Steam Dogs (3 page)

He introduced Stackpoole to two of the Company’s security men,
Hardesty and Trammes. Both men seemed relieved to see them, which to Roman's
experience, that was highly unusual, as relations between Company men and the
Police were historically quite stiff. That the Company held itself outside the
law chapped at the heart of every police officer on the island. As they followed
the Company men into the secured area around the docks, Roman wondered what had
so rattled them.

“Not sure what ‘appened, but it doesn't look good.” Hardesty said.
He led the way past a row of schooners and ironclad frigates and steamships in
a dizzying array of fittings, flags, and mast configurations.

Every ship hosted its own hive of busy dockers, intent on lading
the proper goods onto each vessel as rapidly as possible. Roman rubbed his nose.
Inside the basin, stale fumes, sewage, and coal soot lingered like a heavy
miasma in a shallow bowl. The air seemed thicker here; the walls and
surrounding six-story warehouses and open quay sheds buffered much of the
scouring winds of the Island. Every time he came here, he appreciated that he’d
spent his military career in the Queen’s cavalry instead of being cooped up in
the hold of some stuffy ship in the Queen’s Navy.

They reached the south timber dock, where the air was accented
with a touch of pine and cedar. The ships here, timberships all, were
constructed with a uniform profile: curiously flattened and wide, like barges,
yet with the paddlewheels amidships and those stumpy coalstacks spewing twice
quantity of black fumes as any other ship.

Hardesty stopped in front of an immaculate paddle steamer with a
Norwegian flag and the name
Valkyrie
painted
across the transom. “Captain Torkjelson and his crew arrived two days ago. Their
timber was offloaded, and they were all seen scrubbing topside yesterday
afternoon They were expected to take on bales of wool and comestibles this
morning, but when the fellow came to lade the ship and collect payment, no one
was ‘ere. No captain, no one on watch, or even on board.”

“Ah, then. Mind if we take a look?”

Hardesty stepped back, “’Aye, go on.”

Nothing for it. He’d have to step onto the plank in order to cross
to the ship. Roman took a peek at the water gleaming darkly below.

“Be right back.” Roman motioned to Stackpoole to stay on the dock,
which he seemed to be relieved enough to do. With a great deal of apprehension,
he stepped gingerly across the plank and aboard the
Valkyrie
, hoping Hardesty wouldn’t notice his trepidation.

Two, three, four steps across the boarding plank and Roman stood
solidly aboard the
Valkyrie.
The
decking beneath his feet was slick with the night's moisture, but appeared well-scrubbed
and maintained. Several rubber-soled work boots lay strewn half-hazardly across
the deck. At least four pair. “You found it like this?”

“Haven’t touched a thing,” answered Trammes. “Them lanterns
guttered out about an hour ago, but they was lit all night, says the man on the
night shift.”

“I spoke to the man, and had a word wi’ the captains docked
closest, but nobody ‘eard a thing.” Hardesty shifted uneasily. “Don’t want to
make too big a thing owt it, the Comp’ny don’t like that.”

Scraps of torn and bloody clothing littered the deck near the
prow. Roman picked up a shred of thick dreadnaught, the heavy waterproof wool
preferred by seamen, and sniffed deeply, noting the scent of sweet applewood
pipe smoke mixed with a faint coppery odor he knew too well. He'd seen and
smelled enough blood during the war to last a lifetime.

The wearer certainly hadn’t been one of the engineers. First mate
or captain, most likely. The edges of the scrap showed it had been ripped from
the wearer’s coat. But where was the rest of it? The lanterns had not been
knocked over or broken, and what were all these shoes doing on deck? There was
not enough blood on the scattered bits of rags to account for the missing men,
unless the deck had been swabbed and that didn't seem likely.

He moved down the companionway. The door to the captain’s quarters
was ajar; a glass half-filled with an amber-colored fluid stood in the middle
of the map desk, within easy reach of a leather-upholstered chair. Roman picked
up the glass and sniffed at the rim. Potent spirits. Except for the unfinished
drink, the room appeared as immaculate and every bit as well-kept as the upper
deck. He made a brief check of the mate and sailor's quarters and below decks.
He was no sailor, but everything seemed in order. Torkjelson kept a tight ship.

