CHAPTER 23
Hawk climbed down from the hackney. “Mr. Tyler, are you sure we shouldn’t send for Lord Wrexford? If you think the ship carrying the specimen might have been delayed—”
“I’ve merely said it’s a possibility, and an unlikely one, so I’d rather not disturb His Lordship until we know for sure,” replied the valet.
They had stopped several streets away from the dockyards in order to make their way into the area via one of the many cart paths leading into the loading areas.
“There are any number of reasons for a sailing to be put off for a day or two. Shrouds can snap, spars can break . . .”
He led the way into a narrow alleyway. “If perchance the ship is still here, I need for you to corroborate the identity of Becton’s specimen, so we can demand that the shipment be held until word is sent to Wrexford and he is able to arrange for the proper authorities to take official charge of the plant. ”
“But—”
Tyler stopped and turned. “Look, you need not come along if it goes against your conscience. However, I feel responsible for all of you being mired in yet another murder, and at a time when Wrexford and Lady Charlotte ought to be free from worries.” A pause.
“If I can find the specimen and ensure its safety, then perhaps the two of them will agree we’ve done our part in bringing justice for Becton, and we’ll leave the capture of Daggett to the Bow Street Runners. ”
Beneath the brim of his hat, his expression turned even more shadowed. “The sketch will be good enough for me to work from. And I feel that I must at least try.”
Hawk made a rude sound. “If that’s how you feel, then, of course, I’m coming. Friends don’t leave friends in the lurch.”
* * *
Charlotte squinted through a hazy fugue of smoke and stale ale.
No luck. Sheffield wasn’t among the men eating and drinking in the wharfside tavern.
Wasting no time, she retraced her steps through the fishmonger’s alley and turned into a passageway behind the ship chandlery yard, where Wrexford was waiting.
Her first impulse on catching sight of a ragged stevedore standing in the shadows was to draw the pocket pistol hidden in her jacket. Her second was to choke back a laugh.
“Wherever did you get those disgusting clothes?”
“I traded mine with a fellow who was more than happy to make the exchange,” answered Wrexford.
“No doubt, as he got far the better of the bargain.” She covered her nose. “You stink of mackerel.”
“Lords can’t be choosy when in the territory of beggars.” He readjusted his hat. “I take it you had no luck.”
“No,” she answered, “but if Raven and Sheffield are involved in some intrigue, one of Raven’s urchin friends may have an inkling of what it is. Strings, who picks apart old rope for ship caulking, works not far from here, so let us go ask him.”
Charlotte took the lead and soon spotted the ragamuffin sitting in his usual spot on the Great Wapping dock.
“Wait here. I won’t attract undue attention if I go on my own,” she said to the earl.
“Oh—and give me a few coins, assuming you didn’t hand over your purse, along with your clothes.
Strings looks like he needs a decent meal. ”
Wrexford handed over two shillings.
As she had hoped, the appearance of another grimy urchin turned no heads. Crouching down, she murmured a quick question to the boy.
The reply caused her to grit her teeth.
“Which way did they go?” she replied, carefully slipping the coins into his pile of unraveled hemp.
Strings flicked a glance to the right.
Charlotte rose and circled around a cooper’s shop before slipping back to the alleyway where Wrexford was waiting.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered on hearing what Strings had told her. He didn’t appear to like it any more than she did. “From here on in, I will lead the way.”
She wasn’t fool enough to argue.
The path that Strings had indicated led to a section of warehouses near the loading docks. Shadows flitted through the fetid air. A prickling of fear spurred her to stay right on Wrexford’s heels. Daggett was a hardened military man, skilled in hand-to-hand combat with knife or sword . . .
He was also a cold-blooded killer.
Sheffield wouldn’t stand a chance if he was cork-brained enough to confront him. As for Raven . . .
Damn. Damn. Damn.
* * *
Hawk wriggled through the gap in the crates and crawled through the trapdoor leading into the storage shed where Tyler had taken cover.
“Smoke says Dusty saw an unfamiliar ship tie up to one of the wharves behind the coal warehouses,” he informed the valet. “He noticed on account of it being a fast schooner instead of one of the usual collier scows that makes the runs between here and Newcastle.”
Tyler gave a satisfied grunt. “I think we can take that to mean my suspicion was right, and Captain Reginald Lyman is working hand in glove with Daggett. He possesses just such a ship and will do any deed, no matter how sordid, if he’s handsomely paid for it.”
