Moriarty

We continued, leaving some of the crowds behind us. The warehouses appeared to be numbered without rhyme or reason and we quickly came upon number seventeen which was square and solid, four storeys high, located on the corner where a canal met the river with large doorways open front and back. Jones led us to a pile of old nets strewn on the towpath and threw himself down, inviting me to do the same. A couple of crates and a rusting cannon completed our fête champêtre. Jones took out a bottle of gin and I opened it and took a cautious sip. It contained only water. I understood his purpose. We had several hours to wait until the rendezvous. Dressed as we were — for I was now in the attire of an itinerant dockworker — we would give no cause for suspicion, easily blending in with the scenery. We might be two dissolute labourers, waiting for the foreman to take pity on us and give us a day’s work.

Fortunately, it was a warm day and I must confess I quite enjoyed lying there in silent companionship with the constant activity going on all around us. I did not dare take out my watch — there was always the possibility that we were being observed — but from the movement of the clouds I could tell how the afternoon was passing and I was confident that Athelney Jones would be aware of any movement or anything that might suggest that Clarence Devereux was on his way.

In fact it was John Clay and Archie Cooke who arrived first, the two of them sitting next to each other on a light cart with a great pile of merchandise covered by a tarpaulin behind them. Clay, in his vanity, had cut his hair short, ridding himself of the strange appearance he had adopted when he was pretending to be a barber. I expected the two of them to stop but they drove straight into the warehouse without noticing us.

‘Now it begins,’ Chase muttered, barely glancing at me.

Another hour passed. There were still crowds of people in the dock, for labour would continue until night fell and perhaps even beyond. Behind us, a barge laden with corn and oil-cake was slowly pulling out, churning through the sluggish water, on its way to who knew where. Clay had disappeared inside the building. I could just make out the back of the vehicle that had brought him here but the rest of it was lost in the shadows. The sun must surely be setting but the sky remained the same miserable shade of grey.

Another carriage approached, this one a brougham with the windows curtained and two grim-faced attendants behind the horse. They could have been undertakers on their way to the cemetery and the sight of the window, covered by a heavy black curtain, made me wonder if we might have achieved our aim and drawn Clarence Devereux out of the legation. Could he have come to assess the stolen property for himself? Jones nudged me and we shuffled forward, watching as the carriage came to a halt just in the shadow of the entrance. All our hopes rested on the opening of the door. Next to me, Jones was still, watchful, and I remembered that, for him, it was his entire career that was at stake.

We were both to be disappointed. It was Edgar Mortlake, the younger of the two brothers, who stepped out and surveyed his surroundings with distaste. Two hooligan boys had travelled with him — these people never went anywhere alone — and they stood either side of him, providing the same protection that had been in evidence when we first met him at Bladeston House. Jones and I moved closer still, keeping to the shadows and remaining out of sight. It was quite possible that Mortlake had agents outside the building but the two of us posed no obvious threat — or so I hoped. At least we now had a better view of what was happening inside.

The setting reminded me of a theatre of Shakespeare’s time with the four tiers surrounding a central stage and providing an excellent vantage point for an audience that had failed to appear. The building was as tall as it was wide, dominated by a circular stained-glass window which might have been stolen from a chapel. There were wooden beams criss-crossing each other, dangling ropes — some of them connected to hooks and counterweights to lift goods to the upper floor — slanting platforms and, hidden away here and there, tiny offices. The ground floor, where the drama was to take place, was open and almost empty with a light scattering of sawdust. It seemed that I had watched the entire cast arrive.