The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3)

by McCreet, James

  Certainly, one seldom knows what or who to believe in the great metropolis. Three fellows glimpsed through a window could be businessmen, plotters or thieves. A man wearing a russet cap might call himself Crawford or Batchem and be taken as either if there is no contradictory evidence. A detective might adopt a uniform and seem a common policeman, while a constable might equally divest himself of epaulettes and become a detective.

  In such ways do metamorphoses occur and perspectives change in the city of tides. Men likewise rise and fall according to the vagaries of the moon, or fate, or will. Where were they all on that night before the raid on Frying Pan wharf?

  Inspector Newsome’s heart had barely calmed since witnessing the villains in the warehouse. The longer he remained crouching there in the corridor by the arch, the more frozen with fearful inertia became his filth-soaked legs. Discovery by one of the criminals or their band was surely imminent. Action was imperative – but to what end?

  Should he venture back the way he had come and lurk about the sewers until his lamp faded and blackness became his tomb? Might he attempt to find another source of oil to light his journey back to the river? Or should he descend into the warehouse and test his own life against those men who could kill him without their crime ever being discovered? He had one bullet and a dagger; at least one of the others also possessed a blade and was likely to be more adept in its use.

  As he cogitated thus, he saw with a jolt of horror that he had left damp footprints all along the corridor to where he now rested. No doubt these could be traced directly from the sewer, raising a general alarm and stirring every murderous hand against the intruder. He had to move – and keep moving – in the hope that his trail would dry before being discovered. But move where?

  With determination he stood once more and peered through the arch. Nobody seemed to be present below. The only course of action was to follow the corridor either left or right and see where it took him. Left or right – life or death? He reached into his trouser pocket and took out the Elizabethan sovereign he had found. Heads or tails?

  He went right, following an apparent gallery punctuated with more arches looking over the warehouse space. He walked cautiously and without destination – merely to move – and in the hope that an idea would occur to him. The pistol remained gripped firmly in his palm.

  Inevitably, there could be no rescue from the Metropolitan Police. This place had remained secret for a long time, either because no tosher knew of its existence, or because those who did had been silenced. It was not at all rare for a decomposing sewer-hunter to be found by excavators of some new street, or for a body to be washed out into the river. Perhaps, indeed, the animal he had been seeking was one of Cerberus’s race: a fearsome beast let loose among the vile passages to dissuade and devour.

  Where was the creature? Was it that very moment sniffing at his path of damp footsteps and growing ever closer? Would one pistol shot be enough to fell it? And would that loud report bring the criminals running to effect what the animal had not?

  A stone stairway fell away to his left: a long, steep descent of around thirty feet ending dimly in a rusting iron door. Moss and slime flourished around the lower stairs suggesting a regular influx of water, and there was an unmistakable smell of the river. Excitement animated his spirit – was this a possible means of escape?

  Cogitating no further, Mr Newsome descended towards the iron door, upon whose rusty knob was a length of cord holding a large antique key. He put an exploratory ear to the metal and heard nothing beyond. He slid aside the escutcheon plate noiselessly and peered into blackness. Was it better to be on the other side of that door? Might it lead him to freedom? If required, he had just a little oil left in his lamp and a box of lucifers in a dry coat pocket . . .

  Still holding the pistol, he inserted the key into the hole and turned it with a scraping of corroded parts. He pushed with his shoulder and the heavy door groaned inwards . . .

  After the candle had died, Benjamin and Mr Cullen had sat listening to each other’s breath and occasional shuffling in search of warmth on the cold stone flags. No other sound or needle of light intruded into that Hadean cell.

  ‘Will we die here, Ben?’ said Mr Cullen.

  Silence answered as an unseen gesture.

  ‘I am not afraid to die . . . only, I had hoped one day to marry a nice girl. I am still quite a young man . . . O, this is unbearable! I would rather they had provided no light at all than to give it and let it die. There must be something we can do to escape this place!’

  Benjamin breathed steadily, part of the darkness.

