Silence. Just the pressure in his chest and the water in his ears.
Then a vibrating hammer blow of response: life beyond.
Noah ran frustrated hands over the door and found a knob. He pulled. He pushed. He kicked furiously at the unyielding mass and let forth a bubbling execration. His breath was almost gone. The blows still sounded from within.
The key?
He jerked it out of his trouser pocket and fumbled cold-fingered to move the escutcheon aside and find the hole. He turned the key. He pulled the door open against the pressure of water. He reached into the void.
A large black hand grasped at Noah’s from the blackness. Noah seized it and hauled the body out towards the ascending stairs.
Another limb flailed and Noah took hold of a thick wrist, tugging it forcefully from death to life.
And with the final dregs of breath almost gone, he himself staggered heavily up the stairs until his head broke the surface. Merciful air rushed into starving lungs and light once again filled his eyes.
Benjamin and Mr Cullen were slumped panting and saturated on the upper stairs. Noah waded clear of the water and nodded to them with an easy smile that belied the depth of his relief.
‘Inside . . .’ gasped a dripping Mr Cullen, ‘Eldritch Batchem . . . is still inside.’
Benjamin spoke briefly with his hands.
Noah nodded. ‘If his throat has been cut and he was immobile, then I agree: he is already dead. He is older and less hearty than you two, and all air inside is now certainly gone. We must think of ourselves and flee while we have the chance. The river is in flood and the secret warehouse is under siege.’
‘A secret warehouse?’ said Mr Cullen.
‘I wonder – do you even know that you are at Frying Pan wharf? No matter – the river continues to invade. We must go to safety above.’
Now knee-deep in water, Mr Williamson had barely moved. The poker remained aloft. His arm was beginning to tire with the effort of immobility. He dare not blink. He dare hardly breathe.
For its part, the great, shaggy-headed lion observed him with similar stillness. It sniffed the air, flicked its tail, and set forth a lazy pink tongue about its massive chops.
Time telescoped. Waterfalls of filth and the plashing footsteps of the questing crew sounded distantly from the warehouse beyond. Lion and man appraised each other in an expectant tableau.
And Mr Williamson’s fear turned gradually to empathy. For all its size and threat, the beast was, in truth, a rather pitiful specimen of its kind: soiled with grime, emaciated about the ribs, conspicuously missing a large incisor, and utterly bedraggled by its cloacal abode. It clearly no more wanted to be there than he did. If it sometimes roared, it was through imprisoned despair rather than aggression. If it had indeed torn at the flesh of first mate Hampton’s corpse, it had no doubt been in abject hunger rather than violence.
He slowly lowered the poker to the desk.
As if in acknowledgement of the gesture, the lion blinked, shook its vast head, cast a final proprietorial look about the room and exited almost silently in the same direction it had come.
Mr Williamson slumped with both hands flat on the desk and exhaled deeply, his head downwards in prayer or relief or some darker mortal thoughts. He was in the same posture when a panting crew-member arrived excitedly at the door.
‘No criminals to be found! Not a single . . . O, are you all right, sir?’
‘Did you not see the lion?’
‘A lion, sir? Like in the zoo? I have seen nothing of the kind and I have looked everywhere.’
‘In this very room just moments ago . . . Never mind. Have you explored every possible entrance and exit?’
‘Indeed. There is a gallery above and a couple of passages leading from it down into water – the sewers perhaps. We also found Mr Dyson with two other gents he says are colleagues of his. One was a terrifying Negr—’
‘I know them. Was there another: a bearded fellow?’
‘No, sir. I have seen no such—’
‘Now listen – you and your fellows are to gather as many ledgers and documents as you can carry from this room and take them aloft with all haste. Do you understand? Where is Mr Dyson now?’
‘He has already ascended with the others.’
‘Hmm. Well, gather your fellows and get immediately to work in this room.’
‘Yes, sir!’
The fellow ran off to fetch his colleagues and Mr Williamson went out into the warehouse to see sundry cargo bobbing upon the flood. The water was now mid-thigh and rising continually – more than high enough to drown the insensible and handcuffed Italian . . . their only living witness!
