The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (39 page)

Noah’s mind buzzed with the audacity of placing such a thing in a newspaper before the eyes of the whole city. It was truly an outrageous gesture of derision at the supposed authority of
the police and Customs – just as the subsequent murders had been. The same hand must surely have been at work in both.

The ripples from Benjamin’s pencil circle seemed to repeat ever outwards into supposition and conjecture. Why Greek? Was the Italian in fact a Greek? Or were these men much better educated
than the average river worker? Such a code certainly suggested a sophistication of method beyond anything so far imagined by the investigators.

Noah looked again at what his friend had marked in the coffee-house edition. The line was identical but for the word
. Was this the
next vessel to be taken? If the code was indeed an instruction, another ship would disappear the very next day.

In Greek,
meant ‘parrot’: admittedly, an untypical name for an ocean-going ship. Clearly – as with the
Aurora
– it alluded to something else . . . but he could think of no mythological, historical or linguistic analogue that might also be a vessel name. Was there perhaps a code book possessed by the
‘rivermen’ which directed them how to interpret the words used in
the Times?

Noah finished his coffee and banged the cup on the table. Such ruminations were doing nothing to find Benjamin. He looked up to see the proprietor still observing him with unease.

‘You there!’ called Noah. ‘Did you recall what time the Negro fellow left this house?’

‘It was shortly before dusk, I believe,’ said the proprietor.

‘And in which direction?’

‘I cannot be sure, sir. I do not observe all of my customers so closely.’

‘Very well. I thank you for your assistance. You are also to be congratulated on the quality of your coffee.’ Noah folded the marked pages into a pocket, dropped some coins on his
saucer and walked out with a determined pace.

He arrived moments later at the selfsame silk emporium at which he had recently passed himself off as a buyer for the Swiss National Opera. The lady at the counter recognized him immediately,
but did not seem at all happy to see him. Had Mr Newsome shattered the opera ruse?

‘O, good day to you, sir.’

‘Is it? I assume that my order is ready to collect.’

‘It is a rather unusual case, sir. Shall we step into the stockroom?’

‘If we must.’

Noah was allowed behind the counter and through the door into the room at the rear. All appeared exactly as it had before.

‘I must apologize, sir,’ said the lady. ‘It is most unusual, but . . . your order has not arrived.’

‘What! Did your agent not visit to collect my list?’

‘O yes, yes, he did, sir.’ As before, she seemed to wrinkle her nose at the memory. ‘But the goods have not been delivered. Such a thing has never previously occurred. This . .
. supplier is usually most trustworthy.’

‘What time did the agent come here?’

‘I cannot recall precisely . . . some time before dusk yesterday, perhaps.’

‘This agent – is he a short fellow with a blank face and a stench of the sewers about him?’

‘I . . . I am not at liberty to discuss our suppliers.’

‘Does he perhaps have a foreign accent?’

‘Sir, your questions are inappropriate. You are not a policema—’

Noah withdrew his dagger, all pretence now abandoned. ‘A man’s life is in danger – and now so is yours. Tell me!’

‘O! O! A small man, yes! He smells terribly. I have never heard his voice – he just holds out a hand for the orders.’

‘For how long have you dealt with him?’

‘I . . . I . . . O, will you kill me, sir?’

‘How long?’

‘For . . . for six months or so. Please – take anything you like but do not murder me!’

‘Cease your whimpering. I am neither a thief nor a murderer. Do you know if this fellow went directly to his warehouse after visiting you?’

‘He does not speak, I . . . I cannot answer your question.’

‘Does he enter as I did, through the shop, or via a rear door?’

‘The . . . the tradesman’s entrance – there at the back of the storeroom.’

‘Thank you. I bid you good day.’

‘But . . . your silk. Your deposit . . .’

‘Keep both – and your silence. You will never see me again.’

Noah exited through the tradesman’s doorway indicated (leaving the unfortunate lady shaking in distress) and found himself in a rank alley alongside the emporium. Had Benjamin been here?
There was no indication of his unusually large boots in the mud, though one tiny sole print did suggest a child or a man of diminutive stature.

Noah stood and pondered for a moment as the noise of Ludgate-hill echoed between the buildings towards him. How might the pursuit have been effected? Along the streets, where a man might lose
his pursuer among the crowds and carts? Or along the river where no shadow might easily lurk? In light of the little man’s odour and riverine inclinations, the latter seemed more likely.

The nearest ferry platform to where he stood was at Blackfriars-bridge, and the quickest way to arrive there – he realized with foreboding – was to walk past his very own house. It
seemed, indeed, that with each successive step towards the
Aurora
, the various investigators of the case were being drawn more irresistibly into a trap that had long been prepared for
them.

But there was no choice – his friend was most likely to be found at Frying Pan wharf. Noah tested the edge of his dagger against a thumb and strode southwards to the river.

‘Inspector Newsome is missing.’

