The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (40 page)

‘Well . . . continue reading and we will discuss it further when you have finished.’

Mr Williamson did so, his eyes following the lines with the greatest attention. If nothing else, it was an insight into the mind of a man who for so long had been his superior in the Detective
Force. Finally, he was forced to pause.

‘Hmm. It seems there is a page torn out here; was this how you received the notebook?’

‘I admit that I removed a page to spare Mr Newsome any embarrassment,’ said Sir Richard. ‘It has no bearing on the case, I assure you.’

‘Perhaps you will let me be the judge of that, sir. You have come here today to call upon any skills I may have as a detective. It is possible you have missed some minor word or hint in
the torn-out page that would mean more to me.’

‘I do not believe so, George, but I will respect your experience. I suppose the circumstances are pressing enough to exculpate me from any accusation of impropriety. He should perhaps have
excised the sheet himself . . .’

Sir Richard extracted the carefully folded page from his breast pocket and passed it to Mr Williamson, who opened it and leaned back in his chair to digest the (apparently hastily scrawled)
contents:

‘Hmm. Hmm. I apologize, Sir Richard. You are quite right: there is nothing of use here.’

‘Inspector Newsome is . . . an able detective,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Able, but significantly flawed.’

‘Yes, sir. I imagine now might be a pertinent time to raise the matter of that contract I signed in your office.’

‘Circumstances have changed, George. Let us be frank. Mr Newsome is no longer at liberty to pursue the case and you . . . well, it appears you may not have adhered to its every
condition.’

‘Then may I assume that neither I nor Mr Newsome will be permitted to return to the Detective Force?’

‘I believe that now is not the time for such discussions. Of more urgent importance is—’

‘Sir Richard – with the greatest respect – the fate of Mr Newsome is not important to me. That contract I signed has more significance.’

‘Very well. Then perhaps we might first discuss your associations with this fellow Noah Dyson . . .’

Mr Williamson was about to speak when a tremendous banging came at the street door. He did not move from his seat.

‘Are you going to answer the door, George?’ said Sir Richard. ‘It may be your Mr Cullen returned from his recent discoveries. Please – grant him entry. I would be
interested to hear his testimony.’

Mr Williamson stood and approached the door with a combination of hope and dread. Whoever stood on the other side of the door, the subsequent conversation was likely to be problematic. With a
large intake of breath, he unlatched the lock and twisted the door knob.

It was Noah, his right hand quite covered in blood and more blood spattered on his bare neck. His dark woollen overcoat hid any further gore.

‘George – I believe I have just killed a man.’

Mr Williamson’s legs weakened and he felt the colour drain from his face.

‘Let me in, for G—’s sake – did you not hear what I said?’

Noah pushed his way past into the short corridor and closed the door behind him. ‘It was that stinking little fellow from the dog fights . . . and there was another one: an identical twin.
They attacked me and I defended myself. I have virtually run here from Frying Pan wharf. Will you make me some very sweet tea? Then we must return in force. Is Mr Cullen here? They have Ben –
I am sure of it. And that is not all . . .’

‘Restrain yourself, Noah!’ hissed Mr Williamson. Sir Richard Mayne is here – in the parlour – at this very moment.’

‘
What!
’

‘He must not see you bespattered with blood like this. It would be better if he did not see you at all.’

‘But why is he . . . ? No matter, it is time for you to make a decision, George.’

‘For G—’s sake, Noah . . . this is no time to . . . Will you just go into the kitchen and at least wash your hands!’

‘Perhaps I must make the decision for you.’

‘No . . . !’

Noah brushed aside the feeble attempt at obstruction and strode into the parlour, where Sir Richard Mayne was sitting by the fire. The two men appraised each other with magnanimous
animosity.

‘I believe you are sitting in my seat, Commissioner,’ said Noah.

‘And you, Mr Dyson, appear to bear the clear evidence of a murder about your person – which crime, I believe, carries the sterner penalty.’

