The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (46 page)

‘That is correct. George – it seems you were last to see him . . .’

‘Indeed. I stood over him and saw no evidence of life,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘When I left the chamber, the water was already above the level of his body.’

‘So you cannot say with all certitude that he was still there?’ said Sir Richard.

‘Hmm. I suppose not. But I saw no breath when I examined him . . . and Noah saw him shot.’

‘That is right,’ said Noah. ‘I believe I even heard the bullet strike him. I saw him fall and lie unmoving. Perhaps the receding current moved him.’

‘Every inch of that warehouse has been examined, Mr Dyson,’ said Sir Richard. ‘It may indeed be true that the inspector is dead – and a great tragedy it is – but
the fact remains that no body has been recovered.’

‘No body at all?’ said Noah. ‘What of Eldritch Batchem? He was incarcerated in the same cell as Mr Cullen and my fellow. His throat had been cut and he was immobile. His corpse
must be there. I gave full particulars of this to your men.’

‘So your testimony says,’ said Sir Richard, locating the document on his desk, ‘but, again, there is no body to be found. Not he or the “Italian” to whom you both
refer. How do you explain this singular lack of evidence?’

‘I can only think that the waters have flushed them all out through the sewers,’ said Noah with a shrug. ‘The fact that Mr Newsome was there at all is clear evidence of a
network leading to the river. Perhaps we will find them in a week or two, swollen and floating by a ferry pier at Rotherhithe.’

‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ said Sir Richard in a less than credulous tone. ‘It is unfortunate enough that the dead bodies will receive no civilized burial. What is much worse is the
evident escape of this “Italian”. And what of this smelly little fellow or the South Sea Islander mentioned in your testimonies? There is not a single trace of them also.’

Noah and Mr Williamson exchanged glances and the former opted to reply:

‘It seems clear enough that all are close associates of the orchestrating criminal behind these crimes. The smelly man alone may be connected to the deaths at the dock by his curious
odour, and we have evidence that he was instrumental in the taking of both Benjamin and Mr Cullen. I can only assume that they escaped together, or at least to the same place. Find one and you will
find them all – although I would be surprised if any is now to be found in this country. They are too distinctive to remain.’

‘I see,’ muttered Sir Richard dourly. ‘This is most unsatisfactory. On the matter of mysteries, I wonder if we might also touch briefly upon Mr Williamson’s
“Minotaur” encounter.’

‘If you are referring to the lion, I have said all there is to say on the matter,’ said Mr Williamson.

‘Quite. But nobody else saw the beast – not Mr Dyson, not those fellows who entered with you – not any of the men who ventured back into the place that night. Why, there were
not even any footprints in the abundant mud.’

‘Am I being called a liar?’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Inspector Newsome thought there was a beast in the sewers and I saw that beast. The waters ebb . . . the footprints are erased
. . . the beast re-enters the sewers and is lost once again leaving no trace. Must I
further
explain what I saw? Am I a drunken costermonger to be disbelieved in such a manner?’

‘Becalm yourself, George,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I am merely attempting to understand every detail. So much of what happened in that chamber cannot now be explained by the
physical evidence.’

‘Hmm.’ Mr Williamson turned his head to stare blackly into the fire.

Sir Richard’s expression was one of concern, but he retained his sense of decorum. ‘
Ahem
, well, let us turn to something more empirical. Mr Jackson – perhaps you could
summarize what you have learned from the reclaimed ledgers.’

The nautically attired Mr Jackson nodded his assent. ‘A large proportion of the stock listed on the manifest of the missing brig
Aurora
was indeed found in the hidden chamber
– notably the French silk. As for the other cargoes stored there, a consignment of port and fifty bales of Virginia tobacco are reliably documented as stolen. We are combing through the
remaining material at present and I have no doubt all cargo therein will prove to be illicit.’

‘How is it possible such an outrage could occur barely a mile from the Custom House itself?’ said Noah to Mr Jackson.

‘Excuse me, sir, but who are you to address me so?’ said Mr Jackson. ‘What is your rank? Did I hear your name as “Dyson”?’

‘Mr Dyson is
not
a member of the Metropolitan Police,’ said Sir Richard. ‘He has aided investigations in a purely
un
official capacity. Nevertheless, perhaps I can
rephrase his question more civilly on my own behalf. Can we be sure this will never occur again?’

