The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (43 page)

Long after he and the many other fellows had vacated the room to board the launch, his truncheon and hat remained intentionally upon the seat.

Noah Dyson scratched irritably for the dozenth time at the false beard he was wearing. Ludicrous as it looked, it made a remarkable difference to his appearance, creating an
authentic impression of the brawny sailor who had been at sea for months. More importantly, it might briefly fool the Italian, the surviving stinking little man or anyone else who had been
observing him over the past few days.

Had he really killed the twin of that malodorous midget? The two of them had leaped upon him like dogs the day before, clinging too close for him to effectively bring the dagger into play. Only
when one of them had been literally thrown to the ground did he have the chance to slash at a throat. Certainly, the man had bled profusely and lain quite inert as Noah made his escape.

The incident had caused him to reflect anew what kind of men would so readily wreak murder upon those who came close to discovering their secret. First some of the crew of the
Aurora
,
then the braggart William Barton, then Eldritch Batchem. Had Mr Cullen, Benjamin and Mr Newsome all gone the same way? The enemy was utterly ruthless. But retribution was imminent.

Noah looked up at the
Prince Peacock
’s filigree of rigging, masts, spars, booms and braces
silhouetted
against heavy grey cloud. Most sails were now furled for docking, and
the crew were largely occupied below decks to hide their true number. It was a sight to transport him temporarily to any one of the world’s oceans and to evoke memories of his previous life.
The smell of oakum, the crunch of salt on timber, the billow of canvas and
thrum
of wind-plucked rope . . .

‘Mr Dyson, sir? The tide is quite risen. We are ready to dock.’

Noah came out of his reverie to see the
Prince Peacock
’s (genuine) first mate standing at his side. ‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘You may retire to the master’s
quarters as I oversee our landing. Stay there, whatever may occur, and you will be safe.’

He strolled forward to the port bow and saw Frying Pan wharf ahead. The large warehouse doors were open and a newly loaded lighter was just heaving to from its moorings. Noah smiled and felt his
blood hot in his veins. Nobody on shore could have the slightest inclination about what was to happen next.

He turned back to the decks, inserted two fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. ‘All right, boys! Bring us in to the wharf. Coils at the ready there . . . man the capstans . .
. haul that jib . . . easy to starboard, mates . . . easy I say!’

It should here be noted that while those scurrying mariners were all experienced with rope and sail, none but the first mate was of the original
Prince Peacock
crew (themselves removed
earlier that morning at Greenwich). Rather, they were a composite band of volunteer Thames Police and Custom House officers in plain clothes who might unload the vessel and, should the need arise,
be on hand to offer a ready fist and truncheon.

‘That’s right, lads!’ continued Noah with gusto. ‘Toss the cables there! We are coming to. Are you ready to break out the cargo, boys?’

The ship settled into its berth as gently as an infant into its cradle. The ropes were pulled tight and the gangplank clattered down onto the stone edge of Frying Pan wharf.

Immediately, a stalwart and suspicious-looking man with luxuriantly tattooed forearms approached the foot of the plank as if to block Noah’s descent. ‘Hoi! What’s this?’
he shouted. ‘We’re expectin’ no vessel here! I was told yer would dock at . . .’

‘Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?’ said Noah from behind his beard.

‘Rigby, of course – I’m foreman of this wharf and I say we’re expectin’ no
Prince Peacock
’ere.’

‘The landing warrant says different, sir.’ Noah stepped assuredly down the plank and handed Mr Rigby the Custom House document, watching him scrutinize it with ever greater confusion
. . . as well he might.

‘Where’s yer tidewaiter?’ said Mr Rigby with a truculent glare.

‘Why, he is right here . . .’ Noah indicated a genuine uniformed Custom House tidewaiter procured for just this eventuality.

The man saw his cue and came forward. ‘Is there a problem, foreman?’

‘Where’d yer get this warrant, tidewaiter?’

‘From the landing-waiter, of course, after he reported our arrival at the Long Room. It is all quite clear: a hold full of Brussels lace and French silk bolts to Frying Pan wharf . .
.’

Mr Rigby scratched his head and cast a look back to the warehouse, muttering to himself: ‘This wasn’t supposed to . . .’

