The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  “We need to stop that shipment,” rasped Bowman. There was much riding on his investigation.

  Callaghan was at his side, his eyes agog at the swarm of activity before him. “And how do you propose we do that?”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when he heard a loud blast by his left ear. His heart racing, he ducked to the floor, covering his head with his hands. Once the ringing in his ears had subsided, he looked up to see Bowman on the wall that separated the road from the dock. He held his revolver in one hand, and his papers in another.

  “Detective Inspector Bowman, Scotland Yard!” he was shouting. “Hold that cargo!”

  Peering over the wall, Chief Inspector Callaghan could see the maelstrom of activity had come to a halt. He was relieved to see that many others had also ducked to the floor in response to the shot. Some stood frozen where they were, a sack or pallet balanced dangerously on their heads. All eyes were upon Bowman. Sergeant Graves leaned into the chief inspector. “Well,” he breathed excitedly, ‘that got their attention.”

  “Stand back from the water!” Bowman yelled.

  “We’ve a boat to unload!” The inspector saw a young, brawny man at a barrow. There was a chorus of agreement. “Got to get this spice off or we don’t get paid!”

  “We’re impounding this ship! Where’s the captain?”

  “I’m the captain!”

  Bowman saw a tall, wiry-looking man with a bandana on his head. “Then you must talk to Inspector Hicks.”

  Hicks’ eyebrows rose high on his head at the mention of his name. Bowman leapt from the wall, his coat tails billowing behind him.

  “Seize his papers, Hicks,” hissed Bowman. “And his log. We need to know just what he’s picked up and where.” Hicks nodded sharply. Bowman turned to Callaghan and Graves. “You two,” he breathed, “stay with me.”

  The inspectors strode into Shad Thames and through the open doors of the wharves to the dock front. With a gleam of determination in his eye, Bowman shouldered through the throng of wharfingers who stood awaiting their employment at the dockside. Burly men blocked their way at every turn. Eager to earn their pay, they were aware that time was of the essence.

  “The tide won’t wait,” bellowed one into Bowman’s face.

  “Nor will my investigation,” shouted the inspector as he strode to the water’s edge. “Stand aside.”

  The boat in front of him was a converted Scottish steam barge. More used to ferrying fish from the Scottish ports, the Thistledown had been fitted with additional sails and had her hull reinforced for ocean voyages. Steam belched from her cast iron funnel to the aft as her engines idled. The captain stood aloft, leaning against the wheelhouse.

  “Captain,” bellowed Bowman. “I must have access to the hold.”

  “You’ll have it just as soon as I talk to the loading officer.” The captain eyed Bowman cautiously. “I’ll have everything done by the book.”

  “Where is Bracewell?” Bowman asked the nearest foreman.

  “He’s not been seen this evening,” the man said, with a shrug.

  “Reckon he’s workshy!” jeered a stocky man in a tatty felt jacket, to murmurs of approval.

  “Then,” continued Bowman, “I’m commandeering this ship on behalf of Her Majesty.”

  There was laughter from the captain. “Comin’ to search it herself, is she?”

  “Can you do that, sir?” whispered Sergeant Graves from the inspector’s shoulder.

  “I have the authority as a police officer,” shouted Bowman to the captain. “You may question it in court when you are charged with the obstruction of an investigation.” He turned to Graves. “No, I don’t Graves,” he said quietly. “But I’m hoping he won’t risk a day in court.” Graves only just suppressed a smile at the inspector’s gall.

  The captain was still for a while, chewing on his lip in thought. He was clearly weighing up his options. Then, throwing his arms up in submission, he strode from the deck and across the gangplank to the dockside. Squaring up to Bowman, he jutted his chin into the inspector’s face.

  “If my cargo is not despatched before the tide turns, then Scotland Yard will know about it.”

  Bowman could smell tobacco on his breath.

  “Inspector Hicks,” Bowman began calmly, determined not to blink in the face of the man’s threats, “would you take the captain to a quieter place and question him as to his boat’s cargo?”