‘In truth, Sir Richard, I can be sure of nothing. As long as there are dishonest men motivated by money or threatened with violence, there will be crime. I need hardly explain this to you.
However, you may be assured I will be conducting a thorough review of my men and procedures.’

‘I suppose that is all I can ask. Is it at least possible to reconstruct and take lessons from the fate of the
Aurora
?’

‘For that, Sir Richard, I must turn to your men here, who have evidently spent more time investigating the evidence.’

Sir Richard acknowledged this and looked to Mr Williamson. ‘George? Will you speak? What can we say of this case that is conclusive?’

‘Hmm. Hmm. All evidence would seem to suggest that on arrival in London, the vessel was logged by a landing-waiter and reported to the Custom House as per the standard procedure.
Thereafter, a landing warrant was issued to moor and unload – presumably for the correct berth at St Katharine’s?’

Mr Jackson nodded.

‘I suppose we will never know if that was the warrant received by the first mate of the
Aurora
,’ continued Mr Williamson. ‘Most likely it was a fraudulent note prepared
by the tidewaiter William Barton (himself conspicuously murdered for some indiscretion some few hours later). Barton then aboard, around half of the crew were allowed ashore by lighter and the rest
were necessarily killed and embarrelled – apart from first mate Hampton, who must have discerned the plan earlier and been slain for his discovery.’

‘A gruesome and sorry tale,’ said Mr Jackson.

‘And still worse,’ said Mr Williamson, ‘with the death of the persistent ship-owner Mr Timbs. Nothing could have been a greater threat to the secrecy of this criminal band than
his public announcement at the Queen’s Theatre – where each of us was conspicuous in our way. Thereafter, when one of us came too close, he was taken: the fate of Noah’s friend,
our Mr Cullen, and the investigator Eldritch Batchem.’

‘But they were not immediately killed as the others were,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Why do you imagine that to be?’

‘Hmm. I could not say. Perhaps to lure their colleagues so that all could be eliminated at a stroke? The cell at Frying Pan wharf may well have been a death sentence regardless of the
adverse tide, so perhaps they were intended to die after all.’

‘I see your point,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Please, do not let me interrupt your narration . . .’

‘Well, the rest we know. The
Aurora
docks at Frying Pan wharf, is divested of her cargo by sundry lumpers led by this Mr Rigby, and then the vessel itself either spirited away under
a new name, or destroyed.’

‘Do you have any proof at all of this?’ said Mr Jackson. ‘The
Aurora
may still be in port.’

‘Hmm. I have not previously mentioned to any of you that I discovered a vessel’s name plaque below Waterloo-bridge. It was charred almost beyond recognition, but it appeared to be
that of the
Aurora
.’

‘What? Why . . . why did you withhold such important information?’ said Sir Richard, bristling at the revelation.

Noah, also, could clearly not disguise his feelings at the omission, but said nothing.

‘In truth, I concluded that the discovery was of little consequence,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Even if it was the genuine name plaque of the vessel, how might that have helped me?
I already knew it was missing, perhaps destroyed. At the same time, anyone may fashion a plaque and set fire to it. Perhaps I was
meant
to find it. I imagine the real ship is now somewhere
out on the oceans: owned by whoever killed Mr Timbs. In fact, the real clue in this case was that code in
the Times
, without which we may never have known about the
Prince
Peacock
.’

‘And even then, I am not sure we had the right ship,’ said Noah. ‘The foreman Mr Rigby was utterly confused at its arrival.’

‘It was the closest name to “parrot” that we could find in the Long Room lists,’ said Mr Jackson. ‘Is it possible that these criminals simply knew of the raid in
advance?’

‘I fear you may be right,’ said Sir Richard. ‘According to Mr Dyson’s testimony, the wharf foreman seemed to suggest that no vessel was supposed to arrive. Perhaps the
code had been nullified by subsequent intelligence. Certainly, there are many men on the river who must have known of it.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Noah, ‘the quantity of lumpers waiting at the wharf would seem to suggest that trouble was expected even if the vessel was not.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Sir Richard. ‘But it matters not. The raid was successful.’

