Chapter 22 #2
Henry couldn’t deny the truth of that statement and started forward, Fletcher matching his stride.
A variety of accents were discernible as the men shouted to one another.
Taking care not to get in the way, they approached a stack of crates with Henry hoping to strike up a conversation with someone.
It took only a couple of minutes before a man who appeared to be somewhat in charge approached. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” He studied Fletcher’s uniform with a certain measure of distrust glittering in his eyes, face tanned beneath the broad brim of his hat.
“We are inquiring about any unexpected shipments you may have received of late.” Though Henry wasn’t sure how to begin the conversation, he had to start somewhere.
The man frowned. “Unexpected? How so?”
“We’ve received information that crates occasionally arrive from America…mislabeled.” When the man only looked at him blankly, Henry decided honesty was his best hope. “You’re aware of the bombing yesterday?”
Unease flickered over his expression. “Who isn’t? Terrible thing, them bombs going off everywhere.”
“We’re in search of those who make them.” Henry waited a beat for him to digest the information. “We have reason to believe the items needed to make those bombs are coming from America on ships like this one.” Henry tipped his head toward the Blackwater.
The stranger’s face didn’t register surprise, but rather disappointment. “Blast. I confess I’ve heard the same—can’t say I’ve seen any of it for myself, mind.”
That suggested he hadn’t looked hard, perhaps preferring not to know what was going on beneath his nose. It never failed to amaze Henry how often that was the case. As if ignoring wrongdoing made it go away.
“Any men about you don’t recognize?” he asked.
The man scoffed, his gaze sweeping over the ship, gang planks, goods, wagons, and men in a matter of seconds. “Many. But that don’t mean something illegal is happening. There are too many for anyone to track.”
Henry released a frustrated breath, able to see the man’s point. If it was this chaotic every time a ship came in, it would take determined clerks many hours to account for every single item that was hauled off the ship and ensure it was put in the proper place.
“Do you mind if we have a look around, assuming we can manage to stay out of the way?” Henry asked. The idea of being jostled by the workers made him uneasy, let alone the thought of being struck by a moving crate or barrel.
“As long as you don’t go on the ship,” the man agreed reluctantly. With a parting nod he walked away, calling out to a worker carrying a crate as he went.
“Perhaps Byrne has it right,” Fletcher suggested in an undertone as he studied the area. “Might be interesting to find the crates of machinery and see how many of those there are.”
“Any suggestion where they might be?” Henry asked, grateful for Fletcher’s experience in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. He knew his way around a dock better than most. Certainly better than himself.
“Let’s try over there.” Fletcher led the way, winding through the throng and ignoring several glares cast at his uniform, though Henry found it comforting when a few men gave the sergeant a respectful nod. Did they somehow recognize a Navy man?
It took a bit of searching but they finally found the machinery crates, though it was impossible to tell what was in them, let alone whether they were mislabeled. Some were stacked higher than their heads, as were the nearby barrels that lined one side of the dock.
“They must be flagged somehow, otherwise how would they know which was which?” Fletcher mused.
“And they would need to know to handle them with caution if they held explosives.” Henry scowled. This wasn’t getting them anywhere. He shifted his attention to the workers, looking for anyone who gave them a wide berth.
“There’s always the chance the workers don’t know anything,” Fletcher murmured as he followed Henry’s gaze.
“True. Maybe the companies that receive the crates hold the items for the Fenians.” Though Henry spoke quietly, they both noticed when a nervous-looking worker startled at the term, only to hastily look away.
“Sir?” the sergeant asked on an exhale.
At Henry’s nod, Fletcher started toward the man.
Henry made to follow, only to see a stack of nearby barrels begin to sway, then tip in his direction. He barely managed to step out of the way before the barrels fell, some splintering apart as they did so, their contents spilling onto the dock.
“Inspector Field! Henry!” Fletcher was by his side in an instant, eyes wide and mouth agape as he stared at the destroyed barrels. “Are you all right?”
Shouts sounded from all around them and several men came running.
“Yes. Fine.” Shaken but unhurt, other than aggravating his sore ribs.
“What happened?” one of the dockmen demanded.
“A stack of barrels nearly fell on a man,” Fletcher replied with a growl.
“Humph.” The man scowled at the mess. “Can’t imagine how that happened.”
Neither could Henry.
“Blast it.” Fletcher looked about. “I don’t see that man now.”
Henry followed his gaze, only to return his attention to the broken barrels. He couldn’t shake the idea that they’d been pushed, but by who? And why?