aquatic god h
olding a trident and with weeds entangled in his lengthy beard. Fish of many kinds were illustrated about him, and a legend at the image’s base proclaimed ‘Thamesis’.
Too agitated by this point to wonder at what he saw, Mr Newsome was becoming gradually aware that the dim light of his lamp was being replaced by illumination emanating from the end of the passage in which he walked – illumination that had the pale look of fixed gaslight rather than a swaying oil lamp. Incredible though it seemed, there was no denying the vision.
Multiple voices were now clearly audible, while various other sounds suggested that some form of activity was taking place: a rhythmical rattle, a crash of something hitting the ground, a trundling of wooden wheels . . . and now, as he came nearer to the tunnel’s end, a combination of smells. Tobacco was first to strike his nostrils . . . then the mustiness of wine barrels . . . then pungent hides . . .
An ornate arch built into that curious brickwork marked the apparent conclusion of the passage. Mr Newsome extinguished his lamp and approached it in a state of nervous excitement, walking on the balls of his feet and bent almost double as if to avoid being seen. On arrival, he saw that the corridor extended further left and right of the arch. He crouched close to the wall beneath the aperture and removed his hat that he might raise his head above and peer into the brilliantly lighted space beyond.
He could barely believe what he saw.
There, below, was a colossal vault made of the same brickwork and clay as the corridor: evidently some lofty Roman temple or cistern that had lain hidden for millennia. Only now it was a warehouse stocked with every imaginable cargo: barrels stacked high in timber frames . . . pyramids of bales reaching almost to the roof . . . a mass of copper-banded chests nestling close by copious drums of tangled ivory tusks . . . great piles of precariously leaning hides . . . chests used as blocks in a tremendous edifice of produce from every port across the globe. Above it all, three tremendous gas chandeliers served to bathe the entire startling spectacle in bright objective light.
The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) Page 27