The Greatest Challenge of Them All

by Stephanie Laurens

  Still…

  After weighing the situation, he decided that if the man had done a bunk, perhaps that would be good enough, at least for the moment. At least until the old man’s plans had reached their apogee. Later, once all was successfully achieved…there was really nothing the man could do. He posed no threat to Griswade or the old man because he didn’t know they existed.

  Griswade preferred to be thorough, but in this case, perhaps accepting the situation and letting the man hide away where he was no threat to anyone was the wiser course.

  Regardless, he was approaching Tooley Street, and the fog was thinning. It was time he was away from there.

  CHAPTER 20

  When at nine o’clock, with Louisa by his side, Drake walked into the London Working Men’s Association building, it was to find a sea of gloomy faces awaiting them.

  After nodding to the small crowd, Drake turned to the office and Beam, who had come to the window. “I take it you have no new information.”

  Beam grimaced. “We’re still checking through the membership lists. We’ve hundreds of names to check—maybe as many as a thousand men to find to make sure they haven’t vanished like our leaders.”

  “I daresay it’s a grim business.” Louisa’s clear voice floated over the gathered men. “Not knowing when you might stumble on another of your colleagues who’ve fallen victim to this plot.”

  “That’s it exactly,” Beam said. “I’ve persuaded the sergeants of the three militias that we have to make sure no other man’s in trouble. They’re each combing through the list of their members, but we haven’t yet heard of anyone else disappearing.” Beam looked at Drake. “The sergeants should send in an update in the next hour.”

  Drake debated waiting to see if anything turned up. The crowd in the meeting room seemed to ebb and flow; men came in, chatted with their mates for a while, then left, and others arrived. Presumably, many different workplaces would be represented by at least one man each day; Drake could see how, without all that much effort, the Chartists could spread information through their membership quickly and efficiently.

  But searching for missing men—men who were no longer present to hear and respond to any appeal—was another matter entirely.

  Louisa had been chatting with Beam. Several other men, drawn like moths to a flame, had sidled closer, and she was now questioning the group about other possible ways to check if any of their members were missing.

  She was standing several feet away, yet her perfume niggled at Drake, teasing his senses.

  When, at eight-thirty, he’d walked into the St. Ives House front hall to find her coming down the stairs garbed in a severe dark-green walking dress, he’d felt something inside him still. Tense and watchful, he’d waited, but she’d behaved in her usual willful and single-minded fashion, and it had been blatantly clear that her focus was firmly fixed on forging ahead with the mission.

  He’d found himself both grateful and perversely irritated that she gave every sign of having completely forgotten that senses-searing kiss they’d shared mere hours before.

  Of course, he could blot the incident from his mind, too, but only with the exercise of significant effort. He knew she wouldn’t have forgotten it—the heat, the hunger, the overwhelming sensations—any more than he had, but that she could, apparently so effortlessly, set it aside…

  He inwardly shook himself back to the here and now. He glanced at her again. It truly was madness to continue to allow her to investigate alongside him. Sadly, he knew what incited such madness—her, Louisa, Lady Wild; if he didn’t include her and take her with him, she would plunge in on her own.

  The sound of running footsteps on the pavement outside had him and everyone else turning toward the front doors.

  Abruptly, both doors were flung wide, and Finnegan rushed in. His gaze locked on Drake. “My lord—” Finnegan halted and, having taken in the crowd, fell silent; he was clearly uncertain whether he should speak in such company.

  “If it’s about this mission, you can speak freely,” Drake said.

  “Yes, my lord.” Finnegan drew breath and reported, “Inspector Crawford sent an urgent message. A runner from the River Police arrived at the Yard to say they’ve pulled out another body farther downriver. They’re sending the remains up to the Yard. And the inspector says there are two more with Sir Martin that he thinks you need to take a look at. He hopes you can help with identification.”

  Drake turned to survey the men. To the last man, they’d blanched. Quietly, Drake asked, “Is there anyone willing to see if these three recent bodies belong to members of this association?”

