Nevertheless, by the time Drake reached the end of the information he’d elected to share, the man’s florid complexion had turned chalk white. “Dear Heaven!” he exclaimed. “Doctored barrels.” His voice grew weak. “My reputation… I’ll be ruined!”
“Not”—Drake’s tone sliced through what appeared to be Mr. Hunstable’s imminent hysterics—“if we can secure the barrels before they’re delivered.”
Hunstable leapt on the suggestion. “Yes—of course! Excellent idea.” He turned and rushed back into the warehouse.
Louisa and Drake strode after him.
Hunstable halted in the middle of a dimly lit space surrounded by stacks of barrels of various sizes. “Higgins! I say, Higgins! Damn it, man, where are you?”
The reedy-looking clerk Louisa had seen on the wharf came hurrying up a ramp that led down to the lower level of the warehouse. “Yes, Mr. Hunstable?”
Hunstable waved the man over. When Higgins presented himself, Hunstable, after furtively glancing to either side, waved at Drake and Louisa. “These, er…”
“Representatives of the authorities,” Drake supplied in a tone that left no room for doubt.
“Quite, quite.” Hunstable half bowed to them, then continued to Higgins, “These representatives of the authorities have brought word of a mix-up at Phoenix. It seems some blighters have swapped the ale in fifteen barrels of Bright Flame for some contraband stuff. Not ale.”
Higgins frowned.
Hunstable rolled on, “Apparently, the fifteen barrels of er…contraband material were delivered here on Friday morning.” Hunstable fixed his gaze almost beseechingly on Higgins’s worn face. “Please tell me we still have those fifteen barrels and can return them.”
Higgins looked increasingly wary. He glanced at Drake and Louisa, then looked back at Hunstable. “It’s Monday, sir. I’m afraid almost all the Bright Flame barrels that arrived on Friday will have been sent out.”
Hunstable groaned. “I’ll be ruined—ruined!” Then his expression abruptly cleared, and he turned to Drake. “But perhaps this wasn’t a regular delivery? Who was it destined for?”
“As to who, we don’t know, but we understand the barrels were stamped by Phoenix for delivery to one of your regular customers.” While Hunstable groaned anew, Drake fixed his gaze on Higgins. “How many different regular customers could have been the one supplied with the fifteen barrels of Bright Flame Ale delivered on Friday?”
Higgins’s gaze turned inward; he was clearly counting.
As the silence stretched, Drake grew more tense.
Finally, Higgins refocused and announced, “Eighteen. Since Friday.”
Drake felt like groaning, too.
Louisa asked Higgins, “Can you tell us how the deliveries work? Did you deliver the barrels you received on Friday morning on Friday afternoon or Saturday?”
“Well, miss, that depends. We receive upward of ten barge-loads of barrels from Phoenix between Thursday morning and Friday afternoon, and most all of that is for regular customers. But Phoenix knows all our standing orders, and they fill them as and when they fit—as works out best for their runs, you see, because most of the customers want all of their order to come from the one run.”
Louisa nodded. “Yes, I understand that part—the clerks at the brewery explained it to me. But how does that influence your deliveries to your customers?”
Higgins seemed to warm to her. “Well, let’s take a fer-instance. The Ship’s Anchor down by London Dock takes twenty barrels of Bright Flame delivered last thing Saturday. But the barrels to fill that order might come in any time from Thursday morning to Friday afternoon.”
His hands gripping his hips, Drake had been listening. “Can you tell us which orders were filled with the Bright Flame barrels delivered this last Friday morning?”
Higgins sucked his teeth. He glanced at Hunstable, who made a get-on-with-it gesture, then Higgins looked back at Drake. “No, sir. We have a sheet that gets ticked off as the barrels come into the warehouse, but that’s to make sure everything that’s due comes in. We’ve never needed to know on what day a particular customer’s order of Bright Flame comes in, only that the order is here, ready to be delivered in time to meet our customer schedule. As long as all the barrels for our orders are here by Saturday midday when the brewery shuts for the week, then all’s well. That’s all we check for.”