  ‘Wait . . . Ben – do you hear that . . . ?’

  Footsteps were indeed approaching – perhaps two or three pairs of boots echoing from afar. Within the cell, they strained to hear more detail.

  The people were now apparently descending a flight of stairs towards the door, and . . . was one of the footfalls impaired in some way, as if the fellow was being half-dragged or carried?

  ‘Ben!’ whispered Mr Cullen, ‘I will wait by the side of the door. When it opens, I will force whoever enters into the cell. We can dispatch them together and make our escape. Are you ready?’

  A scraping boot indicated Benjamin’s preparations.

  The key rattled in the lock. The door opened a crack. A shaft of dim light cut across the flagstones inside. Mr Cullen stepped vigorously forward in anticipation of grasping a shirt front . . .

  Instead, a virtually inert body was thrown into the cell and into the open arms of Mr Cullen, who toppled over backwards under the dead weight. As he fell, he caught the merest glimpse of two forms (one short, one tall) silhouetted against the stairs . . . then the door closed with a reverberating clang. Blackness returned.

  ‘A dead man, Ben!’ said Mr Cullen, his hands going over the body for some kind of identification. ‘Can you smell the blood, Ben?’

  Benjamin made his way towards the voice and aided in the examination of the body.

  ‘O . . . wait a minute . . . I think he is breathing!’

  And, indeed, the increasingly vivid body began to groan and writhe as if regaining consciousness.

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ said Mr Cullen. ‘Were you also taken at Frying Pan wharf? Are you a police detective?’

  ‘A det . . . a detec-tive,’ croaked the figure weakly.

  ‘Do the police know we are here? Is there to be a rescue?’

  ‘My . . . neck . . . razor . . .’

  Mr Cullen felt along the prone body and realized that what he had previously imagined to be a scarf about the neck was more likely a makeshift bandage. Close to, the smell of blood was unmistakable.

  ‘They have cut your throat, sir? If you can speak, I suspect the wound is not deep. Have heart – you may live.’

  ‘I have solved . . . Aur-ora . . . I have solved . . .’ gasped the invisible fellow.

  Benjamin, meanwhile, had extracted something wadded in the gentleman’s breast pocket and was manipulating it now, employing black fingers in that black space. It was some manner of garment: a circle of material, a label, stitching – a cap? He reached with blind urgency for Mr Cullen’s hand and pressed the item into it.

  ‘O . . . what is this?’

  Benjamin allowed his friend a moment to palpate the cap then drew Mr Cullen’s hand in his own towards the injured man’s beard, where entangled fingers tugged at a point of coarse hair. There was a sudden intake of breath from Mr Cullen.

  ‘Eldritch Batchem!’

  ‘I have solved . . . the case,’ rasped the investigator thus identified. ‘I . . . have found . . . murderers. Frying Pan . . .’

  ‘My G—, Ben! Do these people have us all in custody?’ said Mr Cullen.

  The question hung unanswered in the damp air.

  ‘I have . . . solved,’ croaked the prone form, fading now. ‘The villain is found . . . Liveridge . . . forgive me . . .’

  ‘Calm yourself, Mr Batchem,’ said Mr Cullen. ‘Who attacked you? Can you describe him?
Who is the murderer?’

  ‘I . . . I . . . a mask of evil. O, Liveridge!’

  ‘His name is Liveridge? I do not understand you . . .’

  But the wounded man had clearly exhausted himself, or been exhausted by what he had endured. A black hand settled softly on Mr Cullen’s arm: leave the poor fellow alone.

  For some minutes, none spoke, each occupied with the flurry of his own thoughts. Eldritch Batchem wheezed softly and made no attempt to sit.

  Then, once again, there was a dry scraping of the key in the lock. The door groaned open and a shadowy figure appeared in the frame, looking cautiously inside . . .

  . . . Mr Newsome almost exclaimed as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and he saw the three gentlemen squinting back at him. Benjamin, the traitorous Mr Cullen, and the infernal stage-detective Eldritch Batchem – all together on the damp stone flags. A rush of impressions and conclusions assailed him . . .

