The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (22 page)

‘What on earth do you mean by that? I am here for gloves, as I said.’

‘You cannot work with him. It is not permitted.’

‘“Permitted”? Are you my keeper now?’

‘I could arrest you, Mr Dyson. You are known as an escaped transportee.’

‘I thought we had resolved that discussion some time ago.’

The inspector glared into Noah’s pale-grey eyes and remembered the night some months past when he had retired to bed to find a dagger and a warning under his very pillow.

‘Why are
you
here, Inspector? Is it also a matter of purchasing gloves?’

‘It is police business and none of your concern.’

‘Well, I will leave you to your business. The proprietress is most helpful.’

‘If I discover that you are working with George on this case . . .’

‘You will be quite helpless to do anything about it. What are you afraid of, Inspector? That you are not the investigator you believe yourself to be?’

The two men remained standing, almost chest to chest, at the door of the shop. Customers inside nervously avoided glancing at the scene, while the girls at the counter looked to each other at a
loss what to do.

The situation might well have turned to violence, but at that very moment there came a boyish shout from the street outside. At first indistinct, it soon came closer: a newsboy heralding the
headlines of the afternoon editions.

‘
Horrible discovery at London Dock! Bodies found in vault!
’

Noah and the inspector stared at each other once again.

Then they were both suddenly out of the shop as swiftly as their legs would carry them.

The day had started much as any other at the magnificent London Dock, whose tireless labour sang to the tune of chains, hammers, boots and the coarse oaths of lumpers as they
attended to the many acres of tobacco, wine and spirit warehouses. In packets, crates, bottles, bundles, bindles and chests, the produce of the entire world was there hoisted, wheeled and pushed
into its duly allotted place: the hides, horn, spices, coffee, tea, rum, brandy, cork and precious perfumed essences to supply the capital of commerce with its daily desires.

In the spirit vaults, the air was dense with the cold-stone mustiness of the barrels. Great diaphanous webs of black mould swayed from the ceiling, while rats could be heard skittering invisibly
among oaken ribs. At one end of that vinous nave, a team of warehousemen were re-weighing a consignment of French brandy by the dim light of Davy lamps before loading it into the iron callipers to
be lifted to the wharf for shipping. Any sign of inconsistency with the original unloading warrant and there would be questions from the Custom House men.

‘Wait!’ called one of the men as the large Limousin hogshead dangled ominously on the measure before him. ‘This one is below weight.’

‘By how much?’ said another.

‘By enough. Put it to one side and let us weigh the remainder.’

The suspect barrel was rolled to the wall, but the next and the next and the next – five in all – also proved to be underweight. Tense glances were exchanged – the manifest
declared that the entire consignment had entered the vault at the correct weight. Somebody was going to have to face the head warehouseman.

‘Let us consider this closely,’ said one of the men as they all stood with folded arms around the five suspicious barrels. ‘Is there any sign of a leak?’

They each took a barrel and examined its staves, hoops, head and stopper. Then they went among the frames to look for evidence of puddles. Nothing – no signs of spills.

One of the men rapped on a barrel with his hammer. ‘Ho! Do you hear that?’

Each sounded their barrel, tapping the correct specimens for comparison.

‘There is something in these barrels that is not only brandy,’ spoke one for all.

‘Let us be sure. A barrelful of fluid rolls straight,’ said another.

Space was cleared and they laid one of the five hogsheads on its side. A hefty kick sent it crunching across the floor, wobbling on its axis as it went: proof enough of what they suspected.

‘There is something solid inside these barrels,’ said one.

‘Who puts a solid thing in a barrel? Spirits and wine, yes. Grain or syrup, perhaps . . .’

‘Whatever is in these five, it is not only brandy. And it is not on the manifest.’

‘We must open one. Who will fetch Frederick?’

The head warehouseman, Mr Frederick, arrived with grave demeanour and checked all documentation. The merchant in question was sent for and informed that five of his barrels were underweight. He
agreed that they should be opened in order that an investigation might be started. A cooper was called.

And so it was that Mr Frederick and the five warehousemen stood by, casting sidelong glances at each other as the cooper set about the head loop and quarter loop with his hammer and chisel. As
he worked, brandy began to bleed from between the loosening staves. Was it just the fevered imagination of the observers, or was it perhaps a redder hue than normal?

‘You might want to stand back,’ said the cooper as he prepared to remove the barrel head.

The staves parted like the segments of a large wooden orange and brandy flowed freely through them, washing towards the observers and filling the vault with its heady aroma. Then the cooper
fully extracted the circular head and peered inside, squinting against the powerful alcohol vapour and the dim light of the lamps.

‘What is it?’ asked Mr Frederick.

‘I cannot be certain,’ said the cooper. ‘Bring a lamp, won’t you.’

All gathered round with their Davy lamps to look into the dark round eye of the cask.

‘My G—!’ whispered Mr Frederick as the thing became clear in the light. ‘Fetch a policeman. Quickly! Go!’

There was certainly some surprise when Sir Richard Mayne himself appeared at the docks with a number of constables from division A. Noah Dyson and Inspector Newsome were next
to join the already gathering crowds, followed shortly afterwards by Mr Williamson, who had heard the news from a ferry full of excitable passengers heading west up the river and rushed to the
scene.

By that time, all five of the barrels had been opened and tipped on their sides so that their grisly contents could be dragged out into the lamplight for inspection. It was indeed a sight to
challenge the strongest of constitutions.

Five male corpses, each fully dressed in seamen’s clothing, lay arrayed upon the warehouse floor. Though entirely whole in terms of limbs, their exposed flesh had been rendered spectrally
white and wrinkled into premature old age by the potent effect of the strong spirit in which they had been pickled. Rather than humans, they appeared instead to be effigies moulded coarsely in
ridged pork fat: lips swollen and twisted, eyes dead and milky, fingernails warped like damp wood shavings. Mercifully, the only smell was that of the sweet brandy itself.

