The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (41 page)

‘Yes, I follow your reasoning,’ said Sir Richard. ‘The advert has been placed, which would seem to suggest intent. Perhaps the perpetrators of these crimes simply have no
fear.’

‘Or perhaps it is a test to see how much we really know,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘As we pursue this new vessel, they may watch us to gauge our strength. Alternatively, it may all
be a ruse to direct our attention elsewhere.’

‘That is quite possible,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Nevertheless, I believe the time has come to act. We will investigate the identity and movements of this other ship, the
“Parrot”, and we will strike at Frying Pan wharf.’

‘So – to action!’ said Noah, making to stand.

‘Wait,’ said Sir Richard with a firm voice. ‘I understand your haste; I also have a man in danger – but let us understand the nature of our challenge. This wharf is
evidently a dangerous place. It is peopled by numerous men of the roughest sort who care nothing for the law and who have already killed to keep their secret. If we go there, it will be in daylight
with a contingent of brave policemen, with the foreknowledge of the vessel to be taken and with the benefit of a flood tide that gives our galleys room to manoeuvre. We must also be accompanied by
men of the Custom House, who will verify what is illicit and confiscate it. I trust that a man of your sense cannot argue with these criteria, Mr Dyson.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘I understand that you wish to rush madly and alone at that warehouse with dagger in hand, but you would almost certainly be killed or taken prisoner. If your friend is still alive, his
best hope is for an orchestrated assault from the Metropolitan Police, which will take some time to organize. Can we agree upon that?’

‘Noah?’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Sir Richard speaks perfect sense. I know it is difficult for you to wait – and that Ben is more your concern than the missing brig –
but they are many and you are one. Deaths may result.’

‘All right,’ said Noah, finally. ‘It will be tomorrow. But I have my own ideas on how to proceed. Listen . . .’

Thus did the three remaining investigators sit in conference beside the fire at Mr Williamson’s home. Afternoon dimmed into dusk; gaslamps were lit; night absorbed smoke
into a still darker sky. Any curious passer-by might have stood gazing through those uncurtained windows at the
tableau
of earnest discussion within and wondered at the characters
present.

Who, for example, was the sober-looking gentleman with the pock-marked face? A bookkeeper or a clerk, perhaps? He spoke little, but listened to the others with clear intent. The one with the
grey eyes and broken nose was quite a different sort, expressing himself volubly by means of gestures and extemporized diagrams.
He
– an engineer or some manner of radical? –
might have been the leader of the three were it not for the gravity of the third figure: the oldest and most patrician, whose eyes possessed a great intelligence. It was a vaguely familiar face . .
. but unlikely to be anyone of great authority in this part of London.

Certainly, one seldom knows what or who to believe in the great metropolis. Three fellows glimpsed through a window could be businessmen, plotters or thieves. A man wearing a russet cap might
call himself Crawford or Batchem and be taken as either if there is no contradictory evidence. A detective might adopt a uniform and seem a common policeman, while a constable might equally divest
himself of epaulettes and become a detective.

In such ways do metamorphoses occur and perspectives change in the city of tides. Men likewise rise and fall according to the vagaries of the moon, or fate, or will. Where were they all on that
night before the raid on Frying Pan wharf?

Inspector Newsome’s heart had barely calmed since witnessing the villains in the warehouse. The longer he remained crouching there in the corridor by the arch, the more
frozen with fearful inertia became his filth-soaked legs. Discovery by one of the criminals or their band was surely imminent. Action was imperative – but to what end?

Should he venture back the way he had come and lurk about the sewers until his lamp faded and blackness became his tomb? Might he attempt to find another source of oil to light his journey back
to the river? Or should he descend into the warehouse and test his own life against those men who could kill him without their crime ever being discovered? He had one bullet and a dagger; at least
one of the others also possessed a blade and was likely to be more adept in its use.

