The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (17 page)

‘Well, in that case, perhaps you and Ben can locate the cargo of the
Aurora
and investigate its origins,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘That is the most likely avenue to a
solution.’

‘What of Eldritch Batchem?’ said Mr Cullen. ‘Should we be aware of
his
actions?’

‘I think his investigation of the Waterloo-bridge incident tells us all we need to know about his quality as a detective,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘We need not concern ourselves
with him.’

‘I mean, rather, that he may himself be implicated,’ said Mr Cullen. ‘What if his conclusions on the Waterloo death hide a more personal involvement? It was certainly a very
great coincidence that a playbill was found in the victim’s pocket . . .’

‘I suspect that there never was a playbill in Barton’s pocket,’ said Noah. ‘That will have been a self-aggrandizing flourish of Batchem’s prior to his show –
a harmless, albeit cynical, ploy.’

‘That may be,’ said Mr Williamson, ‘but what makes you think, Mr Cullen, that the man is involved in any way other than his job for the Bridge Company? The man might be a fool,
but it is quite another thing to be a party to murder. It seems to me that his only motive is the urge for public acclaim.’

‘I . . . I do not know,’ said Mr Cullen. ‘He is a strange man. Watching him at the theatre the other night, I had the distinct feeling that I was seeing an actor in a role
rather than a man . . . O, I cannot explain it!’

Benjamin clicked his fingers with some urgency and responded to Mr Cullen’s words, looking to Noah for a voice.

‘Ben says he had the same feeling . . . he thinks that we should not disregard Batchem as a factor in any efforts to solve the case . . . that it is a shrewd man who appears to make sense
even as he lies . . . and that Ben, too, would not be at all surprised if we discover some deeper involvement.’

‘Hmm. Hmm. What do
you
make of the fellow, Noah? You are a good judge of men.’

‘I admit I agree with you, George. The man is vain, histrionic and has perhaps half the mind he thinks he has. Nevertheless, he made some salient and interesting points in his address. I
might not agree with all of them, but I acknowledge their cohesion if nothing else. There is decidedly more to the man than what he presents. I assume I am not the only one to have pondered the
oddity of his dress?’

‘You are referring to the russet cap,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘I admit I have seen nothing like it; he must have them made for him. Of course, I have asked myself why. It is true
that one may often know a man by his hat – a silk or beaver top hat, a broad-brimmer, a tricorn, a corduroy cap – and make assumptions about his station or vocation. But what does one
say about a hat with no precedent? Its wearer becomes unique: a madman or a genius. Is this, perhaps, Mr Batchem’s own reasoning on the matter?’

‘You make a keen observation,’ said Noah. ‘His rather garish tweed suit, also, craves attention, as does the affectation of the gloves worn indoors. We have certainly seen
enough of the man to acknowledge his theatricality. Indeed, Mr Cullen has accurately noted his role-playing air. I submit that the pointed beard is also part of that role. Do you recall how he
toyed with it during the show to lend himself a thoughtful manner? In fact . . . between the cap and the beard, there is little of his face revealed. I would not be at all
surprised—’

‘– if it were all actually a disguise,’ finished Mr Williamson.

Noah smiled and nodded. The four of them pondered upon that possibility as the fire crackled in the grate.

‘Who
is
Eldritch Batchem?’ said Mr Cullen. ‘Somebody, somewhere, must know the man, even if he now wears a disguise. Somebody must recognize his voice, his dress, his
mannerisms.’

‘You are quite wrong,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘How many now inhabit this city? Two million? One might live within two miles of a person and never see him, or one might see him
every day and not notice him. A man alters his dress, grows a beard, changes his name, wears a russet cap . . . and he becomes another man entirely. Why, you may well have worked alongside Mr
Batchem as a constable in the very same division, Mr Cullen.’

‘I knew every man in my division and could name them all . . .’

‘I merely make an example, Mr Cullen.’

‘Well, we should remain aware of the man,’ said Noah. ‘At the very least, it may be interesting to see where he is looking as he investigates this case.’

‘What can
I
do?’ said Mr Cullen. ‘Mr Williamson is to investigate the bridge. Noah and Ben will investigate the receivers. There must be something for me . .
.’

‘Which additional aspect of the case do
you
think should be pursued, Mr Cullen?’ said Mr Williamson.

‘Well, we know that some of the
Aurora
’s seamen came ashore . . . and it seems likely that they have spoken to others . . . or that there are lumpers who have unloaded her. I
could infiltrate the docks and ask questions among the men there. If they are anything like constables, they will have all the gossip.’

‘Very well, then that is your task,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Only, take care – the gossip that is of benefit to you can also turn against you.’

‘I will leave this very moment!’ said Mr Cullen, finishing his tea at a gulp and striding to fetch his coat.

Ben also stood, communicating to Noah that he would accompany Mr Cullen as far as the City and make preliminary observations concerning the receivers.

Thus, with the bang of the street door, the two sat in silence: one maintaining his gaze into the fire and the other watching the reflection of the flames thereupon. Noah waited for Mr
Williamson to speak. The moments became minutes.

‘What is the matter, George?’ said Noah, finally. ‘I do not believe the innocuous Mr Cullen has affected your mood so with his enthusiasm.’

‘No. It is not he.’

