The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (42 page)

As he walked, he could not help but reflect upon the vagaries of London. One might be rich or poor, sinful or righteous, and the city would strew one’s path with trials all the same. A
house or livelihood lost, an unexpected betrayal, an unjust incarceration, the omniscient eye and illimitable reach of authority, the abduction of a friend. The strong rose above the filth; the
weak were pulled into the torrent and drowned. Every child of the city knew as much.

Benjamin would be found and freed – that was the only concern. The
Aurora
and its cargo could be d——. Sir Richard Mayne and his perfidious Inspector Newsome could be
d——. Even the benevolent and well-meaning gentleman detective Mr Williamson could be d—— if he wished to place justice higher than one man’s life. In London, one
stepped first, hit hardest and took one’s chances at the expense of others. Trust was temporary, and friendship all too often fleeting. Every child of the city knew as much.

The damp earth of the archbishop’s gardens now sweetened the air as he traversed Church-street and passed closer to the river. Venerable Westminster-bridge showed itself a many-humped
beast lumbering across the choppy waters, and Noah paused to look at the river. Behind him was that great seat of Christianity, Lambeth Palace. Before him was a deity that pre-dated the Cross. Had
not articles of pagan faith been found upon the shore: those clay and stone supplications marked with forgotten ancient tongues?

A Christian prayer or a pagan propitiation? Noah had long ago found the former to be futile. He took out his dagger and weighed it in his palm, turning it so that the moon played along the
blade. Was it an offering worthy of the river god? Would it please the ageless power enough to grant a wish? Noah muttered something to the waves: half promise, half hope. And he tossed the dagger
with all strength into the black depths of ageless Thamesis.

Mr Williamson watched the fire die but did not stand to revive it. Sir Richard and Noah had left some hours previously and the house seemed emptier now than before their
arrival. It was late, but he could not think of sleep.

The following day would be a tempestuous one – quite literally so if the wind whining about his walls was anything to go by. He should, perhaps, have been in higher spirits, having been
approached for help by Sir Richard, but his thoughts were otherwise occupied. He thought of earnest Mr Cullen, possibly dead at the bottom of the river. He thought of Benjamin, who had once saved
him from certain death. He thought also of Noah, whose life seemed uncommonly tainted of late by involuntary association with the Metropolitan Police.

And, much against his will, he thought of Charlotte. Rather, the girl contaminated his mind, entering unbidden into his every private moment. Even there, where he had lived in virtuous
contentment with his wife Katherine, the street girl tormented him with memories and visions and sensations that would not let him sleep.

Noah could see it, of course. For him, the solution was as simple as imbibing the spirit until a surfeit of it caused all charm to fade . . . either that or until the spirit rendered one a slave
to its intoxication. What was stronger – the man or his temptation?

‘Go to her, George,’ Noah had said on leaving. ‘Tomorrow there may be pistols and knives. Tomorrow we may die. Will you go to your grave knowing that a mere girl had tortured
you so? Go to her as a detective, as the policeman you once were, and see her for what she is. Rid her from your thoughts.’

Mr Williamson put on his coat and hat. He would go for a walk to clear his head and consider the day to come. He would cross Vauxhall-bridge and take note of the river in this uncommon wind. He
would walk north beside the penitentiary to Whitehall and perhaps have a cup of coffee thereabouts to revive his mind.

Or he would walk past those coffee houses towards Haymarket and head up towards Windmill-street, intently noting female faces all along those sinful thoroughfares. He might even go as far as
Golden-square, where the habitually uncurtained illumination of one specific residence caused one to pause and glance idly inside as if to see what sort of person lived there.

If she saw him standing watch, she might wave with a smile and come to the street door. She might beckon him up the stairs and remark that his face was somehow familiar. Would the gentleman like
a cup of tea, perhaps? The fire inside was warm and it was terribly windy out.

Her perfume would be as he remembered it. Her large, dark eyes would mock the sobriety of his own. He would take off his hat and enter with an expression not of ardour or lust or longing, but of
crucifixion.

Later still, and long past midnight, a single office at Scotland Yard showed its illuminated window to the night. Within, Sir Richard Mayne was marshalling the forces of
justice in preparation for daylight.

Clerks and messengers had been roused from their beds and sent off about the city to wake others, who in turn would write orders and dispatch their own men in an ever-outwards ripple of
readiness. The Thames Police station at Wapping called in extra men and sought additional galleys for their use. The police fire boat and steam launch were put on standby for first light. The Horse
Guards were told to be aware of imminent police activity that might require armed support. The Lord Mayor issued a general alarm to all police stations within the vicinity of Frying Pan wharf,
advising them to have men ready if needed. Even the Home Office was notified of a possible disturbance by the river.

Similarly, Trinity House was apprised of the situation and requested to keep its lumbering ballast machines clear of the wharf at high tide. In response, it graciously offered a lighter and a
number of strong honest men should they be required to purge this corruption finally from river trade.

Almanacks were consulted. Low tide would be half past eight that morning. High tide would be half past two in the afternoon, after which there would be dead water and the best opportunity for
action.

Sir Richard showed no apprehension or indecision as he signed orders, drafted instructions and received runners. But as dawn approached, so did a creeping doubt.

And so, as the players in this drama lived out their various stories on that night – frustrated, imprisoned, wounded or in moral peril – the metropolis was in the
early stages of its own imminent convulsion. The north-east wind, which had been building for days, now reached a new intensity, whipping up clouds of ash from the streets and channelling them
through alleys in blinding vortices. Chimney pots came loose and crashed to the cobbles; rigging whistled and whipped against masts in the docks; galleys and wherries rocked against their tethers
at stairs all along the river.

