The Halifax Connection (62 page)

E
VERY TIME
Matt saw Jabin Romney, he looked older and more tired. Today was no exception. His last shave had obviously been days ago; his last haircut, sometime before Christmas. His voice, as always, was quiet and bland, as if everything he said was of equal and minor importance.

“You’re in search of a—what the deuce do you call them here? Oh, yeah, footpads—it’s a better word than ‘ruffians,’ isn’t it? You’re looking for a footpad, are you?”

Matt smiled faintly. He was both amused and impressed by Romney’s recollection of a conversation they shared more than a year ago.

“Yes,” he said. “And I thought, given your line of work here, it must be a simple matter for you to send messages back and forth to the States? In some sort of code, I mean? And that your
superiors there could … ah … find something out for you if you asked them?”

Romney’s sagging, world-weary manner did not change so much as a whisper. “I’ve done that from time to time,” he said.

Matt passed him a paper on which he had written the names and addresses found in Maury Janes’s room. “I’d like to know who these men are and what they do. Criminal records if they have them—or the opposite. Rank, money, positions of power, whatever. Anything you can find out. But quietly, of course. Very, very quietly.”

Romney read the paper. “These folks appear to be Americans, constable.”

“Yes, that’s the problem. Do you think you could help?”

A great black crow flew into a nearby tree and screamed at them. Romney watched it for a time.

“Why do you want to know anything about a man in Philadelphia?” he asked. “Or Baltimore? Places like that? They’re a long ways from Halifax.”

“We think they might be planning a crime here, but we don’t know what it is. They have a … an accomplice in the city. Of course, we could send a man down ourselves, but it would take time, and as you can see, they’re in three different cities. And we might be running out of time.”

“So just arrest him. Your accomplice.”

“And charge him with what?”

Romney scuffed grass.

“It ain’t much I’m asking, Mr. Romney.”

“That depends on who those men are, don’t it, and why you really want to know. And don’t take offence at that, constable. I consider you an honest man, down to the bones. It’s your government I have doubts about.”

“Our governments have doubts about each other,” Matt said amiably. “Why should I take offence? However, since I’m an honest man, I’m willing to pay for what I get.”

“And how would you do that?”

“There appears to be a certain commissioned officer in Her Majesty’s Navy who was given indefinite leave, took himself a made-up name, and is now serving as the captain of a blockade-runner. And this blockade-runner just happens to be owned by the company whose major partner is the admiral who gave him his leave in the first place.”

“I see,” Romney murmured. This interested him, and he allowed it to show. “My government will find this most useful information.”

They would indeed, Matt thought. They would take it straight to the British ambassador in Washington, and Lord Lyons, properly outraged, would send it to London, and London would make all manner of apologetic noises and insist they hadn’t known a thing about it but they would put a stop to it immediately … It was a real pleasure, once in a while, to get two birds with a single stone.

“I could certainly take this as proof of your good intentions,” Jabin Romney went on. “On the other hand, you might want to do this bugger in on your own account. Old enmities, perhaps? Or a simple respect for your country’s laws? You do see my point, constable?”

There was a reason this hangdog, unshaven, said-to-be former bank clerk was still the Americans’ resident agent in the toughest post in British North America. He was just plain good.

“I do see your point. I trust you see mine.”

For a tiny moment Matt considered telling Romney the entire truth—that it was not a criminal conspiracy he feared, but a political one; that the matter deeply concerned the Americans themselves. From where he was standing, it seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do. But Erryn was the man on the spot, and Erryn said no. Absolutely no. One wrong move, he said, and Janes would spook and run. Matt quietly laid the temptation aside and went on, “I need help. I’m offering fair payment, but I can’t offer more than I have.”

“Frankly, you’re offering way too much, and that makes me damnably curious. Tell you what, constable. Give me the names of
your naval men and I’ll ask all the questions you want, and I’ll give you what answers I can. But I warn you, I’ll keep back anything I figure is none of an Englishman’s business. And if you don’t mind too much, I’d like the names now.”

“Will you give me your word?”

“I’ll do my best, and I’ll play you fair. On that you have my word.”

Matt sighed. It was less than he wanted. It was as much as he would have offered in Romney’s place. He held out his hand.

“Then we have a deal, Mr. Romney.”

Romney was not merely competent; he obviously had good connections as well. In less than three days Erryn was summoned back to the waterfront warehouse where he and Matt had met before. There, after the briefest of greetings, Matt handed him a small piece of paper, neatly printed by hand.

“From Romney,” he said.

Erryn read, with growing disappointment: Hans Ludwig Schultz. Age fifty-two years. Married to Maria Schneider of Evansburg in 1825. Seven adult children. Owner of second-hand store at 732 Field Avenue, Philadelphia. Lutheran. Attends church regularly. Member of the Oddfellows Club for twenty-three years. No police record or known criminal contacts. No known political affiliation. Has never held elected or appointed office of any kind. Net worth about three thousand dollars.

The others were of a similar sort. Raymond Hill, thirty-one, unmarried, auctioneer, no religion, no police record, no connections of importance, net worth about two hundred dollars. Zebediah Turner, forty-three, married, haberdasher and dry goods merchant, Episcopalian, no police record, one term as city alderman, net worth about five thousand dollars …

Erryn looked at Matt, who said nothing. “These are Janes’s contacts?” Erryn demanded.