‘Sir, I can explain this situation,’ said Mr Williamson, entering the parlour in a state of pale anxiety.

‘I would be glad for you to do so,’ said Sir Richard, entwining his long fingers on his lap.

‘Noah . . . that is to say, Mr Dyson . . . whom I first became acquainted with when I was compelled to work with him (much against my will) on the Lucius Boyle case, has, of late, become
an . . . an occasional informer, who, infrequently, I . . .’

Noah held up a hand for Mr Williamson to stop the
charade
. ‘Sir Richard – let me speak frankly. There is no time for dithering. The blood you see on my hands belonged to a man
who tried to kill me not one hour past because I have discovered – through the guidance and expertise of Mr Williamson – the secret behind the
Aurora
’s disappearance. As we
sit here, my one true friend is, I believe, a prisoner of the men who stole the vessel. I cannot act alone: they are too many. The strength of the Metropolitan Police is needed.’

Sir Richard looked from Noah to Mr Williamson, evidently weighing what he had heard against the illegality he strongly suspected.

‘Perhaps you are thinking,’ continued Noah, ‘that the life of a Negro man is inconsequential. Others have believed so. But know this: another is also at great risk – one
whose life it may be particularly beneficial for you to save . . .’

Noah took a soiled tan-coloured glove out of his trouser pocket and threw it to Mr Williamson. ‘George – perhaps you could identify the wearer of this. I found it near the place
where I was ambushed. The stains on the palm and fingers are blood – the wearer’s own, I would wager.’

Mr Williamson at once saw the larger middle finger and nodded. ‘Sir Richard – this glove belongs to Eldritch Batchem. We have established that the man has an extra finger on each
hand and wears specially made gloves such as this one. It seems Noah is correct.’

Sir Richard wordlessly indicated that he would like to examine the glove, and did so with a look of concern.

‘I might add,’ said Noah, ‘that we have seen nothing of the man for some time. Yes, there was that letter in
the Times
, but neither I nor Mr Williamson have recently
seen him or heard of his activity.’

‘May I tell Noah what you have told me, Sir Richard?’ said Mr Williamson. ‘It seems that, together, we three may possess all elements of the solution.’

Sir Richard hesitated, the limp glove still in his hand, then merely nodded, fearing perhaps that anything he said might be used against him later.

‘Noah – they have Mr Newsome also,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘At least, he is lost among the sewers in pursuit of the missing brig. Mr Cullen, too, has vanished from the
docks.’

Noah digested the information. A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘Very well – the time to act is now. Sir Richard – will you strike at the enemy with me, or act against
me?’

‘If I may offer my own opinion,’ interjected Mr Williamson, ‘public opinion will favour a rapid and dramatic gesture that brings the criminals to justice. They need never know
how, or from where, the police obtained their intelligence – only that a great crime was solved.’

‘You speak like a man who has spent too much time amidst the sophistry of thieves, George,’ said Sir Richard, indicating Noah as the contaminating influence.

‘Or with Inspector Newsome,’ said Mr Williamson.

Sir Richard acknowledged the point with a regretful downward glance. He re-examined the bloodied figure of Noah, and a Manichean struggle raged beneath the police commissioner’s placid
exterior. A decision was imperative. His was typical of the barrister.

‘Very well. I must hear everything that you know, Mr Dyson. If I find it persuasive, I will act in the interests of justice and throw my full authority behind the correct course of
action.’

‘And in turn,’ said Noah, ‘I would ask that you share all that
you
know, Sir Richard, so that we can establish a mutual trust.’

‘Need I remind you, sir, that I am the commissioner of—’

‘Actions, not titles, earn trust, Sir Richard. Have we an agreement?’

‘Very well. Perhaps you will earn
my
trust, Mr Dyson, by being the first to speak.’