‘Then what is preoccupying you? I know that I am liable to become listless when I have nothing to occupy myself, but you seem to have become quite melancholy since your meeting with Sir
Richard.’

‘Noah – I have never enquired too closely into your life, for it is not my business to do so. We have shared a number of experiences, but I . . . I do not even know where you live. I
do not know what you do to sustain yourself. I do not know how much – if at all – the accusations Sir Richard and Inspector Newsome once made about you are true . . .’

‘George – why do you ask these things now? I cannot see how they affect our acquaintance. You are no longer a policeman to care about such things, and my past is precisely
that.’

‘Call it curiosity if you will. What manner of investigator would I be if I did not enquire how a fellow of mine comes to be independently wealthy even after he is forced by the police to
give up a house to protect his anonymity?’

‘That was some time ago . . .’

‘I know of few men who could give up a house and not be financially broken by it. I have heard rumours – no matter from where; they are everywhere – that you are a dealer in
opium. Is this true?’

‘I will admit to being an importer and refiner of that commodity. It is not against the law and I make a good living from it. If I do not advertise the fact, it is merely because my
clients appreciate discretion. The recreational use of opium, as you know, is not always associated with the greatest morality or restraint.’

‘Hmm. Hmm.’

‘And I live by the river, between Blackfriars and Southwark bridges if that further satisfies your curiosity . . . but – forgive me – I do wonder at your sudden interest after
all we have seen and done. Has Sir Richard been asking questions? Is your association with me something to blacken your name?’

‘I may no longer be a policeman, Noah, but justice and truth remain important principles in my work, whatever that work may be.’

‘I understand, George. It is common enough for an intelligent man – when he looks into himself – to find doubt and conflict. We are all engaged in internecine battles between
our higher honour and our base urges.’

‘What are you referring to? I asked only about your—’

‘There is no need to be ashamed. Your Christian morals asphyxiate you, George. Appeal instead to your detective’s rationality.’

‘Noah . . . I feel we are speaking of different matters. I have said nothing to you about any anxiety of mine.’

‘You were at Golden-square last night.’

Mr Williamson shuddered as if he had been struck. He reddened. Then his face became more ominously pale.

‘Have you been following me? This is outrageous! I . . . I . . .’

‘George – listen. The occurrence was quite innocent—’

‘Innocent? It is nothing short of a betrayal!’

‘Yes, you were followed – but not by my intention. If you will listen to me, I can explain.’

‘Hmm. Hmm. Explain, yes – then you may leave.’

‘Benjamin was out at Haymarket last evening (he has an inexplicable love of the theatre) and saw you standing outside on the street. He was about to approach you when he saw another fellow
observing you: a man of Italian appearance wearing long hair and an earring.’

Mr Williamson came abruptly out of his reproving glare. ‘Italian, you say? And watching
me
?’

‘Quite so. Ben immediately perceived that you might be in danger, if only of having your pocket picked (the man looked very like a thief) and so he began to observe your observer. The man
kept you in his sight for the whole time you waited, then followed you thereafter to Golden-square, leaving you only when you returned home.
That
is how I know. Ben feared for your life and
would have sprung forth in your defence at the merest hint of danger.’

‘I was completely unaware . . .’

‘Precisely, George. You were preoccupied with other things. There was no reason to suspect you were being followed, but you were and did not notice. In itself, that is a strange
thing.’

‘What . . . where did this Italian-looking fellow go after I returned home?’

‘Ben followed him back to Oxford-street – a suitably busy location, no doubt – where the man evidently perceived he was being shadowed and simply vanished. Perhaps he knew even
before that point and chose to lead Ben there. Whatever the case, it was quite an impressive performance. What do you make of that?’

‘I . . . I believe I have seen that man before: five nights ago outside the Queen’s Theatre. He made a quite skilful lift while I was distracted by . . . by someone in the
crowd.’

‘Distracted?
You?
What would distract you while you are at work? What is it, of late, that provokes you into such cogitations?’

‘I do not know. There is some . . . some plan afoot but I cannot explain it.’

‘May I ask what drew you particularly to Haymarket and Golden-square?’

‘I often take a walk in the evenings. I am surprised Ben has not seen me before if he frequents those streets.’

‘The girl Charlotte . . . the one you questioned for that recent case . . . does she not live at Golden-square? And is her pitch not Haymarket?’

‘A man might walk anywhere he likes. There are magdalenes on every street.’

‘There is no need for anger, George. Your personal affairs are no business of mine.’

‘Quite. And I do not consort with prostitutes if that is what you are implying!’

‘Even if you did, there is no sin or shame in it. A man has desires. It is nature’s way.’

‘I have no such desires.’

‘Very well, very well – we need never speak of it again. Of more immediate concern is this Italian fellow and the nature of his grander design. Who is he and why does he follow
you?’

‘I have no idea. Could it be the hand of Eldritch Batchem at work?’

‘If it is, George, I am at a loss to explain his purpose. I am certain of this much, however: we will likely be seeing more of such strategies.’

Noah could not have been more correct in his assertion. The following day’s edition of that scurrilous rag
the London Monitor
(home to scandal, misinformation,
gossip, and frequent litigation) was to set new standards for what might be expected in the much-pursued case of the missing brig. Only a
verbatim
excerpt of the offending article will
suffice: