The Chief Magistrate slammed his palm on to the desk. “Of course! It’s been staring us in the face!”
“It ‘as?” Jago said.
The Chief Magistrate grabbed his clerk’s arm. “Fetch the file on Lord Mandrake, Mr Twigg. We are looking for property owned or rented by his lordship, with river access.”
“Very good, sir.”
Jago caught Hawkwood’s eye and grinned. “I can see why they made you an officer.”
Twigg left the office once more. He was gone less than two minutes. When he returned he was clutching a bundle of documents bound in black ribbon. Even Hawkwood, familiar with Ezra Twigg’s uncanny knack for accumulating and evaluating intelligence, was impressed. The Chief Magistrate, on the other hand, clearly took his clerk’s abilities for granted.
“Very good, Mr Twigg. Locations, if you please.”
As Twigg read out the details, Hawkwood’s hope’s began to fade. All the warehouses used by Lord Mandrake’s trading companies were situated inside the new docklands.
London was the busiest port in the world. Because of their size, large cargo ships were unable to sail upriver beyond London Bridge, so unloading had been restricted to the north and south banks below the bridge, which meant, as trade increased, the buildings and wharves had extended downriver. As the size of vessels grew larger, so did the congestion in the port area. The wharves became crowded and confused. Ships sometimes had to wait weeks for their cargoes to be checked and for customs dues to be paid. Added to which was the problem of river pirates and all the other criminals who preyed on shipping. The profits from crime were huge. It was to ease the overcrowding and protect vulnerable and valuable cargoes that the first commercial docks had been built.
Ships could now come up the river at high tide and enter the dock basins. Cargoes could be unloaded and either stored in warehouses or transferred to smaller, shallower-draughted vessels for immediate distribution.
Mandrake’s warehouses were spread evenly between the London Dock in Wapping, the West India Docks, north of the Isle of Dogs, and the Grand Surrey Docks in Rotherhithe.
“Looks as if we were wrong,” Hawkwood said, unable to hide his disappointment. “There’s no way Lee would risk taking his submersible inside the dock area. Too impractical, too damned public.”
James Read nodded glumly. “I fear you’re right. Even our Mr Lee wouldn’t be that presumptuous. Though, perhaps we should have the buildings investigated anyway. I’ll contact the River Police and have them make searches – discreetly, of course.” Still despondent, Read turned to his clerk. “Thank you, Mr Twigg. As always your files have proved most illuminating. However, it appears we must look elsewhere for our information.”
The Chief Magistrate frowned. His clerk was not paying attention. Ezra Twigg was staring intently at one of the documents. Suddenly aware that he was being observed, he looked up. “Forgive me, sir.”
“Mr Twigg?” The Chief Magistrate regarded his clerk with concern.
The clerk blinked owlishly. “Er … I believe I may have found something, sir.”
“And what might that be, Mr Twigg?”
The clerk gathered himself. He held up the document. “There’s another warehouse, sir.”
The Chief Magistrate gripped his clerk’s arm. Twigg winced.
“It’s entirely my fault, sir. It’s just that when I was looking at the list of his lordship’s premises, it occurred to me there was no mention of the timber yard.”
“Timber yard?”
“Yes, sir. You see, when his lordship moved his businesses to the new docks, he sold his existing properties to raise the finance. They consisted of …” Twigg consulted the document “… warehouses at Griffin’s Wharf, Battle Bridge, Brewers Quay and New Bear Quay. Also two properties at Phoenix Wharf, Wapping, and storage houses at Trinity Street in Rotherhithe. All sold, sir, all accounted for, except one. His lordship used to import timber from the east, sir. His company had a separate warehouse and timber yard for the purpose. I can find no record of the sale.”
“And where is this warehouse, Mr Twigg?”
A pause.
“In Limehouse, sir.”
Less than a mile and a half upriver from Deptford.
The Chief Magistrate read Hawkwood’s mind. “Take Sergeant Jago with you.”
“What about warning the ship?” Hawkwood asked.
The Chief Magistrate looked thoughtful. “That might be a problem. If Lee does indeed have other friends in high places, warning the ship will surely alert Lee that we’re on to him. Neither would we want to start unnecessary panic. And don’t forget, for all we know, Lee believes you’re dead. That may work to our advantage. No, gentlemen, until we know for certain who is friend or foe, I fear we’re on our own. Which means, Hawkwood, you have to find Lee and his submersible and stop him. By any means possible. There must be no quarter given. You understand what I’m saying, Hawkwood? I’m giving you carte blanche.”
“Then we’d best get started,” Hawkwood said. “Come on, Nathaniel, there’s work to be done.” He turned to the Chief Magistrate. “Where will we find you, sir?”
James Read considered the question. “I will proceed to Deptford. You may contact me there.”
“You’ll warn the Prince?”
“I’ll speak to his advisors, suggest to them that it would be better if His Royal Highness postponed his visit to the yard until the next launching. Now, off with you both.”
As Hawkwood and Jago left the office, the Chief Magistrate and his clerk exchanged pensive looks.
“I fear, Mr Twigg,” James Read murmured softly, “that desperate times are upon us.”
Twigg nodded. Behind his spectacles, his eyes gleamed. The game was afoot and the little clerk scented blood.
“Which means,” Read continued, “that we must now deploy all our resources. Return to your files, Mr Twigg. I want everything you have on Sir Charles Yorke, Admiral Bartholomew Dalryde, Inspector General Thomas Blomefield and Colonel William Congreve. There is treason afoot, Mr Twigg. Treason is a canker and it is my intention to find it and cut it out!”
William Lee lowered his head towards the tin basin, closed his eyes, cupped his palms in the water and doused his face. He did it several times, gasping as the coldness stung his eyes. Finally he raised his head and ran his hands over his close-cropped hair. Water trickled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin. He reached for the drying cloth.
Lee stared intently at himself in the mirror. He searched his face, studied the familiar lines, the grey at his temples, the stubble on his cheeks. Dabbing his face with the cloth, his eyes moved to the window and he stared out at the wide grey river.
A recollection of childhood arose, unbidden, in his mind. His boyhood years had been spent on the family farm, close to the bank of another great river, the Delaware, and the small, pleasant town of Fort Penn, less than a day’s ride from the city of Wilmington. There, in the company of his friends, he had explored the local creeks, levees and inlets on foot and in birch-bark canoe.
Until the horror.
It had