  The men glanced at each other. They shuffled, murmured unintelligibly, but no one volunteered.

  From the corner of his eye, Drake saw Beam stiffen, then the secretary straightened and cleared his throat.

  When Drake looked his way, Beam said, “I’ll come. While I might not know every man by name, I believe I would recognize most faces…” He looked down at the papers on the counter before him and frowned. “That is, if the matter can wait for a few minutes while I get things in order?”

  Drake nodded crisply. “We can wait. If the body from downriver is still on its way…” He glanced at Finnegan, who nodded. Drake continued, “There’s no hurry. Take your time. We’ll wait, and you can come with us in the carriage.”

  CHAPTER 21

  C leo and Michael stood on the stoop of a tiny but well-kept cottage on the edge of Clapham Common. Michael grasped the knocker and plied it.

  After several moments, they heard shuffling footsteps approaching, then the door swung open, and an old sailor—he was instantly recognizable as such—looked out at them through bird-bright blue eyes.

  The old man surveyed Michael, then his gaze moved to Cleo, and all reserve evaporated. He beamed. “Miss Hendon! Well, I never. It’s a delight to see you again, miss.”

  Cleo smiled back. “Hello, Ollie.” She waved at Michael. “This is Lord Michael Cynster. He’s a friend of the family’s.”

  Michael cast her a faintly amused look. “And Miss Hendon’s fiancé.”

  Cleo colored. “Yes. And that.” She still hadn’t grown accustomed to the fact.

  Measuringly, Ollie looked Michael over, but apparently liked what he saw. His beaming smile returned. “Delighted to meet you, sir—my lord.” His gaze switched from Michael to Cleo and back again. “But what brings you to my door?”

  “If we may, Ollie,” Cleo said, “we’d like to pick your brains. We’re helping the authorities with a puzzle that involves gunpowder.”

  “Ah, well, if that’s the case, you’ve come to the right place.” Ollie stepped back and waved them in. “Come you on in, and I’ll get us a pot of tea, and then we’ll see how much I still remember, heh?”

  He settled them in chairs in the tiny parlor, then bustled away, to return in five minutes with a tray on which resided a brown teapot and three mugs, a small pitcher of milk, and a plate of shortbread biscuits.

  Once he’d seen them supplied to his satisfaction, Ollie sat in what was patently his favorite armchair by the fire and fixed them with an interrogatory look. “Now, what’s this you need to know?”

  Cleo cradled her mug between her hands. “The situation is this. We believe someone—who, we don’t know—has brought gunpowder illicitly into London. We’ve traced ten barrels to a particular area of Southwark. We’ve kept a watch on the area since, so either the barrels are still there, which they might be, or—and this is what we’re worried about—the gunpowder might have been transferred to some other container as a disguise. In that case, it might still be in the area, or it might have been or might soon be moved.” Cleo had fixed her gaze on Ollie’s face. “We asked the senior clerk at the office of the Inspector General of Gunpowder, and he said there really was no effective way to store gunpowder, especially near water, except in properly made gunpowder barrels.”

  Ollie was slowly nodding. “Aye, he’s right about that. Goes off so fast you would
n’t credit it, especially if, as it seems, they’re holding the stuff near the river. They’d want to keep it properly airtight, or it’d be no use at all.”

  Cleo grimaced. She glanced at Michael.

  Leaning forward, his forearms on his thighs, he was studying Ollie’s face. “So there’s no other way at all—none whatsoever—to successfully transport gunpowder.”

  “Well,” Ollie temporized, “other than skins, but if you’re talking ten barrels’ worth, that won’t do.”

  The mention of skins juxtaposed with Ollie… Cleo frowned. “You say skins because once they’re treated, they’re airtight.”

  Puzzled, Ollie nodded. “Aye, that’s right.”

  “But,” Cleo went on, clearly feeling her way, “does that mean that anything that’s airtight might be used?” She met Ollie’s bright gaze. “I’m thinking of oilskin bags—like the ones used for flotation. Could they be used?”