  The captain cleared his throat and spat the resultant spume to the floor, narrowly missing Bowman’s shoes. “Albert!” he called. A young boy poked his head from a hatch on the boat’s deck. “Bring our cargo manifest and landing papers, would you, lad?” Through all this, the captain held Bowman in his gaze. “You’ll find nothing out of the ordinary, inspector.”

  “Then you have nothing to fear,” Bowman returned, slowly. He turned sharply and nodded to Hicks.

  “This way, captain,” said Hicks, gesturing with his great hand that he should follow him. “Let’s find a quiet corner, shall we?”

  The look in Hicks’ eye gave Bowman the suspicion that he might well have meant a quiet corner in a public house. No matter, thought the inspector, so long as he got the job done.

  With a grunt, the captain gave way and followed the inspector, but not without a last look of contempt at Bowman.

  “Chief Inspector Callaghan, would you be so good as to accompany Sergeant Graves into the hold?” Callaghan murmured his assent as Bowman turned to one of the dockworkers, a swarthy looking man with a crooked face. “You,” he commanded. “Follow them down and render such assistance as may be necessary.”

  The man looked at his colleagues. Finding no support among them, he rolled his eyes and strode on board the Thistledown. Lifting the hatches along the length of the deck, he stood with a surly look, awaiting his orders.

  “Off you go, Graves,” Bowman said to his companion, quietly. “Don’t miss a thing.”

  “Righto, sir.” Graves was beaming with excitement. “And what will you do?”

  “I need to look for Bracewell.” Bowman’s eyes narrowed as he thought. “Is it mere coincidence that he’s disappeared just when we had most need to talk with him?”

  Graves clicked his tongue in response and, with a look to Callaghan, tripped carefully over the gangplank to the Thistledown’s polished, wooden deck.

  As Callaghan passed in front of Bowman, he swung the top hat from his head and threw the inspector a look of exasperation. Bad enough, he was clearly thinking, to be subordinate to a mere detective inspector. Worse still to be wasting time with such trifles. Bowman returned his gaze, his moustache twitching slightly on his upper lip.

  With his two companions descending the ladders to the hold, Bowman turned to the men on the quay. “No one leaves this dock. I charge the foremen to be sure of it.”

  “How long will you be?” shouted a younger man from the opposite side of the dock.

  “We’ll take all the time we need, but you will not leave.”

  With a collective groan, the men sauntered back from the water’s edge to sit and bemoan their fate.

  Inspector Bowman walked the length of Shad Thames to the steps down to the river. His eyes scanned the open wharf doors for anything that looked improper or out of place. The wharfingers sat on barrels and carts, cursing at the inspector’s intervention and the passing of time. Every minute that was wasted was a threat to their wages.

  Reaching the bottom of the steps, Bowman turned the corner to face Tower Bridge. The sun was setting behind it, imbuing the stonework with a fiery red. It looked like it sat in some great furnace, its ironwork glowing like embers. The labourers were gone for the night and all was still on the towers and gantries. Bowman saw the bascules had been left in their raised position in anticipation of the arrival of the Royal Yacht. Turning to his right, Bowman found himself in the very same spot where he had first met Cornelius Bracewell just two days before. He had felt uneasy in the man’s presence, he remembered. The bead of sweat
that had rolled from his hairline seemed to signify a man not to be trusted. There before him was a dilapidated door marked ‘loading officer’. It seemed to be made from various bits of planking nailed together. A small, dirty window enabled Bowman to peer in before knocking loudly at the jamb. The lack of response from within only served to confirm Bowman’s suspicion that the office was empty. He wrapped a fist in the tails of his coat and held it some inches from the glass. Bracing himself, he punched at the window and shattered the glass. Grimacing at the impact, he pulled his fist back, rubbing at his knuckles to ease the pain. Peering through the frame, Bowman was able to get a good enough look around at the loading officer’s lair.