Drake exhaled through his teeth and looked down at the floor. After a moment, he raised his head. “All right. We know the barrels were delivered here on Friday morning. Tell us about the deliveries made after that—the ones involving fifteen or more barrels of Bright Flame. All the deliveries that might have included the doctored fifteen barrels.”
“Well,” Higgins said, “like I mentioned, there are eighteen customers that fit your bill, and most of those deliveries, all except three, get done between Friday early afternoon and Saturday late afternoon. Most places want their stock in for Saturday night, you see. Then the last three deliveries roll out first thing Monday morning.”
The open doors of the warehouse were behind them. Louisa heard a heavy cart draw up rather jerkily, almost skidding on the gravel of the yard. She turned and looked outside.
Two lads in tabards bearing the Hunstable name and logo climbed down rather gingerly from the box seat of a dray. They were eyeing the two huge workhorses in the traces as if the beasts might kick or bite at any moment.
She frowned, then glanced disapprovingly at Hunstable. “Are all your delivery drivers so young?”
“Heh?” Hunstable followed her gaze and saw the two lads slinking into the warehouse.
Higgins turned and directed the pair to a stack of barrels set to one side of the doors. The boys—they were really not much older—bobbed their heads, went and picked up a barrel each, and staggered with them out to the dray.
Hunstable sighed gustily. “No—that’s another crisis. I have four regular drivers. They’ve been with me for years. Experience tells in this game, you see—those four know all the shortcuts that can fit a dray, where all the cellar doors are, and so on. But the four of them—all four!—didn’t turn up for work this morning, and I literally had to hire lads off the streets.” He tipped his head toward the pair trooping back and forth with barrels. “At least those two can manage the reins.”
More missing men. Louisa exchanged a look with Drake. More deaths, and they’d missed the barrels again.
She took the bit between her teeth and laid a hand on Hunstable’s arm. “Mr. Hunstable, I would most strongly urge you to go—or send someone who knows your missing drivers well enough to recognize them—to Scotland Yard.”
Drake had already pulled out his card case and was scribbling on the back of a card. “Take this.” He handed the card to Hunstable, who had blanched. “Show it to the man on the desk and ask for that name—Inspector Crawford. Tell him who you are, that I’ve sent you, and that you’re missing four deliverymen. He’ll know where to take you.” Drake paused, glanced at Higgins, then said, “This is part of a much larger plot, and it sounds as if your regular drivers have got caught up in it.”
Hunstable stared at the card—at Drake’s title. When he looked up at Drake, his color was pasty, his expression grave. “Something’s happened to those men—my drivers—hasn’t it?”
Fleetingly, Louisa met Drake’s eyes, then once again laid a comforting hand on Hunstable’s sleeve. “We strongly suspect they’ve been killed. Murdered.”
“That said,” Drake added, “it’s possible two or more escaped and have gone into hiding, too frightened to show their faces here, where someone might be watching and waiting.”
Hunstable frowned, then glanced around. “Higgins and the others—the boys.” Hunstable peered outside where the two lads were lashing barrels to the dray. “Are they in any danger?”
“No.” Drake’s tone carried conviction. “It’s the Bright Flame barrels containing the contraband material that are behind all this, and those barrels are no longer he
re.”
Hunstable nodded. “Yes—I see.” He stared again at the card, then raised his head and squared his shoulders. “I’ll go straightaway. It’s the least I can do.” He managed a creditable bow to Louisa, then to Drake. “If there’s anything more we can do to assist you, my lord, just ask Higgins here.”
“Thank you.” Drake inclined his head to Hunstable, who then turned and walked heavily out into the yard.
Drake looked at Higgins. “I’m the Marquess of Winchelsea, and in this matter, I’m acting with the authority of the Home Secretary. We need—urgently—a list of those eighteen deliveries that might have contained the fifteen doctored barrels of Bright Flame Ale.”
Higgins saluted. “At once, my lord.”
“Two copies, please,” Louisa added. “And addresses would greatly help.”
