Chapter 13
Thirteen
PORTSMOUTH
brODIE
They took the train from Waterloo Station. The third-class carriage was filled with workers dressed as they were, who kept to themselves; a family on holiday; two older women, sisters by the conversation he overheard; and others who couldn’t afford the more expensive fares in the second-class carriage.
With three changeovers on the Southsea line, the trip was slow, rumbling into each station, passengers leaving as others climbed aboard. They eventually arrived in Portsmouth just after midday.
The Southsea line connected from Portsmouth Station to Portsmouth Harbor by tram, and included the line to Brighton that he had taken over two years earlier at the end of another case.
Beyond the harbor was the Royal Naval shipyards and the ferry port, along with a sprawling city of government buildings, shops, street markets, and other businesses that spread in the distance to fields and farmlands.
Ferries ran between the harbor and the Isle of Wight, where the Queen took summer vacations with the royal family. But the Isle of Wight was not their destination.
Munro knew Portsmouth well from past trips for Mikaela’s great aunt, along with places where they might find information.
“The docks, where other ships from across the channel put in, are down the way,” he explained. “Along with taverns and stay-overs for the crews,” Munro added as they boarded a horse-drawn tram.
“There is a man there who runs the private docks by the name of Campbell. I’ve worked with him before. He’ll be able to tell us if Mr. Brown has sent us on a fool’s errand.”
The commercial docks swarmed with a congestion of warehouses, wagons and carts, draymen and dockworkers, public houses, taverns, with ‘other’ business establishments for those who put into port.
It was an organized chaos of shouting, cursing stevedores and longshoremen, arguments that broke out in a mix of languages, with drivers eager to be away with their loaded wagons on the last run of the day, before returning in the morning and starting all over again.
They passed the shipping office with an overhead board with the names of the four ships that were due in—two from LeHavre, one due from Calais, and a fourth due to arrive from Lisbon.
“Most of the dockworkers are part of organized labor,” Munro explained. “Campbell works for the private warehouse owners and runs crews of workers for the day at a lower cost from private docks down the way.”
They made their way past the shipping office, past wagons that were being loaded, through pallets stacked with hogsheads, barrels, and crates. Then they stepped into a warehouse with signage overhead—South Port Shipping Company.
Munro spoke briefly with a worker and was told that Campbell was up in the office at the back of the warehouse.
They slowly made their way through the maze of cargo on the floor of the warehouse.
Campbell was a large man with ham-like arms that suggested he might have worked the docks himself, unloading cargo ships. He had sharp eyes that narrowed when he recognized Munro.
“I’ve no cargo comin’ in for you. What brings you to the south port, Mr. Munro? A special shipment perhaps? If so, the harbor will be full through well into tomorrow. However, for a fee, I could make a change if there is a ship comin’ across.”
Brodie listened to what was undoubtedly the usual conversation between his friend and the manager of this part of the docks.
“Not a cargo, but a bit of yer time, and some information,” Munro replied.
“If her ladyship wasn’t such a good customer, I would have yer worthless hide tossed out.” Campbell motioned for Munro to close the door.
“Since I know you like to keep our conversations private,” he added. “And you might introduce me to this man, so that I know exactly who I am dealing with.”
Once introductions were made, Campbell sat back in his chair. “Portsmouth is far from London. And you say it’s not about business for her ladyship. What might be the information you’re looking for?”
Munro explained how the information had come to them.
“Mr. Brown?” It was followed by a curse, then a laugh. “The man is a thief and a cutthroat. I canna imagine doing business with him.”
“He has provided ‘information’ in the past that has been reliable. And he owes me a favor,” Brodie explained.
“Must be a large favor. But you don’t trust the man or you wouldn’t be here.”
“It’s in the matter of two murders,” Brodie informed him. He had his full attention now.
“Are you with the bloody peelers?”
“It’s a private inquiry case, and it may be connected to illegal shipments that Mr. Brown seemed to think might come through here,” Munro replied.