  There was no sign of a hurried exit. The books, charts and ledgers that lay on the tables and shelves had been placed in their particular places according to alphabetical order. Bowman could see a chart of tide times on the wall. A pile of papers was laid carefully in a tray marked ‘manifests’, whilst others were labelled ‘customs’, ‘fines’ and ‘permissions’. All was in order. Bracewell was clearly keeping an appointment somewhere, and one for which he had had good notice. There was no sign of any business left unfinished in his office. Rather, he had clearly had the time to finish his daily duties and set them aside before he left. But where was he? If the Thistledown was carrying the delivery he and Sallow had been expecting, why were they not at St. Saviour’s Dock? Unless the Thistledown was not carrying the delivery. Bowman turned with a sigh to stare across the seething Thames. Through the various masts and funnels that crowded the river waiting for a berth, he could see St. Katharine Docks. There was little activity there following the explosion, but Bowman could see three or four men at work to clear the debris.

  His eyes traced the course of the river downstream and away from Tower Bridge. A two-man skiff manoeuvred skilfully between a tea clipper and the north bank, its occupants perhaps minded to spend their evening in the seedier parts of the city. A pair of squabbling gulls fought over possession of a wooden post that protruded from the water. And there, tethered to a pier some half a mile from where the inspector stood on the south bank, a tug bobbed lazily on the swell. Bowman squinted against the glare of the evening sun on the water, his forehead creasing into his habitual frown. The Thistledown was a distraction. The delivery wasn’t at St. Saviour’s Dock, at all. That was just what Sallow had led his men to believe, sure in the knowledge that someone would talk. Bowman allowed himself a smirk. Sallow had got to know his fellow dockworkers well. He had exploited their predilection to gossip and led the inspectors to precisely the wrong place at precisely the wrong time.

  Turning sharply, Bowman saw Sergeant Graves appear from the door to Corder’s Wharf, a sack of tea on his shoulder. He beckoned the sergeant to join him down the steps, and Graves loped down the road, rubbing the dust from his hands.

  “Graves, we’re in the wrong place,” said Bowman breathlessly. “Look.”

  Graves followed Bowman’s gaze up the Thames to the tug on the pier.

  “How do you know, sir?”

  “Your informant told you there would be a delivery.” Bowman had him by the shoulders now, his face set in concentration. “We assumed it would be here at St. Saviour’s. It was the perfect diversion.”

  “Diversion from what, sir?” Graves was rubbing dust from his hands.

  “The real delivery, of course. Come on Graves!” Bowman was already striding back up the steps to Shad Thames, his coat flapping behind him.

  “You can’t leave,” complained a grey-haired man with tattoos on his neck. “We need to get this boat unloaded.”

  “Chief Inspector Callaghan is my direct superior,” Bowman called over his shoulder as he passed the wharf to Tooley Street. “It is to him you should address your complaints.” Graves allowed himself a smile as he fell into step behind the inspector, his blond curls dancing about his head as he picked up the pace.

  The streets were quieter now with so many men at the dock. Those who had been unlucky in their search for work had wandered back home to bed, or were propping up bars in the local public houses. Soon the pair were passing beyond the dock to Mill Street and Bermondsey Wall that ran parallel to the river bank. Even at this hour, the sound of a mechanical saw sang into the air from the slate works. With time of the essence, the two men sprinted past Duffield Sluice and Fountain Dock. Graves just had time to glance at the dry dock as they ran, its steep brick walls curving down to a deep floor as if some great beast had taken a scoop out of the riverbank.

  On they ran past Fountain Stairs and the great granaries that reared up at the corner with Cherry Garden Street. Once the site of formal gardens and orchards for the citizens of London to enjoy, the area was now home to great soaring wharves, rice mills and tanneries that smudged the skyline with their smoke and steam. Even in the fading light, Graves could see where furnaces and chimneys had scorched the brick. Graves saw the inspector gasping for breath as they rounded the corner to Cherry Garden Pier and even the sergeant, young as he was, could feel a stitch in his side.

