The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3)

by McCreet, James

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Daylight and the ebb tide brought wonder among the many thousands working by the river. By half past eight, the waters seemed to have receded to a greater extent than many could recall, revealing the broad channel almost to its bed at certain points.

  Between St Saviour’s and the London Dock, a mere ribbon of flat, brown water remained amid a great expanse of shining mud that was itself littered with the unveiled detritus of centuries. Sodden barrels, still-corked bottles, pipe fragments, saturated coal, slithery lengths of discarded rope, and pottery of every hue could be seen there, along with the bones of some long-forgotten wreck emerging blackly from the mire’s grasp.

  Naturally, the mudlarks were out in force, swarming like insects over the river’s unexpected nakedness. Not only they, but any number of street boys, apprentices and costermongers, for whom the novelty was akin to the old frost fairs of memory. And above the whole filthy carnival, an unimaginable composted miasma arose that suggested the very fundament of the city had been momentarily laid bare.

  Yet despite the early low tide, the Port of London was as busy as it had been for months. Almost a third more vessels than usual had been blown upriver by that persistent wind of recent days and the shores seemed as crowded with men and wagons as London-bridge. At every dock, wharf, quay and bank, cranes rattled, wheels trundled, boots rapped out lumber tattoos, and the thunder of landing cargo echoed around warehouse fronts.

  It was indeed a populous and detailed canvas from the gallery of London – a mere fragment of time soon to be erased by the incoming flood. But if one were to take a magnifying glass to its epic scope and peer into the shadows, one would notice certain other characters waiting expectantly among the throng . . .

  Shortly before noon, for example, the grand façade of the Custom House was concealing a congregation of some considerable significance. Mr Williamson sat towards the rear of a large smoky room crowded with chattering uniformed policemen and Custom House officials, all of whom were engaged in the most energetic speculation as to the reason for their presence there. When the large panelled door opened, an immediate hush came over the room, followed by urgent muttering as Sir Richard Mayne entered with the Inspector General of Customs, Mr Jackson.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ began the latter in a stentorian tone, ‘I thank you all for volunteering for this extra duty, which, as you have no doubt already gathered, concerns a matter of the greatest importance to the commerce and reputation of this building, and to the city as a whole. One might say it began with the murder of Mr William Barton on Waterloo-bridge nine days ago, but I regret to say that the crimes facing us are greater, and stretch further back even than that. I am sure most of you know the commissioner of police; I will let him continue.’

  Sir Richard Mayne nodded sombrely in acknowledgement. ‘Thank you Mr Jackson, and I thank you gathered gentlemen for your time. I will be brief: a large and well-established smuggling operation has recently been identified by the Detective Force. It is behind the disappearance of the brig Aurora and behind a number of rather grisly murders. Not only that, but a Thames policeman has also apparently been abducted by this band of brigands.’

  A wave of comment rippled through the audience, the occasional sotto-voce mention of ‘Newsome’ showing that the secret had not been kept as well as the commissioner might have hoped.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ continued Sir Richard with a grimace, ‘the focus of our action today will be Frying Pan wharf at Wapping. The police steam launch is waiting before this building and will transport many of us to that place as the high tide becomes still water. I will be frank – there may be danger and you constables may have to use your truncheons. A battle, however, is not our aim. Mr Jackson – perhaps you will explain . . .’

  ‘Indeed,’ continued the inspector general. ‘The purpose of our raid is to enter the warehouse and confiscate all cargo for which there is no documentation – particularly anything we can connect to the original manifest of the Aurora. It also seems very likely that there is a concealed storeroom at the site. If our colleagues in the police can find that space, we Customs men will impound everything within it and discern its origins as comprehensively as possible. All miscreants we encounter will be arrested and closely questioned on the matter of the missing brig. Does anybody have a question?’

  No hand was raised.

  ‘Very well,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Allow me to describe our raid in greater detail. It is not our intention simply to descend in force upon the wharf, which may give senior members of this group a chance to escape. Rather, an advance force will first dock there on a vessel named the Prince Peacock . . .’