Having never met the man, Roman admired him for the order and
tidiness maintained on the
Valkyrie
.
Nothing seemed amiss, but how could nine men have gone missing without some
kind of disruption? True, there were more than forty pubs within walking
distance, but even in the Docks, someone would be left aboard to keep watch.
And surely they have returned by now.
What
happened here?

Shaking his head, he rejoined the men on the dock. “I agree. It’s
damnably odd. I don’t know what to make of it. What will you do with the ship?”

Hardesty rubbed the back of his neck. “The Company holds the ship
for thirty days, while proper notifications are made. In this case, Captain
Torkjelson and his partner owned the ship. Once ownership is verified and the
responsible parties pay storage and fees, the ship will be released.”

“I’ll make a report," Roman said, "but let me know if the
captain or any of the crew shows up, or if anyone comes to make a claim on the
ship or anything on board.”

“You have my word on that, Inspector.”

As Roman rubbed the damp scrap between his fingers, an odd
sensation crawled across the skin of his fingers. He grimaced and shoved the
fabric into his pocket. An unpleasant distant memory niggled at him, but he
pushed it away. The smell of blood had reminded him of a past he had no desire
to remember. Better to focus on the here and now. No doubt the mystery of
whatever happened here would soon yield to his investigative skills and be
revealed.
 

But as he ran through the list of possible witnesses to interview,
he would not quite shake the feeling that Hardesty was right--something very
bad had happened to the captain and crew of the
Valkyrie
.

CHAPTER
3

May 15, 1871

One month after the disappearance of the crew of the
Valkyrie
, Roman strolled along Wharf
Road, following the track from Cubitt Town around the southern tip of the
Island until it ended at the floating Ferry launch, where Ferry Street ran into
the mud banks of the river. The late afternoon tide was running high, and the
fog rolled across the Thames in smoky waves.

In spite of his legwork and interviews with the other captains and
dockworkers, no one seemed to have any idea what had happened to Torkjelson or
his crew. Thankfully, the story of the disappearance of the foreign crewmen had
not made the London papers, and Superintendent Wickes had been remarkably
understanding about his Inspector’s lack of progress on the case, even going so
far as to suggest that he turn his attentions elsewhere—the upcoming
airshow.

Roman had bitten back his protest. Wickes was not the sort of
fellow who would abide intuition or the presence of invisible magickal residue
as cogent investigative methods.

At the ferry dock, Roman caught sight of the beefy ferryman, Hamm
Foine, and his man Cully, as they wrestled the steamship,
Hound of the Mist,
above the high tide marker. At twenty meters,
the side-loading paddle steamer usually made four trips a day across the river,
ferrying horses, cattle, and passengers between the Island and Greenwich pier.

Neither man glanced up as Roman approached, and he did not call
attention to himself as he walked by. His innate fear of the water kept him
well back from the river, and his desire to avoid ruining his good boots in the
stinking black muck on the banks kept him on the road. At Ferry Street, he
ducked into the ugly yet welcoming door of the Steam Dog Tavern.

The rich smell of roasted meat and ale met him at the door. He shook
the damp off his overcoat before hanging it on a hook in the vestibule.
Although the pub's workmanlike exterior was an ugly patchwork of brick and
stucco and stone, rich flavors coming from the tiny kitchen in the rear gave
the place a homey feel. Low timbered ceilings and doorways served as a reminder
that the foundations had been sinking for centuries and would no doubt continue
to do so for centuries to come. Scratched and well-used tables and benches
offered hospitality to those awaiting arrivals and departures of the ferry.

 
On a clear day, the
two big windows facing the river offered a view of Greenwich Hospital, and the
Royal Naval College and Observatory across the river. More frequently, the fog
and smoke occluded the view and the dark waters of the Thames seemed to merge
imperceptibly into the fog and mist at the end of the floating pier, giving the
casual observer the impression that those who boarded Hamm Foine’s ferry were
steaming off into oblivion, never to return.

Roman made his way to the bar to take his seat among the regulars,
nodding in passing to a pair of grizzled old men playing draughts at a low
table in front of the window. At the far end of the bar, Robb Ruxton, one of
the dredgers out at Millwall was already halfway through a steak and ale pie.

