The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (7 page)

Benjamin slapped the covers of his book together and remarked (one might assume from the pointed nature of his gesticulations) that he had had enough of his friend’s incessant talk and was
taking his book to a place where he might read in peace.

‘Suit yourself, Ben. I will see you at supper,’ said Noah.

Alone now, he applied himself once more to the paper and saw on the next page that Benjamin, despite his professed lack of interest, had circled one of the advertisements in dark pencil for
Noah’s interest:
Five guineas reward – lost on Tuesday this week between Custom House quay and the Tower, a gold and diamond brooch in the shape of a swan. Bring the article to
Mivart’s Hotel and ask for Miss Roberts to claim the reward.

He smiled. Many mistook Benjamin for his manservant, but no man could wish for a truer and more loyal friend. They had fought back-to-back on more than one foreign shore, sailors’ knives
in hand and their clothes hanging in bloody strips from their bodies. They had known such privation that a shared forecastle bunk was their only comfort, and yet they had also enjoyed wealth beyond
many men’s imaginations. That, however, is another story entirely.

Noah tore the circled message carefully from the paper and folded it into his trouser pocket. He then stood and turned to look out at the river, where a fully loaded steam ferry was leaving a
churning wake for a coal barge to traverse on its way up to Westminster. The manufactory chimneys of Southwark were pouring their incessant smoke into a grey sky. Idly, he looked at the mantel
clock and seemed to weigh how best to spend his afternoon.

He looked again at the advertisement Benjamin had circled, and, as if making a sudden decision, he quickly extracted a dagger from a drawer and slipped it into a leather sheath beneath his
jacket. His top hat and dark overcoat were next, and then he was descending carpeted stairs to emerge into a narrow alley that brought him onto the private wharf facing the river. In just a few
minutes, he was standing with a dozen others at the Blackfriars ferry pier.

As they waited thus, the gathered passengers heard the unmistakable chant of a street hawker coming down the stairs from the bridge:

‘
Eldritch Batchem! Eldritch Batchem!
The greatest detective of modern London and investigator by royal appointment!’ cried a man in a garish rust-coloured suit as he walked
among them. ‘Hear him speak on “The Mind of the Murderer” at the Queen’s Theatre . . . !’

A playbill was thrust into Noah’s hand by the cryer. He scanned the first few lines:

He crumpled the paper and threw it into the river, where it was almost instantly sucked into the boiling water beneath the arriving ferry’s circular paddles. The swell
splashed up against the pier, a billow of acrid smoke washed over faces, and the hatch-boy on board yelled ‘Stop ’er! Stop ’er!’ down to the hidden engineer.

The gangplank was lowered into place and, after a sudden cataract of passengers off and on, the hatch-boy was relaying the skipper’s hand signals from the bridge to the engine:
‘Half-a-turn-astern! And another . . . easy now! Easy now! Full speed ahead now!’

Noah climbed the stairs to take a seat on the upper deck that he might better observe the passengers, who presented a common enough selection: here a group of enthusiastic visiters from the
provinces in their outdated fashions, pointing vigorously at the shoreline as if every warehouse were a palace and every spire the dome of St Paul’s. Here a minor clerk heading for St
Katharine’s,
his
mind occupied with how many wagons would be available to transport his hogsheads of beer. And here, sitting before Noah, was a governess with her young charge: a boy
whose clothes said he was from a wealthy family, but whose unkempt hair and muddy knees said he was still just a boy at heart. His inquisitive eyes seemed to be fixed on Noah’s wrists, which,
where they emerged from the coat cuffs, revealed the kind of scarring that comes only from incarceration in irons.

Seeing the boy’s glances, Noah winked and reached beneath his waistcoat to extract the dagger, which he used affectedly to scrape a clot of mud from his boot heel, enjoying the wide-eyed
stare it elicited.

The game soon ended, however, when the intended object of Noah’s trip walked by with a scent of perfume to counteract the river’s stink. Her linen and lace were suggestive, and the
flash of ankle as she strode made that suggestion fact: she was a street girl using the ferry to advertise herself to the many professional men upon the Thames. Noah stood and walked towards where
she stood at the rail, the line of her outthrust hip exhibited to best effect in the black dress.