As he cogitated thus, he saw with a jolt of horror that he had left damp footprints all along the corridor to where he now rested. No doubt these could be traced directly from the sewer, raising
a general alarm and stirring every murderous hand against the intruder. He had to move – and keep moving – in the hope that his trail would dry before being discovered. But move
where?

With determination he stood once more and peered through the arch. Nobody seemed to be present below. The only course of action was to follow the corridor either left or right and see where it
took him. Left or right – life or death? He reached into his trouser pocket and took out the Elizabethan sovereign he had found. Heads or tails?

He went right, following an apparent gallery punctuated with more arches looking over the warehouse space. He walked cautiously and without destination – merely to move – and in the
hope that an idea would occur to him. The pistol remained gripped firmly in his palm.

Inevitably, there could be no rescue from the Metropolitan Police. This place had remained secret for a long time, either because no tosher knew of its existence, or because those who did had
been silenced. It was not at all rare for a decomposing sewer-hunter to be found by excavators of some new street, or for a body to be washed out into the river. Perhaps, indeed, the animal he had
been seeking was one of Cerberus’s race: a fearsome beast let loose among the vile passages to dissuade and devour.

Where was the creature? Was it that very moment sniffing at his path of damp footsteps and growing ever closer? Would one pistol shot be enough to fell it? And would that loud report bring the
criminals running to effect what the animal had not?

A stone stairway fell away to his left: a long, steep descent of around thirty feet ending dimly in a rusting iron door. Moss and slime flourished around the lower stairs suggesting a regular
influx of water, and there was an unmistakable smell of the river. Excitement animated his spirit – was this a possible means of escape?

Cogitating no further, Mr Newsome descended towards the iron door, upon whose rusty knob was a length of cord holding a large antique key. He put an exploratory ear to the metal and heard
nothing beyond. He slid aside the escutcheon plate noiselessly and peered into blackness. Was it better to be on the
other
side of that door? Might it lead him to freedom? If required, he
had just a little oil left in his lamp and a box of lucifers in a dry coat pocket . . .

Still holding the pistol, he inserted the key into the hole and turned it with a scraping of corroded parts. He pushed with his shoulder and the heavy door groaned inwards . . .

After the candle had died, Benjamin and Mr Cullen had sat listening to each other’s breath and occasional shuffling in search of warmth on the cold stone flags. No other
sound or needle of light intruded into that Hadean cell.

‘Will we die here, Ben?’ said Mr Cullen.

Silence answered as an unseen gesture.

‘I am not afraid to die . . . only, I had hoped one day to marry a nice girl. I am still quite a young man . . . O, this is unbearable! I would rather they had provided no light at all
than to give it and let it die. There must be
something
we can do to escape this place!’

Benjamin breathed steadily, part of the darkness.

‘Wait . . . Ben – do you hear that . . . ?’

Footsteps were indeed approaching – perhaps two or three pairs of boots echoing from afar. Within the cell, they strained to hear more detail.

The people were now apparently descending a flight of stairs towards the door, and . . . was one of the footfalls impaired in some way, as if the fellow was being half-dragged or carried?

‘Ben!’ whispered Mr Cullen, ‘I will wait by the side of the door. When it opens, I will force whoever enters into the cell. We can dispatch them together and make our escape.
Are you ready?’

A scraping boot indicated Benjamin’s preparations.

The key rattled in the lock. The door opened a crack. A shaft of dim light cut across the flagstones inside. Mr Cullen stepped vigorously forward in anticipation of grasping a shirt front . .
.

Instead, a virtually inert body was thrown into the cell and into the open arms of Mr Cullen, who toppled over backwards under the dead weight. As he fell, he caught the merest glimpse of two
forms (one short, one tall) silhouetted against the stairs . . . then the door closed with a reverberating clang. Blackness returned.

‘A dead man, Ben!’ said Mr Cullen, his hands going over the body for some kind of identification. ‘Can you smell the blood, Ben?’

Benjamin made his way towards the voice and aided in the examination of the body.

