The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (4 page)

The Queen’s was a-buzz with one audience leaving and another queuing for access. Smiling faces were reddened with garrulous mirth and gin, all the revellers bedecked in
their finery and seemingly unconcerned about the possible thieves in their midst. Was this not, after all, a well-lit place in a populous and broadly reputable part of the city?

On any other night, a significant proportion of the crowd might well have been the class of pickpockets we met at the Sol’s Arms – but not this night. Those who had not already been
warned would soon have fled the area if they had seen that sober, straight-backed figure standing on the theatre steps.

Even in his top hat, George Williamson was not a physically imposing figure. He was of a rather meagre build, slightly bow-legged from his years on the beat, and his face scarred by a childhood
attack of the smallpox. It was his eyes that one noticed, for they seemed effortlessly to see everyone and everything at once. Wherever people pressed together; wherever there was a rapid movement;
wherever a person appeared to look around suspiciously, Mr Williamson’s gaze was there: examining, watching for signs and techniques catalogued mentally during his former years with the
Metropolitan Police.

Beside him stood a much bigger man, easily six feet tall and with enormous shoulders.
His
face bespoke no great intelligence, but he seemed a doughty sort: trustworthy and not
conspicuously violent of temperament, despite his evident strength. His name was John Cullen and he, too, had once been a policeman.

‘Did you hear about the Waterloo-bridge murder this morning, sir?’ asked Mr Cullen, not taking his eyes from the shifting crowds before them.

‘I heard that no conclusive evidence was found,’ said Mr Williamson, without turning. ‘Keep your attention on the street.’

‘Yes, sir. Did you also hear that Eldritch Batchem was called to investigate?’

‘So I hear. Have you been observing the fellow with the pearl buttons there – he standing by the railings?’

‘Pearl buttons? I . . .’

‘He is not queuing and has not exited the theatre. Watch him carefully.’

‘I will . . . I am. Did you hear about that other case of Batchem’s, where he found the infant’s body on Blackfriars-bridge? Cut in eight pieces it was. He traced markings on
the towel wrapped around the body to a place in Whitechapel that—’

‘Concentrate, Mr Cullen. We are working.’

‘Yes, sir. I am watching them all.’

Mr Williamson continued to scan the street. The crowds were thinning now as the theatre filled and the previous audience trickled out into the night – but something had caught his
attention.

It was no pickpocket he identified, but a girl. Though merely nineteen, she walked like a princess with her head held high and with her pale face quite luminous in the gaslight. Men paused to
stare; women cast icy glances of disapproval. The girl was clearly a magdalene, albeit one confident in her superior beauty.

And as she strolled past the theatre with her advertisement of possessible glamour, she cast a smiling, dark-eyed glance at Mr Williamson – a glance he felt like sudden embers in his blood
as memories flooded his mind. It was Charlotte: the girl he had attempted to interview recently on another case.

He blinked. He flushed. He looked down at his boots as if to avoid the dangers of her smile.

And she was gone as quickly as she had come, seemingly absorbed back into the bustle. Had she really looked at him . . . or had he been just one of the hopeless males caught in her sweeping
gaze? One thing was unfortunately clear: he had taken his eyes from the crowd for too long – long enough for a lift to occur.

With a rapid refocusing, he applied his attention urgently to the scene he had witnessed just seconds previously, attempting to recall an exact
tableau
of the street before his
distraction. He pictured who had stood where, the relative proximity of each to the others, the trajectories of their movement.

‘There . . . by the street lamp,’ he said, almost to himself.

‘Sir?’

‘There has been a theft by the street lamp,’ said Mr Williamson, still urgently scanning the people. ‘A lady with a black bonnet tied down with a white ribbon. She carried an
umbrella with a horn handle. Do you see her now?’

‘A theft, sir? I saw the lady you describe, but I saw no lift. I believe I was looking in that very direction.’

‘I saw nothing also, but it has occurred – you may be sure of that. I have no idea what was taken, but the perpetrator was likely a southerner who was loitering thereabouts. An
Italian perhaps. He wore a gold earring and I believe his hair was worn long and tied back. No hat.’

‘I thought you did not see anything.’

‘I did not see the lift, but I had noticed that man a few seconds before I was . . . before I looked elsewhere. I cannot see him now. He must have moved the moment I looked away from
him.’

‘Are you sure, sir?’

‘Yes. Do you see him, or the lady I referred to?’

‘I believe the lady has gone inside the theatre. As for the other, I admit I did not notice him at all. What do we do now? We have not a victim, a crime or a criminal.’

At that moment, a scream came from the lobby and the very lady they had been speaking of ran towards them with an expression of great agitation.

‘O! O! Are you Mr Williamson?’ she asked, her hands all a-flutter and her face flushed red. ‘The manager has told me to talk to you. My bracelet! It is stolen!’

‘Describe it to me, madam,’ said Mr Williamson.

‘Well . . . I . . . it was a silver bracelet about half an inch wide. I had it when I stepped down from the cab because I recall hitting it against the door and checking to see if it was
damaged . . .’

‘Was it jewelled or otherwise decorated?’

‘No. In truth, it was rather a plain thing, but given to me by my brother. Did you or your lofty companion here not see who took it from me? You have been standing here.’

‘Hmm. I believe I know who took it from you. Do you recall seeing an Italian-looking gentleman walking near you?’

‘Not at all.’

‘No matter – it was he.’

‘Well, where is he now? And where is my bracelet?’

‘Madam – I believe I will be able to put my hands on that bracelet within the next hour. You may go into the theatre and enjoy the show – I will be here with the bracelet when
you return.’

‘And I, sir?’ said Mr Cullen. ‘Should I accompany you?’

‘No – the next audience has almost entirely entered. We have two hours until they emerge. In the meantime, you will keep a look out for that gentleman with the gold earring, though I
fear he will not return here.’

‘Where will you go, sir . . . in case the manager asks why you have left your post?’

‘Tell him I have gone to reclaim his customer’s stolen item.’

And with this, Mr Williamson tipped his hat to the lady and set off west along the street with a determined gait.

‘How does he know where to look?’ said the lady to Mr Cullen.

‘Madam – I really could not say.’

When Mr Williamson entered the Sol’s Arms a few minutes later, it was as if a freezing wind had just blown through the place. Glasses paused midway to lips and the murmur
of conversation died to a silence punctuated only by the creak of chairs.

‘Good evening, gentlemen. I am happy to see all of you here rather than outside the Queen’s Theatre tonight.’

The pipe-smoking man gave a short laugh and raised his glass: ‘George Williamson – I trust that this is not a business call. You no longer have the authority to arrest any of us, in
case you had forgotten.’

‘Peter Cunningham,’ nodded Mr Williamson in response. ‘I may no longer be a policeman, but I know where to find a constable and point out a criminal to him when I see one. Are
you still picking pockets at the rail termini?’

The man addressed as Cunningham smiled stiffly. ‘I am sure I do not know what you mean. You must be thinking of another man.’

‘Perhaps that is the case. Much as I would like to spend time talking, my “business”, as Cunningham puts it, concerns one of your brethren. And I believe he is not one whom you
would seek to protect. I am speaking of a man with long, dark hair and a gold earring – an Italian, perhaps . . . and I see from the glances among you that he was sitting in the corner
earlier this evening.’

‘He is not one of us, Williamson,’ said Haymarket. ‘Came here tonight and didn’t speak to a soul. First time we’ve seen him, as well. That’s not polite on
another man’s ground.’

‘Hmm. As I suspected. Did anyone hear him speak? Or did anyone speak
to
him?’

‘I did,’ offered the barman. ‘He said just one word: “Brandy”. Not even a “please” or “thank you”.’

‘Yes, I believe you London thieves are quite particular about your social decorum. What of that single word – did you hear a foreign accent?’

‘Indeed, but I could not say for certain what it was.’

‘Did anyone else converse with this man?’

Nobody had.

‘One more question and then I will leave you in peace. It is rather a hypothetical enquiry. If any of you gentlemen happened to see me on duty on the theatre stairs, would you lift a
worthless silver bangle from a lady before my very eyes?’

This provoked a few barks of laughter and some expletive-laden comments to the effect that only someone with a penchant for time in gaol would attempt such a thing for so meagre a prize.

‘Hmm,’ said Mr Williamson with a nod. ‘As I suspected. I bid you good night. Let us hope we do not meet again in a professional capacity.’

Out on Wych-street, he turned east without hesitation and walked within minutes towards the cab stand on the corner of Holywell-street. A cabman was sitting upon his perch with a blanket over
his legs and a cigar in his mouth.

‘Good evening to you,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Have you seen an Italian-looking gentleman walk this way? He had long, dark hair. It would have been about fifteen minutes
ago.’

The cabman looked into the brim of his hat and cocked his head on one side in a show of earnest cogitation. His cigar tip glowed dimly.

‘Ah, I see,’ said Mr Williamson, reaching into a pocket. ‘Here is a shilling for your trouble in remembering so far back.’ He flicked the coin up into a grubby palm.

‘As you say, sir: long dark hair,’ said the cabman, recollection illuminating his face. ‘But he looked like no gentleman I ever saw. Never trust a man who don’t wear a
hat – that’s what I say. He went down towards Milford-lane there, looking behind him as he went. Glared at me something shocking, he did, just on account of me watching him.
What’s it come to if a gent can’t watch another—?’

‘Thank you for your time.’

Mr Williamson strode towards the entrance of Milford-lane, but paused there beneath a lamp. Something was awry. This road led directly down to the river, with alleys connecting it only to
Water-lane and Essex-street. Anyone taking such a route would be seeking either the waterside, where there was no pier . . . or a means to turn unnecessarily back on themselves. As a young
constable in uniform, he would not have hesitated in venturing down towards the shore in pursuit of a thief. But as an older man, a simple private citizen with some recently acquired scars and more
experience than he might choose, he allowed himself some caution.

Unfortunately, he had made the lady at the Queen’s Theatre a promise. And there
was
something undeniably odd about the occurrence on Wych-street that would not let him rest. He
clenched his jaw and began to walk down the street.

As he proceeded further, the noise of carriages around St Clement Danes faded behind him. The smell of the river came faintly over cobbles and, after another dozen yards, it seemed his own
footsteps were the only sound. He might have been that constable again: alone on the city streets, his every sense alert and the truncheon his only protection from murder. Such instincts, once
learned, did not leave one.

Approaching the alley to Water-lane, Mr Williamson stopped. He had heard nothing. There was no other person to be seen. And yet . . . he had the most compelling sense somebody was standing near,
observing him. It was the same curious sensation, he realized now, that he had felt on the steps of the theatre.

The alley before him was not lit by gas, but vanished into darkness between the houses. A shiver of apprehension went through him. He was no longer young.

‘That was an impressive lift you made at the Queen’s tonight,’ he said quietly, as if speaking to somebody by his side. ‘But you will not lure me into those shadows if
that is your aim.’

There was no response from the alley – no sign at all that anyone was there.

‘I bid you good night – I hope we meet again.’ Mr Williamson backed away from the alley entrance and retraced his steps back along Milford-lane towards the traffic, checking
periodically behind him. Nobody followed.

As he came to the end of the street, he passed a house where a family was dining. The large ground-floor window cast its bright gaslight out into the darkness and he stopped for a moment to
watch the cook serving steaming potatoes from a tureen to the seated people. Muffled conversation and the weaker notes of a piano in another room drifted out to him.

Then, quite unexpectedly, a maid appeared at the window and saw the strange man in the top hat staring into the house. With a chiding look of disapproval, she spread her arms wide and jerked the
curtains firmly closed.

And Mr Williamson made his way back to the theatre alone.