‘Good morning to you, miss,’ he said.

‘I don’t talk to policemen, sir. Call me superstitious, but I just don’t.’ Her smile said that she might, nevertheless, make an exception for Noah.

‘What makes you think I am a policeman?’

‘I can just tell.’

‘Well, I assure you I am not – and if I were, I would be legally bound to tell you. Is that not correct?’

‘I . . . I suppose so.’

‘Miss – I believe you can aid me greatly. I see that you have rather an attractive brooch there at your breast . . .’

‘Why, and I thought you were a gentleman! A fine one you are, looking at my—’

‘Please, let us dispense with such banter. I can see immediately that it is not a genuine diamond, no matter what your benefactor may have told you. Even so, I will buy it from
you.’

‘It is not for sale, at least not to one so rude as yourself.’

‘It is worth perhaps two shillings, but here is a sovereign.’

‘I . . . well . . . all right.’

‘But before you remove your brooch so readily, let me explain my terms. I will give you your sovereign but you will keep the brooch. For the money, you will disembark at the Custom House
and simply make your way to the Tower. If I do not meet you there after ten minutes to collect the brooch, you may keep both the brooch and the sovereign.’

‘I say, what is this all about, sir? I am no criminal.’

‘It is simply as I say. All you need to do is walk to the Tower with my money in your pocket. Do you agree?’

The ferry passed under an arch of London-bridge, casting a shadow over them. For a moment they might have been in a watery cave rather than at the centre of the world.

‘I will do it,’ said the magdalene, finally seeing no disadvantage in the deal.

‘Good girl. Go now so that you are among the first across the gangplank. I will observe you and will follow.’

The engines altered their tone. The paddles slowed their thrashing of the water. From up on deck, the broad Custom House quay looked like chaos: all hawkers, clerks, merchants, idlers, visiters
to the Tower and, of course, the lines of continental passengers with their luggage.

Noah looked carefully over the crowds. As a child of the streets, he saw the city unlike other Londoners. Those raised in the comfort of a home lived their lives among a limited network of
roads, seldom venturing beyond the known shops, offices and residences of friends. To one who called the whole city his home, every metropolitan space had a life and character of its own. At a
glance, and often from their pace or gait alone, he might pick out the stranger, the worker, the beggar and the thief. He saw not mere streets, but catalogues of characters.

And there was one who attracted Noah’s attention after just a few moments. The man was waiting, but evidently not for a vessel, for he showed no urgency or interest in moving closer to the
embarkation points. His left arm appeared to hang limply in a soiled sling around his neck, yet he showed no awareness of caution for his damaged limb as the people pressed all around him.

The gangplank was lowered and the ferry passengers surged across it. Noah watched the man with the sling, who had positioned himself in a place where the people would flow past him. As they did
so, each one was scrutinized with a rapid up-and-down glance . . . until the street girl walked by, looking over her shoulder to see if Noah was watching her. At that moment, the
‘injured’ man stepped in front of her, causing her to almost trip. A swift mutual apology was effected, and then both went on their ways.

Noah smiled and stepped quickly to join the remaining disembarking passengers, all the while keeping his target – the ‘one-armed’ gentleman – in sight. He would never
again see the girl, who had earned her sovereign but lost her brooch.

Once on the quay, Noah assumed the role of a passenger waiting for the Havre ferry, all the while watching with growing amusement as the ‘one-armed’ man bumped into numerous other
people too distracted to notice that they were missing their pocketbooks, bracelets, tiepins, handkerchiefs or brooches. Finally, after about half an hour, good sense dictated that it was time the
thief left his workplace lest somebody find their property missing and remember being jostled by him.

Noah followed, himself accidentally colliding with a fellow he recognized instantly as none other than Commissioner of Police Sir Richard Mayne. The eminent gentleman was mercifully too
preoccupied to pause, however, and Noah managed to keep his quarry in view while reflecting ironically on how the city threw people together.