Noah allowed himself a half-concealed smile of respect for this man who, whatever his religion, politics or ethics, was one who deserved it. Still standing, he now took the seat vacated by Mr
Williamson and began:

‘Mr Williamson knows most of what I can recount – and I suspect he has already told you much of that. Our investigation was furthered just last evening at the Forecastle public
house, where we expected to encounter Eldritch Batchem. Instead, we observed a short, malodorous man escape with remarkable agility through a window when approached. Another rat-fancier – an
employee from the London Dock – had identified the man’s particular odour as being one he had smelled in the tobacco warehouse the night of Mr Timbs’s murder . . .’

‘You refer to the so-called cat master, perhaps,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I have read of him in Inspector Newsome’s notebook.’

‘I know of no such notebook,’ said Noah. ‘But yes, the fellow was Baudrons. Arriving immediately at the broken window, I heard the stinking little man exchange some words in a
foreign tongue with a tattooed harpooner in the alley below. I now believe it may have been Greek.’

‘You did not mention any such foreign tongue to me at the time,’ said Mr Williamson with a reproving look.

‘I admit that, in the urgency of the moment, I thought I had simply heard a strong accent or garbled diction. Subsequent discoveries, however, suggest otherwise. Sir Richard – take a
look at these circled advertisements from
the Times.
’

Noah unfolded the scraps and handed them to the commissioner.

‘Ah, Greek, is it?’ said Sir Richard, scrutinizing the lines. ‘I am afraid I am not well acquainted with the modern form . . . something about a river is it?’

‘It is in fact a code: an announcement to certain men of the river to steal a particular vessel. The first instance refers to
: the Greek word for ‘dawn’. The Latin is, of course—’

‘
Aurora,
’ said Sir Richard gravely. ‘But where was the vessel to be taken? I do not recognize the word . . .’

‘“Frying pan”. It is Frying Pan wharf – the same place, I believe, to which my friend followed the stinking man after he visited a known silk receiver on Ludgate-hill . .
. the same place alluded to in highly dubious terms by an indiscreet ballast-heaver at the Forecastle . . . the same place I was attacked this morning when I ventured there.’

The police commissioner was nodding vigorously now as the pieces of his own puzzle shifted into comprehension. ‘Gentlemen – this confirms what I have recently heard from Mr Jackson,
the Inspector General of Customs. It seems his investigation has turned up a further quantity of blank landing warrants hidden at the Custom House itself. As before, they bear the name of Principle
Officer Gregory, but at least two of them have been partially completed, listing Frying Pan wharf as the unloading point. It seemed suggestive enough, but now I see there is a stronger
connection.’

‘Do you know anything of the wharf, sir?’ asked Mr Williamson, leaning now against the back of Noah’s seat.

‘I asked my clerks about the place and the only recollection any of them had was that early excavations for the Thames tunnel were to begin there. It seems, however, that some Roman ruins
were found below the surface thereabouts and so the work was moved some few hundred feet west where the ground was easier to work. The warehouses that now stand on the original site have been built
subsequently.’

Noah turned to look at Mr Williamson, who had evidently had the same thought and voiced it: ‘Might those Roman building works exist still beneath the modern warehouses? And might they
extend to subterranean chambers that might store cargoes unseen and unregistered by the Customs men who patrol those shores?’

‘Mr Dyson,’ said Sir Richard, ‘if that Greek is indeed a code, what is the name of the second vessel mentioned . . . and are we to assume that it will be taken within the next
twenty-four hours, if not already?’

‘The word is “parrot”, but the actual ship name is likely to be something tangential or metaphorically related. Perhaps your clerks will be able to get to Gravesend, to the
Custom House and to Trinity House to see what vessels have arrived into the Port of London most recently? As for the likelihood of this other vessel being taken as the
Aurora
was, that all
depends on how confident these people feel. They evidently know that a large police investigation is underway. Indeed, they have taken a number of the investigators involved. Does that make them
bolder, I wonder, or more cautious? If the former, we might reasonably expect the ship (whatever its real name) to be taken tomorrow.’