“You know well enough, Mr. Munro, how hard it is to get any illegal cargo past the Royal Navy,” Campbell pointed out.
Yet Brodie saw the interest that gleamed in that sharp gaze.
“Unless, of course, there’s enough compensation in it.”
There was a long silence.
“A man in my position, comes across a lot of information. You learn what might or might not be true, and it’s always wise to be mindful of who can be trusted and who cannot.”
There was more silence as they continued to wait. Campbell seemed to come to a decision.
“I’ve had to trust Mr. Munro here, more than once. He’s never done me false. There is a man who occasionally finds himself with some items that a customer would prefer to keep from being noticed by the local authorities,” he continued. “Those being the harbor patrols and the bloody Royal Navy.
“I could put the word out for him, if he would be willing to meet with you.”
“When?” Brodie asked.
“That would depend on that fee we were discussing.”
“We’d be fools fer certain to go about with substantial coin in our pockets,” Munro pointed out.
“True enough,” Campbell conceded. “But perhaps an arrangement for a portion of that next cargo of wine from France?” he suggested.
Munro shook his head. “That is no bargain. I’ll not go against one who has treated me fair and true.”
Campbell smiled. “Sit back down, my friend. We may still be able to strike a bargain.” He turned to Brodie.
“What about you?” he asked. “A quiet man who says little and keeps to himself is dangerous, to my way of thinking, but ye may have a thought on the matter.”
He had been watching Campbell. Men like him respected one thing—power, be it over the men who depended on him for their next meal, or those who relied on goods that entered port with shipping labels on crates that had been altered to disguise the contents—expensive and very lucrative contents that the authorities would be pleased to know about.
Brodie had no doubt that Campbell could be a dangerous man, and it was a dangerous game they played. He stood and crossed over to the windows that looked down on the warehouse floor below and the mountain of crates and other shipping containers secured in the warehouse until they could be sent off to customers.
Quid pro quo .
“There must have been a bit of a storm crossing the channel with the cargo below,” he commented.
“Some broken merchandise perhaps in a crate labeled as ... cotton? It will be most interestin’ if the millworkers waitin’ to receive the shipment have a taste for brandy.”
Silence filled the office. Brodie eventually turned from that window, his hand resting just inside the front of his jacket as he met that narrowed gaze.
“A bit of information for information kept to ourselves,” Brodie told him.
Campbell slowly sat forward at the desk, that gaze locked on him. He made no effort to deny what Brodie had discovered in a puddle on the floor of the warehouse as they passed through, and suspected might be in those other crates.
“That cargo is worth several thousand pounds. You are either a brave man, or a fool.”
“I suppose we shall find out which it is,” Brodie replied. “Several thousand pounds of cargo safe in yer warehouse with none the wiser for it, in exchange for a conversation with that other person ye know.”
Like Munro he trusted the man only as far as he could throw him, and for a man that size, that wasn’t far.
“Ye may leave a message at the Blue Dolphin Inn,” Munro told him. “We’ll be expecting it.”
“The Blue Dolphin?” Brodie inquired as they left the warehouse with a careful eye to their backs.
“It’s the place I usually stay when I’m here on business for her ladyship, and Campbell knows it well enough,” Munro replied as they reached the wharf. “But not tonight.”
They took a late supper at a public house on the quay, then made their way back to the Blue Dolphin afterward.
A woman by the name of Molly greeted Munro as they entered the foyer where rooms were let for the night.
“I was wondering when you might come back this evenin’,” she commented as her gaze slid past to Brodie. She smiled, the sort of smile that was an invitation.
“And you’ve brought a friend.” She rounded the counter and approached Brodie.
“I’ve not seen you before.” She reached out a hand and laid it against the front of his jacket, then moved lower.
Brodie stopped her with a hand at her wrist.
“Ah, Molly girl, ye best take care,” Munro cautioned. “That one is marrit.”
