The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (33 page)

‘Yes. For the rats.’

Mr Williamson peered through the smoke of the Forecastle’s seething parlour but could not see Noah. It was barely eight o’clock and the place was already raucously full of
Ratcliff-highway’s sailors, coachmen, rope-makers, biscuit-bakers, watermen and assorted ladies, both professional and domestic. Amid the general hubbub, there was the occasional yelp of
terriers, bulldogs and optimistic mongrels tethered to table legs or sitting upon the laps of their owners.

Perceiving his interlocutor was otherwise preoccupied, the dog-fancier turned from Mr Williamson to another fellow and began a discussion on the merits of the ditch rat versus the sewer rat. Mr
Williamson then gratefully returned his attention to the crowds, hopeful of glimpsing the Italian, or – less likely, it seemed – Eldritch Batchem himself. The dense and hazy fug made
visibility limited, but would perhaps also offer him the same advantage against those who might observe
him
.

What was it that Eldritch Batchem had hoped to learn here? Was it, as Noah had suggested, merely an extension of his interrogations around the district? Or was he following a more specific
trail? More to the point, was anyone who knew of the
Aurora
’s fate likely to reveal anything to a detective in the aftermath of those gruesome murders at the London Dock? The message
had been clear enough: speak and you will die.

It was indeed a frustrating case, even in Mr Williamson’s broad experience. There was no breathing witness to question, no accessible crime scene but the river itself, and no identifiable
villain save the thousands of shoreline labourers and the elusive Italian. Its murders took place in nocturnal fog or unseen in supposedly locked fortresses of cargo, while the only trace of the
vessel itself was a tabulated wake left through Custom House ledgers. Would this be the case that finally proved too diffuse for him to solve?

‘Eldritch Batchem will find the vessel and the murderer, you mark my words.’

Mr Williamson looked up. The speaker was an omnibus conductor standing immediately to his left and conversing with another fellow in the same line of work.

‘Now then – I am not so sure,’ replied the other. ‘Did you not read that he was wrong about the Waterloo-bridge crime? The police are saying it was a clear case of murder
– not suicide as Batchem said.’

‘They would say that, wouldn’t they? He has run rings around them.’

‘There is evidence to the contrary.’

‘What evidence?’

‘They cannot reveal it all on account of putting the murderers on their guard.’

‘That is rather convenient for them. Mark my words: it will be Mr Batchem who is triumphant. I will put money on it.’

‘How much?’

‘Well, I . . .’

Mr Williamson stopped listening and made to stand. He had seen Noah beckoning from the other side of the heaving parlour, where he was sitting with a trio of rough-looking river workers.

‘This is my colleague Mr Williamson,’ said Noah to his table mates as the detective approached. ‘George – these gentlemen have had an interesting recent encounter with a
certain “investigator” of our acquaintance. The ballast-raker here has quite a tale.’

‘Is that right?’ said Mr Williamson, taking a seat and examining the ballastmen with Noah. ‘What manner of encounter?’

‘As I was tellin’ Mr Dyson ’ere,’ said their leader, ‘the —— in the red ’at came into a vessel I was rakin’ at St Katharine’s and
assaulted me.’

‘Eldritch Batchem
assaulted
you? Why would he do such a thing?’ said Mr Williamson.

‘I admit I was short with ’im and told ’im he couldn’t enter, but ’e got quite upset and pushed me against the ’ull. Look at my ’ead!’

The ballast-raker pulled off his cap and exhibited the still-seeping gash.

‘Hmm – that is indeed a nasty wound. What was he asking about?’

‘Some ——— nonsense about workin’ with a shovel and our work with the ballast. I told ’im nothin’ and neither did my boys.’

Noah nudged the ballast-raker. ‘Show Mr Williamson the glove.’

‘Aye, we ’ad a bit of a scuffle and I pulled off ’is glove. I ’ave it ’ere.’

Mr Williamson took the proffered glove and examined it. ‘Hmm. Fine-quality leather and stitching to be sure – no doubt made especially for the wearer. Average size and . . . what is
this?’

Noah smiled but said nothing. Seeing that the ballast-raker was about to speak, he held the man’s arm.

‘One of the fingers is broader than the others,’ continued Mr Williamson. He put his own hand into the glove and palpated the larger middle finger with an expression of enquiry. And,
in a moment, his face showed the incredulity of understanding.

Noah laughed and nodded.