He waded urgently to where the man had lain bound, but could feel nothing with his feet. Had he misremembered the exact position? He submerged his arm to the shoulder in icy black water and swirled a hand madly about in search of the body.
Nothing. Not a limb nor a garment nor a clutch of hair . . .
Then his fingers touched metal. He withdrew a pistol and tossed it irritably towards the clerk’s office. Plunging in again, he grazed another object and knew immediately from long experience what he held – a pair of police handcuffs. These he withdrew, staring incredulously at their unlocked mechanism. Was it truly possible that the Italian had been revived by the cold water at his face and somehow freed himself to escape beneath the surface of the murky pool?
He looked over to where Mr Newsome had lain and saw only water. The corpse had been subsumed. A shiver passed through him: a grim foreboding combined with the river’s chill that seemed to harrow him quite to the bone.
‘Men – it is time to leave. Take all you can carry from that room. Let us abandon this infernal place to the river . . .’
THIRTY
By nightfall, it was a different city that presented itself to the investigative glare of the gaslights – a city released, a city quite transformed by the inundation of its ancient flow. At Westminster and Bermondsey, at Tower and Rotherhithe, at Wapping and Shadwell and Limehouse, the shoreline streets were clotted ankle-deep with reeking mud. Cellars were bailed by bucket; stairs seeped and trickled; ferry piers sagged as prehistoric swamps. Rat corpses and assorted flotsam collected where the ebb tide had eddied.
The entire Port of London had suffered that day: dry goods tainted, buoyant goods lost, loaded barges subsumed where they lay on the banks, and almost every wharf a greater or lesser victim of the invading flood. Only the diligent work of the Thames Police had prevented a greater catastrophe. It was thanks alone to their readiness and manpower that a great quantity of cargo had been decisively removed from danger.
That uniformed presence had been particularly concentrated around the many warehouses of Wapping, and notably at Frying Pan wharf. Indeed, a cordon of men seemed to guard the place long after the waters had departed, standing sentinel with flaming torches as if expecting another assault.
It was perhaps midnight when certain senior officers of the Custom House and the police arrived by steam launch and ventured inside the sealed building. That they later emerged mud-caked and saturated carrying dozens of dripping bundles seemed to suggest that they had found what they sought.
In fact, daylight would raise more questions than answers, and the meeting that occurred some thirty hours after those momentous events would follow a pattern to which its participants had become rather accustomed . . .
‘Mr Dyson – I thank you for attending,’ said Sir Richard Mayne, standing to receive his final guest with a firm handshake. ‘I accept that you do so out of good grace rather than by compulsion.’
Noah nodded a greeting to the other gentlemen in that Scotland Yard office: a sombre-looking George Williamson, and Mr Jackson, Inspector General of Customs, who raised a quizzical eyebrow at the newly arrived fellow. Was this the ‘agent’ his men had spoken of with combined admiration and mistrust?
‘So, gentlemen – to business,’ said Sir Richard, taking his seat at the large oaken desk that
was today covered with water-crinkled ledgers, stained sheets and blotted books. A smell of the river rose palpably from the material, though it was all now quite dry.
‘As you may know, men of the Metropolitan Police and the Custom House re-entered that remarkable chamber below Frying Pan wharf the night before last to fully document the scale of its depredations and to settle the issue with legal finality. Before I proceed in that direction, however, I first have a number of questions for Misters Williamson and Dyson.’
The aforementioned two looked briefly and without guile at each other, then back at the speaker. They had already revealed all they knew in the hours following the raid. There was nothing more to hide.
‘Very well,’ continued Sir Richard, ‘both of you gentlemen reported seeing the body of Inspector Newsome. I have your statements here and they tally in their detail. My question is simple enough: are you absolutely certain he was dead?’
‘Wait,’ said Noah, sitting forward, ‘am I to assume from your question that no body was recovered?’
‘That is correct. George – it seems you were last to see him . . .’