“A good many are,” she replied with a slow smile. “It don’t make no difference to me, or them.”
“But this particular lady is a good shot and not bad with the blade either,” Munro told her. “I taught her meself.”
There was a frown that turned into a pout on the woman’s face.
“I’d like to meet a ‘lady’ like that.”
“No, ye would not,” Munro told her.
Brodie firmly moved her hand away.
“Do ye perhaps have a message?” he asked.
She nodded. “I was holding it till ye came round for your usual room,” she replied with a look at Munro.
“Perhaps later,” he told her as she returned behind the front counter and retrieved the message.
“More’s the pity for me,” she said as she handed Munro the message.
He passed her a coin, and they left the Blue Dolphin.
The man’s name was Davidson—Captain Davidson. According to the note, he could be found at the Bell and Anchor.
“Ye know the man?” Brodie asked.
“Know of.”
“Smuggling?”
“Let us just say that he has a certain reputation around the docks.”
“And bold enough to put into port right under the noses of the Royal Navy?” That told Brodie a lot about the man.
“Do ye know the Bell and Anchor?” he added
Munro nodded. “Aye, it’s on the High Street. Those like this man will expect something in return if he has information on Duvalier.”
“I’ve some coin with me,” Brodie replied.
Not unlike London Docks, the inns and taverns in this part of Portsmouth worked a lively business and were open for that business in spite of the late hour of the night.
They had both been in such places and kept a watchful eye as they entered the tavern, where cigarette smoke hung in the air thick with the smell of ale. And there was that other smell of those who had perhaps been at sea for a good number of weeks, or perhaps months.
It was not difficult to know which man was Davidson. He sat at a table in the corner of the tavern with two other men who had the look of seamen, along with two women, the night’s entertainment.
“Do ye have a plan?” Munro asked as they slowly made their way across the crowded tavern.
“See what the man knows, and not get ourselves killed,” Brodie replied.
“Aye.”
Davidson looked up as they approached the table. When Munro would have made introductions, he waved him off.
“I know who ye are,” he told Munro. “Ye do business in Portsmouth from time to time.” He looked at Brodie.
“We have not met.”
Brodie introduced himself.
There was a slow nod. “Can I stand ye a drink?” Davidson asked.
“I’ll stand ye one,” Brodie replied. “For some information.”
“Yer a Scot, right enough,” Davidson commented. “Cautious but willing to do business.”
“Aye.”
Davidson nodded. “Have a seat and we’ll talk.”
Only when the drinks arrived, did he and Munro each take a chair at the table.
“And ye take care to sit with yer back to the wall,” Davidson noted. “Ye’ve had some experience with that.”
“Some,” Brodie replied. He placed a gold sovereign on the table.
A second round eventually appeared and Brodie placed another sovereign on the table.
“A man who carries gold about in a place like this is either a brave man, or a fool,” Davidson commented.
“There is more, for information that might be useful,” Brodie told him.
There was another round and Davidson sat back in his chair. He seemed to have made a decision.
“Wot information might that be?”
Brodie wasn’t fooled that the man trusted them, yet Munro’s reputation went a long way toward that. At least they hadn’t been outright refused.
And the gold sovereigns at the center of the table went even further for a man who apparently made his profit any way he could—legal or otherwise.
“We’re looking for a man by the name of Duvalier who receives cargo from time to time for interested persons.”
Davidson shrugged. “Wot sort of cargo?”
This was where everything could end. Davidson might know nothing about Duvalier. Or he might have carried cargo for Duvalier and would not risk jeopardizing his own ‘business dealings.’
They were among thieves here. The question was, which among them might be willing to provide information, and at what price?
“Artifacts smuggled out of Egypt,” Brodie replied. “For a private customer.”
Davidson listened with an expression that revealed nothing.
“Ye workin’ for the bloody British government?”
Brodie shook his head. “I’ve no interest in it. And if ye know Munro, ye already know he’s not the sort to work for them. It’s in the matter of two murders.”
