The Greatest Challenge of Them All

by Stephanie Laurens

  Drake turned and approached the third bench. “You think that’s him?”

  “He looks the part,” Finnegan said. “You might not need to search any further.”

  Drake halted and studied the face of the dead man, then nodded. “You could be right.” He paused, then said, “Go and ask Chilburn’s landlord, the baker, to come and identify the body.” Drake looked at Louisa. “I doubt any of Chilburn’s family will be much help, at least not at the moment, and we need to know.”

  Drake glanced back at Finnegan. “Return here with the landlord and see what he says, then come and report.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Finnegan hesitated, then asked, “Should I take a constable, my lord? The landlord might not believe me.”

  Sir Martin snorted. “And even if he does, he might not be inclined to oblige.” He nodded at the door. “Ask Jennings on the front desk. Tell him I said to send a man with you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Finnegan bowed to Drake. “My lord.” Finnegan made for the door. As he drew level with Louisa, he bowed smoothly. “My lady.”

  Drake watched Finnegan go, then turned to Sir Martin. “The same killer, obviously, but he didn’t put the first two into the river.”

  “No,” Sir Martin conceded, “but that might have been because he killed them during the day.”

  “Which day?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say Wednesday. Earlyish. They’re not that far gone in decomposition, but rigor has passed, and vermin have had time to get at them.”

  Louisa had noticed Mr. Beam edging closer and closer to the door. Sir Martin’s last comment had eradicated what little color had remained in the secretary’s face.

  All but plastered against the wall beside the door, Beam managed to croak, “If you don’t need me anymore, my lord…”

  When Drake glanced his way, Beam pointed toward the door.

  Drake straightened. “My apologies, Beam. If you’ll wait in the corridor, we’ll head back to the association in just a few minutes.”

  Louisa approached and laid a hand on Beam’s arm. When he startled, then stared at her, she smiled reassuringly. “I’ll come and wait with you, sir. Let’s leave these gentlemen to their morbid discussions.”

  Beam went readily.

  Drake caught the look Louisa threw him as she bundled Beam into the corridor. He had to admit that with Finnegan gone, it was as well to keep the nervous Beam under their collective eye. He turned back to Sir Martin. “Anything more of a morbid nature you care to impart?”

  Sir Martin snorted. “Sadly, not a lot. It’s definitely the same killer—our garrotter. He stuns them with a blow to the back of the head first, quite neat and precise, almost certainly delivered with a short cosh, then uses his garrote. It’s a nasty way to kill—I’d say he enjoys it—but at least it’s quick.”

  “And silent,” Drake murmured. “Or as near as makes no odds.”

  “Indeed. This man is confident enough and coolheaded enough to kill in well-trafficked areas as long as he can find a place out of sight.” Sir Martin caught Drake’s eye. “Combined with his method of killing, that suggests he’s someone with whom all the men he’s killed have felt comfortable enough not to be on their guard. They’ve all turned their backs on him when he’s been quite close—they definitely didn’t view him as any imminent threat.”

  When Drake said nothing, Sir Martin added, “You need to catch this bastard, Winchelsea. He’s already accounted for six souls, and that’s just those we know of. We don’t need to find any more.”

  Drake grunted. “We’re doing our best, but…” He drew breath and continued, “Sadly, I suspect there will be more bodies before we catch up with him.”

  Sir Martin made a sound of disgust. “What a delightful thing to look forward to.” He waved Drake away. “Off! Off and catch this beggar.”

  Drake inclined his head and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 24

  Drake was out of the carriage the instant it halted. He barely paused to hand Louisa down before striding for the big wooden gates, currently set wide, that gave access to the yard of the Phoenix Brewery.

  He’d almost reached the gates when Louisa called, “Drake! Wait!”

  He halted and looked back, and saw Michael, with Cleo in tow, descending from an identical black carriage to the one Drake had just quit.

  Cleo and Michael joined Louisa, then all three walked quickly to where Drake waited.