Roman eased himself into his usual seat, giving a brief wave to
Hamm’s wife Welsie through the swinging half-doors leading to the kitchen. She
emerged a moment later, carrying a plate of steaming pie and mash, which she
set down in front of him. She wiped her hands on her white apron and began to
draw his pint of bitters.

His stomach rumbled as he dug into the mash; cooked crispy around
the edges, just as he liked it. He gave Welsie an appreciative nod. Her eyes
sparkled in the gaslight, which reflected in a warm glow off her nut-brown
hair.

She grinned as she set down the pint in front of him. “Did you
hear? Mrs. Walker’s goat was attacked and shredded to pieces last night.
Nothing left but blood and a bit of bones.”

Coming from anyone else, he would have put his fork down then and
there, but Roman basked in her attentions even as she told him the gruesome
details of the attack. She’d been a pesky, freckle-faced nine-year-old when he
and her older brother Archie jointly decided to join the mounted cavalry and
fight for the Queen in the Crimean War. He and Arch had been best mates until
the battle of Balaclava.

Archie died that day.

By the time Roman quit the cavalry and returned home, Welsie had
grown into a stunning beauty, already married to Hamm Foine. In spite of the
years since then, she remained as she always had—clever, friendly, and
cheerful.

From the far end of the bar, Robby Ruxton waved his fork in
Roman's direction. “That’s the Third killing in the past two weeks, Greenslade.
Whyn’t you lot going to do something ‘bout it, eh?”

Robby ran the dredger at Millwall docks. Like many Islanders, Robb
wasn’t shy about his mistrust of the Police. Didn’t matter one bit that they’d
known each other since childhood.

“I’m an inspector, not a dog catcher. Bring it up to the council,
mate.” He thought about his earlier encounter with Finn, and Finn's missing
fighters, Digger and Jiggsy. He turned to address the taproom in general. “Anybody
see the dogs as did it?”

There were a few mutters, but one said a word, and Welsie was busy
up front with two fresh pints for the gents at the draughts table. He watched
her share a word with the old men. At twenty-seven, she retained her slim,
almost boyish figure, although that graceless brown jumper she wore every day
did nothing for her. It was a crime, really, that her own husband didn’t
appreciate her
. I could do a lot better
by her than Hamm ever did.

Robby slapped the bar with the flat of his hand. “I said, don’t
you think I already brought it up? The council won’t do a thing. Dogs gone bad
like that, nowt be done but put ‘em down.”

Like a terrier, he was. Once Robby warmed to a topic, he was not
the sort to let it go until his target came around to his point of view. And
the glow his ruddy cheeks warned Roman that the man was two pints further down
the road than he ought. Any further attempt at conversation with Welsie would
be impossible.

Roman sighed and turned back to his meal. “I’m with you there,
Robb. A bad dog is worse than a nuisance, but I don’t have the heart to put an
animal down. I lost two of my own horses out from underneath me in the cavalry.
And one of them very nearly dragged me down and drowned me in the process. Had
to finish them both off with a bullet. It was bloody awful.”

Although not the worst thing. Not the worst thing by far. His gut
squirmed uneasily and his mind slid away from the memory.

Robby’s eyes widened. “You were there? In the charge at
Balaclava?”

The room had gone unnaturally quiet. Every head turned in his
direction. Welsie stopped talking to the gents and turned as well.

He froze at her bleak expression. Shame filled him like a high
tide. The Crimean War was a black hole for him, yet without thinking, he’d
almost broken a promise to the one person he cared most for in all the world.

When he and his best mate Archie Tompkins had joined up to fight
the Russians, he’d promised Welsie he’d look after her older brother. When Archie
died that day, Roman wanted nothing more than to make sure the body was shipped
home. But it hadn’t worked out. Nothing about that campaign had worked
according to plan.

The room began to spin. Cold beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
Every time he even thought about Archie or that awful time he felt sick to his
stomach. A sour taste filled his mouth. His throat clenched shut against a gag
reflex.

The charge of the light brigade and the bloody aftermath was
something he couldn’t talk about it—
not
ever
. Made him sick to even think
about it. Welsie would never know the truth of it, and he
would
not
discuss the war
or how her brother had been killed. Not here--not ever.

Roman took a deep breath and pushed back his plate, nearly
untouched. “Sorry lads, duty calls.” With a final apologetic nod to Welsie, he
headed for the door.