  And as Sir Richard laid out the events to come, Mr Williamson sat silently impassive amid so much eager anticipation. Though dressed in his civilian clothes, he had been issued with a truncheon and a reinforced constable’s top hat. One might perhaps have said that the expression on his face was one of calm readiness for the task ahead – but a dark unease permeated his every thought. He remained unshaven since the day before, and his eyes were hollows of shadow.

  Long after he and the many other fellows had vacated the room to board the launch, his truncheon and hat remained intentionally upon the seat.

  Noah Dyson scratched irritably for the dozenth time at the false beard he was wearing. Ludicrous as it looked, it made a remarkable difference to his appearance, creating an authentic impression of the brawny sailor who had been at sea for months. More importantly, it might briefly fool the Italian, the surviving stinking little man or anyone else who had been observing him over the past few days.

  Had he really killed the twin of that malodorous midget? The two of them had leaped upon him like dogs the day before, clinging too close for him to effectively bring the dagger into play. Only when one of them had been literally thrown to the ground did he have the chance to slash at a throat. Certainly, the man had bled profusely and lain quite inert as Noah made his escape.

  The incident had caused him to reflect anew what kind of men would so readily wreak murder upon those who came close to discovering their secret. First some of the crew of the Aurora, then the braggart William Barton, then Eldritch Batchem. Had Mr Cullen, Benjamin and Mr Newsome all gone the same way? The enemy was utterly ruthless. But retribution was imminent.

  Noah looked up at the Prince Peacock’s filigree of rigging, masts, spars, booms and braces silhouetted against heavy grey cloud. Most sails were now furled for docking, and the crew were largely occupied below decks to hide their true number. It was a sight to transport him temporarily to any one of the world’s oceans and to evoke memories of his previous life. The smell of oakum, the crunch of salt on timber, the billow of canvas and thrum of wind-plucked rope . . .

  ‘Mr Dyson, sir? The tide is quite risen. We are ready to dock.’

  Noah came out of his reverie to see the Prince Peacock’s (genuine) first mate standing at his side. ‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘You may retire to the master’s quarters as I oversee our landing. Stay there, whatever may occur, and you will be safe.’

  He strolled forward to the port bow and saw Frying Pan wharf ahead. The large warehouse doors were open and a newly loaded lighter was just heaving to from its moorings. Noah smiled and felt his blood hot in his veins. Nobody on shore could have the slightest inclination about what was to happen next.

  He turned back to the decks, inserted two fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. ‘All right, boys! Bring us in to the wharf. Coils at the ready there . . . man the capstans . . . haul that jib . . . easy to starboard, mates . . . easy I say!’

  It should here be noted that while those scurrying mariners were all experienced with rope and sail, none but the first mate was of the original Prince Peacock crew (themselves removed earlier that morning at Greenwich). Rather, they were a composite band of volunteer Thames Police and Custom House officers in plain clothes who might unload the vessel and, should the need arise, be on hand to offer a ready fist and truncheon.


  ‘That’s right, lads!’ continued Noah with gusto. ‘Toss the cables there! We are coming to. Are you ready to break out the cargo, boys?’

  The ship settled into its berth as gently as an infant into its cradle. The ropes were pulled tight and the gangplank clattered down onto the stone edge of Frying Pan wharf.

  Immediately, a stalwart and suspicious-looking man with luxuriantly tattooed forearms approached the foot of the plank as if to block Noah’s descent. ‘Hoi! What’s this?’ he shouted. ‘We’re expectin’ no vessel here! I was told yer would dock at . . .’

  ‘Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?’ said Noah from behind his beard.

  ‘Rigby, of course – I’m foreman of this wharf and I say we’re expectin’ no Prince Peacock ’ere.’

  ‘The landing warrant says different, sir.’ Noah stepped assuredly down the plank and handed Mr Rigby the Custom House document, watching him scrutinize it with ever greater confusion . . . as well he might.

  ‘Where’s yer tidewaiter?’ said Mr Rigby with a truculent glare.

