The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3)

by McCreet, James

  Yet, despite the magnitude of the space and its multifarious contents, very few men were present. Mr Newsome watched (with restricted breath) as a burly fellow with heavily tattooed forearms loaded cases onto a trolley and pushed them out of view, whistling as he went. Another pair of figures then appeared from behind the barrel stacks: the reeking little man and another who appeared to be of Mediterranean extract – perhaps an Italian. Speaking in a language unfamiliar to the inspector, the two made their way towards a sturdy iron-banded door, where the Italian used the heel of a long pointed knife to rap their presence.

  The door opened inwards. There was a glimpse of flickering firelight within. They entered, and the door banged closed with a resounding echo.

  Up at his arched vantage point, Mr Newsome felt his heart hammering beneath the lamp still strapped to his chest. A rush of conflicting thoughts and urges assailed him. Here – in this bountiful, scandalous treasury of undoubtedly smuggled goods – was the solution to the case. Here was his guaranteed return to the Detective Force and his redemption in the eyes of Sir Richard. Here, also, was a deadly snare into which he had irreversibly stepped. He was one man with one bullet in his pistol and not enough lamp oil to venture back through the sewers. Success (and acclaim) lay down in the warehouse among the criminals . . . as did the likelihood of death, for, assuredly, no man would be permitted to see this and live.

  As he stared unblinkingly at the door, it opened once again. The same two men exited, the Italian now pushing an inert figure strapped to a cargo trolley.

  Mr Newsome eyes opened still wider. The bound man wore a tweed suit and had a pointed beard. A length of blood-mottled fabric circled his neck. A russet cap had been stuffed roughly into his jacket’s breast pocket and he was missing a glove.

  Eldritch Batchem.

  Mr Newsome’s fingers throbbed with a rush of blood. Heat flushed his face. Was the investigator dead? Had he been interrogated in that room? How on earth had he found his way to this infernal place?

  But there was little time to ponder further on that conundrum, for the door was opening again from within. A shape emerged from the flame-marred darkness and, for a second, its face was caught in the scientific light of the gas. At least, it had once been a face.

  Mr Newsome’s heart staggered. A nauseating faintness coursed momentarily through him. He had seen that face before. It was a face he had once looked upon with fear and hatred – a face he thought he had last seen charred and dead and hanging from the basket of a flaming balloon. It had been further scarred by that incident, but there could be no mistaking the eyes and the unnerving rubious jaw. The murderous incendiary Lucius Boyle was still alive, and evidently the orchestrator of this entire outrage surrounding the Aurora.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Benjamin was missing and in danger. Noah was now sure of it.

  He had not returned home the night Noah had visited the Forecastle. There had been no note, no message at all, no sign that Benjamin had returned to their riverside address at any time since leaving for the coffee house on Ludgate-hill.

  True, it was not unknown for the lofty fellow to visit a theatre and return in the early hours. He had even, on occasion, returned at noon the next day from his unknown debauches – but this situation was quite different. For one thing, if he was to spend a night at the shows, he only ever went out in his very finest clothes (which remained in his room). For another, he knew that Noah was eager to hear any news concerning the silk emporium and he would not willingly have made his friend wait.

  More significantly still, Noah simply felt it. The two had a fellowship that was quite literally beyond words. One understood the other as a physical presence – or as an absence. Their orbits exerted a reciprocal gravity.

  And so, as Noah strode down Fleet-street that morning, his aspect was of such ferocious determination (not to mention the late injuries sustained in his fight with the Italian) that the crowds seemed to quail and part before his momentum lest violence occur to their persons. He entered the coffee house on Ludgate-hill with a resounding clatter of the door that caused all present to look up from their business.

  ‘May I help you, sir?’ asked the proprietor from his counter, perceiving that the precipitous entrant was not in search of coffee.

  ‘There was a tall Negro gentleman here yesterday,’ said Noah.

  ‘Indeed there was, sir. He sat there at the window for hours and hours, he did, gazing across the street.’

  Noah went to the place indicated and glanced rapidly about the table and floor, much to the consternation of the two young clerks occupying the seats.

  ‘Did he leave anything behind when he went? A note, perhaps?’ called Noah over his shoulder to the proprietor.

  ‘Only the money he owed, sir. He was certainly a curiously silent chap. A friend of yours?’

  ‘Did he read a newspaper while here?’

  ‘Why, yes. He quite devoured yesterday’s edition of the Times. But see here, sir, you are rather disturbing my—’

  ‘Do you have it still?’

  ‘Ah . . . I believe so. By the fire there – we use the old editions for kindling . . .’

  Noah stepped rapidly between intrigued customers and pulled out three copies of the previous day’s Times, hastily rustling through each page for some sign known only to him: some note or message his friend may have left. With the second copy, he found what he was looking for on the first page: Benjamin’s distinctive black pencil mark around a personal advertisement:

  The words made him pause. Where had he recently read something similar?

  With the customers now muttering to each other about his behaviour, and the proprietor equivocating over some manner of intervention, Noah cast previous editions of the Times to the floor until he came to the one he had read in his own parlour some eight days previously. There, on the front page, was the advertisement he was thinking of:

  ‘Sir, your behaviour is rather irregular . . .’ ventured the proprietor, approaching from his counter.

