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Jealous’s decision was disappointing, though hardly surprising. The navy had taught Samuel a great many things. One of them was that patience and hard work were necessary if one wished to advance up the ranks. Patience, more’s the pity, was time dependent. Hard work, however, was something he could implement immediately. And so, with Jealous off to meet with another questionable character, Samuel had returned to the wharf with fresh determination to uncover a clue that might finally lead to answers.
He stood with his back to the door of Dennington’s warehouse and scanned the busy wharf before him. Amid the everyday chaos along the quay, what was he missing? Countless ships had come and gone since the theft had occurred, including the HMS Swan. Westbrook had doubtless removed the damaged vessel to Portsmouth for repairs. And though it stung that his ship and crewmembers had so quickly sailed away without him, Samuel had experienced three months aboard the HMS Swan after Captain Lund’s passing and knew that he would not wish to be there now.
He studied the small boats working the wharf and the larger ships out at anchor. This portion of the Thames had no dedicated dock, which meant that if a sailor had stolen the rum, he would have had to hire at least one wharf worker to help him transport the three hogsheads to his ship. And even if the worker were bribable, the task would be almost impossible to perform without attracting the notice of someone else.
Samuel had already questioned every man employed at the wharf. Though a couple of them had assisted with unloading cargo from incoming ships, not one had owned to taking a cask of any kind from the wharf to a ship. Given that the warehouse lock had obviously been picked, these findings made sense. Sailors, in general, were not in the habit of developing lock-picking skills. Neither were they given enough free time to watch a ship unload, make note of the cargo and where it was stored, and return to claim items afterward. His personal bias aside, Samuel was almost positive this theft was the work of a landlubber. Someone wholly familiar with the wharf, who had watched Dennington’s cargo enter the warehouse and knew exactly when to time the theft to avoid the night watchman’s notice.
He turned his attention away from the water to study the quay. A man would be hard put to transport a full hogshead of rum very far without the aid of a wagon or mule, and unless one or more of the wharf workers was lying, neither of those things had been seen in the vicinity of Dennington’s warehouse in the last couple of weeks. That meant the thief had to have had somewhere nearby where he could roll and then stash the hogsheads until he could reclaim them or redistribute the rum into smaller, lightweight kegs. To that end, Samuel had enlisted the wharf clerk’s assistance to check the contents of the warehouses closest to Dennington’s. Perhaps it was time to give the thief more credit for his physical abilities and expand his search farther down the quay.
After considering his options for a moment, Samuel walked east. He wove his way around men pushing handcarts, fishermen mending nets, and a group of sailors returning to their ship. When he’d passed three buildings, he slowed his steps. From this distance, the entrance to Dennington’s warehouse was no longer visible, but a curious observer would be able to watch cargo being unloaded from one of the small rowing boats and would recognize hogsheads of rum or wine without difficulty. A seemingly innocent meander along the wharf was all it would take for that same person to ascertain the cargo’s destination.
He studied the building. The shutters, though closed, were in good repair, and the shine on the brass door handle and lock spoke of frequent and recent use. He walked a few more steps. A narrow alley separated this building from the next. Samuel eyed it curiously. Where did it lead? Somewhere down the dimly lit alley, a door closed and footsteps approached. Samuel retreated, crossing the narrow portion of the wharf that separated the buildings from the water, to stand behind a cart loaded with tangled fishing nets. He turned, angling himself so that it might appear that he was looking out to sea even though his attention was on the person exiting the alley.
He did not have long to wait. A boy of about ten to twelve years of age appeared. Small, thin, and wearing a jacket at least two sizes too large, he paused and looked both ways when he reached the wharf. Moments later, the boy left the shelter of the alley, and with a tuneless whistle, he began walking along the quay toward the two well-dressed gentlemen who had just alighted from a carriage. Samuel watched him go, the boy’s easy stride triggering a long-forgotten memory. Walk as though you have reason to be there but not so quickly that you miss an opportunity. It was Thrasher’s voice. His hardened expression and avarice-filled eyes. There’s a pocket waiting to be emptied on every street and every corner.
Samuel shook the image away and started after the boy. It should not surprise him that pickpockets were at work along the crowded wharf, but after all these years, to recognize one simply by his approach was disconcerting. Up ahead, one of the gentlemen pointed to something farther down the wharf. The other nodded and spoke to his driver before reentering the vehicle. The boy’s whistling stopped, and as the carriage carrying the two gentlemen pulled away, he veered right toward the road that led to Charing Cross.
Follow, or find out where he’d come from? Samuel had barely formulated the question in his mind before he was retracing his steps to the narrow alley.
