The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3)

by McCreet, James

  ‘It seems he found something,’ said Sir Richard.

  ‘Evidently, but I have no idea what. He had heard rumours, allusions, expressions of indiscretion or deceit, but nothing probative. I suppose you could send constables into the dock to investigate his disappearance, but that would only put the criminals on their guard.’

  ‘Yes, “the criminals”. Who are these criminals of whom we speak, George? The evidence of their crime is everywhere, but it is as tobacco smoke in a room that contains no cigar or pipe. We must solve this crime.’

  ‘Hmm. Hmm. Perhaps we can start with that notebook you have. May I see it?’

  ‘Of course – though I am afraid his hand is somewhat illegible in places. I have folded the corner of the page on which he began this investigation.’

  Mr Williamson took the notebook and opened it at the marked page. The account began with the recovery of first mate Hampton from the river near London-bridge and continued with the subsequent autopsy at Wapping station.

  Sir Richard, meanwhile, looked around at the modest, even austere, home of the man who had once been the Detective Force’s most lauded investigator: one who had embodied the spirit of the modern police and the new London. The walls were uniformly bare but for a piece of fading embroidery under glass.

  ‘An animal tooth?’ said Mr Williamson, looking up.

  ‘Yes. One might hardly believe it if the inspector had not gone to such lengths to pursue it. When the constables questioned the tosher, he said that the inspector had been quite persistent in his enquiries about “monsters”.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What do you make of the incident at Nightingale-lane? Have you reached that part?’

  ‘A moment please . . . hmm . . . ah: the stinking little man.’

  ‘Have you come across that fellow in your own investigations?’

  ‘Yes . . . but subsequently, and it seems from the inspector’s account here that the fellow surely died. I cannot imagine any man leaping into the river with his wrists in irons and surviving the experience.’

  ‘Well . . . continue reading and we will discuss it further when you have finished.’

  Mr Williamson did so, his eyes following the lines with the greatest attention. If nothing else, it was an insight into the mind of a man who for so long had been his superior in the Detective Force. Finally, he was forced to pause.

  ‘Hmm. It seems there is a page torn out here; was this how you received the notebook?’

  ‘I admit that I removed a page to spare Mr Newsome any embarrassment,’ said Sir Richard. ‘It has no bearing on the case, I assure you.’

  ‘Perhaps you will let me be the judge of that, sir. You have come here today to call upon any skills I may have as a detective. It is possible you have missed some minor word or hint in the torn-out page that would mean more to me.’

  ‘I do not believe so, George, but I will respect your experience. I suppose the circumstances are pressing enough to exculpate me from any accusation of impropriety. He should perhaps have excised the sheet himself . . .’

  Sir Richard extracted the carefully folded page from his breast pocket and passed it to Mr Williamson, who opened it and leaned back in his chair to digest the (apparently hastily scrawled) contents:

  Williamson – the man is working in collusion with that d—— transportee Dyson and his dusky servant again, I know it. I will be d—— if I let the —— beat me on this case. He, and that buffoonish —— Batchem, will reflect with humiliation on the time they challenged me. Whatever happens, the old mare Mayne will take me back, by G—!

  ‘Hmm. Hmm. I apologize, Sir Richard. You are quite right: there is nothing of use here.’

  ‘Inspector Newsome is . . . an able detective,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Able, but significantly flawed.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I imagine now might be a pertinent time to raise the matter of that contract I signed in your office.’

  ‘Circumstances have changed, George. Let us be frank. Mr Newsome is no longer at liberty to pursue the case and you . . . well, it appears you may not have adhered to its every condition.’

  ‘Then may I assume that neither I nor Mr Newsome will be permitted to return to the Detective Force?’

  ‘I believe that now is not the time for such discussions. Of more urgent importance is—’

  ‘Sir Richard – with the greatest respect – the fate of Mr Newsome is not important to me. That contract I signed has more significance.’

  ‘Very well. Then perhaps we might first discuss your associations with this fellow Noah Dyson . . .’

  Mr Williamson was about to speak when a tremendous banging came at the street door. He did not move from his seat.