The valet’s initial inquiries regarding the Royal Society’s shipment of plants had led them to a small Scottish shipping firm that carried perishable produce from London to the north.
The head clerk had confirmed that they were usual agents for sending specimens from the Royal Botanic Gardens to various ports in Britain.
However, he had gone on to explain that a man had shown up the previous afternoon with orders that the recently-delivered crates were to be handed over.
A change in plans had been made, and the specimens needed to go by a different route.
The paperwork had all been in order, assured the head clerk. And so he hadn’t thought twice about off-loading the requested cargo and allowing the crates to be hauled away . . .
“Oiy,” agreed Hawk. “It makes sense that a niffy-naffy cove like Lyman would be involved. I heard Lord Wrexford say that he’s a dirty dish who betrayed his country.”
“A thoroughly dirty dish,” agreed Tyler.
Further questions around the docks had elicited the welcome information that Lyman’s schooner had not yet set sail.
“However, we need to get proof that the specimen is aboard his ship before we go rushing back to Wrexford and have him summon the authorities.”
The boy looked at him uncertainly. “Are—Are you sure we shouldn’t send word to him first? He—”
“As I said, I feel I’ve put you all in danger because of my carelessness,” cut in Tyler. “I wish to be sure before I sound the alarm. If for some reason I’m wrong, and send everyone on a wild goose chase, there’s a chance the real culprit may get away with his crimes.”
Hawk’s narrow face pinched in remorse. “If only I had caught a glimpse of the man’s face when he tossed the glass into the greenery, then we would have known the identity of the murderer, and the specimen wouldn’t be in danger.”
“So we both wish to make amends,” replied the valet. “I’ve an idea. You know these wharves better than I do. Can you get us close to the coal docks without being spotted?”
With nary a hesitation, Hawk nodded. “Follow me.”
Quick as an eel, the boy led the way through the serpentine maze of narrow walkways that cut through docklands.
Spars, rigging, ironworks, casks—a myriad of nautical supplies were crammed into the spaces between the rows of warehouses.
The area was a hub of commerce for merchant ships from all over the world, and the raucous shouts of the stevedores loading and unloading cargo jumbled with the banging from the forges of blacksmiths and workshops of the carpenters.
Amid all the jostling and cacophony, it wasn’t hard for the two of them to slip by unnoticed.
Things turned a little quieter when they approached the coal warehouses, though the clatter of rock against metal as the cargo carts rumbled up and down the ramps created its own unique din.
Several large collier brigs sat high in the water, the last of their dirty, dusty loads being hoisted out of the holds.
A few smaller keelboats were being prepared to head upriver with local deliveries . . .
“Look there,” said Tyler as he and Hawk took cover behind a large tarp-covered stack of sail canvas. “At the far end, between the collier and coastal packet boat.”
“That looks to be a real flier,” murmured Hawk, on spotting the sleek ship tied to the stanchions.
“Aye, it’s one of those Baltimore Clippers built in America, and they’re said to be fast as the wind.” The valet slithered out on his belly for a better angle of sight down to the wharf. The area around the ship looked to be deserted.
“If we circle around the sail loft, it looks like we can hide ourselves among the water casks stacked by the pilings.”
“Mr. Tyler—” began Hawk. But the valet was already moving toward the stone-and-timber building fronting the cobbled loading area.
The hustle and bustle of the various workers weaving in and out of the crowded quays provided enough cover for their stealthy approach.
“Mr. Tyler,” repeated the boy, once the valet had found a hidey-hole among the casks. “H-How do you intend to learn whether the specimen is on board the ship?”
Craning his neck, Tyler studied the wharf for a long moment before answering. “I think that’s rather obvious, lad.”
“But . . .” A look of misgiving rippled through Hawk’s eyes. “But both Wrexford and m’lady said we must be wery, wery careful, and err on the side of caution.”
“Fortes fortuna juvat,” countered Tyler. “Fortune favors the bold—isn’t that one of Lady Charlotte’s favorite sayings?”
“Oiy, but . . .”
“Come now, we can’t allow the scoundrels to get away if they have the plant.” The valet allowed a pause. “Can we?”
The boy drew in a troubled breath, but remained silent.
“I’m not going to run off half-cocked,” assured Tyler. “I’m going to study the surroundings and choose the right moment when—”