The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (13 page)

‘But you have told me—’ began Mr Newsome.

‘I have told you that you are to remain with the Thames Police, and that is the fact. What I have perhaps not made clear is that my offer also extends to Mr Williamson.’

‘What!’ ejaculated Mr Newsome.

‘I know of no such offer,’ said Mr Williamson.

‘The offer is this, gentlemen.’ And Sir Richard extracted two sheets from the bottom of the pile of papers on the table that stood between them. He handed one sheet to each man.

Mr Newsome was first to finish reading, having frowned with particular consternation over the itemized points. Nevertheless, he did not hesitate in reaching for the pen on the table and signing
his name to the contract.

Mr Williamson took longer over his read. Finally, he addressed Sir Richard:

‘I believe this contract makes a number of assumptions about my previous behaviour.’

‘George – you are fundamentally a good man and an honest man. I make no reference to things I may have heard previously, but I saw you at the Queen’s Theatre two nights ago in
the company of a man who has been in gaol and who, but for events I would rather not dwell upon, should have been transported. This contract is to prevent that kind of taint from attaching itself
to the police. Are you prepared to sign it?’

‘I am no longer a policeman.’

‘You are right, George,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘You are not a policeman. Why not enjoy your other work in peace, without the threat of daily danger.’

‘The choice is yours,’ said Sir Richard to Mr Williamson. ‘Though I cannot comprehend how a man of your talents could be content toiling in an office of the Mendicity Society
in pursuit of mere begging-letter writers, or standing on theatre steps looking out for common thieves. Yours is an ability to be tested against greater crimes, and with the entire apparatus of the
Metropolitan Police supporting your efforts.’

‘Hmm. I am content enough in my way.’

‘Might you not consider this a sport then?’ offered Sir Richard. ‘A test of your wits against those of that buffoon Eldritch Batchem? I can promise you no wage – you
would investigate entirely in your own capacity and with your own resources, whereas Inspector Newsome here has the uniform of the Thames Police to aid him. The odds are not in your favour, and it
is likely the Detective Force will solve the crime before you or the inspector can. If you wish, sign the contract and then throw the job back in my face when you are the triumphant challenger.
’

‘He will not win!’ scoffed Mr Newsome, almost to himself.

‘One thing further, George,’ said Sir Richard. ‘If you will not sign, I cannot reveal any further particulars about this case, which the merchant Timbs has since relayed to me.
You will go on your way with my blessing and I will communicate the details to Inspector Newsome alone, who will have less competition in his quest.’

Mr Williamson looked at the inspector, who was grinning malevolently in response. Here was a gentleman who, just a few months before, had left a man to die so he could instead pursue his own
glory. Here was a man for whom treachery was a tool of ‘justice’ and ambition. Here, more to the point, was a man who had engineered Mr Williamson’s expulsion from the Detective
Force on the spurious grounds of his being injured and unfit for duty.

He signed.

Mr Newsome scowled.

‘Very well,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Let us begin.’ He reached for the pile of paper on the table. ‘As I say, I spoke at length with Mr Timbs this morning and learned
all I could from him about the circumstances of his missing ship, a four-masted brig out of Calais. Unfortunately, he told me that he has already given precisely the same information to Eldritch
Batchem. Perhaps it would be most expeditious at the outset if you both simply asked me questions to discern what you need to know. Who will begin?’

‘Do we know exactly when the vessel vanished and from where?’ said Mr Williamson, taking out his notebook.

‘We know from Custom House records that the ship arrived at Gravesend six days ago,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Mr Timbs, however, did not go to St Katharine Dock to view his cargo
until the morning of Eldritch Batchem’s performance. It was then that he discovered no sign of it, or of the
Aurora
herself.’

‘What was the cargo?’ said Mr Newsome.

‘Almost entirely French silk: shawls, handkerchiefs, gloves and a large number of bolts in different colours. I have the exact quantities and colours if you need them. Also, there were
some few packages containing scammony,
radix rhataniae
and quassia – sundry ingredients of the apothecary, I understand.’

‘Hmm. They are all products with an exceptionally high duty,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Smuggling is the obvious motive, although it would be exceptionally bold to take an entire
cargo. But one thing above all confuses me: the ship sailed from France with silk of that country, yet I believe those other items originate in the Orient.’

‘You are correct, George,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Although the ship had sailed from France, it had first been in the Orient. It seems to have been one of those vessels that
collects and delivers its cargo according to whichever ports are on its route: cedar wood here, tortoiseshell there
et cetera
. This was the final leg of the voyage.’

‘Have any crewmen come ashore?’ said Mr Newsome.

‘The master of the ship came ashore with some seven sailors aboard a lighter, owing to the designated landing place being temporarily unavailable. This master, who lives near the docks,
has been thoroughly questioned and his answers are gathered here. I am afraid he has nothing useful to report – the ship lay at anchor in plain sight before St Katharine Dock when he left it.
He cannot recall a single suspicious circumstance. Oddly, none of the seven sailors has yet applied to the shipping office to collect his money from the voyage. My constables are seeking them as we
speak.’

‘They will be utterly intoxicated by now,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘In a few days, they will go to the office accompanied by their crimps and hand over all of their
earnings.’

‘I am assuming the vessel was legitimately registered,’ said Mr Williamson.

