* * *
They found the next carter on their list at home in a house on a narrow lane off Lambert Street.
Although it was Cleo who stood before the door when it opened, Michael took one look at the dour-faced, heavyset man who filled the doorway, stepped forward to stand by Cleo’s shoulder, and stated, “This is Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company. We are attempting to trace…”
Understanding her new role, Cleo did her best to appear haughtily superior as Michael went on, using her approach, but speaking in her name; she might have been inclined to take umbrage, except that she had a sneaking suspicion that if she had done the talking, even as Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company, even with Michael at her back, this brute would have dismissed her.
As it was, he listened long enough to growl, “Don’t know anything about any job Doolan did in Kent. More than enough work for me hereabouts without going gadding into the country.”
He reached for the door, and Michael asked, “One thing—if ten barrels had to be transported, would it require two carts?”
The man scowled, but nodded. “Aye. We can do up to six barrels per load, but no more. Not even our reinforced axles will take more’n six for long. So yeah, for ten, you’d need two carts or two trips. No one crams or stacks gunpowder, not even in good solid oak.”
“And just supposing,” Michael went on, “that a job was such that you had to use two carts, where would you get the second cart and driver?”
The man grunted; he fell silent, but appeared to be thinking. Eventually, he said, “If there was no other way than to run a second cart…I reckon I’d hire Terry Doolan’s apprentice for the day and convince Terry to lend me his cart.” The man looked at them and paused, studying them, then unbent enough to volunteer, “It has to be one o’ the gunpowder carters’ rigs, all registered proper with the guild, and one of the drivers the guild licenses to drive those rigs. There’s only fourteen of us and the two apprentices that the guild’s given the nod to, see?”
Michael glanced at Cleo, then said, “Thank you for your time.” He held out half a crown. “Have your next ale on us.”
The dour carter almost smiled. He took the coin and managed a bob that might, at a severe stretch, pass for a bow. “Happy to help you folks. Miss Hendon.”
Clinging to her haughty role, Cleo inclined her head regally and allowed Michael to take her arm and lead her away.
Once they’d turned the corner, she let her spine and shoulders relax. “Well! It seems as if our thinking was correct. Doolan must have borrowed a cart from one of the other gunpowder carters, and there are only three to whom we haven’t spoken.” Drawing forth the list, she scanned it, then looked up at the surrounding houses. “According to Tom, our next carter”—she pointed to a small lane, little more than an alley, just ahead—“lives along there.”
* * *
The twelfth carter on their list knew nothing. The thirteenth, Mike Oldham, was the only other carter besides Doolan with a listed apprentice. Oldham lived in a tiny house in a lane stretching between Leman Street and Mill Lane.
Oldham’s wife answered the door. When told of their errand, she pointed west. “He’s gone to our daughter’s to play with her two boys, but I can tell you where he’ll be. Look for the bench near the chestnut tree in the fields—he’ll be sitting there watching the young’uns play.”
The “fields” to which she was referring had to be Goodman Fields, a large, parklike square surrounded by houses, shops, churches, and even a theater, which lay not far away.
“Thank you. We’ll look for him there.” Cleo glanced at Michael. He offered his arm, and she took it. Together they walked briskly back into Leman Street.
Goodman Fields was only a hundred yards or so north. They walked through a wide gap between two houses, and the expanse opened up before them.
They crossed a cobbled street and entered the park. Cleo looked around at the trees and eventually spotted a tall chestnut standing guard over a bench along a side path. “There.” She pointed. Michael looked, and they turned their feet in that direction.
Sure enough, a grizzled older man with a flat cap similar to that favored by several of the other carters they’d interviewed was settled on the bench, his expression relaxed, unconsciously smiling as he watched two young boys of about six or seven kicking a round ball back and forth.
Cleo considered Oldham, then glanced at Michael. “You lead—I’ll corroborate if necessary.”
Michael shot her a faintly surprised look, but they were nearing the bench, and he had to face forward.
He halted them by the side of the bench, two feet from Oldham, who noticed and glanced up at them.
“Mr. Oldham?”
Oldham frowned. “Aye—who’s asking?”
Michael smiled easily; he gestured to Cleo, who also smiled reassuringly. “This is Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company. We were wondering if Terrance Doolan borrowed your cart last Tuesday?”
Oldham’s gaze was steady; his expression gave nothing away. After several seconds, he asked, “Why would you want to know that?”
Smoothly, Michael replied, “We’re attempting to locate ten barrels of gunpowder brought into London, we believe by Terrance Doolan, on Wednesday morning, and we were wondering if Doolan, needing two carts for a cargo of that size, had borrowed your cart for the purpose.”
Oldham studied them again, as if weighing them up; Cleo saw in his eyes when he decided to cooperate—not least, she suspected, because he was curious as to what was going on.
“Aye.” Oldham slowly nodded. “Terry did borrow my cart for Tuesday night. And it was more than a little odd that it was a night he wanted it for, but that suited me as it meant there was less of a loss of business for me. Anyway, the two of us had an understanding—when Terry needed a second cart for his apprentice, Johnny, to drive, if possible, I’d let him have mine, and then when I got the sort of job where I needed a cart for my apprentice to drive, Terry would loan me his. Tit for tat. It’s worked for us for some years.”
