Hero Wanted

by Betina Krahn

  “So, tell me about this Ivanhoe book,” he said, hoping to change both the subject and his own mood. “What makes this fellow such a hero?”

  Barclay turned to him with a grin.

  As they lay on the roof watching the warehouse lights go out, Rafe couldn’t tell if it was the book itself or the enthusiastic way Barr related the story that made it sound so interesting. He found himself picturing the action Barclay described, and after a while he looked at his friend with fresh appreciation.

  “Someday I may have to read that book,” he said. “Hurry and finish it so I can have it back.”

  * * *

  Lauren accompanied her father to the Customs House the next morning for the hearing regarding the Townsends’ salvaged cargo. She had been advised by her father’s lawyers to say as little as possible and look as fresh and sweet as a morning in May. To that end, she had chosen a coral silk dress with swirls of white lace on the bodice that had always reminded her of a candy box and topped it with a white picture hat with matching coral ribbons. Her father looked her over as she came down the stairs and he pronounced her the prettiest young woman in all of London.

  It was an exorbitant compliment, but it warmed her heart and bolstered her confidence as they took their carriage to the London seat of the customs agency of Her Majesty’s Government. Her plan was to answer questions put to her as simply as possible and to volunteer nothing of importance. She had learned that selective truth was sometimes necessary in a complex world, and so was silence. Being too talkative or opinionated allowed for your words to be recalled out of context and used against you.

  Tension weighted the atmosphere of the Customs House when they entered, and she felt the stares turned their way had nothing to do with idle curiosity. As they mounted the stairs to the second level, they saw clerks and uniformed harbor police in the hallway and heard angry voices pouring out of a chamber down the hall. Every step closer made the nature of the conflict and the identity of the men engaged in it clearer.

  “Ahoy, miz!” a young voice came from the far side of the crowd.

  She looked around and found Little Rob heading for her with a broad grin. She opened her arms in surprise and hugged him. Behind him were Fosse and Gus, wearing their best seamen’s coats. All three were freshly bathed and had hair slicked down with pomade. In their faces she read both pleasure at seeing her and anxiety at what was happening inside.

  “You look pretty as a picture, miz,” Fosse said, fingering the cap in his hands. Gus nodded shyly in agreement.

  Her father looked taken aback by their familiarity, so she introduced them and explained that they had helped her and Rafe aboard the ship.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, squeezing Little Rob’s hand.

  “Mr. Townsend sent for us, so’s we can say what happened aboard the ship,” Fosse answered. “But a copper turned us away at the door.”

  She wasn’t sure how helpful their testimony would be, especially if it was factual. But she trusted Rafe’s judgment and insisted to her father that they come inside with her.

  Lawrence cleared a path for them through the doorway, but once inside they stopped dead at the sight of a furious Horace Townsend, arms held by harbor police, facing Undersecretary Ledbetter.

  “What in blazes is going on?” Lawrence rushed forward but was stopped by uniformed officers from reaching his would-be partner’s side.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Horace roared. “This double-dealing miscreant arranged to start the hearing early. The inspectors presented their entire lot of evidence before my lawyers and I even arrived!”

  Ledbetter’s eyes glinted with satisfaction as he claimed, “The head of the Customs House asked that the hearing be moved up. Your lawyers were notified.”

  “By a note delivered yesterday at closing to our office . . . in a packet of other correspondence.” Hayden Charles, head of chambers at Horace’s legal firm, was almost as outraged as Horace himself. “It wasn’t seen until minutes before the hearing started. We rushed here, but the damage was already done.”

  “Surely, Your Honor,” Lawrence addressed the magistrate, “this is most irregular. Allowing one side to begin giving evidence and starting a hearing before the other side even arrives—”

  “Are you questioning the integrity of this hearing, sir?” The portly magistrate rolled forward in his chair with a glare that shocked Lawrence. “This may not be the Old Bailey, but it is still a legal proceeding, and I will not have my decisions nor the objectivity of my judgment questioned. Sit down or be barred from this hearing altogether.” He pounded the gavel as if it were an axe splitting wood.

