Chapter 26 #2
The clerk considered the answer for a moment before disappearing through one of the doors.
Fletcher leaned over his desk to study the ledger and glanced at the papers, but didn’t touch anything. Once again Henry appreciated the sergeant’s boldness and kept watch for the clerk, making a slight motion with his hand to warn Fletcher when the door started to open.
An older man in a loose-fitting brown jacket followed the clerk and glanced between them. “What’s this about a misplaced shipment?”
“We understand a few crates from the Blackwater were delivered to the wrong business.” Henry paused. “The kind of crates you might not want to be found on your premises.”
The manager frowned. “How do you mean?”
“Crates that contain something other than what they’re labeled.
” Henry let him think about that for a moment, trying to decide how cryptic to be.
He preferred to keep the information vague as he wasn’t certain what the crates contained.
Dynamite, as the man at the pub near the docks had suggested, seemed unlikely. So what?
“We just received a shipment of machinery this morning, yes?” the man said, looking at the clerk for confirmation. “I don’t think it’s been sorted yet.”
Henry glanced through the door they’d left open which led to a warehouse, from what he could see.
Surely that was where the crates might be stored until they were opened.
“If you could open the crates while we’re here, it might save us both time and trouble.
” He lowered his voice, sending a questioning look toward the clerk as if he might be involved.
“Could be that one of your employees is friendly with the wrong people. That they had someone in America ship the items here, and intend to pass them on.”
“Huh.” The man rubbed the back of his neck while the clerk shifted nervously. “Right. I still don’t understand what I’m supposed to look for.”
“Anything you didn’t order,” Fletcher suggested with a shrug.
“Well that should be easy enough, we don’t have anything to hide.” The manager glanced at the clerk. “Give me the shipment list and I’ll see what I can find.”
With the list in hand, he gestured for Henry and Fletcher to follow him to the back to where several stacks of crates stood.
A half dozen workers moved about the large space, some building a frame, others loading lumber onto carts through a large bay in the back.
It took nearly half an hour for the manager to open the crates with a crowbar and verify them against the shipping list. He opened the second-to-last one and paused, scratching his head.
“Now wait a moment, this one ain’t ours.
At least, we didn’t order what’s in it.”
Henry’s excitement rose as he shared a look with Fletcher before looking over the manager’s shoulder to peer into the crate.
Sawdust had been pushed aside to reveal…dynamite.
Dynamite. His stomach churned at the sight. Somehow the sight of the explosives made the bombing more real. Tangible evidence of what had happened; of the moment he’d become the victim of a crime and the vulnerability it brought.
“I’ll be damned,” Fletcher murmured.
The manager carefully set aside the crowbar, as if the danger he’d been in while opening the crate had finally taken hold. “Double damn.”
“Do you know who ordered this?” Henry asked. “Did any employees act anxious about the delivery of these crates?”
“Not that I noticed. Most are on job sites at this time of day.” The manager glanced sternly around at the workers in the warehouse, none of whom appeared interested in their activities.
“We’ll take the crate as evidence,” Henry advised, and the manager quickly nodded as if eager to be rid of it. “Do you know if any of your employees sympathize with the Fenians?”
The man considered the question carefully. “Fenians? They’ve never been mentioned. Several of my lads are Irish, but I can’t say they’ve caused any problems. I’ll ask the other supervisors and see what I can find out.”
It took another hour of questions, waiting, and more questions, before they had three names and addresses of those Irish employees.
Meanwhile Fletcher found a cart and driver willing to take their precarious cargo, along with a load of straw to cradle it.
The sergeant and the manager carried the crate to the cart with care as Henry's ribs wouldn’t allow it.
They set it on the straw, with Fletcher remaining beside it with a careful hand on its side to ensure it wasn’t jostled overmuch as they traveled through the London streets.
“Are you sure we should haul the crate in for everyone to see?” Fletcher asked once they’d arrived at the Yard. “After all, we’re supposed to be quiet about poking around.”
Henry had given the question considerable thought during the ride there. “I don’t know where else we can take it,” he murmured. “And the more time that passes without news of how the investigation is progressing, the less I care about what we’re supposed to do.”
Fletcher nodded. “Couldn’t agree more.” He waved a passing constable over to help carry the crate, advising him that the contents were fragile and potentially dangerous.
Henry held the door of the Yard open for them, anger taking hold.
Now he better understood victims’ frustration when they weren’t kept abreast of investigations.
There was a line between keeping confidences and communicating with those involved: and the Special Irish Branch had crossed it, in his opinion.
Sergeant Johnson gave them an odd look as they entered, but merely nodded in greeting.
Henry, Fletcher, and the constable headed toward the evidence room, only to be brought to a halt as Inspector Perdy stepped boldly into their path.
“What do you have there, Fletcher?” he asked, looking over the crate with a frown.
“Something heavy enough that it’s going to hurt if I drop it on your foot. Sir.” The sergeant glared at the inspector, the emphasis he placed on the title not particularly respectful.
With a scowl, Perdy moved out of the way. “Watch yourself, Fletcher.”
“I will,” Fletcher replied in a dry tone, then continued on his way with the other officer.
Perdy placed an unwanted hand on Henry’s arm. “What are you about, Field? You’ve been acting oddly of late.”
Henry stared at the other man, irritation sweeping through him. “Must’ve been that blast.” He tapped his temple. “Addled my brain.”
Perdy’s eyes widened, seeming to take the remark seriously. “To be expected, I suppose, you poor blighter. Hope they find whoever did it soon.”
“As do I.” Henry continued to the Director’s office, setting aside his emotions to focus on his job.
Yet his uneasiness about the case remained. Odd how becoming the victim of a crime changed a person’s perspective. Somehow he needed to find a way to overcome the feeling—or even better, use it to find those behind the bombings.