  Cherry Garden Pier had once been the loading place for crates of fruit destined for the north bank and the markets beyond. It was soon to serve a more prosaic purpose. With the many bends in the River Thames, it had been discovered that the operators of Tower Bridge may not have a clear enough view of approaching vessels to lift the bascules in time. It had been the city authority’s intent that no vessel should have to await the lifting of the bridge, so a full time guard was to be stationed at the pier, his purpose being to give notice to raise the bridge as vessels rounded the bend at Limehouse. The pier reached some fifty feet into the Thames; a floating pontoon connected to the shore by a jointed walkway. Its boards were suspended on wooden piles rising from the riverbed. The final stretch of the walkway was attached by a series of movable joints to the pontoon, allowing it to rise and fall with the ebb of the tide. The pontoon itself, tethered to the riverbed by anchored cables, was populated by a motley collection of dilapidated huts and cabins, several of which had had their windows broken and their doors forced. Hitched to the moorings on the far side, was the steam tug that Bowman had seen from St. Saviour’s Dock.

  Bowman broke his stride and grabbed at Graves’ coat, pulling him against a dirty wall out of sight of the pier.

  “What is it, sir?”

  Bowman peered slowly round the corner. “Take a look, Graves. It seems someone would deny us access.”

  Leaning past the inspector to look across to the pier, Graves could see that the entrance was guarded. A bull terrier, tethered by a piece of rope to the guardrail, was clearly taking his responsibilities very seriously. Picking up their scent, the dog sprang to its feet and ran towards the two detectives, only stopping when he was jolted back by the rope at its neck. Graves heard a low, guttural snarl escape the dog’s throat, its eyes blazing with menace.

  “What do we do?” Graves pressed himself back against the wall, his heart pounding.

  Bowman’s eyes searched the darkening street for inspiration. “Wait here,” he said. With that, he crossed the road into an open yard by a boat maker’s workshop. Searching through the piles of debris by the gate, he pulled out a heavy length of wood and a canvas tarpaulin.

  “Here,” he breathed as he returned to his companion. “Take this.” He handed Graves the tarpaulin as he spoke. “Someone is very keen that we don’t see inside that tug. Which is all the more reason to try.” He held the piece of wood aloft, feeling the weight in his hand. “He’s a fighting dog. His instinct will be to jump and to bite.” He turned to Graves with a look of serious intent. “Stay close,” he cautioned.

  Slowly, the two men advanced towards the pier and its grisly guard. Graves could see saliva dripping from the dog’s mouth to the floor in great strings. It bared its teeth as they approached, its claws scratching at the wooden planks beneath as it strained against the rope. Its tether was just long enough to stretch across the full width of the gangway, leaving them no room to go around the beast. A
s Bowman raised a hand to gesture that Graves should come level with him, the dog let forth a cacophony of barking that echoed down the narrow streets behind them. Each was punctuated by a menacing growl.

  “Steady, Graves,” whispered Bowman, the wood balanced before him. “Steady.” He waved the post before him in an effort to distract the dog. Sure enough, the beast followed it first with his eyes, then his whole body, jumping to snap at the wood with its ferocious jaws. Bowman swung his arm left and right as Graves lifted the tarpaulin high. Bowman saw the rope go slack and knew the time had come to strike. The dog crouched low as the inspector swung the beam to the ground. Sensing Bowman moving to lift the wood into the air again, it prepared to jump, the muscles rippling across its flank as they tensed in anticipation.

  “Now, Graves!” boomed the inspector as the dog jumped up. Jamming the wood into the dog’s gaping jaws, Bowman forced it to the ground and onto its back. The dog gave a yelp of surprise as it hit the deck, the force of the impact driving the breath from its body. Graves pounced, throwing his whole weight onto the dog and struggling to wrap the beast in the tarpaulin.

  “I’ve got him, sir, but I’m not sure I can hold him.”