  Lawrence clamped his jaw shut and turned to the head of Townsend’s legal team, who held up a hand urging compliance and then waved them to the rows of chairs provided for principles and witnesses.

  It was only after her father settled into a chair beside her that Lauren looked around for Rafe and found him standing at the center of a group of burly constables, looking as if he’d turned to stone. She recognized that look; he was furious and trying to control it.

  The magistrate ordered the door closed and everyone involved in the case into seats . . . except Horace and the men restraining him. Ledbetter sat down in a chair at the side of the room, separate from the accused and witnesses. The nod he gave the chief customs inspector made it clear he was involved in some of the decisions here.

  “With your permission, Your Honor, I call Rafe Townsend to answer the court’s questions,” the head customs official said.

  The constables parted, allowing Rafe to move forward, He righted the overturned chair in front of the judge’s table, then sat down.

  “I am prepared to relate the circumstances behind the fire on the Clarion,” he said, “and the subsequent—”

  “We have heard an account of the story you gave Scotland Yard,” the chief inspector declared. “What evidence do you have that your injury—your supposed reason for being on the ship—did in fact happen?”

  Rafe seemed surprised, then angered. After a moment he pushed back his hair to reveal the still-pink laceration on his forehead. “It did happen. I was knocked senseless and was carried—without my knowledge—aboard a ship owned by my company. There I was tended by Miss Alcott, my betrothed.” He glanced over his shoulder at Lauren. “She can testify to my state at that time. There were crewmen assigned to help us, Ben Fosse, August ‘Gus’ Perkins, and Rob Little, who is known aboard ship as Little Rob. I have asked them to be present to give testimony should that be needed.” He looked over his other shoulder and the three rose, ready to step forward. “They can attest—”

  “Testimony from deckhands is hardly reliable,” the customs officer protested.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Yer Honor,” Fosse spoke up. “But only one o’ us is a deckhand. I’m Boatswain Ben Fosse. And Little Rob here, he’s cabin boy. We come to tell the truth, yer lordship.”

  “That will hardly be necessary. We already know the truth—” Ledbetter started to rise, but a scowl from the magistrate stopped him.

  “I will decide what is truth here and what is not,” the magistrate snarled at Ledbetter. “Step forward, Boatswain—tell us what you know.”

  Twenty

  Fosse stepped forward and with some coaxing came to stand between Rafe and the magistrate.

  Lauren held her breath, but under questioning, Fosse told a surprisingly coherent version of the story she had created that day on the dock. With the exception of the timing of Captain Pettigrew’s death and the origin of the fire, it was surprisingly accurate. She watched Gus and Little Rob nodding in support of every word.

  “And this acting captain, Juster Morgan, who decided to throw the cargo overboard, where is he?”

  “Don’t know, yer worship,” Fosse declared truthfully. “He got scared when the coppers and customs men boarded us, askin’ questions, an’ he took to ’is heels. Ain’t seen hide ner hair of him since.”

  The customs officer looked to L
edbetter for a reaction.

  “I have it on good authority that the men of Scotland Yard spoke with Acting Captain Morgan on the day of the illegal offloading of the cargo.” Ledbetter sprang up to face the judge. “He told them the fire was set intentionally by none other than Rafe Townsend. And that it was Townsend who directed the men to throw cargo overboard as an attempt to escape tariffs.”

  “Well, since neither Scotland Yard’s detectives nor the acting captain are here to offer such testimony, I will have to disregard it. Hearsay is admissible in only the most extreme circumstances, such as the death of the witness. Do you have evidence that this Juster Morgan is deceased?”

  “I–I do not. However, this is not a proper court of law.” Ledbetter inhaled, inflating his chest and flaunting the full weight of his ministerial appointment. “As such, the requirements for evidence must be . . . less exacting.”