  ‘Mr Newsome!’ cried Mr Cullen with unrestrained amazement. ‘You have come to free us!’

  Benjamin’s single eye also could not repress its wonder. He began to stand, but his amazement turned instantaneously to fury . . .

  Without a word or gesture, Mr Newsome rapidly closed and locked the door, dropping the key into his trouser pocket where it clinked against the gold coin.

  Fulminations and execrations rained then upon the door from within and the inspector thought it better to distance himself from that place with all haste . . .

  It was fully night when Noah finally left Mr Williamson’s house. The wind tugged at his coat tails and he inhaled deeply at the distinctive perfume of Lambeth air: the lead smelters’ poison, the breweries’ yeasty steam, Beaufoy’s acrid vinegar works and, of course, the eternal river mud and streets that had yet to see the modern age of progress.

  Of a mind to walk, he instinctively headed north past the dark emptiness of Vauxhall Gardens to where Fore-street ran its sordid and dilapidated course parallel to the Thames. Here, glowing cigar tips twitched within shadowy passages at approaching footfalls, and gaslamps mocked the centuries-old structures as they bowed under the pressure of time. But Noah felt no trepidation. In this jungle, he had always been a predator.

  As he walked, he could not help but reflect upon the vagaries of London. One might be rich or poor, sinful or righteous, and the city would strew one’s path with trials all the same. A house or livelihood lost, an unexpected betrayal, an unjust incarceration, the omniscient eye and illimitable reach of authority, the abduction of a friend. The strong rose above the filth; the weak were pulled into the torrent and drowned. Every child of the city knew as much.

  Benjamin would be found and freed – that was the only concern. The Aurora and its cargo could be d——. Sir Richard Mayne and his perfidious Inspector Newsome could be d——. Even the benevolent and well-meaning gentleman detective Mr Williamson could be d—— if he wished to place justice higher than one man’s life. In London, one stepped first, hit hardest and took one’s chances at the expense of others. Trust was temporary, and friendship all too often fleeting. Every child of the city knew as much.

  The damp earth of the archbishop’s gardens now sweetened the air as he traversed Church-street and passed closer to the river. Venerable Westminster-bridge showed itself a many-humped beast lumbering across the choppy waters, and Noah paused to look at the river. Behind him was that great seat of Christianity, Lambeth Palace. Before him was a deity that pre-dated the Cross. Had not articles of pagan faith been found upon the shore: those clay and stone supplications marked with forgotten ancient tongues?

  A Christian prayer or a pagan propitiation? Noah had long ago found the former to be futile. He took out his dagger and weighed it in his palm, turning it so that the moon played along the blade. Was it an offering worthy of the river god? Would it please the ageless power enough to grant a wish? Noah muttered something to the waves: half promise, half hope. And he tossed the dagger with all strength into the black depths of ageless Thamesis.

  Mr Williamson watched the fire die but did not stand to revive it. Sir Richard and Noah had left some hours previously and the house seemed emptier now than before their arrival. It was late, but he could not think of sleep.

  The following day would be a tempestuous one – quite literally so if the wind whining about his walls was anything to go by. He should, perhaps, have been in higher spirits, having been approached for help by Sir Richard, but his thoughts were otherwise occupied. He thought of earnest Mr Cullen, possibly dead at the bottom of the river. He thought of Benjamin, who had once saved him from certain death. He thought also of Noah, whose life seemed uncommonly tainted of late by involuntary association with the Metropolitan Police.

  And, much against his will, he thought of Charlotte. Rather, the girl contaminated his mind, entering unbidden into his every private moment. Even there, where he had lived in virtuous contentment with his wife Katherine, the street girl tormented him with memories and visions and sensations that would not let him sleep.

  Noah could see it, of course. For him, the solution was as simple as imbibing the spirit until a surfeit of it caused all charm to fade . . . either that or until the spirit rendered one a slave to its intoxication. What was stronger – the man or his temptation?