  As soon as he was within earshot, Michael said, “We’ve been asking at the breweries in the area—we’ll explain later, but we think that’s where the gunpowder went, to a brewery. We’ve checked the other three, and none have any men missing.” Michael tipped his head at the ironwork arch spanning the gateway, with a phoenix rising from red-painted flames in an oval at the apex. “This is the last.”

  “And it’s by far the largest.” Cleo was peering into the yard.

  “And,” Drake added, his tones clipped, “two men who belong to the Working Men’s Association and work here have turned up dead.” He met Michael’s eyes. “Killed by our garrotter.”

  No more needed to be said. With Drake leading the way, they marched into the yard.

  They halted in the middle of the cobbled space. A surprised worker approached; while Drake gave his title and asked for the manager, Louisa looked about.

  The yard was much larger than was apparent from the street; it extended behind various buildings, stretching north toward the river, while to the south and east, huge buildings squatted, wide and deep. From the one to the east, a strong smell of hops emanated, while through the open doors of the barracks-like building to the south, she glimpsed racks of barrels stretching away into cellar-like dimness.

  Behind the buildings facing the street and closer to the river stood other buildings she thought might be workshops, while carts and drays were drawn up before the long low stable that formed the north side of the elongated rectangular yard.

  As she was looking, workmen rolled four large empty barrels out of the open door of one workshop and across the flagstones to what she assumed was the brewing house.

  Rapid footsteps had her swinging around. A short, rather rotund man, a merchant by his attire, came hurrying from a building wedged between the brewery and the cellar-store.

  The man’s eyes, wide and slightly protuberant, were fixed on Drake.

  After halting several yards away, the man bowed low. “My lord, allow me to present myself.” Straightening, he informed them, “I am Mr. Flock, and I’m the manager of this enterprise.” Clasping his hands, Mr. Flock inquired, “How may I be of service?”

  “Mr. Flock. I’m saddened to be the bearer of ill tidings, but I’ve just come from Scotland Yard. Two men were recently found murdered, their bodies discovered in streets nearby. They have been identified as Mike Jones and Cecil Blunt, both of whom worked here.”

  Flock paled, and his jaw fell slack. After a moment of goggle-eyed staring, he made a valiant attempt to pull himself together. “Good Lord! But…dead?” He goggled again.

  Drake eyed Flock’s face, considered his reaction. “I take it you knew they were missing.”

  “Yes—yes.” Flock ran a shaking hand over his balding pate. “Mike Jones was one of our master coopers, and Blunt was in charge of the drays. They’ve been missing—well, they haven’t turned up for work—since Tuesday. Them and two others.”

  “Others? Whom?” Drake demanded.

  “Mal Triggs—one of our drivers. And Jed Sawyer, Mike Jones’s apprentice. Those two were here on Wednesday, but we haven’t seen them since.”

  “We’ll need Triggs’s and Sawyer’s addresses.” Drake paused to swiftly rescript the truth, then said, “The situation, Mr. Flock, is this. A cargo of contraband material, stored in barrels, was taken from a warehouse in Morgan’s Lane on Monday night. The barrels were carted away on two drays.” Drake glanced at Cleo and added, “Two brewers’ drays.” He paused, then stated, relatively mildly, “It might help if we could examine
your drays.”

  “Yes, of course, my lord.” Flock waved at what was clearly the brewery’s stable, lining the north end of the yard, then led the way. “Of course, not all our drays are presently here. Indeed, most are out doing deliveries.”

  “If we could just see the design.” When Flock, surprised, glanced back at her, Cleo smiled encouragingly. “Are all your drays—the bigger ones capable of carrying six or more large barrels—all the same sort?”

  Flock blinked. “I expect so, but I really can’t say. We’ll have to ask the stableman—although, of course, he’s a more junior man. He’s had to step up to fill Blunt’s shoes.”

  They reached the stable. Drake paused by the doors, allowing Cleo and Michael to pass him, following Flock. Louisa had slipped away from their group. Scanning the yard, Drake spotted her strolling into one of the workshops. He hesitated, then turned and followed Cleo and Michael. One thing at a time, and in this setting, Louisa, he felt sure, could take care of herself.