Chapter 13
The alley was not much more than two yards wide, but it ran the full depth of the expansive buildings on either side. Just enough sunlight filtered in from the gray skies above to enable Samuel to make out a wall that appeared to cut off the exit at the far end. It was not the most practical design, but it was likely the barrier that separated the commercial buildings lining the wharf from the road beyond. It also explained why a pickpocket would choose to come and go in front of those on the wharf rather than via a more inconspicuous entrance.
The structure at Samuel’s right was considerably more dilapidated than the neighboring well-kept warehouse, and the farther down the alley he walked, the more unpleasant the smells became. He wrinkled his nose. If the young man’s gait had not brought back memories of his time living on the street, this smell would have done the trick. The cloying malodor clung to everything it touched—walls, clothes, hair, skin. After entering the Marine Society, it had taken numerous scrubbings with lye soap before he’d been free of it.
A cat hissed. The warning came a fraction of a second before the creature shot past Samuel’s legs in a blur of movement. Pausing to calm his spiked pulse, Samuel noticed a door in the wall ahead of him. He stepped closer. The weak light outlined the crudely made doorframe. Someone had used a knife to carve lines into the wood just above the door handle. He studied it. The curved, cup-shaped base had small grooves on each end and was connected to a long vertical bar at its center. A shorter horizontal bar crossed the vertical bar not far from the top. Samuel’s mouth went dry. He’d not recognized the clumsily carved anchor at Thrasher’s house for what it was, and though this one boasted a few more details, it was clearly the same sign. For those who knew to look for it, the anchor was meant to direct all young pickpockets to their new headquarters at the quay.
For a fleeting moment, he considered returning to Bow Street to ask for assistance and to pick up a pistol. It had not escaped his notice that the men tended to work in pairs, particularly when going into questionable situations. This was undoubtedly Thrasher’s lair. And unless Thrasher had relinquished his coveted position to another, the only occupants would be one vile man and the few boys who were not out on the streets. If he encountered Thrasher inside, Samuel would know exactly whom he was dealing with. Thrasher, however, would not.
Without bothering to knock, Samuel pushed open the door and stepped inside. The air was dank. Two dirty windows on the far wall emitted enough light to make out a pile of empty sacks and three hogsheads pressed up against the opposite wall. Samuel took another look around the dusty room, and upon determining that he truly was alone, he made directly for the hogsheads. The cork stopper on the closest one was not fully engaged, and it did not take more than one sniff near the opening to recognize the distinctive aroma of rum. The relief and satisfaction that coursed through him was regrettably short-lived. Mr. Dennington’s hogsheads were found, but the thief was not.
With renewed determination, Samuel crossed the room and started up a steep flight of wooden stairs. Pausing at the top long enough to draw his knife from beneath his jacket, he stepped onto the narrow landing. The floor creaked.
“Alfie? Is that you?”
Samuel frowned. The voice was familiar, but it did not sound like Thrasher. He passed the first open door. A few threadbare blankets lay on the floor. Another threadbare blanket had been tied into a small bundle. A crate that likely doubled as a table, three wooden mugs, a single tin plate, and a one-inch stub of candle were the only other items in the room.
“Alfie?” There was a hint of unease in the man’s voice this time.
Cautiously, Samuel approached the second door. Chair legs scraped across the wooden floor.
“No,” Samuel said, stepping through the door and effectively blocking the exit before the man reached it. “It’s not Alfie.”
The man swore and reached for the knife at his belt. “Who are ya? And what’re ya doin’ in ’ere?”
Samuel battled his shock. The young man who had run from the scene of Samuel’s last pocket watch theft was a young man no longer. His face was even more gaunt than it had been when they’d been receiving only one miserable meal a day. His wrinkled skin was a dull gray. He’d lost a front tooth sometime during the last twelve years, and his ginger-colored hair was now streaked with white. But there could be no mistaking the identity of the man standing before him.
“It’s been a long time, Charlie.”
His former partner’s eyes narrowed, and he took another step toward Samuel. “I’ll ask ya one more time: Who are ya, and what’re ya doin’ ’ere?”
“I came to find three missing hogsheads of rum,” Samuel said, ignoring Charlie’s first question as his mind raced to readjust his thinking. “But I seem to have uncovered something much more.”
“There’s no rum ’ere. Nor anythin’ else, fer that matter.”
“I can see that.” Beyond a filthy straw mattress covered by a blanket, a wooden chair and table, and a pewter flagon and cup, the room was empty. “Downstairs, however, there is whatever rum remains in three hogsheads that belong to Mr. Henry Dennington.”
“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout what’s downstairs.”