For his part, Mr Frederick was maintaining a polite defiance under the interrogative assault of the policemen.

‘Sir Richard – the unloading warrant specifies a hundred barrels of fine French brandy. They were unloaded and weighed a month ago and have been here since. I see no way that these
bodies could have found their way into the barrels in the meantime. I assure you that these vaults are exceptionally secure.’

‘It would seem not,’ said Sir Richard, trying not to look upon the five forms before him. ‘Is it possible that a cooper could have gained access at night and opened the barrels
to put the bodies within?’

‘It is very unlikely, sir. We have watchmen of course, and the vaults are locked at night. Even if a cooper were to gain access and do as you say, the loss of spirit would have been
evident on the floor the next morning.’

‘Unless he and his accomplices – whose existence is beyond question in this endeavour – collected and took away the excess spirit to hide their crime,’ said Inspector
Newsome, pushing his way to the front of the crowd and nodding a greeting to Sir Richard (who did not seem especially surprised to see him there).

‘But . . . why?’ Mr Frederick turned to his other warehousemen for support, of which there was none. ‘Why would somebody go to so much trouble to put these unfortunate men in
barrels? It makes no sense whatsoever.’

‘And that is precisely why it is so suspicious,’ said Sir Richard. He turned to the constables by his side: ‘Men – these bodies are to be removed to a police surgery and
examined minutely under the supervision of the Detective Force. There may be no obvious cause of death other than immersion in brandy, but I want to know precisely what killed each of them. I also
want every stitch of their clothing to be examined to discover any clues to their identities.’

A familiar voice came from the crowd: Mr Williamson.

‘Hmm. Might I also suggest that the ship-owner Josiah Timbs, or his master, casts an eye over these spoiled faces. Identification may thus be expedited.’

‘A capital suggestion, Mr Williamson,’ said Richard with the merest flash of personal acknowledgement. ‘We will do just that.’

Inspector Newsome scowled. ‘If these men do indeed prove to be the missing mariners of the brig
Aurora
– which I am sure we are all thinking – my suggestion is to check
once again whether (and if) their wages have been collected. That way a timeline of their deaths might be reconstructed.’

‘Another fine point,’ conceded Sir Richard. ‘It will be done.’

The name of the
Aurora
had sent a thrill of recognition through those gathered in the vault, and now a greater murmur animated the space. Could it be true? Were these the lost souls of
that bewitched vessel, washed up here on a tide of spiritous liquor? The story would be in a hundred public houses by dusk.

‘Very well!’ said Sir Richard, sensing that the congregation threatened to expand still further, ‘let us have everyone out of the vault but myself and the constables here. This
is now a scene of investigation . . . Mr Newsome, Mr Williamson – I refer to you also. This is now a matter for the Detective Force, who will no doubt soon arrive to take up the case. You
must both leave.’

The crowd began reluctantly to exit the vault, looking back that they might drink in one final glance at the bodies. Among them, Noah also did his best to commit the entire scene to memory.

But even as the people left, a clamour erupted elsewhere in the dock and cries could be heard coming closer to the spirit vault. Those departing made way for a young man approaching with an
expression of the greatest agitation.

‘Police! Police! There is another one – another body at the Pipe!’

‘What? What is this?’ Sir Richard held up a hand to the onrushing youth. ‘Becalm yourself, boy. Breathe, and tell us what this is about.’

‘Come quick, sir. They have found a dead man in the Pipe!’

‘The Pipe . . . ? I . . .’

‘The Queen’s Pipe, sir . . . what we call the furnace . . . won’t you come quick?’

‘Very well. Constables – you stay here and see that these bodies are not disturbed; I will go to secure the other scene. Lead the way, boy . . .’

And as Sir Richard (with the sundry other interested investigators) was pursued by an ever-growing retinue upwards and outwards towards the colossal chimney towering over London Dock, perhaps a
brief illustrative interlude upon the subject of the ‘Pipe’ will permit them time to arrive there.

The simple fact is this: any commodity warehoused in the dock may be released only on full payment of the duties owed according to the rates of the time. Should these monies not be paid, the
cargo is destroyed. Whereas the other docks see fit to bury what cannot be used, London Dock takes a more complete approach and sends it all up the ‘Queen’s Pipe’ – so
called because Her Majesty’s duties have not been paid. No matter whether it is Havanah cigars, New Zealand mutton, French silk gloves, pocket watches of Germany or African ivory, all is fed
to the fire. (Only tea, which has been known to set the chimney ablaze, is exempted and reserved for interment.)

As for the ashes scraped from the great conical chamber of that fiery beast, they are sold by the tonne and variously prized by a number of eager buyers. The blacksmith prizes its sifted iron
nuggets as the finest and hardest metal available; the soap manufactory reckons tobacco ash to be the
ne plus ultra
of its kind; the farmer is pleased to scatter the destruction of nations
upon his fields; and the treasure-seeker makes sly reference to the droplets of pure silver and gold to be garnered from the grey masses. In such ways is annihilation turned to profit.

The visiter approaches, as did Sir Richard and the pursuing throng, through the tobacco warehouse towards a door with the royal crest and ‘V.R.’ marked upon it. Beyond that, one
enters a space of quite furious heat, where the iron mouth of the furnace is fed and where sacks of doomed produce lie all around.

The heat was not the only sensation. A distinct smell of cooked flesh also filled the room – something indefinable whose nearest animal comparison was perhaps pork. Its origin was not
difficult to detect.