  He found Flock standing back, with another man beside him, while Cleo and Michael studied a cart—a brewer’s dray.

  As Drake joined the group, Cleo nodded decisively. “Drays the same as this one—same shape of headboard, same body and paintwork—were the ones used to cart away the barrels from the warehouse.” Moving to the dray’s side, she raised a hand and traced the company’s logo—a phoenix rising over flames—which was picked out in gold against the black paint. “I remember this—the gold paint made it stand out in the weak light—but I wasn’t close enough to see what it was. What it depicted.”

  That was more than good enough for Drake.

  The stableman was frowning. “This was Monday night, you say?” When Michael nodded, the man said, “If you’ll wait just a minute…” Turning his head, he bellowed down the long stable, “Thomas!”

  A tow-headed urchin looked out of a distant stall. The stableman waved at him to join them. Brushing straw from his jerkin, the lad came hurrying up.

  When he skidded to a halt beside the stableman, the man nodded at Drake and Michael, and Cleo, who had drifted back to join them. “You tell these folks what you found Tuesday morning.” When the boy just stared, the stableman nudged him. “The horses, remember?”

  “Oh. Aye.” The boy blinked, then volunteered, “When I come in on Tuesday morning, one of the big haulers, he had all four hooves wrapped up with cloth. Took me an age to unwind the strips.”

  Drake looked at Cleo.

  She nodded. “The horses that drew the drays out of Morgan’s Lane had their hooves muffled with cloth.”

  Flock and the stableman exchanged wary glances. Flock had started to recover from the shock of having to deal with a marquess and three others of the aristocracy on top of being informed that several men in his employ had been murdered. He cleared his throat, then drew himself up and rather stridently stated, “My lord, I would like to take this opportunity to assure you that the Phoenix Brewery had absolutely nothing to do with any underhand or unsavory dealings, and if some of those who worked here appropriated our equipment to commit some crime, then while we find that deeply regrettable, I must protest that the brewery itself can in no way be held to blame.”

  Drake inclined his head. “Naturally not.”

  Flock didn’t take that in. Waxing eloquent in defense of his establishment, the manager spread his arms. “Why, even if our drays and horses were used to move the…er, contraband-containing barrels, there’s no saying where the barrels were taken. They might have been transported to anywhere in London!”

  “I regret to inform you, Mr. Flock, that the barrels were, indeed, brought here.”

  Louisa’s haughty tones acted like cold water flung over Flock’s histrionics. Along with everyone else, Drake turned to see her standing in the open stable door.

  She met his gaze and tipped her head toward the workshops. “I believe the barrels—or rather what’s left of them—are still here.” She shifted her gaze to Cleo. “If you would come and look, Cleo?”

  “Of course.” Cleo was already bustling toward the door.

  Michael quickly caught up with her. Drake followed.

  Flock, looking stunned again, trotted behind, trying to keep up, both with Drake’s strides and, Drake suspected, the unfolding events and how they might impact his business.

  Louisa led them between two workshops to what appeared to be a discard pile for broken barrels. Bending, she picked up one shattered stave and showed it to Cleo. “I found this shoved in toward the base of the pile.” She glanced at Michael. “There are many more pieces in there if you look. The wood is a different color to that commonly used here, so it’s easy to pick out.”

  The scent of freshly cut wood was pervasive. Several workmen in carpenters’ aprons were standing to one side, watching. One volunteered, “I’d take my oath the piece the lady’s holding is Irish oak. Coopers in London don’t use such wood—wherever those barrels came from, they weren’t local.”

  Cleo turned to show the broken stave to Drake. She pointed to a mark on the wood. “That’s part of the stamp of the Irish mill—all our contraband barrels had that mark.”

  Crouching, Michael had been tugging more smashed staves from the pile. He rose and showed Drake two more fragments, both with near-complete Irish gunpowder mill stamps.

  Drake nodded. “So the barrels were brought here, then…what? If they broke up the barrels, what did they do with the material in them?”

  Michael was looking down, almost hopping on one foot as he tried to shake free a piece of material that had wrapped about his ankle.