‘If you will ready your lumpers and alert the warehouseman, we will begin unloading immediately,’ said Noah, whistling once again for his men to unload the holds.

‘
Wait, d—— you!
’ exclaimed Mr Rigby. ‘You’ll wait ’ere while I check on this with . . . with my master. Unload
nothin’
,
understand?’

And with this, Mr Rigby strode with great vigour into the darkness of the warehouse. A number of lumpers around the wharf had already stopped work and were observing the scene with a mixture of
amusement and dubiety.

Noah cast a quick look along the river and saw the police launch’s prow nestled among colliers over at Elephant stairs on the Rotherhithe shore. He winked at the tidewaiter by his side and
called out to his crew: ‘Down planks, men! Break out the trolleys. Unload, unload . . . ! All cargo into the warehouse there!’

Thus, when Mr Rigby emerged rapidly and red-faced from the shadows a few minutes later, it was to see pulleys already in play on the vessel’s decks and a number of men approaching him with
crates on trolleys. Apoplexy seized him at once.

‘I thought I told yer: no ——— unloadin’! Take it back or I’ll crush yer ’eads, I swear!’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Noah, himself carrying a large crate, ‘the warrant says Frying Pan wharf and that’s exactly where we must unload.’

‘Why, you . . . !’

Mr Rigby aimed a tremendous kick at the crate in Noah’s arms, almost knocking him over and causing the crate to drop to the ground where it cracked along one edge. Its contents could now
be glimpsed through the splintered wood.

‘Hold up!’ said Mr Rigby on peering within. ‘That’s no lace or silk . . . it looks like . . . old newspapers! What’s goin’ on ’ere . . . ?’

Those sundry lumpers on shore who had not already stopped work to watch the show paused in their work. There was certainly nothing like a good fight to liven up the tedium of their daily
toil.

Mr Rigby turned hateful eyes immediately upon Noah, but was quite unprepared for the reaction of this artificially bearded false mate.

Noah stepped rapidly around the fallen crate and grasped the material at the foreman’s throat with a powerful hand. At the same time, he swiftly produced a boatman’s knife and made
sure his victim could feel the cold metal edge just below his jaw. He spoke with a chilling malevolence:

‘The Negro with the milky eye – tell me where he is imprisoned or I will cut you from ear to ear.’

Just inches from Noah’s face, Mr Rigby’s eyes at first showed surprise rather than fear. Then understanding seemed to flicker across them and he grinned with vulpine
self-assurance.

‘Cut me, then, why don’t yer! No copper or Customs man can do it in plain sight . . .’

Noah’s knee flashed forcefully into the softness of Mr Rigby’s abdomen and the latter dropped like a sack of grain to the wharf.

‘Unfortunately for you, I am neither,’ said Noah to the groaning form at his feet. He extracted a whistle on a cord from beneath his shirt and turned to blow it sharply three times
towards his vessel. ‘All inside, men! The signal! The signal!’

The crew remaining on the
Prince Peacock
reached for a number of green hand flags and waved them furiously in the direction of Elephant stairs, where a great plume of rising smoke showed
the police launch about to dart across the river.

The raid had begun in earnest.

Noah strode towards the open doors of the warehouse, but, even as he did so, shouts echoed inside the structure and the great wooden panels began to roll shut on their metal rails.

‘Quick, lads! The door . . . we must block the door!’ shouted Noah to the crew at his back, who were now pouring from the vessel towards the warehouse.

But the native lumpers of Frying Pan wharf would not remain passive. They exchanged glances. They instinctively reached for their hammers and pry bars and knives. Had they not just witnessed
that bearded first mate brutally assault their foreman Mr Rigby? Had they not seen with their own eyes that crate split open and common newsprint spill forth? Something highly dubious was afoot,
and the Thames lumper recognizes only one tool of debate . . .

A colossal masculine roar went up as the wharf lumpers descended
en masse
upon the men of the
Prince Peacock
. And chaos took hold on the shore: a tremendous scuffle of boots on
stone, punctuating cries of pain, whistles blowing and the grunts of men reduced to beasts as they rolled violently entangled upon the ground.

Noah drove an elbow into the throat of a fellow trying to grab him from behind and raced for the still-closing doors of the warehouse. All support was now engaged in grappling and punching,
while the police launch was still fifty yards from the wharf. There was no time to lose – he must enter alone and take his chances.