  ‘Are you going to answer the door, George?’ said Sir Richard. ‘It may be your Mr Cullen returned from his recent discoveries. Please – grant him entry. I would be interested to hear his testimony.’

  Mr Williamson stood and approached the door with a combination of hope and dread. Whoever stood on the other side of the door, the subsequent conversation was likely to be problematic. With a large intake of breath, he unlatched the lock and twisted the door knob.

  It was Noah, his right hand quite covered in blood and more blood spattered on his bare neck. His dark woollen overcoat hid any further gore.

  ‘George – I believe I have just killed a man.’

  Mr Williamson’s legs weakened and he felt the colour drain from his face.

  ‘Let me in, for G—’s sake – did you not hear what I said?’

  Noah pushed his way past into the short corridor and closed the door behind him. ‘It was that stinking little fellow from the dog fights . . . and there was another one: an identical twin. They attacked me and I defended myself. I have virtually run here from Frying Pan wharf. Will you make me some very sweet tea? Then we must return in force. Is Mr Cullen here? They have Ben – I am sure of it. And that is not all . . .’

  ‘Restrain yourself, Noah!’ hissed Mr Williamson. Sir Richard Mayne is here – in the parlour – at this very moment.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘He must not see you bespattered with blood like this. It would be better if he did not see you at all.’

  ‘But why is he . . . ? No matter, it is time for you to make a decision, George.’

  ‘For G—’s sake, Noah . . . this is no time to . . . Will you just go into the kitchen and at least wash your hands!’

  ‘Perhaps I must make the decision for you.’

  ‘No . . . !’

  Noah brushed aside the feeble attempt at obstruction and strode into the parlour, where Sir Richard Mayne was sitting by the fire. The two men appraised each other with magnanimous animosity.

  ‘I believe you are sitting in my seat, Commissioner,’ said Noah.

  ‘And you, Mr Dyson, appear to bear the clear evidence of a murder about your person – which crime, I believe, carries the sterner penalty.’

  ‘Sir, I can explain this situation,’ said Mr Williamson, entering the parlour in a state of pale anxiety.

  ‘I would be glad for you to do so,’ said Sir Richard, entwining his long fingers on his lap.

  ‘Noah . . . that is to say, Mr Dyson . . . whom I first became acquainted with when I was compelled to work with him (much against my will) on the Lucius Boyle case, has, of late, become an . . . an occasional informer, who, infrequently, I . . .’

  Noah held up a hand for Mr Williamson to stop the charade. ‘Sir Richard – let me speak frankly. There is no time for dithering. The blood you see on my hands belonged to a man who tried to kill me not one hour past because I have discovered – through the guidance and expertise of Mr Williamson – the secret behind the Aurora’s disappearance. As we sit here, my one true friend is, I believe, a prisoner of the men who stole the vessel. I cannot act alone: they are too many. The strength of the Metropolitan Police is needed.’

  Sir Richard looked from Noah to Mr Williamson, evidently weighing what he had heard against the illegality he strongly suspect
ed.

  ‘Perhaps you are thinking,’ continued Noah, ‘that the life of a Negro man is inconsequential. Others have believed so. But know this: another is also at great risk – one whose life it may be particularly beneficial for you to save . . .’

  Noah took a soiled tan-coloured glove out of his trouser pocket and threw it to Mr Williamson. ‘George – perhaps you could identify the wearer of this. I found it near the place where I was ambushed. The stains on the palm and fingers are blood – the wearer’s own, I would wager.’

  Mr Williamson at once saw the larger middle finger and nodded. ‘Sir Richard – this glove belongs to Eldritch Batchem. We have established that the man has an extra finger on each hand and wears specially made gloves such as this one. It seems Noah is correct.’

  Sir Richard wordlessly indicated that he would like to examine the glove, and did so with a look of concern.

  ‘I might add,’ said Noah, ‘that we have seen nothing of the man for some time. Yes, there was that letter in the Times, but neither I nor Mr Williamson have recently seen him or heard of his activity.’

  ‘May I tell Noah what you have told me, Sir Richard?’ said Mr Williamson. ‘It seems that, together, we three may possess all elements of the solution.’