‘I wonder if I may enquire,’ said Mr Jackson. ‘Where are your criminals? I have heard mention of a small, malodorous man, a long-haired Italian, even a South Sea harpooner . .
. Who is behind this organization? Who killed all of those men? I see many crimes, but few men in custody but your foreman and some sundry lumpers.’

The question hung in the air. Silence crackled with the fire in the grate.

‘You are quite correct, of course, Mr Jackson,’ said Sir Richard with a sigh. ‘We may have solved the crime, but we have few criminals. Whoever they are, they operate through
fear and threat. The nature of the murders says as much: every man along the river must know that failure to cooperate will end in a gruesome death. There may indeed be one leader, but that odd
Greek code suggests there are many of them working unseen. I regret to admit it, but we have seen only the tentacle tips of this monster.’

‘Hmm. Hmm . . . I admit there is another piece of evidence I have not yet submitted . . .’ said Mr Williamson, almost at a whisper.

All turned surprised to see his face a mask of blushing guilt.

‘George, this is a serious matter. If you—’ began Sir Richard.

Mr Williamson extracted the leather-bound diary from an inside breast pocket and leaned over to lay it gently on the desk. ‘In that volume, you will find all of our activities – even
you, Mr Jackson – documented daily since shortly
before
the
Aurora
’s disappearance and its announcement by Mr Timbs. I found it in the clerk’s room in the hidden
chamber.’

‘What!’ said Sir Richard.

Mr Jackson paled and looked quite nauseous.

Noah stared incredulously at the book and then at his friend.

‘So it was you who smashed the drawers of that desk?’ said Sir Richard. ‘My men assumed it was the fleeing criminal.’ He snatched up the book and turned to the last page.
‘A leaf has been torn out at the end here . . .’

‘That is how I found it,’ said Mr Williamson, knowing well enough that other pages were also missing – pages he would have no one else read.

‘Which rather implies the owner of this book wanted us to find and read it to know what he knows,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Well, this is . . . this changes the whole complexion of .
. . To what purpose would somebody observe us
before
our investigation?’

‘I am no policeman,’ said Mr Jackson, ‘but it seems to me that this fellow – whoever he is – has quite turned the principles of investigation on their head. Rather
than you following his clues,
he
follows
yours
and leaves a trail of false or contradictory evidence to be found. It almost seems a game with him. Why, I might even offer that this
whole business with the
Aurora
has been a challenge or entertainment to test the mettle of his adversaries. His very murders have been utterly outrageous in their conspicuousness, as if
taunting you to solve them.’

‘As you say, Mr Jackson – you are no policeman,’ said Sir Richard. ‘The idea is quite . . . quite ludicrous.’

Mr Jackson merely frowned and roughly adjusted a cuff.

‘He knows where we live,’ said Noah with a leaden note. ‘He has been observing us through his agents and learning more about us. In allowing the diary to be found, he shows us
he is more powerful in his watchful invisibility. He shows us what he knows.’

‘Let us not be dramatic, Mr Dyson . . .’ said Sir Richard.

‘Think of it,’ said Noah: ‘Has not the whole
charade
been engineered by him from the start? The flyer in William Barton’s pocket, and the warning note to Josiah
Timbs – both were advertisements for Batchem’s show. What if the intention was always to lure us – his
dramatis personae
– into the theatre that evening to set the
challenge. He was perhaps there watching us. We should make a close comparison of the writing in this diary and on the note to Timbs . . .’

‘I really think that you are exagg—’ said Sir Richard.

‘And what of that article in
the London Monitor
?’ continued Noah. ‘It became clear some time ago that it was not the work of Eldritch Batchem but intended, rather, to
appear
as such. Two evenings ago, after I left Mr Williamson’s house, I took the liberty of doing what none of us had previously thought to do: I called in at the offices of
the
Monitor
and enquired, in terms that would admit no equivocation, who actually did place that article. And do you know what I learned?’

The other three gentlemen merely stared in anticipation.

‘I learned that the article was delivered anonymously by hand along with one hundred pounds in cash and a request that the piece run the following day. Naturally, the editor of that gutter
publication could not refuse. So I ask the question again – who would wish our ruination so earnestly? Who would lure us into a case and seek to frustrate our investigation of it? Who would
perpetrate murders of such wilful complexity merely to draw attention to them?’