With a final leap, he passed sideways through the shrinking gap in the doors even as they brushed him front and back. He rolled on stone flags and righted himself quickly to see a fellow each
side of the huge panels – evidently rather frightened clerks rather than lumpers. Both were now urgently hammering wedges betwixt door and rail while simultaneously watching the intruder with
great apprehension. There seemed to be nobody else inside.

Noah reached for his knife and addressed the two in a tone that did not invite dissension: ‘Tell me where the Negro is kept and I will not harm you.’

‘There is no Negro here,’ said one tremulously.

‘He is above six feet. He has a milky eye and a scar about his neck. Tell me
–
where have you seen him?’

The two looked at each other in apparently genuine bafflement, then back at Noah with shrugs. They were mere clerks – their sole province was the ledger and the scales. Battle meanwhile
raged beyond the doors, bodies or implements occasionally striking against it with a resounding crash.

Noah glared. ‘Open the warehouse immediately. Remove the wedges or I swear I will kill you both as you stand.’

Again, the two men exchanged urgent glances. Noah was equidistant between them. He could not catch them both. Evidently realizing this, they seemed to reach the same decision simultaneously and
both ran from Noah into the cavernous hall of the warehouse.

He furiously kicked away the wedges with a muttered curse and hefted a door ajar to aid the imminent influx of police. Then he turned from the
mêlée
outside and examined the
interior of the place, casting his eyes around at the barrels, bales, stacks and stores that rose almost to the grubby skylights. Ben was here somewhere.

Noah set off down determinedly down the passage immediately facing him: a long avenue of tobacco bales exuding their sweetly intoxicating scent. There had to be a concealed stairway or a locked
vault . . . some manner of anteroom or passage, most likely towards the rear of the place.

As he reached the end of that aisle, a draught of cold musty air washed over his perspiring face and he stopped. There was a distinctive smell of damp stone and drains to it . . . and it
appeared to be emanating from behind a stack of cotton bales. He gripped the seaman’s knife in readiness and moved closer to peer between shadowy cracks.

There, behind the cargo, appeared to be a large rusty iron hatch in the stone flags. It was undoubtedly the origin of the draught, which even now set frigid fingers at his neck.

Noah hauled aside the cotton bales, which though huge in dimension were naturally light enough. Moments later, he was able to prise open the hatch’s lock with his knife and lift the cold
metal plate to reveal a sunken platform containing a double-handled crank mechanism – evidently some manner of device for descending to a lower level of the warehouse. It was big enough to
take perhaps four large barrels at a time.

Without a further thought, he clasped the knife between his teeth, jumped down on to the platform and unhooked the ratchet lock. He then set to work with the iron crank handles and the platform
descended almost soundlessly on greasy teeth into a brickwork shaft that was clearly of greater antiquity than the warehouse itself.

In a matter of seconds, brilliant gaslight began to flood in over his boots and rise slowly up his legs. A bewildering array of scents rose to meet his nose: exotic spices of India, ambergris,
brandy barrels, hides and horn . . .

Noah worked the mechanism with greater speed. He felt the platform settle with a clang against its base and turned to see a colossal chamber at which he could merely gape in wonder. The gas
chandeliers, the ranks of barrels, the stacks of casks . . . here was a sultan’s treasure, a city of gold – a subterranean smugglers’ storehouse to defy the eyes and stir the
imagination.

Something moved at the periphery of his vision. Noah took the knife from his mouth. A figure emerged cat-like from among the cargo.

The Italian.

And he was pointing a pistol unwaveringly at Noah’s heart.

When the police steam launch arrived at Frying Pan wharf upon a great black wave of haste, it was to witness a vast riot in hectic progress. Perhaps fifty men were now engaged
in a chaos of noisy battle that had left sticks, broken bottles and unconscious bleeding men littering the shore.

Up at the prow, Sir Richard gazed down upon the scene with combined horror and anger. Those men on the
Prince Peacock
had been told explicitly that they were to simply guard the warehouse
and hold it until the uniformed police arrived on the launch. No doubt the volatile Mr Dyson had wrought his customary effect upon the wharf’s lumpers.