The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (36 page)

In the meantime, he dissimulated servility and exaggerated his subjugation. Tongueless now, he had become the beast they had wanted – a dumb, passive implement. But his labour earned him
food and his food earned him the endurance he would shortly need. Strength and imagination were the parts of him they could not tear away with cauterizing iron.

Then, escape, when it came, was an ordeal – all the more so since his self-willed emancipation was paid for with the unrestrained murder of those who had dared silence his song. He was
pursued for days through the fields, through the brush, through the rivers and forests and hills. His feet bled with hard distance and his skin was torn by thorny flight. At every crossroads,
bridge and river port, there were sentinels, patrols, guards and guns. Dogs chased his scent relentlessly.

But he ran, away from slavery and away from death. He ran to freedom in the ports of the north, where the oceans beckoned and where he might turn his strength to a lifetime of liberty. It would
be the limitless horizons of the sea that gave him new birth.

Beneath the sails of his new life, he made a vow. Never again would he permit another man to put chains on him or imprison him. He had been silenced, but he would live for pleasure and savour
every day. He would dress as finely as his pocket would allow; he would eat to satisfy his stature; he would walk tall with pride and be subservient to no man. And he would retain that band of iron
about his ankle to remind him of these promises to himself . . .

Benjamin lowered his hands, breathing more heavily now with the force of his narration. Sweat glistened on his face in the candlelight and the seeing eye burned with its flame.

Mr Cullen felt his mouth dry and his palms damp. He searched for something to say in response, and, finding nothing commensurate, merely nodded. He understood.

The candle guttered and died.

The cell was thrown into utter blackness.

By no measure could Inspector Newsome be termed religious. He had seen enough evil to know that Man’s sin was eternal and never to be cleansed – not even if an
ocean of salvation were to wash through the metropolis. Nevertheless, a childhood of forcible scripture remained with him, flickering unbidden across his thoughts when stirred by some circumstance
or other. One such line now seemed particularly insistent:
And Jonah was in the belly of the fish three days and three nights.

In those first moments of realization that he was abandoned, he had fought to remain composed. There was no immediate danger. He had light from the chest-strapped bullseye lamp. He was not
exposed to extremes of temperature. He had not yet experienced thirst or hunger. In his coat pocket, he had a roll of oilcloth containing a sheathed dagger and a pistol loaded with shot lest his
life fall into danger. No, the greatest threat in such a situation was the fragility of one’s own soul. Men went mad in gaol or on vessels adrift at sea; might not the same occur within the
very bowels of the city?

The thing was to remain calm: to ignore the endlessly ramifying darkness all about and to think about one’s options. Perhaps the tosher would return at the next tide to see what had become
of the policeman he had abandoned. In that eventuality, Mr Newsome’s best course of action was to remain as near to his point of abandonment as possible and to simply pass the hours with
patience and fortitude.

On the other hand, would the tosher willingly return to face the inevitable wrath caused by his unannounced departure? Admittedly, another of his soiled brotherhood may happen along the same
tunnel in a few hours’ time . . . or he may not.

Such uncertainty was not to be tolerated. Action was required. Should the inspector assume that all water flowed towards the river and take that direction in the certainty of arriving at a broad
sewer mouth? Or would such an avenue lead to drowning as the tidal flood washed about the tunnels? Though most outflows were, he knew, sealed with iron baffles that opened and closed with the
pressure of the river, the older sewers were still open to the flood. He looked at his watch – there were perhaps five more hours before the tide changed in his favour.

Had not the tosher said that it was sometimes possible to glimpse the city through the gulley holes in the streets themselves? If so, it might therefore be possible to seek out one of the
broader tunnels that ran beneath the broad thoroughfares and call to a passer-by that he was trapped. In such a way, his exact location could be discerned and a tosher sent to rescue him. It seemed
a fair solution . . . with the single caveat that he would thereafter (and in perpetuity) be known as that unfortunate detective who was trapped down a drain. The idea was therefore rapidly
dismissed from his mind.

One clearly desirable action remained: he would endeavour to continue the investigation unhindered by the inconvenience of his imprisonment deep beneath the earth. Neither night nor inclement
weather could hinder him here within the endless caverns of filth. It had, after all, been the search for clues that had led him here, and there was no reason why he might not utilize the next few
hours precisely towards that end.

Thus determined, he unwrapped the pistol from its oilcloth and slipped it snugly behind one of the lamp straps across his chest. The sheathed dagger, he tucked behind his belt where he might
grasp it at a moment’s notice. Then he stilled his breathing, the better to listen and calmly attune his previously fevered thoughts to his environment and the task at hand.

The tunnels dripped and gurgled with distorted echoes. Distant splashes be-spoke rats and splats of matter slopping down drains. A plutonic wind brought variously the heat of vegetal decay or
the cold aroma of the grave. But there seemed no sign of human life – no rhythmic step or cough or scrape of shoe. The answers were all here, below; he was sure of it. Where to begin?

Somewhere among the multiplying channels of that putrid Hades was the reeking little man of Pickle Herring and Nightingale-lane. When last glimpsed, the fellow had been carrying a Davy lamp
rather than the cumbersome specimen upon Mr Newsome’s chest. Such lamps were arguably brighter than the bullseye, but they also contained less oil. Therefore, unless the enemy had an extra
supply with him, his lamp would not last until the tides changed . . . which rather suggested he was heading to a place where he might access more oil – a place, perhaps, where he might bide
his time while the waters sealed all within. Certainly, the stench and general appearance of the chap suggested that he spent much time in the sewers.