“Right away, miss—my lady.” With a bobbed bow, Higgins rushed off to a small office to the left of the open doors.
Drake walked to the nearest stack of barrels and leaned against them. Louisa went to where a nearby barrel of brandy offered her a place to sit. They waited without words; neither needed words to know what the other was thinking—what thoughts and conjecture were flying through their brains.
In less than ten minutes, Higgins came rushing back, waving two sheets of paper as he came. “Two copies, as requested.” He presented one sheet to each of them with a little bow, then stepped back and watched them scan the entries.
When Drake looked up, Higgins offered, “I double-checked our ledgers—there were no other deliveries that included fifteen barrels of Bright Flame, not since Friday morning. And the only barrels of Bright Flame we have left came in on spec—meaning not stamped for any customer—last Tuesday.”
“They won’t be the barrels we’re seeking.” Drake’s gaze fell again to the list.
Louisa looked up from perusing her copy. “Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”
Drake finally grunted, folded his copy, and stuffed it into his pocket. He nodded at Higgins, then took Louisa’s elbow, and they walked out into the yard.
They stopped beside the carriage. Drake released Louisa, drew in a deep breath, then raked one hand through his hair. “Damn it! Are we ever going to catch up with these barrels? Before they’re set off?”
Louisa read his frustration—for once, on display—in his face, and calmly replied, “Yes. Of course we are.”
Her tone—one which brooked no denial, much less disbelief—brought Drake’s gaze to her face. He stared at her for a moment, then humphed and reached for the carriage door.
“I suppose we are.” He gave her his hand, helped her up, then followed. As he dropped onto the seat beside her, he added, “When it comes down to it, no other outcome is possible.”
“Indeed.”
Henry gave the horses the office, and the carriage rolled out and into the traffic, heading west toward Mayfair.
Several minutes later, his gaze on the passing façades, Drake asked, “Can you handle the funeral alone?”
“No. I’ve already thought, and I can’t. I can’t cover both the gentlemen as well as the ladies, and we can’t tell from whom a vital clue might fall.” She glanced at him. “It has to be me and you both. Nothing else will do.” She tried to read his mood from his profile, then went on, “No matter how much you want to be in the thick of things, you have to trust the others to manage the search—you know they will.”
When his jaw tightened and he made no reply, she glanced out of the window; they were on the Strand. “When we get back to St. Ives House, while I change, you can talk to Tom or Tully—whoever is currently acting as footmen-army liaison. Divide up the eighteen…” She glanced again at the list of deliveries she still held in her hand. “Well, it’s fifteen customers if we discount the deliveries made this morning.” She frowned and glanced at Drake. “Or do we?”
A minute ticked by, then Drake stated, “If the plotters—and the garrotter—adhered to their pattern of killing those drawn in as helpers immediately or as soon as possible after they’ve accomplished their allotted task, then it’s the deliveries on Saturday we should focus on.”
Still frowning, she said, “Isn’t that contrary to the best way of going about things? You thought—and it seemed to me for excellent reasons—that they wouldn’t move the gunpowder to the target site until twenty-four hours or less from the time they intended to blow it up.”
He grimaced. For several moments, he stared at the list in her hand, then said, “This plot has frequently deviated from established precepts, but whether that strengthens the case for the deliveries on Friday and Saturday or the deliveries made this morning being the critical ones…” He shook his head. “It’s impossible to predict. However, as we’ve significantly reduced the number of cellars your brothers and their helpers have to search, I’ll suggest they start with the fifteen Friday and Saturday deliveries, and if they find nothing there”—he shifted and reached for his watch—“we should still have time to search the other three places later today.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s half past eleven.”
“And who knows?” She looked down at the list. “At the funeral, we might get some clue as to which of these customers or addresses is the target.”
