The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (6 page)

‘I thank you for seeing me at such short notice,’ said Sir Richard, shaking hands and taking the proffered chair in the large office overlooking the quay. The din of the embankment
echoed up to where they sat.

‘I admit I was given very little advance warning,’ said the Inspector General of Customs, Mr Jackson. He was a nautical sort, his long greying beard giving him the air of a captain,
and his dark-blue jacket with brass buttons suggesting a ship’s bridge rather than an office desk.

‘I trust you have seen this morning’s editions, Mr Jackson?’

‘Indeed.’

‘What do you know of this tidewaiter William Barton and his pocket full of unloading warrants?’

‘Forgive me if I lecture you, Sir Richard, but we speak of a small piece of a much larger process. Such warrants are issued by this building (from the Long Room directly below us, in fact)
so that any ship which has rightfully declared its cargo manifest may be docked at its point of destination and unloaded, the cargo being warehoused under bond until duties are paid for its
release. The unloading warrants found on the body of Barton should not leave this building until ship details and cargo manifests have been logged in our ledgers by the relevant clerk.’

‘Then how does one explain such a quantity of blank warrants in the possession of a tidewaiter, all of them apparently signed by Principal Officer Gregory?’

‘He signs large quantities of these things at one moment and stores them, as do other principal officers. I suppose it would not be beyond credulity for someone to discern where they are
stored and to steal some.’

‘You seem unconcerned by this gross case of fraudulence, Mr Jackson.’

‘I am concerned, but I am unsurprised, Commissioner. A tidewaiter is not a highly paid employee; his job, after all, is simply to sit about on incoming or outgoing ships and wait for the
correct documentation to arrive that he might observe legitimate unloading or loading. As a moderately paid man, he finds himself thus in sole charge of many thousands of pounds’ worth of
valuable cargo. Might he not occasionally turn a blind eye to some minor illegality?’

‘“Minor” you say? Am I not correct in thinking that a fraudulently completed unloading warrant allows the ship to unload its entire cargo anywhere it likes, without the Custom
House knowing of it? I do not call that “minor”.’

‘We hope that our employees are men of integrity and discretion, Sir Richard. Indeed, our landing-waiters (who register arriving ships) require two references and a five-hundred-pound
bond. Alas, the tidewaiters often work unsupervised and are prone to staying with us for a short time. At the busiest periods, we have difficulty employing enough of them.’

‘I must repeat, therefore: how does a mere tidewaiter manage to procure these warrants? Surely he would need help from others? Others more senior than himself . . .’

‘I think I see the direction your questioning is taking, Sir Richard. I suppose you are referring to the recent correspondence in
the Times
concerning alleged corruption among
officers of the Custom House.’

‘Well, what of it?’

‘Of course, the correspondent was anonymous . . .’ said Mr Jackson.

‘But evidently also someone with an intimate knowledge of the Customs processes along this river.’

‘That may be. But to accuse my landing-waiters
en masse
of being corrupt, and to accuse this institution of masking corruption at a higher level is frankly rather fantastical. There
will always be dishonest men, and we attempt to find them. There is nothing more to it than that, Sir Richard.’

‘Merchants have been complaining for some time that there is no record of their cargo and, therefore, that they are unable to pay their duties. Fruit has gone rotten under bond while
landing-waiters’ logbooks are “missing”.’

‘Our processes are not perfect. Logbooks are sometimes handed between landing-waiters as they move from wharf to wharf. There is a huge amount of documentation . . . but may I be bold
enough to ask what concern this is of the Metropolitan Police Commissioner? I am happy to welcome you, but admittedly rather nonplussed as to why you take a personal interest in this.’

‘A man was killed yesterday morning on Waterloo-bridge: one of your men who was apparently engaged in some questionable business. The Thames Police are also under my jurisdiction and I
will not be made a fool of if smuggling is flourishing beneath my very nose. I trust you are my ally in this earnest wish for legality.’

‘Of course, Sir Richard. But I believe the death of William Barton was suicide, was it not?’

‘That has not been the verdict of the Metropolitan Police, no matter how many newspapers it may appear in. Was this Barton under investigation as claimed in the articles?’

‘Naturally, I spoke with Principal Officer Gregory when I heard he had been called to identify the body. He told me that Barton was a recent appointment and that there had been some
reports of . . . of irregularity in his work.’

‘Irregularity?’

‘The man had seemingly vanished during his duty a number of times. On being questioned, he said he had been stricken with a persistent cough and forced to take a drink of tea to calm
himself. Not particularly creative as an excuse, I grant you. We were in the process of checking his claims when he died.’

‘This was no reason for him to kill himself, surely.’

‘Rather not – though he would have faced transportation had we known of those warrants. Assuredly, he could have simply not arrived for work today and we would have been glad of his
absence. That would have been the simplest path.’

‘That is what I suspected.’

‘Is there something more to this incident than has been made public, Sir Richard?’

‘I cannot be certain, but you can help me to discover the truth, Mr Jackson. I wish to task a number of my clerks with going through your records for further irregularities over previous
months—’

‘That is rather an imposition. We are very busy here and—’

‘All you need to do is provide a room for my men and supply them with records of arrivals, loading and outgoings for the past six months. You need not concern yourself with any vessel
currently or henceforth in your ledgers, thereby inconveniencing you not an iota. I believe that this data, once scrutinized, will reveal any patterns of discrepancy that will benefit both you and
I in the battle against smuggling. Nobody else need know of the results. Are you afraid of what we might unearth?’