‘O . . . wait a minute . . . I think he is breathing!’

And, indeed, the increasingly vivid body began to groan and writhe as if regaining consciousness.

‘Who are you, sir?’ said Mr Cullen. ‘Were you also taken at Frying Pan wharf? Are you a police detective?’

‘A det . . . a detec-tive,’ croaked the figure weakly.

‘Do the police know we are here? Is there to be a rescue?’

‘My . . . neck . . . razor . . .’

Mr Cullen felt along the prone body and realized that what he had previously imagined to be a scarf about the neck was more likely a makeshift bandage. Close to, the smell of blood was
unmistakable.

‘They have cut your throat, sir? If you can speak, I suspect the wound is not deep. Have heart – you may live.’

‘I have solved . . .
Aur-ora
. . . I have solved . . .’ gasped the invisible fellow.

Benjamin, meanwhile, had extracted something wadded in the gentleman’s breast pocket and was manipulating it now, employing black fingers in that black space. It was some manner of
garment: a circle of material, a label, stitching – a cap? He reached with blind urgency for Mr Cullen’s hand and pressed the item into it.

‘O . . . what is this?’

Benjamin allowed his friend a moment to palpate the cap then drew Mr Cullen’s hand in his own towards the injured man’s beard, where entangled fingers tugged at a point of coarse
hair. There was a sudden intake of breath from Mr Cullen.

‘Eldritch Batchem!’

‘
I
have solved . . . the case,’ rasped the investigator thus identified. ‘I . . . have found . . . murderers. Frying Pan . . .’

‘My G—, Ben! Do these people have us
all
in custody?’ said Mr Cullen.

The question hung unanswered in the damp air.

‘I have . . . solved,’ croaked the prone form, fading now. ‘The villain is found . . . Liveridge . . . forgive me . . .’

‘Calm yourself, Mr Batchem,’ said Mr Cullen. ‘Who attacked you? Can you describe him? Who is the murderer?’

‘I . . . I . . . a mask of evil. O, Liveridge!’

‘His name is Liveridge? I do not understand you . . .’

But the wounded man had clearly exhausted himself, or been exhausted by what he had endured. A black hand settled softly on Mr Cullen’s arm: leave the poor fellow alone.

For some minutes, none spoke, each occupied with the flurry of his own thoughts. Eldritch Batchem wheezed softly and made no attempt to sit.

Then, once again, there was a dry scraping of the key in the lock. The door groaned open and a shadowy figure appeared in the frame, looking cautiously inside . . .

. . . Mr Newsome almost exclaimed as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and he saw the three gentlemen squinting back at him. Benjamin, the traitorous Mr Cullen, and the
infernal stage-detective Eldritch Batchem – all together on the damp stone flags. A rush of impressions and conclusions assailed him . . .

‘Mr Newsome!’ cried Mr Cullen with unrestrained amazement. ‘You have come to free us!’

Benjamin’s single eye also could not repress its wonder. He began to stand, but his amazement turned instantaneously to fury . . .

Without a word or gesture, Mr Newsome rapidly closed and locked the door, dropping the key into his trouser pocket where it clinked against the gold coin.

Fulminations and execrations rained then upon the door from within and the inspector thought it better to distance himself from that place with all haste . . .

It was fully night when Noah finally left Mr Williamson’s house. The wind tugged at his coat tails and he inhaled deeply at the distinctive perfume of Lambeth air: the
lead smelters’ poison, the breweries’ yeasty steam, Beaufoy’s acrid vinegar works and, of course, the eternal river mud and streets that had yet to see the modern age of
progress.

Of a mind to walk, he instinctively headed north past the dark emptiness of Vauxhall Gardens to where Fore-street ran its sordid and dilapidated course parallel to the Thames. Here, glowing
cigar tips twitched within shadowy passages at approaching footfalls, and gaslamps mocked the centuries-old structures as they bowed under the pressure of time. But Noah felt no trepidation. In
this jungle, he had always been a predator.