Sir Richard consulted his papers once more. ‘Indeed. A landing-waiter logged the ship’s correct name and cargo manifest, both of which were later recorded in the Long Room at the
Custom House. A notice also appeared in
the Times
the following day to that effect. A tidewaiter was then put on board to oversee the cargo until a berth could be secured at St
Katharine’s. However, when an unloading warrant was eventually supplied by the Custom House, the ship, its crew and its cargo had vanished.’

‘And the tidewaiter? Did he also vanish?’ said Mr Williamson.

‘He, too.’

‘There must be a record of his name,’ said Mr Newsome.

‘I have it here,’ said Sir Richard. ‘His details appeared on the docket supplied by the landing-waiter to the Custom House. His name was William Barton.’

‘Wait . . .’ Mr Williamson felt a tremor of recognition. ‘Was Barton not the man who committed suicide on Waterloo-bridge four mornings ago?’

‘The very same. Perhaps you see now, gentlemen, why I give so much attention to this case. The gauntlets thrown down by Eldritch Batchem or Josiah Timbs are the least of it. How does a
tidewaiter from a stolen ship find himself dead upon an empty bridge?’

‘What do we know of this Barton?’ said Mr Newsome.

‘The man was quite a recent employee and was not well known to other tidewaiters. He was also under investigation for sundry irregularities. Clearly, we must all question the unofficial
verdict of suicide in the light of what we now know. As for that particular avenue of investigation, I fear it has gone cold. The body has been buried and the bridge itself has since had many
thousands of feet over it. We have Eldritch Batchem and the Bridge Company to thank for that travesty of justice.’

‘I do not wish to ask a foolish question,’ said Mr Williamson, ‘but may we understand that the
Aurora
has not docked anywhere at all?’

‘
Officially
– at least, under that name – she has not. It is the paradox of the river that at any moment there are scores of vessels loading and unloading in plain
sight. Each one should be under the control of a Customs man, but does anybody ask if the papers are in order? It is likely that the cargo was unloaded somewhere before the very eyes of those paid
to prevent such depredation.’

‘Did I not read that this suicide Barton was found with numerous blank unloading warrants?’ said Mr Newsome. ‘If he had them with him while aboard the
Aurora
, he might
have signed the name of any ship and any wharf to them and offloaded anywhere he liked.’

‘That is precisely right,’ said Sir Richard with a tight jaw. ‘A ship is in that sense like a man: change his name, change his clothes, change his customary place and he
becomes invisible though he stands beside you in the crowd. I rather suspect that the
Aurora
sits somewhere on the river as we speak.’

‘I may be wrong, but I believe a
four
-masted brig is a relative oddity,’ said Mr Newsome, surprising even himself with the knowledge. ‘They are built for speed and to
carry a smaller crew. There cannot be too many of them in port.’

‘I will bow to your greater experience on that matter,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I hope you are correct. So, gentlemen – what can we surmise from the facts as they
stand?’

The two detectives appraised each other, evidently unwilling to be the first to speak.

‘O, come now,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I am certain that two men of your ability have already reached the same conclusions. Let me hear your thoughts, if only to clarify them in my
own mind. Mr Williamson, I am certain you have observations on the matter . . .’

‘Hmm. My first is that unloading a brig is likely to take approximately eight or ten hours and to involve a good number of lumpers. Were it not for the fact that there must be ten thousand
such men at work in the Port of London, questioning might have begun with them. Even then, it would be a huge task for the police.’

‘Quite so. Although, as the inspector has said, a four-masted brig is perhaps more memorable than other ships of that size. It may be remembered.’

‘The receivers around the river may know something,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘The huge amount of silk must find its way into the nefarious marketplace one way or another.’

‘I think not,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Most of those fellows deal in smaller quantities. Unless that cargo is broken up and distributed piecemeal, I suspect we are largely unaware
of those who form the superior category of receiver – they who handle such high-risk consignments. Perhaps the silk merchants themselves may be approached . . .’

‘And give up the source of their illicit, duty-free sources?’ scoffed Mr Newsome. ‘Unlikely.’

‘Hmm. I rather suspect this is not the first occasion such a notable theft has occurred,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘The majority of large-scale depredations are likely settled
between the merchants and insurers. Sir Richard – may I assume you are already working with the Custom House on this question?’

‘You are correct, George,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I have men in the Custom House as we speak searching the records for irregularities. Moreover, there is one further piece of
evidence that I have so far withheld from you. Mr Timbs gave it to me during our interview.’

Sir Richard took a piece of folded paper from his sheaf and unfolded it to reveal a small handwritten note, which he held up by the corner so the two other gentlemen could examine it. As he
turned it, they saw that the text in fact appeared on the back of one of the ubiquitous playbills for Eldritch Batchem’s recent show.

‘Mr Timbs received this note on the same day he discovered that his ship had been stolen. It was delivered to his home address – no doubt to demonstrate that the writer knew where he
lived. It is, as you see, handwritten, but the hand is not especially distinctive.’

He laid it on the table for Mr Williamson and Mr Newsome to read.

Mr Williamson picked up the playbill and sniffed. He examined the folds. ‘It smells of the river: mud and sewage. The folds are grubby, suggesting a writer or deliverer with dirty hands.
Was there an envelope?’

‘No. It arrived just as it is, folded with the theatrical information outwards and then stuck between door and jamb. Mr Timbs heard a knock at the door, answered it, and assumed it to be a
piece of advertising.’