And what of the mysterious animal tooth? Was it not the only tangible clue as to the death of first mate Hampton, as well as a suggestion of something lurking in the sewers? Was it really a leap
of the imagination that the beast was some manner of protector or deterrent? Here, beneath the city, where no customs man or detective would think to investigate, the cargo of that missing vessel
could be hidden beyond all eyes.

So he walked, no longer noticing his saturated feet and legs, and searched the brickwork about him for any clues to the regular passage of men. Had the water been splashed above its natural
level by a passing foot? Had successive hands left a greasy mark on a ledge? Was there some natural, intuitive route to be discerned through the larger tunnels as one sometimes navigates unknown
city streets with an accumulated urban sensibility? His senses were alive for the merest clue.

And then he saw it.

It was easy to miss in the dimness of the lamp’s illumination, but clarity was achieved by directing the beam immediately upon the curious marking: a pale chalk sign made at shoulder level
by some human hand. The hieroglyph (a circle bisected horizontally by a line that extended each side beyond the diameter) resembled no letter or symbol he recognized. He had not previously noticed
such things as he accompanied the tosher, and the man had apparently shown no inclination to look for them. Even so, the chalk circle surely had to be some marker or directional aid used by the
sewer hunters – or by others using those dank passages.

Mr Newsome considered the device for any inherent meaning. Did the circle represent the tunnel itself and the bisecting line an arrow of sorts? Appearing as it did on a corner where a large
sewer formed a junction with two more, perhaps the sign related to that specific arrangement of tunnels and directed its reader in a particular manner. But what manner?

He knew enough of the criminal codes of burglars and pickpockets to appreciate that no single, isolated symbol was intelligible. Only by drawing conclusions from a number of them could some
pattern be deduced. And excitement gripped him – here, it seemed, was the key to his deliverance from the underworld, if only he could interpret the code.

He splashed across the sewer to check the other corner for similar marks and was satisfied to see a chalk circle there also. This one, however, featured an inconclusive vertical bisecting line.
What now?

Neither direction seemed more obviously propitious than its alternative, so he took the right-hand (more inviting?) option indicated by the vertical line and trudged ankle-deep along the tunnel
in search of another mark. As he went, he reflected the truth of what the tosher had told him: that the smell became, after some time, no worse than certain streets above. There were rats, true,
but they showed little inclination to trouble him and seemed content to swim from his approach. Indeed, in the dull beam of the lamp, he might almost imagine himself on a midnight beat among the
rotten pre-pyrean alleys of Wapping or Rotherhithe.

Another division of the labyrinth presented itself and other symbols emerged from the darkness: on one corner a circle with three vertical lines bisecting it, and on the other a repetition of
the first sign he had seen. A deduction – the vertical lines denoted how many apertures stood between the walker and his next direction, while the horizontal line marked a closed avenue?
There was only one way to confirm it: to venture in the direction suggested by the tri-linear mark and note what markings occurred between that point and the third furcation. If he was right, the
horizontal line would appear at the first two apertures and some other vertical device at the third.

It proved to be the case, and the third tunnel he encountered presented two vertical lines through a circle. Nevertheless, Mr Newsome restrained his pleasure. He was so hopelessly lost that he
knew not in which direction he was proceeding. Was this a route to freedom, or one deeper into the innards of the city? Some time-withered and primitive faculty of his brain told him that the
latter was most likely, and that he was moving – or being drawn – inexorably towards some essential core. Whatever the case, it was surely better to be at the end or the beginning than
in the futile and featureless centre.

Thus did he navigate, peering at walls, counting channels and travelling ever deeper into those unmapped and unknown regions. By now, it was becoming clearer that he had long since left the
masonry of his own century and was venturing within the forgotten constructions of a more distant history. Hereabouts, the tunnels were narrower and fashioned from an eclectic combination of
material. Water stood stagnant and unmoving in pools dammed by refuse. The beam of the lamp picked out foundations of long-ruined structures. It seemed barely credible that any tosher had come this
far, but the chalk markings continued to lead him.

Remembering the instructions of his guide, Mr Newsome was careful to avoid touching the roof of the tunnels as it became lower. In fact, it was while crouching to pass a particularly precipitous
piece of hanging stonework that his dagger slipped from his belt into the murky water. Without hesitating, he plunged his hand into the coldness and brushed fingers among slimy crevices before he
was able to grasp the handle and retrieve the weapon, dripping strands of unspeakable matter back into the water.

But there had also been something else down there: some small object wedged betwixt the bricks. He weighed disgust against curiosity. It might be a clue: something dropped by the man he pursued.
His hand, after all, was already thoroughly begrimed . . .

Once again, and with a grimace of distaste, he dipped into the murky liquid and groped where he had previously felt the object. And there, standing on its end, was what felt like a coin. He
pinched it firmly between thumb and forefinger and tugged it free of the mortar’s grip.

It was a sovereign: grimy, but untarnished by its centuries-long submersion in filth. He rubbed the face with a dirty thumb and read the Latin formulae with an unfamiliarity that soon became
wonder:
Fra et Hib Regina Elizabeth D.G.
A crowned, enthroned figure pressed into the gold made its provenance clearer still.

‘My G—!’ muttered Mr Newsome, putting the coin reverently into a trouser pocket. How far into the city’s roots had he roamed – and how much further would he go?

His pondering was interrupted by another horripilating instance of
that
sound: the bestial roar and the subsequent agitation of countless rats. Now, however, it seemed much, much
closer.