Moving north, he was not at all surprised to be led around the Tower, up Rosemary-lane and then into that warren of alleys north of East Smithfield, where sundry low receivers of stolen goods
are to be found. With many a backward glance (but little observation) the ‘one-armed’ man turned repeatedly left and right through a maze of filthy passages before finally entering a
dilapidated marine store whose unsellable wares spilled out into the narrow passage before it.

A few moments later, he was joined by Noah in a shop that was tiny and made to seem smaller still by the improbable multitude of rubbish piled on its shelves and floor. The tin cups, rusted
tools, oiled capes, sacks of mouldy ship’s biscuit and coils of well-worn rope together gave off a powerfully musty scent. Behind the counter, the proprietor was talking to the thief but
paused mid-sentence to look dubiously at his new ‘customer’.

‘Sure yer got the right shop, mate?’ he said.

‘I believe so,’ said Noah. ‘I am looking for . . . excuse me a moment . . .’ He took the newspaper clipping from his pocket and unfolded it. ‘Yes – I am
looking for a “gold and diamond brooch in the shape of a swan”.’

‘Ha! You must have problems with yer peepers, mate. I can do yer a length of rope or a tin bucket, but I don’t sell no jewel’ry. Yer want old Levi down the alley –
he’ll do for yer.’

‘No – I am sure this is the place. I have just followed this poor fellow here, having spent part of my morning watching him steal from passengers at Custom House quay. I trust that
you are his customary receiver and that – as thieves are wont to do – he has reserved that particular plot as his own. Therefore, this is the most likely place for me to find my
brooch.’

‘I don’t think I like your tone,’ said the ‘one-armed’ man, squaring up to Noah. ‘Call me a thief to my face, will you?’

Noah smiled and casually extracted his dagger, which, without a moment’s hesitation, he thrust downwards into the arm within the dirty sling. It stuck there, upright, and quivered slightly
at the handle.

The ‘one-armed’ man showed not the slightest reaction of pain, but the proprietor let forth a throaty laugh and slapped the counter in his mirth.

‘Balsa wood, I presume. Or is it pine?’ said Noah, tugging the dagger free of the false arm.

‘Ha ha! He’s got yer there!’ said the proprietor to the man with the sling, who – seemingly nonplussed by the boldness of the gentleman with the dagger – was now
sheepishly releasing his concealed arm from a hidden vent in the side of his jacket. He looked Noah up and down. ‘You are no policeman. What are you?’

‘I have come for the brooch. Not the one you took today from the street girl – you can keep that. I want the one shaped like a swan.’

‘What makes yer think it’s here, if it ever was,’ said the proprietor, his smile fading rapidly.

‘Because a small receiver such as yourself does not sell his spoils piecemeal to the larger receivers – you store up your treasures until you have a quantity to tempt them. Because
it was taken only a few days ago. Because if you do not give it to me now, you will both be very sorry.’

‘You are only one and we are two,’ said the proprietor with mathematical assuredness.

Noah merely grinned. ‘Gentlemen – let us be civil. It would not inconvenience me at all to use my dagger on you. But in truth I am not remotely interested in your thievery. I have no
intention of harming your free-enterprise endeavours – nor do I intend to inform the local constables what goes on here. All I want is that swan. Then I will bid you good day and never return
to bother you again.’

The two criminals looked at each other and then at this gentleman who so affably threatened them with violence.

‘What is it worth to you?’ asked the proprietor.

Noah sighed and shook his head. His right arm flashed out in a blur and the edge of his hand struck the throat of the ‘one-armed’ man, who fell loudly to the dusty wooden floor. He
writhed there, groaning, with his hands about his neck.

‘That is the end of my patience,’ said Noah to the proprietor. ‘The swan, if you please, or I will similarly disable you, search this place and take it.’

The shopkeeper peered over the counter at his fellow on the floor. Then he opened a drawer to his right, rummaged briefly among its contents and placed the swan on the counter with a defiant
glare.

‘That would have fetched me a pretty price,’ he said with a clenched jaw.

Noah examined the brooch and saw that the stones were real, as well they might be for a lady resident of Mivart’s Hotel. ‘Well, now you may go home to supper with a throat that
works. Good day to you, gentlemen.’