‘Indeed. I stood over him and saw no evidence of life,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘When I left the chamber, the water was already above the level of his body.’
‘So you cannot say with all certitude that he was still there?’ said Sir Richard.
‘Hmm. I suppose not. But I saw no breath when I examined him . . . and Noah saw him shot.’
‘That is right,’ said Noah. ‘I believe I even heard the bullet strike him. I saw him fall and lie unmoving. Perhaps the receding current moved him.’
‘Every inch of that warehouse has been examined, Mr Dyson,’ said Sir Richard. ‘It may indeed be true that the inspector is dead – and a great tragedy it is – but the fact remains that no body has been recovered.’
‘No body at all?’ said Noah. ‘What of Eldritch Batchem? He was incarcerated in the same cell as Mr Cullen and my fellow. His throat had been cut and he was immobile. His corpse must be there. I gave full particulars of this to your men.’
‘So your testimony says,’ said Sir Richard, locating the document on his desk, ‘but, again, there is no body to be found. Not he or the “Italian” to whom you both refer. How do you explain this singular lack of evidence?’
‘I can only think that the waters have flushed them all out through the sewers,’ said Noah with a shrug. ‘The fact that Mr Newsome was there at all is clear evidence of a network leading to the river. Perhaps we will find them in a week or two, swollen and floating by a ferry pier at Rotherhithe.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ said Sir Richard in a less than credulous tone. ‘It is unfortunate enough that the dead bodies will receive no civilized burial. What is much worse is the evident escape of this “Italian”. And what of this smelly little fellow or the South Sea Islander mentioned in your testimonies? There is not a single trace of them also.’
Noah and Mr Williamson exchanged glances and the former opted to reply:
‘It seems clear enough that all are close associates of the orchestrating criminal behind these crimes. The smelly man alone may be connected to the deaths at the dock by his curious odour, and we have evidence that he was instrumental in the taking of both Benjamin and Mr Cullen. I can only assume that they escaped together, or at least to the same place. Find one and you will find them all – although I would be surprised if any is now to be found in this country. They are too distinctive to remain.’
‘I see,’ muttered Sir Richard dourly. ‘This is most unsatisfactory. On the matter of mysteries, I wonder if we might also touch briefly upon Mr Williamson’s “Minotaur” encounter.’
‘If you are referring to the lion, I have said all there is to say on the matter,’ said Mr Williamson.
‘Quite. But nobody else saw the beast – not Mr Dyson, not those fellows who entered with you – not any of the men who ventured back into the place that night. Why, there were not even any footprints in the abundant mud.’
‘Am I being called a liar?’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Inspector Newsome thought there was a beast in the sewers and I saw that beast. The waters ebb . . . the footprints are erased . . . the beast re-enters the sewers and is lost once again leaving no trace. Must I further explain what I saw? Am I a drunken costermonger to be disbelieved in such a manner?’
‘Becalm yourself, George,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I am merely attempting to understand every detail. So much of what happened in that chamber cannot now be explained by the physical evidence.’
‘Hmm.’ Mr Williamson turned his head to stare blackly into the fire.
Sir Richard’s expression was one of concern, but he retained his sense of decorum. ‘Ahem, well, let us turn to something more empirical. Mr Jackson – perhaps you could summarize what you have learned from the reclaimed ledgers.’
The nautically attired Mr Jackson nodded his assent. ‘A large proportion of the stock listed on the manifest of the missing brig Aurora was indeed found in the hidden chamber – notably the French silk. As for the other cargoes stored there, a consignment of port and fifty bales of Virginia tobacco are reliably documented as stolen. We are combing through the remaining material at present and I have no doubt all cargo therein will prove to be illicit.’
‘How is it possible such an outrage could occur barely a mile from the Custom House itself?’ said Noah to Mr Jackson.
‘Excuse me, sir, but who are you to address me so?’ said Mr Jackson. ‘What is your rank? Did I hear your name as “Dyson”?’