The speaker was Sir Richard Mayne: agitated, clutching a notebook, and standing at the street door of Mr Williamson’s house. A cab rather than a police carriage stood waiting on the
cobbles outside.

‘Sir Richard – I . . . it is a pleasure . . . but . . .’

‘May I enter, George? I would rather not be seen here.’

‘Of course . . . of course.’

Mr Williamson directed the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police to his modest parlour and nervously stoked the fire as Sir Richard took a seat. The distinguished gentleman was clearly very
ill at ease.

‘Could I make you a cup of tea, sir?’ said Mr Williamson, fastening his top shirt button.

‘Thank you, but no. As I said, the inspector is missing. It is a most difficult situation and one requiring urgent action.’

‘Indeed, sir . . . but may I ask why you have come to me?’

‘George – I need hardly explain the humiliation I would suffer if the newspapers discovered that one of my inspectors had vanished – particularly
this
inspector. Can you
imagine the headlines? It is something I will not tolerate. Much as I am tempted to leave the man to his fate, I am obliged to find him.’

‘Yes, sir . . . but . . .’

‘I cannot use the Metropolitan Police for this. You know how constables gossip. The two who work with him in the galley have been sent down to Brighton until this sorry mess is cleaned up.
In the meantime, I must turn to a sober, reliable man who can discreetly aid me. George – you are that man.’

‘Hmm. Hmm. When you say that he has vanished, what precisely do you mean?’

‘Yesterday, at low tide, he left his constables and ventured into the sewers at London-bridge with a tosher as his guide. Some few hours later, the tosher returned alone and told the
waiting constables that the inspector had wilfully chased off after some shadow.’

‘That does rather sound like a thing Mr Newsome might do.’

‘Quite. The fact of the matter is that the tide then rose and sealed him under the city. He is certainly lost and possibly even drowned.’

‘Hmm. I see – but I have no knowledge of the sewers. Is it not the best policy simply to send the tosher back to find him?’

‘Under other circumstances, you would be correct, but I have been given this.’ Sir Richard held up the notebook handed to the inspector’s constables for safekeeping. ‘In
it, Mr Newsome has kept notes of his independent investigation into the disappearance of the
Aurora
and the intelligence that led him into the sewers. I think it is time for you and I to
have a frank conversation about what we know. A man’s life and the solution to a crime may depend on such cooperation.’

‘Hmm. Hmm. I fear that your words are truer than you know. Mr Cullen has also seemingly vanished.’

‘Who is Mr Cullen?’

‘He was a constable until quite recently. He worked with the inspector on the Holywell-street—’

‘Yes. I recall the fellow: tall, burly, rather slow. Is he working with you now?’

‘I would not say he was “slow” . . .’

‘No matter. You say he has vanished?’

‘It would seem so. He was working at the docks to collect information from the various river workers and has been reporting to me every evening. Last night, I heard nothing and I am afraid
some harm may have befallen him. He is normally most reliable.’

‘What was the tenor of his investigations at the docks?’

‘Our . . . rather,
my
assumption was that any smuggling operation of a comparable magnitude to the
Aurora
’s disappearance must require significant manpower to unload
the vessel. Mr Cullen was attempting to discover if any such casual labourers knew of the missing brig.’

‘It seems he found something,’ said Sir Richard.

‘Evidently, but I have no idea what. He had heard rumours, allusions, expressions of indiscretion or deceit, but nothing probative. I suppose you could send constables into the dock to
investigate his disappearance, but that would only put the criminals on their guard.’

‘Yes, “the criminals”. Who
are
these criminals of whom we speak, George? The evidence of their crime is everywhere, but it is as tobacco smoke in a room that contains no
cigar or pipe. We must solve this crime.’

‘Hmm. Hmm. Perhaps we can start with that notebook you have. May I see it?’

‘Of course – though I am afraid his hand is somewhat illegible in places. I have folded the corner of the page on which he began this investigation.’

Mr Williamson took the notebook and opened it at the marked page. The account began with the recovery of first mate Hampton from the river near London-bridge and continued with the subsequent
autopsy at Wapping station.

Sir Richard, meanwhile, looked around at the modest, even austere, home of the man who had once been the Detective Force’s most lauded investigator: one who had embodied the spirit of the
modern police and the new London. The walls were uniformly bare but for a piece of fading embroidery under glass.

‘An animal tooth?’ said Mr Williamson, looking up.

‘Yes. One might hardly believe it if the inspector had not gone to such lengths to pursue it. When the constables questioned the tosher, he said that the inspector had been quite
persistent in his enquiries about “monsters”.’

‘Hmm.’

‘What do you make of the incident at Nightingale-lane? Have you reached that part?’

‘A moment please . . . hmm . . . ah: the stinking little man.’

‘Have you come across that fellow in your own investigations?’

‘Yes . . . but subsequently, and it seems from the inspector’s account here that the fellow surely died. I cannot imagine any man leaping into the river with his wrists in irons and
surviving the experience.’