‘Six ——— fingers!’ blurted the ballast-raker. ‘I saw ’em, but I didn’t believe it at first. The man is a
devil
– I saw it in
’is eyes when ’e struck me. ’E threatened ’e would kill me if I told a soul.’

‘Hmm. Hmm. This is most odd and unexpected, Noah,’ said Mr Williamson, ‘but it casts no further light on our case. So Mr Batchem has been asking about ballast; I have also had
the same thought. That is no revelation.’

‘Do not dismiss this information, George. I feel sure we will be able to learn more about Batchem knowing what we know. There is clearly more (quite literally) to the man than I had
anticipated, and it is always beneficial to know another man’s secrets, is it not?’

‘Hmm. I believe it would be more useful to ask our fellows here about wharfs along the river. Have you not already done so?’

‘I was about to. Gentlemen – I have no doubt that you have worked on vessels up and down the river. If I were to ask you to name wharfs where both tobacco
and
muscovado sugar
are loaded – or in neighbouring warehouses, say – would that be a large number?’

The three ballastmen assumed expressions of cogitation, sorting through the catalogues of riverine locations in their heads. As they did so, Noah cast a surreptitious glance of concern at Mr
Williamson, who was now disinterestedly fixated on the beery throng of the Forecastle. A man of characteristically grey moods, the ex-detective sergeant had seemed darker of late. Even the oddity
of this latest discovery appeared not to rouse him.

‘Well, there’s Pickle Herring,’ said the ballast-raker. ‘They ’ave a bit of most things there.’

‘Indeed,’ said Noah, ‘but there is also a quantity of coal landed there and we are not looking for coal dust.’

‘What about Nine Elms wharf?’ said one of the heavers. ‘Moggach’s warehouse ’as sugar and tobacco, don’t it?’

‘No, it ’as tobacco and
rum
,’ said the ballast-raker. ‘There are the West India Docks, of course, but their tobacco and sugar stores are at a distance from each
other if I remember.’

‘Fryin’ Pan wharf at Wappin’,’ offered the heaver who had not yet spoken. ‘I seen ’em unloadin’ everythin’ there: tobacca, wool, sugar, silks,
furs . . . not coal. Never seen coa—’

There was a sudden pause. The ballast-raker had cast a severe look at the speaker. Noah caught it, and Mr Williamson evidently sensed it, turning his attention back from the parlour to the
table.

‘Who has a warehouse at Frying Pan wharf?’ said Noah as nonchalantly as he could.

‘O, it’s not so much a ware’ouse,’ said the ballast-raker with a careless gesture of the hand. ‘Vessels sometimes stop there if their proper berth is taken, you
know. At least, that’s what I’ve ’eard.’

‘And do Custom House officials receive ships there officially?’ said Mr Williamson with renewed attention.

‘If the ship ’as a landin’ warrant, why not?’ said the ballast-raker. ‘I deal in ballast, sir – I don’t pay attention to things that don’t concern
me. Fryin’ Pan wharf doesn’t concern me. It’s none of our business, is it, mates?’

The two heavers shook their heads mutely and stared at the tabletop.

‘Hmm,’ said Mr Williamson.

‘Well . . . can I buy you another drink, gentlemen?’ said Noah with a clap of his hands.

‘No. I think it’s time for the rats,’ said the ballast-raker, fumbling earnestly for his watch.

At that very moment, the barman rang a large brass ship’s bell and a thrill of excitement passed through the parlour. Dogs recognized the sound and began barking. A door was thrown open
and a slow rolling thunder of boots began to sound across the wooden floor towards the stairs led, it seemed, by three eager ballastmen.

‘Shall we adjourn above?’ said Noah to Mr Williamson.

‘I suppose we might,’ replied the latter.

‘What is the matter, George? You are quite unlike yourself. Did you not just observe that awkwardness when the heaver mentioned Frying Pan wharf? I would not be surprised if every river
worker here knows more than the police about the disappearance of that brig . . . and you are the man to extract it from them. Have you seen any sign of Batchem or the Italian?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, that is perhaps to our advantage. Let us follow the throng upstairs and see what else we can learn. Tomorrow, we will meet with Ben and Mr Cullen to gather all we know.’

‘You have not yet spoken with Benjamin?’

‘No, but that is not unusual. If he is not still at Ludgate-hill, he will be at a theatre somewhere. I will speak to him later. Now – let us make haste . . .’