  ‘Why, he is right here . . .’ Noah indicated a genuine uniformed Custom House tidewaiter procured for just this eventuality.

  The man saw his cue and came forward. ‘Is there a problem, foreman?’

  ‘Where’d yer get this warrant, tidewaiter?’

  ‘From the landing-waiter, of course, after he reported our arrival at the Long Room. It is all quite clear: a hold full of Brussels lace and French silk bolts to Frying Pan wharf . . .’

  Mr Rigby scratched his head and cast a look back to the warehouse, muttering to himself: ‘This wasn’t supposed to . . .’

  ‘If you will ready your lumpers and alert the warehouseman, we will begin unloading immediately,’ said Noah, whistling once again for his men to unload the holds.

  ‘Wait, d—— you!’ exclaimed Mr Rigby. ‘You’ll wait ’ere while I check on this with . . . with my master. Unload nothin’, understand?’

  And with this, Mr Rigby strode with great vigour into the darkness of the warehouse. A number of lumpers around the wharf had already stopped work and were observing the scene with a mixture of amusement and dubiety.

  Noah cast a quick look along the river and saw the police launch’s prow nestled among colliers over at Elephant stairs on the Rotherhithe shore. He winked at the tidewaiter by his side and called out to his crew: ‘Down planks, men! Break out the trolleys. Unload, unload . . . ! All cargo into the warehouse there!’

  Thus, when Mr Rigby emerged rapidly and red-faced from the shadows a few minutes later, it was to see pulleys already in play on the vessel’s decks and a number of men approaching him with crates on trolleys. Apoplexy seized him at once.

  ‘I thought I told yer: no ——— unloadin’! Take it back or I’ll crush yer ’eads, I swear!’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Noah, himself carrying a large crate, ‘the warrant says Frying Pan wharf and that’s exactly where we must unload.’

  ‘Why, you . . . !’

  Mr Rigby aimed a tremendous kick at the crate in Noah’s arms, almost knocking him over and causing the crate to drop to the ground where it cracked along one edge. Its contents could now be glimpsed through the splintered wood.

  ‘Hold up!’ said Mr Rigby on peering within. ‘That’s no lace or silk . . . it looks like . . . old newspapers! What’s goin’ on ’ere . . . ?’

  Those sundry lumpers on shore who had not already stopped work to watch the show paused in their work. There was certainly nothing like a good fight to liven up the tedium of their daily toil.

  Mr Rigby turned hateful eyes immediately upon Noah, but was quite unprepared for the reaction of this artificially bearded false mate.

  Noah stepped rapidly around the fallen crate and grasped the material at the foreman’s throat with a powerful hand. At the same time, he swiftly produced a boatman’s knife and made sure his victim could feel the cold metal edge just below his jaw. He spoke with a chilling malevolence:

  ‘The Negro with the milky eye – tell me where he is imprisoned or I will cut you from ear to ear.’

  Just inches from Noah’s face, Mr Rigby’s eyes at first showed surprise rather than fear. Then understanding seemed to flicker across them and he grinned with vulpine self-assurance.

  ‘Cut me, then, why don’t yer! No copper or Customs man can do it in plain sight . . .’

  Noah’s knee flashed forcefully into the softness of Mr Rigby’s abdomen and the latter dropped like a sack of grain to the wharf.

  ‘Unfortunately for you, I am neither,’ said Noah to the groaning form at his feet. He extracted a whistle on a cord from beneath his shirt and turned to blow it sharply three times towards his vessel. ‘All inside, men! The signal! The signal!’

  The crew remaining on the Prince Peacock reached for a number of green hand flags and waved them furiously in the direction of Elephant stairs, where a great plume of rising smoke showed the police launch about to dart across the river.

  The raid had begun in earnest.

  Noah strode towards the open doors of the warehouse, but, even as he did so, shouts echoed inside the structure and the great wooden panels began to roll shut on their metal rails.

  ‘Quick, lads! The door . . . we must block the door!’ shouted Noah to the crew at his back, who were now pouring from the vessel towards the warehouse.