  “Wait! Stop!” Cleo crouched and caught the material. She unwound it, drew it free, then rose and held it out for Michael, Drake, and Louisa to see. They obediently looked, but it was Michael who realized the significance. “Oilskin!”

  Cleo turned to Flock and his men. She displayed the fragment of fabric. “Do you use this type of material anywhere in your business?”

  All the men looked; all shook their heads, transparently mystified. “I’m sure I’ve never ordered such stuff,” Flock said.

  Drake frowned at Michael and Cleo. “Obviously, you’ve discovered something we don’t know.”

  “Ah…yes.” With a glance at the increasing crowd of onlookers, Cleo lowered her voice. “We learned that it’s very likely possible to transport our sensitive contraband material in any barrels at all provided that those barrels are lined with oilskin, which is airtight, and the seals made good.”

  Over Cleo’s head, Drake surveyed the adjacent workshop with its benches crammed with barrels in various stages of construction. “That’s why they needed the cooper and his apprentice. Not just as hands to help with the transfer but to ensure the seals were tight.”

  Louisa had turned to peer into the pile. “There are lots more pieces of that material here. It looks as if they trimmed the pieces—presumably so the lining wouldn’t show.”

  Cleo strung out the piece she held. The inner edge formed a large ring. “I think they put the bags inside, filled them, then sealed the lid with the edges of the bags showing and trimmed off the edges.”

  Drake turned to Flock. “Mr. Flock, this matter of the contraband material we’re seeking is serious, and I am acting with the direct authority of the Home Secretary. We in no way imagine the Phoenix Brewery itself is involved. Even the men who were drawn into this plot and were subsequently murdered were hoodwinked. Our immediate concern now is to locate the contraband material. To accomplish this with the greatest speed, I am appealing for your help.”

  Flock waved his hands. “Good gracious, but of course! We are all entirely at your service, my lord.”

  “In that case”—Drake glanced at Cleo, then at Louisa—“I believe the first question we have is…”

  Louisa looked at Flock. “What size barrels does the brewery use?”

  That wasn’t a question Drake had expected, but Cleo nodded. “They would almost certainly have opted for barrels not previously used.”


  “It will be easiest to show you.” Flock gestured and led the way into the adjacent workshop and through it to a large adjoining storeroom. “This is our barrel store.”

  Most of the store was filled with empty barrels of various capacities, stacked according to size. Two men were rolling newly made barrels from the cooper’s workshop into the store, while other men were rolling barrels out of another door into the yard; presumably those barrels were on their way to be filled with the brewery’s products.

  Flock directed their attention to the side wall, where a line of barrels ranging in size from small brandy casks to massive ale barrels were neatly arranged with labels affixed to the wall above stating what beer, ale, or spirits each size of barrel was used for. Some sizes were used for several different beverages, others for just one. “These are all the different barrels we use.”

  The sharp smell of wood was intense inside the store. They surveyed the barrels, then Louisa took the fabric ring from Cleo, walked to the second-largest barrel, and laid the circular band around the barrel’s lip. It was a good fit.

  Cleo had followed Louisa; she nodded crisply. “Yes, that’s the size they used.”

  Drake looked at the sign above the barrel. “Bright Flame Ale.”

  Flock’s nervousness was increasing again. “That’s our most popular ale.”

  Cleo was eyeing the barrel measuringly. “If we assume they intend all the barrels to go to one place, then it’s most likely they used only one sort of barrel, so the lot could go all together as one order, in which case, they would, I believe, need fifteen of these to account for the ten barrels of…contraband material.”

  Michael glanced at Flock. “Are you missing any of these Bright Flame barrels? Can you tell?”

  Flock looked blank for an instant, then beckoned one of the carpenters who had hung back at the entrance to the barrel store. “Hinchins is our head cooper. I believe he should know.”

  Hinchins was a heavyset, grizzled man. When appealed to, he reluctantly nodded. “Aye—I was going to mention it if we hadn’t found them by the end of the day. We’re missing twelve or maybe fifteen Bright Flames.”