The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (16 page)

Within moments of the galley moving out into the channel between shipping, the little man simply stood and leaped head first over the gunwale into the stream, his hands still cuffed behind him.
The galley rocked madly and threatened to capsize.

‘My G—! He has killed himself!’ said Mr Newsome, gripping the sides of the boat and staring at the disturbed water where the man had plunged in.

He did not resurface.

It is oftentimes remarked among the older policemen that, once a man has habitually trodden a beat, that route is burned not only upon his memory but upon his very way of
thinking. The rhythm of his boots, the heightened sense of awareness, the feel of the cradling masonry about him: all conspire to make his peregrinations thereafter one lifelong beat, whether or
not he wears a uniform and steps out in the name of justice. Those who have been accustomed to a nocturnal duty note the phenomenon even more acutely.

Mr Williamson was of the latter class. No longer a constable, he nevertheless took a curious comfort from a stroll about the city. There was no wife to await his return, no familial bustle to
draw him back – just a cold hearth and a bed which, of late, had become more a source of distress than of repose. So he walked – often for hours at a time.

He clearly had much to think about on that day of the meeting with Sir Richard and Inspector Newsome at Scotland Yard. Other men might have cast a lugubrious glance at the rain and decided that
the warmth of a coffee house was a more preferable place to gather their thoughts, but Mr Williamson seemed in no way inconvenienced. Rather, he simply turned up his coat collar, pulled on his
gloves and set his course northwards towards the traffic of Trafalgar-square.

There is, after all, beauty to be found in the sodden metropolis. Just as snow and bright sun will create altogether distinctive scenes, so a spring rain will reveal the city’s wonders.
Spires quiver in puddles, horses snort steam, gas illuminates long avenues of silver, and already soot-stained stone is made darker still with leaking streaks. Not all poetry need be hopeful.

Who could say what thoughts animated the mind of Mr Williamson as he walked these streets? He appeared not to see the people around him, and showed no interest in the shop windows or in the
corner vendors. He was unaffected by the scents of baked potato, of roasted pork, and of coffee-imbued tobacco clouds emanating from the convivial rooms along the way. Indeed, it was not until he
approached Haymarket, almost at dusk, that he seemed to lift his head and finally observe the crowds.

The theatres were not yet open for business, but their sundry parasites were. As he walked, he observed the insouciant pickpockets, the watchful beggars, the small hawkers of flowers and fruit .
. . and the street girls.

No doubt they all saw him and knew him for the policeman he had once been. Uniform mattered not – everything could be discerned in the eyes. These were people who, for one reason or
another, were used to not being seen, or seen only by a certain few. Thus was it that, as Mr Williamson took up his viewing position in front of the Haymarket Theatre, a telegraphic communication
passed among those various miscreants: watch out for there is an investigator in our midst.

‘’Ello, lovey!’

Mr Williamson looked to his side and saw a moderately attractive girl smiling at him. ‘I am not interested,’ he answered, returning his gaze to the street.

‘O, sir! I seen ’ow you been lookin’ at us girls these past ten minutes and I knows that you are
indeed
interested!’

‘You are mistaken. Move along now.’

‘Are you lookin’ for a particklar girl? P’raps I know ’er if you tell me ’ow she looks. I don’t mind losin’ the custom to ’elp a gentleman find
what ’e’s lookin’ for.’

‘I told you I am not interested. Go about your business; I will not hinder you.’

‘As you please! But don’t say I didn’t try to ’elp you find your girl.’

The magdalene gave Mr Williamson her professional smile once more and nudged him with a
coquettish
hip before walking on. He blushed at the contact and felt a sudden rush of humiliation.
Walking was the thing – it was time to move on.

He headed northwards along Windmill-street to Brewer-street, then west. Had someone been following him from a discreet distance, they might have reported he was walking without a destination,
walking merely to be moving and thinking. He might, indeed, have said the same himself if questioned on the matter.

It was quite by chance, therefore – nothing more than an accident of the deeper mind and the suggestive but inchoate pattern of the streets themselves – that he found himself in
Golden-square, standing before a grandiose-looking house whose curtained ground-floor windows revealed but a slash of gaslight within.

Mr Williamson paused for some time before the house. Had someone been following him, no doubt they would have pondered why he lingered thus, looking at that one particular ground-floor window.
At one point, it seemed he was about to approach the door and knock, but it was the merest shadow of intent. Certainly, there was some agitation of indecision in his demeanour as he twice made to
walk away before returning.

Was he expecting to see someone in particular? Was he expecting to be seen? Was he, perhaps, imagining what manner of activity was taking place behind those heavy damask curtains and suffering
some unknowable emotion at the images that played in his mind?

It was indeed a curious display, and most assuredly one that he would not want anybody who knew his name to witness – let alone
two
such persons.

Morning, of course, brings absolution. Once the dandies have been carried away; once the street girls have returned over the bridges and the gutters have been cleared; once the
victims of the darkness have been recovered and given last rites, then the city is reborn to fall again.

On that particular morning, the modest house of Mr Williamson – usually so silent – was a-bustle with the clatter of crockery as John Cullen prepared tea at the stove. A greater
number of chairs had been procured in the living room and Noah Dyson was sitting beside the fire with Benjamin and Mr Williamson, the latter having just summarized his meeting with Sir Richard
(albeit omitting, for now, the fine print of its conditions).

‘What will you do, George?’ asked Noah. ‘I was not aware you had any great desire to return to the Detective Force.’

‘I myself am not certain of that desire,’ said Mr Williamson, looking into the flames.

‘Does it not seem curious to you that he would invite you to Scotland Yard and make such an offer?’