  But the native lumpers of Frying Pan wharf would not remain passive. They exchanged glances. They instinctively reached for their hammers and pry bars and knives. Had they not just witnessed that bearded first mate brutally assault their foreman Mr Rigby? Had they not seen with their own eyes that crate split open and common newsprint spill forth? Something highly dubious was afoot, and the Thames lumper recognizes only one tool of debate . . .

  A colossal masculine roar went up as the wharf lumpers descended en masse upon the men of the Prince Peacock. And chaos took hold on the shore: a tremendous scuffle of boots on stone, punctuating cries of pain, whistles blowing and the grunts of men reduced to beasts as they rolled violently entangled upon the ground.

  Noah drove an elbow into the throat of a fellow trying to grab him from behind and raced for the still-closing doors of the warehouse. All support was now engaged in grappling and punching, while the police launch was still fifty yards from the wharf. There was no time to lose – he must enter alone and take his chances.

  With a final leap, he passed sideways through the shrinking gap in the doors even as they brushed him front and back. He rolled on stone flags and righted himself quickly to see a fellow each side of the huge panels – evidently rather frightened clerks rather than lumpers. Both were now urgently hammering wedges betwixt door and rail while simultaneously watching the intruder with great apprehension. There seemed to be nobody else inside.

  Noah reached for his knife and addressed the two in a tone that did not invite dissension: ‘Tell me where the Negro is kept and I will not harm you.’

  ‘There is no Negro here,’ said one tremulously.

  ‘He is above six feet. He has a milky eye and a scar about his neck. Tell me – where have you seen him?’

  The two looked at each other in apparently genuine bafflement, then back at Noah with shrugs. They were mere clerks – their sole province was the ledger and the scales. Battle meanwhile raged beyond the doors, bodies or implements occasionally striking against it with a resounding crash.

  Noah glared. ‘Open the warehouse immediately. Remove the wedges or I swear I will kill you both as you stand.’

  Again, the two men exchanged urgent glances. Noah was equidistant between them. He could not catch them both. Evidently realizing this, they seemed to reach the same decision simultaneously and both ran from Noah into the cavernous hall of the warehouse.

  He furiously kicked away the wedges with a muttered curse and hefted a door ajar to aid the imminent influx of police. Then he turned from the mêlée outside and examined the interior of the place, casting his eyes around at the barrels, bales, stacks and
stores that rose almost to the grubby skylights. Ben was here somewhere.

  Noah set off down determinedly down the passage immediately facing him: a long avenue of tobacco bales exuding their sweetly intoxicating scent. There had to be a concealed stairway or a locked vault . . . some manner of anteroom or passage, most likely towards the rear of the place.

  As he reached the end of that aisle, a draught of cold musty air washed over his perspiring face and he stopped. There was a distinctive smell of damp stone and drains to it . . . and it appeared to be emanating from behind a stack of cotton bales. He gripped the seaman’s knife in readiness and moved closer to peer between shadowy cracks.

  There, behind the cargo, appeared to be a large rusty iron hatch in the stone flags. It was undoubtedly the origin of the draught, which even now set frigid fingers at his neck.

  Noah hauled aside the cotton bales, which though huge in dimension were naturally light enough. Moments later, he was able to prise open the hatch’s lock with his knife and lift the cold metal plate to reveal a sunken platform containing a double-handled crank mechanism – evidently some manner of device for descending to a lower level of the warehouse. It was big enough to take perhaps four large barrels at a time.

  Without a further thought, he clasped the knife between his teeth, jumped down on to the platform and unhooked the ratchet lock. He then set to work with the iron crank handles and the platform descended almost soundlessly on greasy teeth into a brickwork shaft that was clearly of greater antiquity than the warehouse itself.

  In a matter of seconds, brilliant gaslight began to flood in over his boots and rise slowly up his legs. A bewildering array of scents rose to meet his nose: exotic spices of India, ambergris, brandy barrels, hides and horn . . .