  The magistrate’s face grew strangely calm as he studied Ledbetter and the customs inspector, assessing the pair and their assertions.

  Lauren held her breath and reached for her father’s hand.

  “And with respect, Your Honor”—there was a snide edge in Ledbetter’s voice—“the proof of their attempt to avoid lawful taxation is the fact that now the cargo at issue is missing from their warehouse.”

  That caused an intake of breath around the hearing chamber.

  “What?” Horace yanked his arms free and advanced to stand by Rafe, who was now on his feet. “That’s a lie. The cargo they inventoried is still there. I have had men guarding the place since the harbor police mysteriously withdrew yesterday.”

  The magistrate looked at Horace and Rafe with a discerning glare.

  “You say the cargo is there, while you”—he turned to Ledbetter—“say it is missing. And no one seems to know where this Juster Morgan fellow may be.” He paused to mull over those facts. “I am here to serve justice and Her Majesty’s law.” His eyes had a flinty cast as he turned to the chief customs inspector.

  “You have the manifests from the ship and the documents from the inventory done at the warehouse?” When the customs officer answered in the affirmative the judge pushed up from his chair and ordered his aide to call for his carriage.

  “I want to see for myself whether this cargo is in place. Now.”

  Turmoil erupted in the chamber as the judge pointed at Lauren and Horace, declaring that they would ride with him. The others would have to find their own transport.

  Lauren met Rafe’s alarm with a determined look that seemed to relieve at least part of his tension. He took a deep breath and turned to her father to ask if there was room for the crew from the Clarion in his carriage.

  Lawrence looked at the trio. “I believe we can squeeze them in.”

  Inside the judge’s well-appointed coach Lauren found herself seated opposite His Honor and beside her fractious father-in-law-to-be.

  The judge studied the pair across from him, then his gaze settled on Lauren. Her heart was beating like a caged bird against her ribs as he demanded she tell her version of the story.

  “I was worried about Rafe going to the docks with so many angry men. I didn’t know what he would do, but I feared he would try something heroic. And, of course, he did.”

  Her words shocked even her a bit. She glanced at Horace, who seemed a bit confused.

  “The crowd was in no mood for reason or calm. But he stood before them and spoke from his heart as well as his head, entreating them to disperse and not make matters worse. Then one man in the crowd struck another, and it sparked fighting all around the square. It was terrifying how quickly the violence spread. Rafe stood between the mob and the harbormaster’s office, trying to hold them back from assaulting the place and dragging the harbormaster out for what they called ‘payback.’” She tightened her clasped hands on her lap, feeling some of the same dread and horror she had experienced that day.

  “I saw the blow that felled him. All I could think was that I had to help him. I managed with the help of a young boy to get to him to the side of the building. That was where crewmen from the Clarion found us. At first I didn’t know who they were and tried to prevent them from taking him. But when they convinced me who they were I went with them as they took him to safety aboard their ship. That Juster Morgan was first mate and not at all welcoming. But Captain Pettigrew was always known as a good and honorable man, so we were put into a small cabin and given medicine and bandages. I stayed with him to tend his injury. Rafe slowly recovered. Those men from the Clarion—the ones who came today—were decent and charitable to us—a godsend.

  “When the cargo hold caught fire it was chaos. By then Rafe was on his feet and able to respond. We found out the captain was dead . . . Rafe and Juster Morgan exchanged blows . . . I was knocked overboard and Rafe rescued me.” She stopped, realizing what she’d just said.

  The magistrate studied her reaction and turned to Horace.

  “You believe her testimony?”

  Horace looked at her and blinked, as if seeing something in her he had previously missed. “This young woman has shown herself to be as courageous as she is compassionate. She has been dubbed an angel in the popular press, and for good reason. I would take her at her word, Your Honor, and I would put my fate in her hands.”