There was another shrug. “The risk of doing business,” Davidson replied. “And now ye come to me?”
“Ye might know where Duvalier can be found.”
There was a long silence. Davidson shrugged.
“One hears of such people.”
And perhaps had even carried cargo illegal for him? Brodie speculated.
“Wot are ye proposing?” Davidson commented over yet another drink.
“A business transaction,” Brodie replied and placed another gold sovereign on the table.
“Ye play a dangerous game, Mr. Brodie. Particularly in a place like this, with a good amount of gold coins on the table.”
“There might be somethin’ more to be had for ye, for the information,” Munro told him.
Brodie angled his friend a sharp look. They hadn’t spoken of more that he’d be willing to give the man for information.
“What might that be?” Davidson asked, obviously interested.
“An arrangement,” Munro replied. “For cargo that is lucrative and for a percentage of each shipment.”
“Wot are ye suggestin’?”
“A mutual agreement that could be verra lucrative for both my employer and yerself, in exchange for the information that could help find the murderer.”
“A business arrangement?”
“There’s been some difficulty from time to time,” Munro explained without going into details. “If an arrangement could be made, it would also include certain shipments coming back from France.”
Brodie knew they were discussing shipments of Old Lodge whisky and wine shipments to England from Lady Montgomery’s properties in the south of France.
Brodie watched Davidson; the possibility was tempting. But he was not easily persuaded.
“Ye have done business with Campbell in the past,” Davidson pointed out.
“Aye, and his costs have taken most of the profit.”
“I would need a guarantee,” Davidson added. “In good faith, for a new business arrangement and the risk. Campbell will no’ be pleased.”
“That is my concern. Wot would ye require for the risk.”
“Fifty cases of that particularly good whisky, with the profit to meself as a measure of good faith. The rest of wot ye could bring would go to market.”
“Where are ye bound when ye leave?” Munro asked. “I would need to know which markets those might be before I entrust ye with any merchandise which is a far sight better than anything else ye might have.”
“If I were to tell you that, you might attempt to make another arrangement yerself,” Davidson replied.
Munro nodded. “Perhaps. But as my friend here said, I have no interest in doing so. There are other responsibilities that take my time. But I’ll not do wrong by the person I work for, ye need to know that. And I’ll go two dozen cases for yerself, the rest to market.”
There was a long silence. Brodie he was beginning to think that Davidson wouldn’t work with them.
“I’ll be in Portsmouth for several days, waitin’ on ‘other cargo.’ I leave the end of the second week. There’s a man in Lisbon who will give a good price for the whisky. And I could be persuaded to pick up wine on my return, savin’ ye that cost to another.”
There was another long silence.
“You’ll have the whisky by the time ye leave,” Munro told him. “We’ll negotiate for the wine then.”
“Aye,” Davidson agreed. “We have an agreement, and I’ll count on ye bein’ a Scot to honor it.”
“And ye as well,” Munro told him. “Now, wot of Duvalier?”
“Dinna know him by name, but there’s a man seen around who does business of that sort—the sort the Royal Navy might like to know about.”
“Smuggled cargo?” Brodie asked.
“Perhaps. I try to stay clear.” He emphasized that he ‘tried’ to avoid it.
He seemed to sense the doubt.
“To my way of thinkin’ it’s poor business to risk losin’ yer cargo and perhaps yer head, when there is plenty of business to go around. Aye?”
Munro nodded.
“But for some it seems the cargos the man deals in are worth the risk. This time it seemed the risk might be more.”
“How is that?” Brodie asked.
“One of my men was about when the man you call Duvalier met the ship under cover of darkness; usually not necessary, and there’s the risk of missing the landing on the changing tide and ending with a broken ship and a cargo in water.”
“And ye just happened to be here as well,” Munro commented.
Davidson smiled. “My crew was seeing to cargo we finished unloading earlier in the day. To make certain it was secure.” Another smile. “From thieves.”