  ‘Then bring me a cup of coffee in the Arab style and see to your other customers without disturbing me further,’ said Noah, distractedly taking a seat by the fire and spreading the newspapers on the table before him.

  The circled lines were in a rough form of modern Greek – that much was clear. But it was a grammatically suspect strain that made him doubt whether they had been placed by a native Hellene. For example, the nouns and were missing their articles: and ‘O’ respectively. And what on earth was ? He knew that was the Greek word for river and that the suffix represented a plural . . . so could the term refer to those who worked on or occupied the river?

  As for , he knew it only as an informal place name in the southern extremity of the Greek mainland – a rough Peloponnesian coast of pirates and fighting men. But was not that particular place so named for its barren landscape of flat rocks which became so hot in summer that one might actually cook on them – meant ‘frying pan’ in Greek.

  The proprietor brought the coffee to the table and Noah smelled the sweetness of cardamom. He reached obliquely for the cup without taking his eyes from the words, burning the tip of his tongue in the process.

  Frying Pan wharf – the reference was irresistible. But what of the rest?

  The first advertisement seemed to refer to – ‘eggs’? Such a translation made no sense whatsoever: ‘Rivermen – the eggs to the frying pan’. Noah searched his memory for scraps of language, remembered phrases, curious proverbs and arcane grammars. He had often mixed his ancient and demotic Greek when a mariner in those balmy seas . . .

  And then he smiled at his mistake. He had confused his vocabulary. The word was not ‘eggs’ at all. That word was . Rather, the sentence in the Times alluded to the word for ‘dawn’: ‘The dawn to the frying pan’.

  He shook his head in consternation and sipped again at the coffee, which was quite excellent. The phrase still made no sense at all. Unless . . .

  might be the modern Greek for dawn,
but the Latin was ‘Aurora’. The Aurora to Frying Pan wharf: a code and an instruction. He checked the date: the advertisement had been printed two days before the eponymous brig had vanished.

  Noah’s mind buzzed with the audacity of placing such a thing in a newspaper before the eyes of the whole city. It was truly an outrageous gesture of derision at the supposed authority of the police and Customs – just as the subsequent murders had been. The same hand must surely have been at work in both.

  The ripples from Benjamin’s pencil circle seemed to repeat ever outwards into supposition and conjecture. Why Greek? Was the Italian in fact a Greek? Or were these men much better educated than the average river worker? Such a code certainly suggested a sophistication of method beyond anything so far imagined by the investigators.

  Noah looked again at what his friend had marked in the coffee-house edition. The line was identical but for the word . Was this the next vessel to be taken? If the code was indeed an instruction, another ship would disappear the very next day.

  In Greek, meant ‘parrot’: admittedly, an untypical name for an ocean-going ship. Clearly – as with the Aurora – it alluded to something else . . . but he could think of no mythological, historical or linguistic analogue that might also be a vessel name. Was there perhaps a code book possessed by the ‘rivermen’ which directed them how to interpret the words used in the Times?

  Noah finished his coffee and banged the cup on the table. Such ruminations were doing nothing to find Benjamin. He looked up to see the proprietor still observing him with unease.

  ‘You there!’ called Noah. ‘Did you recall what time the Negro fellow left this house?’

  ‘It was shortly before dusk, I believe,’ said the proprietor.

  ‘And in which direction?’

  ‘I cannot be sure, sir. I do not observe all of my customers so closely.’

  ‘Very well. I thank you for your assistance. You are also to be congratulated on the quality of your coffee.’ Noah folded the marked pages into a pocket, dropped some coins on his saucer and walked out with a determined pace.

  He arrived moments later at the selfsame silk emporium at which he had recently passed himself off as a buyer for the Swiss National Opera. The lady at the counter recognized him immediately, but did not seem at all happy to see him. Had Mr Newsome shattered the opera ruse?

  ‘O, good day to you, sir.’

  ‘Is it? I assume that my order is ready to collect.’

  ‘It is a rather unusual case, sir. Shall we step into the stockroom?’

  ‘If we must.’

  Noah was allowed behind the counter and through the door into the room at the rear. All appeared exactly as it had before.

  ‘I must apologize, sir,’ said the lady. ‘It is most unusual, but . . . your order has not arrived.’

  ‘What! Did your agent not visit to collect my list?’

  ‘O yes, yes, he did, sir.’ As before, she seemed to wrinkle her nose at the memory. ‘But the goods have not been delivered. Such a thing has never previously occurred. This . . . supplier is usually most trustworthy.’

  ‘What time did the agent come here?’

  ‘I cannot recall precisely . . . some time before dusk yesterday, perhaps.’

  ‘This agent – is he a short fellow with a blank face and a stench of the sewers about him?’

  ‘I . . . I am not at liberty to discuss our suppliers.’

  ‘Does he perhaps have a foreign accent?’

  ‘Sir, your questions are inappropriate. You are not a policema—’

  Noah withdrew his dagger, all pretence now abandoned. ‘A man’s life is in danger – and now so is yours. Tell me!’