  Sir Richard hesitated, the limp glove still in his hand, then merely nodded, fearing perhaps that anything he said might be used against him later.

  ‘Noah – they have Mr Newsome also,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘At least, he is lost among the sewers in pursuit of the missing brig. Mr Cullen, too, has vanished from the docks.’

  Noah digested the information. A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘Very well – the time to act is now. Sir Richard – will you strike at the enemy with me, or act against me?’

  ‘If I may offer my own opinion,’ interjected Mr Williamson, ‘public opinion will favour a rapid and dramatic gesture that brings the criminals to justice. They need never know how, or from where, the police obtained their intelligence – only that a great crime was solved.’

  ‘You speak like a man who has spent too much time amidst the sophistry of thieves, George,’ said Sir Richard, indicating Noah as the contaminating influence.

  ‘Or with Inspector Newsome,’ said Mr Williamson.

  Sir Richard acknowledged the point with a regretful downward glance. He re-examined the bloodied figure of Noah, and a Manichean struggle raged beneath the police commissioner’s placid exterior. A decision was imperative. His was typical of the barrister.

  ‘Very well. I must hear everything that you know, Mr Dyson. If I find it persuasive, I will act in the interests of justice and throw my full authority behind the correct course of action.’

  ‘And in turn,’ said Noah, ‘I would ask that you share all that you know, Sir Richard, so that we can establish a mutual trust.’

  ‘Need I remind you, sir, that I am the commissioner of—’

  ‘Actions, not titles, earn trust, Sir Richard. Have we an agreement?’

  ‘Very well. Perhaps you will earn my trust, Mr Dyson, by being the first to speak.’

  Noah allowed himself a half-concealed smile of respect for this man who, whatever his religion, politics or ethics, was one who deserved it. Still standing, he now took the seat vacated by Mr Williamson and began:

  ‘Mr Williamson knows most of what I can recount – and I suspect he has already told you much of that. Our investigation was furthered just last evening at the Forecastle public house, where we expected to encounter Eldritch Batchem. Instead, we observed a short, malodorous man escape with remarkable agility through a window when approached. Another rat-fancier – an employee from the London Dock – had identified the man’s particular odour as being one he had smelled in the tobacco warehouse the night of Mr Timbs’s murder . . .’

  ‘You refer to the so-called cat master, perhaps,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I have read of him in Inspector Newsome’s notebook.’

  ‘I know of no such notebook,’ said Noah. ‘But yes, the fellow was Baudrons. Arriving immediately at the broken window, I heard the stinking little man exchange some words in a foreign tongue with a tattooed harpooner in the alley below. I now believe it may have been Greek.’

  ‘You did not mention any such foreign tongue to me at the time,’ said Mr Williamson with a reproving look.

  ‘I admit that, in the urgency of the moment, I thought I had simply heard a strong accent or garbled diction. Subsequent discoveries, however, suggest otherwise. Sir Richard – take a look at these circled advertisements from the Times.’

  Noah unfolded the scraps and handed them to the commissioner.

  ‘Ah, Greek, is it?’ said Sir Richard, scrutinizing the lines. ‘I am afraid I am not well acquainted with the modern form . . . something about a river is it?’

  ‘It is in fact a code: an announcement to certain men of the river to steal a particular vessel. The first instance refers to : the Greek word for ‘dawn’. The Latin is, of course—’

  ‘Aurora,’ said Sir Richard gravely. ‘But where was the vessel to be taken? I do not recognize the word . . .’

  ‘“Frying pan”. It is Frying Pan wharf – the same place, I believe, to which my friend followed the stinking man after he visited a known silk receiver on Ludgate-hill . . . the same place alluded to in highly dubious terms by an indiscreet ballast-heaver at the Forecastle . . . the same place I was attacked this morning when I ventured there.’

  The police commissioner was nodding vigorously now as the pieces of his own puzzle shifted into comprehension. ‘Gentlemen – this confirms what I have recently heard from Mr Jackson, the Inspector General of Customs. It seems his investigation has turned up a further quantity of blank landing warrants hidden at the Custom House itself. As before, they bear the name of Principle Officer Gregory, but at least two of them have been partially completed, listing Frying Pan wharf as the unloading point. It seemed suggestive enough, but now I see there is a stronger connection.’