  As surprised as she was by Horace’s endorsement, she was more surprised by the statements she had just made. Rafe had rescued her. And he had risked life and limb to stand before a small army of armed and angry dock workers, trying to persuade them to a more productive path. Put in those terms, his behavior was nothing short of heroic.

  The magistrate asked nothing else and the silence between them seemed to be the result of all three thinking or rethinking important matters. It wasn’t long before they arrived at the main Townsend warehouse and were ushered inside by the same harbor police and constables who had guarded the cargo only the day before.

  In daylight the warehouse seemed downright cavernous and was packed with crates, barrels, and bales . . . some on shelves, some just stacked at the ends of shelf rows. When they reached the center of the warehouse, where the cargo from the Clarion was stored, Horace jolted forward and stood in the empty space with widened eyes.

  “What happened to it?” he demanded of no one in particular. “It was here when I left last night.”

  He turned on Ledbetter, who was declaring furiously that the Townsends had removed the cargo—secreted it out or sold it off so there would be no evidence of their malfeasance. Horace tried to rush him but was stopped by Rafe and a pair of harbor police.

  “We had nothing to do with it,” Horace yelled. “Why would we remove cargo that was under legal dispute? That would be asking for punishment!”

  Rafe tried to calm his father, but was also looking around the warehouse. “Where are Jake and Willie and the others?” His father stopped shouting long enough to listen.

  “Find them,” Horace said. “This couldn’t have happened with them on watch.”

  The men they had left in charge were soon found. Jake Cavender stumbled out of the shadows with blood on his shirt and a battered face. Willie Evers and another longshoreman were doubled over, clutching their bellies, and had to be helped to the center floor.

  “What happened?” Rafe asked, pulling out a handkerchief to press against the wound on Jake’s head. Blood had dried on the man’s face and hands, but with the effort of moving the head wound had reopened. Rafe helped the fellow to a seat on a nearby crate. Clearly he had fought hard to defend Townsend property.

  Lauren didn’t hear the man’s response, for at that moment something tugged on her skirts and she turned to find Jims Gardiner, sweaty and breathing hard, seeking her attention.

  “Jims.” She drew him aside. “What’s happened?”

  “Blokes tryin’ locks on the doors,” he panted out. “Have t’ tell the guv.”

  “Did they have torches or kerosene?” she asked. He shook his head, still recovering his breath. “Were they trying to get insi
de?”

  He took a final deep breath and shrugged. “They went aroun’ to another place—we didn’ see after that.”

  “It’s probably . . .” She had no finish for that thought. It could be anything but probably wasn’t. Missing cargo and now men trying to get into Townsend Imports’ old warehouses. It could be a coincidence, but probably wasn’t.

  She looked to Rafe, who was busy trying to keep his father and the nasty little undersecretary from each other’s throats while the customs inspector questioned the men who had tried to protect the cargo the magistrate was there to investigate. It was chaotic and no time to call attention to yet another impending calamity.

  Making a decision, she grabbed Jims’s hand and led him to the main doors and out into the street. “Which way?” she asked, and he pointed down the street.

  “That way, miz. But . . . I come for the guv . . .”

  “He has a lot on his plate just now.”

  “He’s eatin’?”

  She sighed. “I mean he’s busy dealing with other troubles just now. I’ll take a look and report back to him if something untoward is happening.” Taking his hand, she waved him onward. “Let’s go.”

  Jims led her across a few streets and down an alley that had her holding up her pretty skirts and stepping gingerly to avoid puddles and soggy piles of offal she didn’t want to examine. He pulled her to a stop across from an older wooden structure with faded lettering above a pair of tall, padlocked doors.

  Those Consolidated men were right, she thought. The old Townsend warehouses didn’t look especially sturdy. She looked around the street and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary: the occasional stray dog, an old fellow stumbling along and using the sides of buildings for support. She was thinking about checking on the old man when Jims pulled on her arm and dragged her back against the side of the nearby building with him.