  ‘O! O! A small man, yes! He smells terribly. I have never heard his voice – he just holds out a hand for the orders.’

  ‘For how long have you dealt with him?’

  ‘I . . . I . . . O, will you kill me, sir?’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘For . . . for six months or so. Please – take anything you like but do not murder me!’

  ‘Cease your whimpering. I am neither a thief nor a murderer. Do you know if this fellow went directly to his warehouse after visiting you?’

  ‘He does not speak, I . . . I cannot answer your question.’

  ‘Does he enter as I did, through the shop, or via a rear door?’

  ‘The . . . the tradesman’s entrance – there at the back of the storeroom.’

  ‘Thank you. I bid you good day.’

  ‘But . . . your silk. Your deposit . . .’

  ‘Keep both – and your silence. You will never see me again.’

  Noah exited through the tradesman’s doorway indicated (leaving the unfortunate lady shaking in distress) and found himself in a rank alley alongside the emporium. Had Benjamin been here? There was no indication of his unusually large boots in the mud, though one tiny sole print did suggest a child or a man of diminutive stature.

  Noah stood and pondered for a moment as the noise of Ludgate-hill echoed between the buildings towards him. How might the pursuit have been effected? Along the streets, where a man might lose his pursuer among the crowds and carts? Or along the river where no shadow might easily lurk? In light of the little man’s odour and riverine inclinations, the latter seemed more likely.

  The nearest ferry platform to where he stood was at Blackfriars-bridge, and the quickest way to arrive there – he realized with foreboding – was to walk past his very own house. It seemed, indeed, that with each successive step towards the Aurora, the various investigators of the case were being drawn more irresistibly into a trap that had long been prepared for them.

  But there was no choice – his friend was most likely to be found at Frying Pan wharf. Noah tested the edge of his dagger against a thumb and strode southwards to the river.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Inspector Newsome is missing.’

  The speaker was Sir Richard Mayne: agitated, clutching a notebook, and standing at the street door of Mr Williamson’s house. A cab rather than a police carriage stood waiting on the cobbles outside.

  ‘Sir Richard – I . . . it is a pleasure . . . but . . .’

  ‘May I enter, George? I would rather not be seen here.’

  ‘Of course . . . of course.’

  Mr Williamson directed the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police to his modest parlour and nervously stoked the fire as Sir Richard took a seat. The distinguished gentleman was clearly very ill at ease.

  ‘Could I make you a cup of tea, sir?’ said Mr Williamson, fastening his top shirt button.

  ‘Thank you, but no. As I said, the inspector is missing. It is a most difficult situation and one requiring urgent action.’

  ‘Indeed, sir . . . but may I ask why you have come to me?’

  ‘George – I need hardly explain the humiliation I would suffer if the newspapers discovered that one of my inspectors had vanished – particularly this inspector. Can you imagine the headlines? It is something I will not tolerate. Much as I am tempted to leave the man to his fate, I am obliged to find him.’

  ‘Yes, sir . . . but . . .’

  ‘I cannot use the Metropolitan Police for this. You know how constables gossip. The two who work with him in the galley have been sent down to Brighton until this sorry mess is cleaned up. In the meantime, I must turn to a sober, reliable man who can discreetly aid me. George – you are that man.’

  ‘Hmm. Hmm. When you say that he has vanished, what precisely do you mean?’

  ‘Yesterday, at low tide, he left his constables and ventured into the sewers at London-bridge with a tosher as his guide. Some few hours later, the tosher returned alone and told the waiting constables that the inspector had wilfully chased off after some shadow.’

  ‘That does rather sound like a thing Mr Newsome might do.’

  ‘Quite. The fact of the matter is that the tide then rose and sealed him under the city. He is certainly lost and possibly even drowned.’

  ‘Hmm. I see – but I
have no knowledge of the sewers. Is it not the best policy simply to send the tosher back to find him?’

  ‘Under other circumstances, you would be correct, but I have been given this.’ Sir Richard held up the notebook handed to the inspector’s constables for safekeeping. ‘In it, Mr Newsome has kept notes of his independent investigation into the disappearance of the Aurora and the intelligence that led him into the sewers. I think it is time for you and I to have a frank conversation about what we know. A man’s life and the solution to a crime may depend on such cooperation.’

  ‘Hmm. Hmm. I fear that your words are truer than you know. Mr Cullen has also seemingly vanished.’

  ‘Who is Mr Cullen?’

  ‘He was a constable until quite recently. He worked with the inspector on the Holywell-street—’

  ‘Yes. I recall the fellow: tall, burly, rather slow. Is he working with you now?’

  ‘I would not say he was “slow” . . .’

  ‘No matter. You say he has vanished?’

  ‘It would seem so. He was working at the docks to collect information from the various river workers and has been reporting to me every evening. Last night, I heard nothing and I am afraid some harm may have befallen him. He is normally most reliable.’

  ‘What was the tenor of his investigations at the docks?’

  ‘Our . . . rather, my assumption was that any smuggling operation of a comparable magnitude to the Aurora’s disappearance must require significant manpower to unload the vessel. Mr Cullen was attempting to discover if any such casual labourers knew of the missing brig.’