  Ollie blinked. He thought for several moments, then, slowly, he nodded. “Can’t see why properly treated oilskin wouldn’t work—not that I’ve ever tried it.”

  Michael was searching Cleo’s face. “What are you imagining?”

  Excitement mounting, Cleo said, “What if our villains used oilskin bags and set the bags inside barrels—the sort of barrels you would never think could be used for gunpowder, like brewery barrels or herring barrels?” She looked at Ollie. “Would that—could that—work?”

  Again, Ollie thought. Again, eventually, he nodded. “Aye, it might, but only if these villains of yours know to seal the bags good and tight.” He paused, clearly envisaging the construction. “Those flotation bags ships use—well, they’re in water all the time or right beside it, and they last for years. If your villains use that sort of oilskin, and as long as they know to get the seal right… Aye, I’d stake my name on it—that would do.”

  “Thank you!” Cleo set down her mug and all but bounced to her feet. Her eyes shining, she looked at Michael. “Now we know what to search for.” She turned to Ollie, who had lumbered up from his chair. She gripped his hands and squeezed. “You’ve helped us enormously.”

  “My pleasure, miss.” Ollie’s smile stated he spoke only the truth.

  Michael offered his hand. “And you have the thanks of all of us who are working on this.”

  Ollie shook Michael’s hand. “Aye, you’re chasing something important. I can see that.” He followed Michael and Cleo as they made for the door. He halted in the doorway, and when they turned to farewell him, he bobbed his head to them both. “Good luck to the pair of you. I hope you find that stuff right quick.”

  “With your help, Ollie, we will.” Cleo waved, then rushed for the carriage.

  Michael saluted Ollie, which made the old man grin, then hurried to catch up with Cleo. He helped her into the carriage, then called up to Tom, “Back to Southwark with all speed.”

  Michael joined Cleo in the carriage. It rocked as Tom turned the horses. The instant Tom had the carriage on the road again and had whipped up the horses, Michael met Cleo’s eyes. “Where first? The breweries?”

  Cleo thought, then said, “Of all the different things going out of that area day after day, the two that stand out are the barrels of pickled herrings and the barrels of beer and ale. And of those two, the barrels from the breweries…there are just so many of them, and they go out in all directions, far more so than the herring barrels. So yes, I believe the breweries ought to be our next ports of call.”

  CHAPTER 22

  F rom the shadows cloaking the top of the water stairs beneath the northern end of Blackfriars Bridge, Griswade watched a barge carrying a massive number of barrels destined for Hunstable’s warehouse inch away from Gun Wharf on the other side of the river.

  The heavily weighted flat-bottomed barge, guided by his latest helpful henchmen, rode the currents and, yard by yard, moved steadily across the choppy gray waters.

  Once the barge was close enough, Griswade put a spyglass to his eye. He focused, then scanned the barrels, searching for the right markings. Yes—there. Clearly visible on the sides of several barrels was the brand identifying the ultimate destination for those very special barrels.

  Lowering the glass, Griswade allowed himself a small smile. So far, so good. All was going perfectly to plan. And after tonight, there would be no one left who might mention to anyone the odd qualities of those particular barrels delivered to Hunstable’s that day.

  He shut the spyglass, returned it to his pocket, then turned and trudged up to the road and thence onto the bridge. Effectively concealed among the many other pedestrians crossing the bridge, he watched the barge slide alongside the wharf onto which the lower level of Hunstable’s huge warehouse opened. The bargemen tied up, then hefted the barrels, the special delivery along with others more mundane, onto the wharf, then the pair rolled the barrels along, through the open double doors and into the dimness of the warehouse.

  Griswade counted the special barrels as they went into the warehouse. He waited until the entire delivery was complete, and the bargemen pushed their almost empty barge back onto the river.

  All had gone smoothly, without a hitch. Without the slightest suspicion raised.

  All was in train for the old man’s plot to end with a resounding bang.

  CHAPTER 23

  M r. Beam, poor man, was understandably nervous. As Drake led the way through the doors of the morgue, Louisa smiled reassuringly at the gangly secretary and waved him to precede her inside.