‘Not at all. But I feel this response is quite out of proportion to a simple suicide. May I ask you if I am being told everything? I am not insensible to the fact that your Inspector
Newsome has recently been assigned to the Thames Police. He is a detective, is he not?’

‘He was a detective and may be again. At present, he is simply aiding the Thames Police in their work.’

‘Nothing more than that? I do not like to feel that I am being observed.’

‘Mr Jackson – it is the work of the Thames Police, among other duties, to be vigilant for any depredations upon the water. It matters not who commits them or where. You tell me that
there is no corruption among your ranks and I am obliged to accept your word. Should events prove otherwise, we will speak once again.’

‘We certainly shall.’

‘Very well. I thank you for your time and I presume you will be most welcoming to my clerks when they arrive tomorrow morning.’

Thus did Sir Richard retire from the office of the inspector general and return to the quay, where the launch was waiting for him. Indeed, he was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he barely
noticed the gentleman who brushed roughly against him while disembarking from a steam ferry. Had Sir Richard noticed, he would surely have recognized the man as one whom he had not only previously
imprisoned, but whom he had also once engaged on a very unusual case.

The two would be meeting again soon enough, but it may prove interesting nevertheless to take a few steps backwards before revealing the identity of that particular ferry passenger.

As Sir Richard had travelled beneath the arches of Blackfriars-bridge that morning, he would have passed the stately row of merchant’s houses on the north shore:
testaments to the diligence (and rapacity) of those traders in timber, coal, spermaceti and spices who had made London the destination of the world’s fleets. From the river, these edifices
appeared even taller and grander, their
façades
diminished not a jot by the many leaning masts and the rows of ochre-sailed barges settled on the mud before them.

One of these residences, between Puddle Dock and the bridge stairs, was a particular curiosity. A thin, two-storey building, it seemed to have been shouldered into place by the taller ones each
side. Indeed, one might not have said from the river whether it was an independent structure or an extension of its neighbours. From Earl-street at the rear, it was quite invisible and offered no
apparent door to the thoroughfare.

As for the inhabitants of that singular home, there was much debate among other residents of the row. Some maintained that the owner was one Harold Smith, an importer of linen. Others knew the
gentleman in question as William Smart, a minor ship-owner holding cargo somewhere in the east of the city. All remarked on the somewhat terrifying aspect of the gentleman’s manservant: a
lofty Negro with a damaged left eye that presented but a milky film to the world. Neither resident brought trouble to the area, however, and so the merchants thereabouts did not – as
merchants generally do not – enquire too closely into the other man’s business.

That morning, then, as Sir Richard had passed under the bridge, the master of the narrow riverside house had been reclining in a sturdy leather chair with his back to the window. He was holding
an old edition of
the Times
on his knee and scanning the personal advertisements with his light-grey eyes. One might have said, from his well-made clothes and the good taste of the room,
that he was a gentleman. But the crooked nose and lightly scarred knuckles suggested a more eventful past than most of our gentlemen are accustomed to. His real name was Noah Dyson.

‘Listen to this, Ben,’ he said, reading to the large Negro sitting in a similarly accommodating chair by the fire. ‘“The writer of the anonymous note to Mr Swales makes
an erroneous assumption as to the identity of the person referred to.” If that is not a blackmail case, I do not know what is. Or how about this one: “If Mr Parrack, formerly butler to
the late Lord Young will make his address known to G.D. at 14 Rathbone-place, he may hear something to his advantage.” What do you make of that, Ben? A legacy? Or more blackmail?’

Benjamin gave a great
basso
laugh and put down his book. He was indeed a unique specimen, the opaque eye and his large size – all of it hard muscle – lending him a fearsome
air. A horrifying scar of twisted skin about his throat suggested a too-near acquaintance with the gallows at some point in his past, while further scarring at his temples and nose hinted at some
time in the prize ring. He did not respond in speech to Noah’s question, but instead described a number of curious shapes in the air with his hands, swooping, squeezing and punctuating with
his fingers until he had completed his thought in that language.

‘No, I am not
bored,
Ben. These entries are quite fascinating. Each one is a story in itself; one must only pull at its strands to uncover the larger truth. Do you not occasionally
look at the faces on the streets and wonder at their secrets, their cares, their guilt – their crimes? Do you not see in these pages those secrets laid bare?’

Benjamin, now reading again, smiled and used a single hand to indicate ‘no’ without looking up from his page.

‘Well, listen to this one: “If M.R. will write immediately, M.S. will go to see her”. That is evidently a story of romance. He is pursuing her against the will of her parents,
but they have been maintaining an illicit correspondence all the same. It seems her parents have been getting the upper hand and this is his desperate attempt to renew that correspondence. That is
my
interpretation.’

Benjamin, still focused upon the book, simply shook his head. He had not the slightest interest.

‘And this is an interesting one: “
:
” – some manner of vulgar Greek by the looks of it. One does not often see foreign tongues in the personal advertisements. I wonder what
it—’