“Apparently.”

“God bleeding almighty. Two small merchants and a bloody auctioneer? All completely respectable, with no political affiliations—”

“What did you expect? Fire-eating Copperheads? Sworn members of the Sons of Liberty?”

Erryn waved an arm at nothing in particular and then sagged in his chair, defeated. “I don’t know. I suppose I did.”

He had not, actually. But he had expected …
something.
Something that would leap off the page, that would have immediate, recognizable implications. Something that mattered.

“This is useless,” he went on, laying the paper aside. “Those men don’t have a thing in common, except for being males and living in the States.”

“They have one thing,” Matt said quietly. “They sell stuff.”

“Why, thanks, mate. I hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t be an ass, Erryn. Think about it.”

“Sorry,” Erryn said. “I didn’t mean to jump on you. But what’s to think about? Millions of people sell stuff.”

“No, think about it. Two stores and an auction mart. What better place could you want to hide something, or to stash it away until it’s needed? Merchandise comes and goes, people come and go, nobody pays attention.”

“So they’re just another set of middlemen?”

“That would be my guess.”

“Well then, like I said, it’s useless. We’ve added a link, that’s all. The chain still doesn’t lead anywhere. We don’t know what Janes is planning. We don’t know what he’s delivering, or when, or what it’s going to be used for. We don’t know anything that matters.” He linked his hands and stared at them. “Worst of it is, Matt, I think we’re running out of time.”

“Has he said anything?”

“No. But he’s been … different … the last while. Edgy. Ever since the night that message came. If I had to wager, Matt, I’d say his shipment is coming soon.”

“Well then, I think it’s time for you and I to have a talk with the old man.” He made as if to go, and turned back with a small, tired smile. “We’ll get one thing out of this, mate. We’ll get Captain William Ross on a ship back to England.”

Colonel Hawkins stepped into the warehouse out of midnight fog, quiet as a ghost despite his solid two hundred pounds. He nodded to Matt Calverley, taking off the shabby slouch hat that hid most of his face, and turned to Erryn.

“Mr. Shaw.” He shook hands warmly, but he did not smile. “I’m glad to see you. I take it the good constable here has told you how pleased we are with your work?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Good.” He settled into the first chair he found. “So tell me about this Janes chap, will you? All of it, from the beginning.”

He listened attentively, interrupting only with an occasional question, frowning when Erryn explained the involvement of Sylvie Bowen, but saying nothing until he had finished.

Then he asked, very quietly, “Do you trust this woman, Shaw?”

“Yes, sir. Entirely.”

He nodded. It was not, Erryn thought, a nod of approval, merely an acknowledgment of fact.

“Calverley tells me you spoke with the so-called Confederate commissioners when they passed through Halifax, and you thought they might be looking to start an uprising in the northwestern states?”

“That was certainly the impression they gave me, sir. They talked a great deal about how discontented the people were in places like Illinois and Ohio, how much support the Sons of Liberty had. All that sort of thing.”

“So, if there’s an armed rising in the works, your man Janes might be bringing in weapons to support it.”

“He might,” Erryn agreed. “But if those three names we have are destinations for the shipments, they’re all on the east coast.”

“Way stations,” Hawkins suggested. “Or a diversion—a move to trigger panic. What would the government think if a rebellion broke out in the west and suddenly there was fighting in places like Philadelphia and Baltimore as well? They might well believe the Copperheads to be ten times more powerful and dangerous than they really are.”

“Now there’s a nasty thought,” Matt said.

“Indeed.”

“So what do you suggest we do?”

“Well, I can tell you what we don’t do. We don’t let that cargo leave Halifax if there’s any way on earth we can stop it. Mr. Shaw, it seems your man Janes has been fairly close-mouthed about the whole operation. How likely is it you’ll wake up one morning and find he’s gone? That his contraband came and went without you ever knowing?”

There was an even nastier thought. Erryn ran it through his mind very carefully, and weighed it against everything he knew of Janes: the man’s ambition, his shrewdness, his nouveau riche sense of self-importance …

“It’s very possible, sir. But I think … I think there’s a chance he’ll tell me when it comes.”

“Why?” Matt challenged him. “Wouldn’t such a cautious man simply take his cargo and slip away?”

“If he hadn’t told me anything about it back in Montreal, when he thought he needed to—then I think he would. But I already know a little. I already know he’s part of this extraordinary mission that’s going to change the course of the war, and that makes me the one person he
can
tell. Not the details of it, no—he’s shrewd enough to keep those tucked safe away. But that it’s finally happening? That it wasn’t all just talk, just Maury Janes playing the big man? What with me being his best mate and a genuine blue-blooded English gentleman to boot, the sort who
can appreciate
real
merit in a man? He’ll be awfully tempted, I think.”

Hawkins looked to the constable, who shrugged. “Shaw knows him, sir. I don’t.”

“Well.” The colonel spoke again to Erryn. “If you’re right, and God willing you are, then at least we can impound the vessel and search it for contraband.”