‘Mr Dyson is not a member of the Metropolitan Police,’ said Sir Richard. ‘He has aided investigations in a purely unofficial capacity. Nevertheless, perhaps I can rephrase his question more civilly on my own behalf. Can we be sure this will never occur again?’
‘In truth, Sir Richard, I can be sure of nothing. As long as there are dishonest men motivated by money or threatened with violence, there will be crime. I need hardly explain this to you. However, you may be assured I will be conducting a thorough review of my men and procedures.’
‘I suppose that is all I can ask. Is it at least possible to reconstruct and take lessons from the fate of the Aurora?’
‘For that, Sir Richard, I must turn to your men here, who have evidently spent more time investigating the evidence.’
Sir Richard acknowledged this and looked to Mr Williamson. ‘George? Will you speak? What can we say of this case that is conclusive?’
‘Hmm. Hmm. All evidence would seem to suggest that on arrival in London, the vessel was logged by a landing-waiter and reported to the Custom House as per the standard procedure. Thereafter, a landing warrant was issued to moor and unload – presumably for the correct berth at St Katharine’s?’
Mr Jackson nodded.
‘I suppose we will never know if that was the warrant received by the first mate of the Aurora,’ continued Mr Williamson. ‘Most likely it was a fraudulent note prepared by the tidewaiter William Barton (himself conspicuously murdered for some indiscretion some few hours later). Barton then aboard, around half of the crew were allowed ashore by lighter and the rest were necessarily killed and embarrelled – apart from first mate Hampton, who must have discerned the plan earlier and been slain for his discovery.’
‘A gruesome and sorry tale,’ said Mr Jackson.
‘And still worse,’ said Mr Williamson, ‘with the death of the persistent ship-owner Mr Timbs. Nothing could have been a greater threat to the secrecy of this criminal band than his public announcement at the Queen’s Theatre – where each of us was conspicuous in our way. Thereafter, when one of us came too close, he was taken: the fate of Noah’s friend, our Mr Cullen, and the investigator Eldritch Batchem.’
‘But they were not immediately killed as the others were,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Why do you imagine that to be?’
‘Hmm. I could not say. Perhaps to lure their colleagues so that all could be eliminated at a stroke? The cell at Frying Pan wharf may well have been a death senten
ce regardless of the adverse tide, so perhaps they were intended to die after all.’
‘I see your point,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Please, do not let me interrupt your narration . . .’
‘Well, the rest we know. The Aurora docks at Frying Pan wharf, is divested of her cargo by sundry lumpers led by this Mr Rigby, and then the vessel itself either spirited away under a new name, or destroyed.’
‘Do you have any proof at all of this?’ said Mr Jackson. ‘The Aurora may still be in port.’
‘Hmm. I have not previously mentioned to any of you that I discovered a vessel’s name plaque below Waterloo-bridge. It was charred almost beyond recognition, but it appeared to be that of the Aurora.’
‘What? Why . . . why did you withhold such important information?’ said Sir Richard, bristling at the revelation.
Noah, also, could clearly not disguise his feelings at the omission, but said nothing.
‘In truth, I concluded that the discovery was of little consequence,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Even if it was the genuine name plaque of the vessel, how might that have helped me? I already knew it was missing, perhaps destroyed. At the same time, anyone may fashion a plaque and set fire to it. Perhaps I was meant to find it. I imagine the real ship is now somewhere out on the oceans: owned by whoever killed Mr Timbs. In fact, the real clue in this case was that code in the Times, without which we may never have known about the Prince Peacock.’
‘And even then, I am not sure we had the right ship,’ said Noah. ‘The foreman Mr Rigby was utterly confused at its arrival.’
‘It was the closest name to “parrot” that we could find in the Long Room lists,’ said Mr Jackson. ‘Is it possible that these criminals simply knew of the raid in advance?’
‘I fear you may be right,’ said Sir Richard. ‘According to Mr Dyson’s testimony, the wharf foreman seemed to suggest that no vessel was supposed to arrive. Perhaps the code had been nullified by subsequent intelligence. Certainly, there are many men on the river who must have known of it.’
The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) Page 33