  ‘Do you know anything of the wharf, sir?’ asked Mr Williamson, leaning now against the back of Noah’s seat.

  ‘I asked my clerks about the place and the only recollection any of them had was that early excavations for the Thames tunnel were to begin there. It seems, however, that some Roman ruins were found below the surface thereabouts and so the work was moved some few hundred feet west where the ground was easier to work. The warehouses that now stand on the original site have been built subsequently.’

  Noah turned to look at Mr Williamson, who had evidently had the same thought and voiced it: ‘Might those Roman building works exist still beneath the modern warehouses? And might they extend to subterranean chambers that might store cargoes unseen and unregistered by the Customs men who patrol those shores?’

  ‘Mr Dyson,’ said Sir Richard, ‘if that Greek is indeed a code, what is the name of the second vessel mentioned . . . and are we to assume that it will be taken within the next twenty-four hours, if not already?’

  ‘The word is “parrot”, but the actual ship name is likely to be something tangential or metaphorically related. Perhaps your clerks will be able to get to Gravesend, to the Custom House and to Trinity House to see what vessels have arrived into the Port of London most recently? As for the likelihood of this other vessel being taken as the Aurora was, that all depends on how confident these people feel. They evidently know that a large police investigation is underway. Indeed, they have taken a number of the investigators involved. Does that make them bolder, I wonder, or more cautious? If the former, we might reasonably expect the ship (whatever its real name) to be taken tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, I follow your reasoning,’ said Sir Richard. ‘The advert has been placed, which would seem to suggest intent. Perhaps the perpetrators of these crimes simply have no fear.’

  ‘Or perhaps it is a test to see how much we really know,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘As we pursue this new vessel, they may watch us to gauge our strength. Alternatively, it may all be a ruse to direct our attention elsewhere.’

/>   ‘That is quite possible,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Nevertheless, I believe the time has come to act. We will investigate the identity and movements of this other ship, the “Parrot”, and we will strike at Frying Pan wharf.’

  ‘So – to action!’ said Noah, making to stand.

  ‘Wait,’ said Sir Richard with a firm voice. ‘I understand your haste; I also have a man in danger – but let us understand the nature of our challenge. This wharf is evidently a dangerous place. It is peopled by numerous men of the roughest sort who care nothing for the law and who have already killed to keep their secret. If we go there, it will be in daylight with a contingent of brave policemen, with the foreknowledge of the vessel to be taken and with the benefit of a flood tide that gives our galleys room to manoeuvre. We must also be accompanied by men of the Custom House, who will verify what is illicit and confiscate it. I trust that a man of your sense cannot argue with these criteria, Mr Dyson.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘I understand that you wish to rush madly and alone at that warehouse with dagger in hand, but you would almost certainly be killed or taken prisoner. If your friend is still alive, his best hope is for an orchestrated assault from the Metropolitan Police, which will take some time to organize. Can we agree upon that?’

  ‘Noah?’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Sir Richard speaks perfect sense. I know it is difficult for you to wait – and that Ben is more your concern than the missing brig – but they are many and you are one. Deaths may result.’

  ‘All right,’ said Noah, finally. ‘It will be tomorrow. But I have my own ideas on how to proceed. Listen . . .’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Thus did the three remaining investigators sit in conference beside the fire at Mr Williamson’s home. Afternoon dimmed into dusk; gaslamps were lit; night absorbed smoke into a still darker sky. Any curious passer-by might have stood gazing through those uncurtained windows at the tableau of earnest discussion within and wondered at the characters present.

  Who, for example, was the sober-looking gentleman with the pock-marked face? A bookkeeper or a clerk, perhaps? He spoke little, but listened to the others with clear intent. The one with the grey eyes and broken nose was quite a different sort, expressing himself volubly by means of gestures and extemporized diagrams. He – an engineer or some manner of radical? – might have been the leader of the three were it not for the gravity of the third figure: the oldest and most patrician, whose eyes possessed a great intelligence. It was a vaguely familiar face . . . but unlikely to be anyone of great authority in this part of London.