‘Perhaps, but you saw the challenge thrown down by Eldritch Batchem at the theatre. Sir Richard is determined to solve this case. If I am to investigate, it is to be purely in my own name
so that no taint can affect the commissioner or the Metropolitan Police.’

‘Still – to pit you against Inspector Newsome like that is rather an odd strategy by the famously predictable Sir Richard . . . or perhaps he knows you well enough to know that this
would be impetus enough to tempt you.’

‘Very likely you are correct, Noah.’

‘Well, you know that I myself have no great affection for the inspector, and I must say I am inclined to aid you in your challenge. I admit it seems an intriguing mystery . . . and, as Ben
keeps reminding me, I
have
been somewhat restless of late.’

‘It is a challenge to all of us – that’s what it is!’ said Mr Cullen, shakily carrying the teacups and pot on a tray to the table by the fire. ‘Perhaps I am
speaking only for myself when I say that I miss the excitement of our previous collaborations.’

‘It is easy for you to be excited, Mr Cullen,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘
You
did not experience physical assault or the threat of imminent death as we others did in those
cases to which you refer. None of us walks willingly into danger.’

Benjamin clicked his fingers for attention. He had been paying characteristically close attention to the discussion and spoke now in his artful arabesques of palms and fingers so that Noah,
observing intently, might translate the thoughts into the vulgar tongue.

‘Ben says that the case of the missing brig points to a number of larger questions: the likelihood of a very significant smuggling enterprise . . . at least one example of murder . . . and
the greatest mystery in all of this – the person and purpose of one Eldritch Batchem. For any one of these reasons, he says, the case is worth investigating . . . but in combination they make
for a truly interesting challenge. Of course, he
would
say that.’

Ben smiled at this last observation and good-naturedly made a single gesture with his hand and the crook of the opposing forearm that seemed sufficiently explicit to require no translation.

‘Hmm. Ben makes some valid observations,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘May I ask, though, which murder he is referring to?’

Ben slashed a hand across his scarred neck.

Mr Williamson nodded. ‘Yes – the tidewaiter William Barton on Waterloo-bridge. His death – or at least the instrument of it – is evidently an important part of this
puzzle. I assume we are all agreed that it was clearly not suicide?’

‘I have read Eldritch Batchem’s account of his “investigation”, as I am sure we all have,’ said Noah. ‘Any intelligent man would question some of his
suppositions.’

‘But what of the fact that there was nobody else on the bridge at the time of the death?’ said Mr Cullen, sensing the onset of one of those investigative jousts he had been
privileged to witness previously within this curious group.

‘Absence – or
perceived
absence?’ said Mr Williamson. ‘It is said that everyone passing across the bridge was accounted for at the other end for an hour before the
incident. Is it not entirely possible that someone could have loitered within one of the pedestrian recesses
before
that time, emerging some hours later to attack the victim only once the
fog had settled?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Noah. ‘But where did this person escape to once the fog lifted and Batchem arrived? The bridge was indeed empty then. Not to mention that the (extraordinarily
patient) killer would have had to know in advance that his victim would cross the bridge at a certain time. Is it possible he even had some intuition of the impending fog to mask his
actions?’

Benjamin made his customary cough and added his own digitolocutionary comment. Noah nodded.

‘Ben says the killer could have quite easily escaped over the bridge parapet in the thickness of the fog. That could explain the absence of the weapon.’

‘Hmm. That would have been a quite hazardous and rather skilful escape,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Waterloo-bridge may not be the highest, but it is high enough to attract numerous
suicides.’

‘It stands thirty-five feet at high water, I believe,’ offered Mr Cullen, seeing his chance. ‘London-bridge is forty-two.’

‘Very good, Mr Cullen,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘There was also, of course, the mention of a sound in the fog: metal striking stone. Perhaps that was something to do with the
killer’s escape rather than the sound of a weapon?’

‘Batchem did not venture to question anyone at the foot of the bridge,’ said Noah. ‘Had he not been so convinced of his own cleverness, he might have learned something more by
doing so.’

‘If I may ask a question,’ said Mr Cullen, ‘why would anyone kill this fellow Barton in the first place? If he was aiding smugglers, surely he was of use to them?’

‘You are correct, of course,’ said Noah. ‘We have no idea why he would be killed – especially in this manner – but the very fact of his being killed is what we hope
to discern, moving from that point of discovery to the next and the next. George – I know that you could apply some genuine detective vigour to the investigation of that murder. Will you
visit the bridge?’

‘There is unlikely to be any physical clue now that so many thousands have traversed,’ said Mr Williamson, ‘but I could indeed speak to the toll-collector and to anyone below
the bridge.’

Mr Cullen’s teacup rattled upon its saucer. ‘Does this mean, then, that we will pursue the case? Are we to compete with Eldritch Batchem and win back Mr Williamson’s rightful
place in the Detective Force?’

Ben looked to Noah and nodded.

Noah looked to Mr Williamson and shrugged.

‘Hmm,’ said the latter. ‘Let us agree only that we will make preliminary enquiries to see what manner of case this is. Nothing more. There is certainly no need, Mr Cullen, to
begin ornamenting any of our endeavours with talk of grandiose challenges or of my returning to the Detective Force (which, I might add, has many able men and may solve the mystery before we
attempt to do so). Simplicity is the key – we must ask only what is at the root of the disappearance of the
Aurora
.’

‘As Ben has implied, the cargo of French silk is too obvious a fact to ignore,’ said Noah. ‘The duties are currently so high that it is almost impossible for an honest merchant
to make money from imported silk – which is no doubt why much of what passes for legitimate business in our city shops is actually based in smuggling. I am sure I could walk into any cloth
warehouse in the city and find you silk never logged by the Custom House.’