The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (37 page)

He felt his blood pounding in his temples. A sudden sickening thought occurred: what if the markings he had been following were warnings rather than invitations? Not ‘come this way’
but rather ‘avoid these passages at all costs!’ Was he now within the territory of the beast? Might it smell him and come prowling silently for his bones?

He gripped the dagger and tried to control his breathing. There was no further sound but the endless echoing of the original cry through the sewer system.

The moment of fear slowly ebbed and rationality reined control. If the markings pertained to the beast, they would surely present the same symbol each time: one of prevention and dissuasion as
opposed to their clear numerical indications of progress. There was nothing else but to continue as bidden in the hope that whoever had made the markings was familiar with the maze and had
safeguarded their own well-being.

So he walked ever further into the city’s deepest ancient seepings, determinedly resisting the urge to look at his watch, or at the level of remaining oil in the lamp, or to consider the
immense weight of the world far above him. Instead, he busied his mind with the case at hand, which, like the tangled masonry veins immuring him, was a realm of disconnected junctures in need of a
map.

In the light of the London Dock deaths, it now seemed clear enough that the tidewaiter William Barton had been murdered on Waterloo-bridge. Evidently he had known too much of the
Aurora
’s disappearance. Perhaps he had been greedy, or merely indiscreet. Whatever the reason, it had proved necessary to silence him as it had been necessary to extinguish the lives
of ship-owner Josiah Timbs and the crew who had chosen to remain on board.

Such deductions, however, simply generated more confusion. The audacious spectacle of the murders was counter to all good sense and seemed positively to invite investigation. And yet every clue
– the tooth, the lack of any possible suspect on Waterloo-bridge, the impossibility of those embarrelled mariners – mocked all detectives with absurdity. The perpetrator behind the
missing brig was clearly either an imbecile or a genius. Mr Newsome hoped earnestly for the former.

Strangest of all: nobody knew anything. Of course, criminals were always reluctant to help the police with any useful witness testimony, but his impression on this case was that the ignorance
was largely genuine. Why else had the remaining crew of the ill-fated vessel been allowed to live? They had obviously seen and heard nothing. Or perhaps the river workers knew enough to know that
an averted eye was the most advisable policy. Those who did see died.

The same conclusion kept occurring: what better place for the root of this criminal endeavour than beneath the city itself? Here, all was hidden from view and sealed tomb-like against sound . .
.

He paused and listened.

Had that been the distinctive modulation of a human voice?

There it was again: muffled by stone and carried via the auricular convolutions of the sewers – most definitely a man (or men) speaking.

But which direction? Should the inspector continue to trust the chalk symbols, or rush instead towards the apparent
locus
of the voice? Caution suggested the former, but at an accelerated
pace lest he lose his chance.

He checked his pistol, took the dagger in his hand and followed the hieroglyphs with a rapid but assiduously quiet step, shuffling through the water rather than splashing. As he did so, the
chalk circles led him into a space quite unlike anything he had seen thus far.

The tunnel hereabouts was fashioned from uniformly thin, reddish bricks and well finished with fine mortar. Indeed, were it not for the heavy accretion of grime and mould, the work might have
been done the week before. Moreover, the passage did not appear to be a sewer at all, but rose gradually out of the water to reveal baked clay paving more suited to pedestrians than to the passage
of effluvia. He stepped out of the mire.

The voices became more distinct as he proceeded. They reverberated oddly in a manner that suggested a vast cavern ahead rather than the confining sewer. And as he trod damply over the mercifully
dry ground, he perceived the true antiquity of the place he had entered. For there, on the floor ahead, lay a large tessellated image in blue and white: a handsome mosaic of some aquatic god
holding a trident and with weeds entangled in his lengthy beard. Fish of many kinds were illustrated about him, and a legend at the image’s base proclaimed ‘Thamesis’.

Too agitated by this point to wonder at what he saw, Mr Newsome was becoming gradually aware that the dim light of his lamp was being replaced by illumination emanating from the end of the
passage in which he walked – illumination that had the pale look of fixed gaslight rather than a swaying oil lamp. Incredible though it seemed, there was no denying the vision.

Multiple voices were now clearly audible, while various other sounds suggested that some form of activity was taking place: a rhythmical rattle, a crash of something hitting the ground, a
trundling of wooden wheels . . . and now, as he came nearer to the tunnel’s end, a combination of smells. Tobacco was first to strike his nostrils . . . then the mustiness of wine barrels . .
. then pungent hides . . .

An ornate arch built into that curious brickwork marked the apparent conclusion of the passage. Mr Newsome extinguished his lamp and approached it in a state of nervous excitement, walking on
the balls of his feet and bent almost double as if to avoid being seen. On arrival, he saw that the corridor extended further left and right of the arch. He crouched close to the wall beneath the
aperture and removed his hat that he might raise his head above and peer into the brilliantly lighted space beyond.

He could barely believe what he saw.