  ‘Go to her, George,’ Noah had said on leaving. ‘Tomorrow there may be pistols and knives. Tomorrow we may die. Will you go to your grave knowing that a mere girl had tortured you so? Go to her as a detective, as the policeman you once were, and see her for what she is. Rid her from your thoughts.’

  Mr Williamson put on his coat and hat. He would go for a walk to clear his head and consider the day to come. He would cross Vauxhall-bridge and take note of the river in this uncommon wind. He would walk north beside the penitentiary to Whitehall and perhaps have a cup of coffee thereabouts to revive his mind.

  Or he would walk past those coffee houses towards Haymarket and head up towards Windmill-street, intently noting female faces all along those sinful thoroughfares. He might even go as far as Golden-square, where the habitually uncurtained illumination of one specific residence caused one to pause and glance idly inside as if to see what sort of person lived there.

  If she saw him standing watch, she might wave with a smile and come to the street door. She might beckon him up the stairs and remark that his face was somehow familiar. Would the gentleman like a cup of tea, perhaps? The fire inside was warm and it was terribly windy out.

  Her perfume would be as he remembered it. Her large, dark eyes would mock the sobriety of his own. He would take off his hat and enter with an expression not of ardour or lust or longing, but of crucifixion.

  Later still, and long past midnight, a single office at Scotland Yard showed its illuminated window to the night. Within, Sir Richard Mayne was marshalling the forces of justice in preparation for daylight.

  Clerks and messengers had been roused from their beds and sent off about the city to wake others, who in turn would write orders and dispatch their own men in an ever-outwards ripple of readiness. The Thames Police station at Wapping called in extra men and sought additional galleys for their use. The police fire boat and steam launch were put on standby for first light. The Horse Guards were told to be aware of imminent police activity that might require armed support. The Lord Mayor issued a general alarm to all police stations within the vicinity of Frying Pan wharf, advising them to have men ready if needed. Even the Home Office was notified of a possible disturbance by the river.

  Similarly, Trinity House was apprised of the situation and requested to keep its lumbering ballast machines clear of the wharf at high tide. In response, it graciously offered a lighter and a number of strong honest men should they be required to purge this corruption finally from river trade.

  Almanacks were consulted. Low tide would be half past eight that morning. High tide would be half past two in the afternoon, after which there would be dead water and the best opportunity for action.

  Sir Richard sho
wed no apprehension or indecision as he signed orders, drafted instructions and received runners. But as dawn approached, so did a creeping doubt.

  And so, as the players in this drama lived out their various stories on that night – frustrated, imprisoned, wounded or in moral peril – the metropolis was in the early stages of its own imminent convulsion. The north-east wind, which had been building for days, now reached a new intensity, whipping up clouds of ash from the streets and channelling them through alleys in blinding vortices. Chimney pots came loose and crashed to the cobbles; rigging whistled and whipped against masts in the docks; galleys and wherries rocked against their tethers at stairs all along the river.

  At Deptford, one particular vessel, the Prince Peacock out of Calais, was moored for the night. Its mariners rocked in their hammocks, oblivious to the creaks and rattles of their vessel or the hull-slapping waves. At flood tide, their progress to St Katharine’s would be all the easier with the favourable wind . . . if indeed they ever reached their final mooring.

  Down near Pickle Herring-street, the ‘Thames sage’ John Tarr stirred uneasily from his shore-side abode and ventured out onto the mud to observe the waters. He cast a weather eye at the moon-silvered clouds. He watched the racing scalloped crests upon a mercury surface. He noted the thicket of swaying masts along the far shore – a consequence of that persistent north-easterly that drove more vessels than usual into the heart of the city.

  Not only vessels, he must have mused, but also great volumes of water driven from the sea into the gaping coastal mouth of the river. Certainly, it was that time of the year when inundations might occur. He appeared to nod and mumble something to himself, or to the sky. Then he returned briskly to his den, leaving up Tripe-alley just a few minutes later with a full seaman’s bag over his shoulder.