At Deptford, one particular vessel, the
Prince Peacock
out of Calais, was moored for the night. Its mariners rocked in their hammocks, oblivious to the creaks and rattles of their vessel
or the hull-slapping waves. At flood tide, their progress to St Katharine’s would be all the easier with the favourable wind . . . if indeed they ever reached their final mooring.

Down near Pickle Herring-street, the ‘Thames sage’ John Tarr stirred uneasily from his shore-side abode and ventured out onto the mud to observe the waters. He cast a weather eye at
the moon-silvered clouds. He watched the racing scalloped crests upon a mercury surface. He noted the thicket of swaying masts along the far shore – a consequence of that persistent
north-easterly that drove more vessels than usual into the heart of the city.

Not only vessels, he must have mused, but also great volumes of water driven from the sea into the gaping coastal mouth of the river. Certainly, it was that time of the year when inundations
might occur. He appeared to nod and mumble something to himself, or to the sky. Then he returned briskly to his den, leaving up Tripe-alley just a few minutes later with a full seaman’s bag
over his shoulder.

Daylight and the ebb tide brought wonder among the many thousands working by the river. By half past eight, the waters seemed to have receded to a greater extent than many
could recall, revealing the broad channel almost to its bed at certain points.

Between St Saviour’s and the London Dock, a mere ribbon of flat, brown water remained amid a great expanse of shining mud that was itself littered with the unveiled detritus of centuries.
Sodden barrels, still-corked bottles, pipe fragments, saturated coal, slithery lengths of discarded rope, and pottery of every hue could be seen there, along with the bones of some long-forgotten
wreck emerging blackly from the mire’s grasp.

Naturally, the mudlarks were out in force, swarming like insects over the river’s unexpected nakedness. Not only they, but any number of street boys, apprentices and costermongers, for
whom the novelty was akin to the old frost fairs of memory. And above the whole filthy carnival, an unimaginable composted miasma arose that suggested the very fundament of the city had been
momentarily laid bare.

Yet despite the early low tide, the Port of London was as busy as it had been for months. Almost a third more vessels than usual had been blown upriver by that persistent wind of recent days and
the shores seemed as crowded with men and wagons as London-bridge. At every dock, wharf, quay and bank, cranes rattled, wheels trundled, boots rapped out lumber tattoos, and the thunder of landing
cargo echoed around warehouse fronts.

It was indeed a populous and detailed canvas from the gallery of London – a mere fragment of time soon to be erased by the incoming flood. But if one were to take a magnifying glass to its
epic scope and peer into the shadows, one would notice certain other characters waiting expectantly among the throng . . .

Shortly before noon, for example, the grand
façade
of the Custom House was concealing a congregation of some considerable significance. Mr Williamson sat towards the rear of a
large smoky room crowded with chattering uniformed policemen and Custom House officials, all of whom were engaged in the most energetic speculation as to the reason for their presence there. When
the large panelled door opened, an immediate hush came over the room, followed by urgent muttering as Sir Richard Mayne entered with the Inspector General of Customs, Mr Jackson.

‘Gentlemen,’ began the latter in a stentorian tone, ‘I thank you all for volunteering for this extra duty, which, as you have no doubt already gathered, concerns a matter of
the greatest importance to the commerce and reputation of this building, and to the city as a whole. One might say it began with the murder of Mr William Barton on Waterloo-bridge nine days ago,
but I regret to say that the crimes facing us are greater, and stretch further back even than that. I am sure most of you know the commissioner of police; I will let him continue.’

Sir Richard Mayne nodded sombrely in acknowledgement. ‘Thank you Mr Jackson, and I thank you gathered gentlemen for your time. I will be brief: a large and well-established smuggling
operation has recently been identified by the Detective Force. It is behind the disappearance of the brig
Aurora
and behind a number of rather grisly murders. Not only that, but a Thames
policeman has also apparently been abducted by this band of brigands.’

A wave of comment rippled through the audience, the occasional
sotto-voce
mention of ‘Newsome’ showing that the secret had not been kept as well as the commissioner might have
hoped.

‘Gentlemen!’ continued Sir Richard with a grimace, ‘the focus of our action today will be Frying Pan wharf at Wapping. The police steam launch is waiting before this building
and will transport many of us to that place as the high tide becomes still water. I will be frank – there may be danger and you constables may have to use your truncheons. A battle, however,
is not our aim. Mr Jackson – perhaps you will explain . . .’

‘Indeed,’ continued the inspector general. ‘The purpose of our raid is to enter the warehouse and confiscate all cargo for which there is no documentation – particularly
anything we can connect to the original manifest of the
Aurora
. It also seems very likely that there is a concealed storeroom at the site. If our colleagues in the police can find that
space, we Customs men will impound everything within it and discern its origins as comprehensively as possible. All miscreants we encounter will be arrested and closely questioned on the matter of
the missing brig. Does anybody have a question?’

No hand was raised.

‘Very well,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Allow me to describe our raid in greater detail. It is not our intention simply to descend in force upon the wharf, which may give senior
members of this group a chance to escape. Rather, an advance force will first dock there on a vessel named the
Prince Peacock
. . .’

And as Sir Richard laid out the events to come, Mr Williamson sat silently impassive amid so much eager anticipation. Though dressed in his civilian clothes, he had been issued with a truncheon
and a reinforced constable’s top hat. One might perhaps have said that the expression on his face was one of calm readiness for the task ahead – but a dark unease permeated his every
thought. He remained unshaven since the day before, and his eyes were hollows of shadow.