Drake shifted closer so he could read the list. After scanning the addresses, he humphed. “Most of the locations are not ones we’ve searched. But these two”—he pointed—“are close to Whitehall, possibly close enough to do serious damage.” He pointed to a third entry. “And that inn is next door to the Hungarian Embassy. In contrast, all three deliveries made this morning went to government and army sites we searched yesterday. Those cellars and stores were clear of gunpowder then.” He sat back and added, “Of course, there’s nothing to say they still are.”
“Hmm.” She refolded the list. “And as we still have no idea of motive…”
“Indeed. We can’t discount any of the sites.”
She loosened the ties of her reticule, tucked the list inside, and cinched the neck shut. “If you send word to Sebastian, Michael, and Cleo to concentrate on the places Hunstable’s delivered to on Friday afternoon and Saturday, between them, they should be able to search all fifteen today. Meanwhile, if you and I learn nothing useful at the funeral, we can start at the bottom of the list and visit the three messes that received barrels from Hunstable’s this morning.”
Drake grunted an assent and looked out of the window. Impatience rode him, exacerbating a sense of an unseen clock inexorably ticking, of sand sliding through an hourglass where, all too soon, no more grains would be left to fall.
The thought of joining the search after the funeral—it would be a wonder if they learned anything about the location of the gunpowder there—went some small way to appeasing that side of him that hungered for action. That wanted to get out and do.
But Louisa was right. Of the six of them now actively immersed in the mission, he and she were the most appropriate—most usefully skilled—to do the rounds of the family and friends who would gather for Chilburn’s funeral service.
And no matter the compulsion he felt to hunt and locate the barrels of gunpowder, he could not afford to forget that it was equally important—and ultimately possibly even more crucial—to identify the mastermind behind the plot.
They couldn’t afford to ignore any opportunity to learn more about the elusive man—or, indeed, woman—who had recruited Lawton Chilburn to a plot that had brought about his end.
CHAPTER 54
Drake held the heavy door of St. George’s open for Louisa to slip through, then silently followed her.
They’d timed their arrival perfectly; the doors had already been shut, but a glance toward the front of the nave showed the minister had yet to appear.
Almost on the thought, the minister entered from a side door and made his stately way to the pulpit, which rose above the right front corner of the nave. He climbed the stairs to the raised platform, looked down on the congregation, then after a brief statement of
their purpose in being there, he opened the service with a call to prayer.
With Drake beside her, Louisa had halted to the rear of the massed mourners filling the width of the nave. Standing in loose clusters, the crowd reached more than halfway up the church. Her head slightly bowed, she scanned the faces she could see, then rose on her toes to peek over the wooden partitions that ran along each side, confirming that the older family members had retreated into the box pews.
The prayer ended, and everyone shifted, resettling their weight as they prepared to endure the rest of the hour-long service. Studying faces and stances, Louisa detected few who appeared to have any real interest in being there. Most had attended out of a sense of duty, not because they truly mourned Lawton.
The minister embarked on a sonorous recitation of what was clearly a heavily edited account of the highlights of Lawton Chilburn’s life.
Drake bent his head and whispered in her ear, “I doubt the Chilburn elders of either gender would have any idea of what Lawton was up to.”
Turning her head Drake’s way, she murmured back, “I doubt any of the younger ones—those much younger than he—would, either.”
“Which leaves those of his generation.” He met her eyes as she glanced up at him. “You take the females, I’ll take the males—let’s see what we can tease from them.”
She nodded. It was a challenge of sorts; she was still convinced that someone of Lawton’s family had to know something useful. The issue, she suspected, was that they—his brothers, sisters, or closest cousins—didn’t realize that what they knew was relevant to his murder.
Moving all but silently, she and Drake parted. She glided to where two clusters of ladies stood, giving every appearance of dutifully listening. Drake, meanwhile, ambled forward and stopped just short of a group of well-dressed gentlemen—close enough to overhear any shared comments, no matter how muttered; the acoustics of the nave were wonderful for eavesdropping.
Louisa trained her ears to the low-voiced conversations of the ladies on either side. Although the members of both groups noticed her, they merely inclined their heads politely and returned to their comments, making no effort to curb their tongues.
The Greatest Challenge of Them All Page 33