“What makes ye think there was more risk with this particular cargo?”
“There was an accident on the dock.” Davidson gestured to one of his men.
“Wot sort of accident?” Brodie asked.
“The workers he’d hired were hoisting a large crate from the hold of the ship,” his man explained.
“This end of the port, there are no steam hoists,” Davidson explained.
“The crate was large,” the man continued. “It wasn’t properly secured and it came down fast and hard on the dock, and broke apart.” He shook his head.
“I never seen nothin’ like that—there was a carved casket and one of them bodies all wrapped up.”
“And weapons, most were iron, old, some pieces in copper, a curved sword, spears and such, along with broken pottery,” Davidson explained.
“There was a stramash, as ye can well imagine. The one you call Duvalier was screamin’ and cursin’ that it cost him thousands of francs, and if he didna need them to finish the job he would have sent on them their way.” He shrugged again.
“It’s hard enough to find workers this side of the port that will work for less pay and the risk of the harbor patrols boardin’ a ship. My crew also work the cargo for part of the profits.
“Not Duvalier,” he continued. “It’s the reason he gets the worst of the worst of the workers when he brings in cargo that the authorities might confiscate.”
So, by the description Davidson’s man had given, it seemed that Duvalier had recently received a shipment of smuggled artifacts. And taken them ... where?
Had they become part of the exhibit Sir Nelson was about to open at the museum?
According to Mikaela, the directors at the museum had been provided bills of lading, signed off by the Antiquities Department in Cairo, that verified the artifacts he had brought back with him. She had returned to verify the artifacts when she was attacked.
Who was there? And wot reason for the attack?
He knew more than when they left London. Duvalier had received a shipment of artifacts that he obviously didn’t want the authorities to know about. It was safe to assume those artifacts were smuggled.
But for whom?
“If ye are satisfied, it would seem that our business is concluded,” Davidson announced, and swiped the gold sovereigns into his other hand.
“Aye,” Brodie replied.
“I will be expectin’ those cases of whisky.”
“Ye will have them before ye sail,” Munro replied.
“Do ye believe him?” he asked as they left the tavern.
Brodie nodded as he glanced into the shadows at the entrance to a nearby inn.
“There is no reason for him to lie,” he replied. “If he did, ye might be inclined to cancel yer business arrangement with him. Ye are takin’ a risk with him.”
“Lady Montgomery willna object,” Munro replied. “And better Davidson than Campbell. It’s worth the risk if there is a new market to be had on the Continent. And I intend to go with the cargo to make certain that it arrives safely.”
Brodie had kept an eye on the street since they’d arrived, mindful of those they passed, particularly in a place like Portsmouth, a seaport, where those who made their way thieving were looking for the next victim. The back of his neck tingled the way it did when he was with the MET and on the chase of a criminal.
“Wot is it?” Munro said in a low voice.
Brodie’s hand instinctively closed around the handle of the revolver as a man came out of the shadows behind them.
He shouted a warning to Munro and pushed him out of the way. Then another man, shorter than the first one, struck with a knife.
There was a warning shout as the shorter man seemed to have second thoughts when light from the street lamp gleamed off the barrel of the revolver Brodie had pulled from the front of his coat. And it was all over in a matter of seconds.
“Campbell or one of Davidson’s men?” Brodie asked as he turned, and exclaimed, “Bloody hell!”
Munro was bent over, one hand pressed low at the front of his jacket. Blood gleamed dark in the light from the gas lamp.
“My guess would be Campbell.” Munro’s teeth gritted in pain. “Put off by inquirin’ about Davidson. I never liked the man.”
“Can ye walk?” Brodie asked.
“Aye,” Munro replied, a tight sound between clenched teeth.
“We need to get out of here.” He slipped an arm under Munro’s shoulders. “Are ye sure ye can ye make it?”
Munro cursed in reply. “I can make it, if ye quit nattering and get on with it!”