There, below, was a colossal vault made of the same brickwork and clay as the corridor: evidently some lofty Roman temple or cistern that had lain hidden for millennia. Only now it was a
warehouse stocked with every imaginable cargo: barrels stacked high in timber frames . . . pyramids of bales reaching almost to the roof . . . a mass of copper-banded chests nestling close by
copious drums of tangled ivory tusks . . . great piles of precariously leaning hides . . . chests used as blocks in a tremendous edifice of produce from every port across the globe. Above it all,
three tremendous gas chandeliers served to bathe the entire startling spectacle in bright objective light.

Yet, despite the magnitude of the space and its multifarious contents, very few men were present. Mr Newsome watched (with restricted breath) as a burly fellow with heavily tattooed forearms
loaded cases onto a trolley and pushed them out of view, whistling as he went. Another pair of figures then appeared from behind the barrel stacks: the reeking little man and another who appeared
to be of Mediterranean extract – perhaps an Italian. Speaking in a language unfamiliar to the inspector, the two made their way towards a sturdy iron-banded door, where the Italian used the
heel of a long pointed knife to rap their presence.

The door opened inwards. There was a glimpse of flickering firelight within. They entered, and the door banged closed with a resounding echo.

Up at his arched vantage point, Mr Newsome felt his heart hammering beneath the lamp still strapped to his chest. A rush of conflicting thoughts and urges assailed him. Here – in this
bountiful, scandalous treasury of undoubtedly smuggled goods – was the solution to the case. Here was his guaranteed return to the Detective Force and his redemption in the eyes of Sir
Richard. Here, also, was a deadly snare into which he had irreversibly stepped. He was one man with one bullet in his pistol and not enough lamp oil to venture back through the sewers. Success (and
acclaim) lay down in the warehouse among the criminals . . . as did the likelihood of death, for, assuredly, no man would be permitted to see this and live.

As he stared unblinkingly at the door, it opened once again. The same two men exited, the Italian now pushing an inert figure strapped to a cargo trolley.

Mr Newsome eyes opened still wider. The bound man wore a tweed suit and had a pointed beard. A length of blood-mottled fabric circled his neck. A russet cap had been stuffed roughly into his
jacket’s breast pocket and he was missing a glove.

Eldritch Batchem.

Mr Newsome’s fingers throbbed with a rush of blood. Heat flushed his face. Was the investigator dead? Had he been interrogated in that room? How on earth had
he
found his way to
this infernal place?

But there was little time to ponder further on that conundrum, for the door was opening again from within. A shape emerged from the flame-marred darkness and, for a second, its face was caught
in the scientific light of the gas. At least, it had once been a face.

Mr Newsome’s heart staggered. A nauseating faintness coursed momentarily through him. He had seen that face before. It was a face he had once looked upon with fear and hatred – a
face he thought he had last seen charred and dead and hanging from the basket of a flaming balloon. It had been further scarred by that incident, but there could be no mistaking the eyes and the
unnerving rubious jaw. The murderous incendiary Lucius Boyle was still alive, and evidently the orchestrator of this entire outrage surrounding the
Aurora
.

Benjamin was missing and in danger. Noah was now sure of it.

He had not returned home the night Noah had visited the Forecastle. There had been no note, no message at all, no sign that Benjamin had returned to their riverside address at any time since
leaving for the coffee house on Ludgate-hill.

True, it was not unknown for the lofty fellow to visit a theatre and return in the early hours. He had even, on occasion, returned at noon the next day from his unknown debauches – but
this situation was quite different. For one thing, if he
was
to spend a night at the shows, he only ever went out in his very finest clothes (which remained in his room). For another, he
knew that Noah was eager to hear any news concerning the silk emporium and he would not willingly have made his friend wait.

More significantly still, Noah simply felt it. The two had a fellowship that was quite literally beyond words. One understood the other as a physical presence – or as an absence. Their
orbits exerted a reciprocal gravity.

And so, as Noah strode down Fleet-street that morning, his aspect was of such ferocious determination (not to mention the late injuries sustained in his fight with the Italian) that the crowds
seemed to quail and part before his momentum lest violence occur to their persons. He entered the coffee house on Ludgate-hill with a resounding clatter of the door that caused all present to look
up from their business.

‘May I help you, sir?’ asked the proprietor from his counter, perceiving that the precipitous entrant was not in search of coffee.

‘There was a tall Negro gentleman here yesterday,’ said Noah.

‘Indeed there was, sir. He sat there at the window for hours and hours, he did, gazing across the street.’

Noah went to the place indicated and glanced rapidly about the table and floor, much to the consternation of the two young clerks occupying the seats.

‘Did he leave anything behind when he went? A note, perhaps?’ called Noah over his shoulder to the proprietor.

‘Only the money he owed, sir. He was certainly a curiously silent chap. A friend of yours?’

‘Did he read a newspaper while here?’

‘Why, yes. He quite devoured yesterday’s edition of
the Times
. But see here, sir, you are rather disturbing my—’

‘Do you have it still?’

‘Ah . . . I believe so. By the fire there – we use the old editions for kindling . . .’

Noah stepped rapidly between intrigued customers and pulled out three copies of the previous day’s
Times
, hastily rustling through each page for some sign known only to him: some
note or message his friend may have left. With the second copy, he found what he was looking for on the first page: Benjamin’s distinctive black pencil mark around a personal
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