The two joined the remaining enthusiasts in venturing up the narrow wooden staircase to the room above, which presented a scene even more populously cacophonous than the parlour had been. In the
centre was a pit of about six feet in diameter with a waist-high rim encircling it and a large gas chandelier suspended centrally above. All around the pit, men sat on banked benches or stood
leaning over the rim to loudly debate the merits of the sturdy bulldog that sniffed about the white-painted floor within.

Noah indicated that they should take different viewing positions and Mr Williamson ascended one of the benches to take a seat between a bulky fellow with coal dust glistening in his beard and an
American sailor in a red worsted shirt who introduced himself with a wink and a gobbet of chewing tobacco that narrowly missed the detective’s shoes. Pipe smoke twisted beneath the startling
illumination of the gas chandelier and there was a powerful smell of gin in the air.

‘Welcome, welcome all!’ came a shout from the doorway: the portly landlord himself.

A colossal cheer and stamping of feet went up and the assembled dogs again began their chorus of anticipation.

‘Tonight, we will see some fine examples of the rat-killing art,’ said the landlord, ‘including my own precious terrier Claymore, who will attempt fifty rats in five minutes!
But first, perhaps some of you will try your animals. Who is this in the pit? A fine bulldog, it seems. Is he a brave one?’

‘He is called Prince,’ shouted a fellow at the rim, evidently the owner. ‘I will try him on ten rats.’

‘Very well – let us test his mettle. The rats, the rats – bring the rats!’

The volume in the room rose higher as the audience scrutinized the animal before them and placed bets on whether Prince would kill all of his rats. Meanwhile, a singular personage came through
the door hoisting a writhing canvas sack over his shoulder. The fellow, who seemed to walk lightly upon his toes, could have been no taller than five feet and wore a long, thick beard that extended
south to his sternum and north almost to his eyes. Long wiry hair stood out alarmingly from his scalp and reached down to touch his shoulders. As he passed through the crowd, dogs growled and
worried at his heels.

‘Mr Baudrons – have you got some good ones for us?’ shouted the landlord with a theatrical gesture.

The hairy little man nodded and continued to the pit, where he climbed over the rim with the aid of some wooden steps. Once inside, he indicated that Prince’s owner should restrain him
until the ten rats could be extracted. He then unbound the neck of the twitching sack and reached in with a bare hand to extract the first of the damp and filth-matted vermin by its thick brown
tail. With each successive rat, the room became more and more suffused with the putrid stench of the sewer until ten of the abominations huddled in a roiling mass of fur and tails by the
pit’s rim.

By now, dogs all over the room were whimpering or barking at the unholy aroma and speculation among the crowd had reached a hiatus. Meanwhile Noah and Mr Williamson used the general focus upon
the arena to cast their eyes over the crowds for any sign of their Italian in disguise. Of him, however, there was no sign among the motley gathering – though there was another present whose
atrocious bodily odour was to some degree now masked by the smell of the rats.

He named Baudrons climbed back out of the ring and signalled to the landlord with a nod.

‘Release the dog! Let Prince seek his coronation!’ shouted the landlord.

A cheer erupted and the bulldog approached the seething pile with dainty caution. Unsure, he put an exploratory nose to it . . . but withdrew a mere second later, yelping and dancing madly about
with a rat attached firmly to his snout.

A great laugh of derision erupted from the crowd and continued as Prince sought urgently to prise the creature from his nose with a flailing paw. The humiliated owner reached urgently into the
pit and jabbed his pocket knife at the rat, whereupon it let go and scuttled back to the group seemingly none the worse for wear. Prince, however, had had quite enough and sat licking at his nose
with no more interest in the proceedings.

‘That was rather a poor show,’ said Noah to the man standing next to him at the pit’s edge: the fellow called Baudrons.

‘I have no resspect for dogz, ssir,’ replied the diminutive fellow. ‘Foolissh animalz, they are. A good cat would not cower sso before an animal but a quarter of itz ssize. I
ssupply the ratz, certainly, but I have no regard for the dogz.’

‘They are sewer rats, are they?’

‘Indeed, ssir. They are the mosst obsstreperouss ssince they musst fight for their food. Your ditch and river rat iss fat and sspoilt in hiss fare.’

‘I expect you are quite an authority on the matter.’

‘Not esspecially, ssir. Catz are my province. I am cat masster at the London Dock.’