  Holding open the door, Drake glanced back.

  Beam faced the doorway, drew in a deep breath, clutched his cap even more tightly, and followed Drake into the ivory-tiled room.

  Louisa walked in behind Beam, while Finnegan, who seemed to possess an unhealthy curiosity regarding dead bodies and had begged to accompany them, brought up the rear.

  It was already after midday; they’d been held up by an accident between two carriages that had blocked Vauxhall Bridge while they were on it. Her coachman hadn’t been able to turn the carriage; they’d had to wait until the debris was cleared, and they’d been able to pass.

  Sir Martin was sitting at a desk by the wall. He’d been working on reports, but had turned at the sound of their footsteps.

  He noted their small procession; as he came to his feet, from under his bushy eyebrows, he directed a particularly ferocious scowl at Louisa, but he knew better than to attempt to exclude a duke’s daughter from wherever she wished to go.

  Regardless, with the strong smell of preservatives in her nostrils, Louisa halted just a few yards inside the large room. She didn’t feel obliged to view any more dead bodies. She did, however, intend to hear every word said.

  Drake led Beam to Sir Martin, who greeted the secretary reasonably politely. After making the introductions, Drake said, “Beam believes he’ll be able to identify any local member of his organization should their bodies have found their way here.”

  Sir Martin eyed the transparently edgy secretary and forbore to bark as was his wont; presumably realizing Beam needed no encouragement to bolt, he nodded approvingly. “Good man.” Sir Martin started toward the row of marble-topped benches. “If you’ll come this way?”

  Three of the five benches in the main part of the room were occupied. Well-washed yet yellowing sheets covered the man-shaped mounds.

  Sir Martin led Beam to one end of the row and, almost reverently, one after the other, drew back the sheets from the bodies’ heads. “Take your time, sir,” he instructed Beam. “It’s important that you be sure.”

  Tentatively, Beam approached the first body.

  “Sadly,” Sir Martin continued, his tone one of clinical detachment, “they’re somewhat the worse for wear, but we’ve done the best we can to make them presentable. Ignore the fresh scratches and bites.”

  As if mesmerized, Beam stood staring at the first body’s face.

  “The first two”—Sir Martin glanced at Drake—“were found in Southwark, in the area your friends have under surv
eillance, while the third was retrieved from the marshes downstream.”

  Abruptly, Beam wrenched his gaze from the face of the first body and looked at the face of the second. After several seconds of horrified gazing, he shuffled on and looked down on the face of the third corpse.

  After a moment, Beam frowned. He looked back at the first and second bodies. Then he raised his gaze to Drake’s face. “The—” Beam had to stop and clear his throat, then he gamely went on, “The first two are ours.” He glanced at the bodies in question. “They are—were—brewery workers, I think. I’ll need to check the register to see which brewery, but their names are Mike Jones and Cec—Cecil—Blunt.”

  Sir Martin grabbed paper and pencil and jotted down the names. “Addresses?” He looked at Beam.

  The secretary shook his head. “I can’t say, but they’ll be on the register. That’s back at the association.” Clutching his cap, twisting it between his hands, Beam edged away from the bodies.

  Sir Martin caught Drake’s gaze, arched a brow, and with his eyes, signaled to the third body.

  Drake focused on Beam. “The third man?”

  Beam didn’t look again, but shook his head decisively. “He’s not one of ours. I’ve never seen him before.”

  Finnegan had been circling the three occupied benches. He approached the third corpse and studied the dead man’s face. Then he stepped to the side, raised the sheet, and lifted one of the man’s hands.

  Intrigued, Louisa watched as Finnegan appeared to study the man’s nails.

  Then Finnegan set down the arm and looked at Drake, who was informing Beam that they would be returning to the association with him in order to determine where the two dead men had lived and worked. “My lord?”

  Drake glanced at Finnegan and arched an eyebrow.

  “The gentleman—Mr. Chilburn. He had a gentleman’s gentleman who has disappeared.”