Michael shifted fractionally; through their linked arms, Cleo sensed his increased focus, although nothing of that showed in his expression or his equable tone when he asked, “So you and Terry are mates?”
Oldham shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I wouldn’t exactly say mates—we don’t share a local—but we’ve both been in the business for a long time, and like I said, we had our understanding.”
Michael inclined his head, accepting the qualification, but his gaze didn’t leave Oldham’s face. “Did Terry say anything at all about this job that required two carts?”
Oldham frowned slightly, his gaze growing distant as if recalling. “He said as he had a big commission to fetch barrels up from Kent and was being paid a nice slice extra to do it on the quiet-like…we both assumed the people hiring wanted to avoid the excise. Blood—” Oldham broke off and colored. He bobbed his head to Cleo. “Beg pardon, Miss Hendon. Very big lump of excise on gunpowder, and there were ten barrels after all…” Suddenly, Oldham looked up at them. His frown deepened. “But why aren’t you asking Terry all this?”
Michael glanced at Cleo, then looked back at Oldham. “We would if we could, but Doolan hasn’t returned to his lodgings since leaving there on Tuesday afternoon.”
Oldham’s face fell. He paled. “He never came back?”
“His landlady says not.”
Cleo glanced at Michael, then softly said, “Mr. Doolan’s apprentice, Johnny Dibney, hasn’t returned to his lodgings, either.”
Oldham swore beneath his breath. “Begging your pardon an’ all, miss, but I thought there was something havey-cavey about that job.”
“Can you think back?” she prompted. “Did Terry mention anything at all about who hired him or where he was taking the barrels?”
Oldham passed a hand over his mouth and stared unseeing across the grass. “He didn’t say a word about who hired him, but as to where he was taking those barrels…” Oldham screwed
up his face as if cudgeling his brains. “He did mention where he was headed—if only I can remember. I know it didn’t sound odd—seemed a normal sort of run—which is why it hasn’t stuck in me mind.” He paused, then, jaw firming, continued, “Let’s come at it another way. There’s only so many places he’d be delivering to, and given it was on the sly, it wouldn’t be to any of the munitions factories—tight as a drum, they are—and that goes for the explosives factories, too. So most likely he was delivering to one of the warehouses that supply the manufacturers…”
Abruptly, Oldham sat up. “That’s it! I remember now. He was grumbling about having to get through the streets south of the river, about Johnny getting experience having to navigate a full load through the tight turns down there—because they’d be unloading in Morgan’s Lane.” Oldham looked at Cleo and Michael. “There’s three firework supply warehouses in Morgan’s Lane. I’d take an oath Terry was—or at least, thought he would be—delivering to one of them.”
“Thank you.” Cleo couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice. At last, they had a trail to follow. “We’ll check with the warehouses.” She looked at Michael.
He met her gaze briefly, then looked at Oldham, who still seemed badly shaken. “One last point—can you tell us when Doolan asked to borrow your cart?”
Oldham glanced up; his gaze grew bleak. “He came around Monday afternoon after we’d knocked off. Asked if he could have the cart Tuesday at four o’clock and keep it overnight. Said he’d get it back to me by midday or just after. I agreed. He turned up in his cart Tuesday afternoon with Johnny beside him. Johnny took my rig, and they drove off.”
Michael gentled his voice. “And that was the last you saw of them?”
Staring across the lawn, Oldham nodded heavily. “Aye.”
“But you got your cart back?”
“I did.” Oldham looked up. “And that was odd, too.” His lips twisted, and he looked away. “I should’a known it wasn’t Terry that left it.”
“Why do you say that?”
Oldham heaved a weighty sigh. “Firstly, because I wasn’t expecting to have the rig again until after lunchtime, but the missus saw it in the lane a few doors down when she came back from market—around eleven o’clock that was. I went and brought the cart an’ horses into the mews—I couldn’t fathom why Doolan had left ’em in the lane like that. Then when I got m’rig into the stable and unhitched the team, I found a packet of notes tucked under the seat. Well, that wasn’t our usual way. We traded the use of the carts, and not to speak ill of the dead, but Terry was as tightfisted an Irishman as you’d ever find. Not that I wasn’t grateful for the blunt, mind. I thought he must’ve come into a windfall with that load…” Oldham stopped, swallowed. His voice was smaller when he said, “I was thinking to meet up with Terry and stand him a round…guess that won’t happen now.”
Oldham suddenly looked up. “They’re dead, aren’t they? Terry, and Johnny, too?”
Michael met Oldham’s eyes, hesitated, then said, “We don’t know for certain that they’re dead, but…” He didn’t know what else to say.
Oldham looked away. With his hands clasped tightly between his knees, he stared across the grass.
After a moment, Michael glanced at Cleo, then murmured, “Thank you for your help. If we learn anything about Doolan’s or Johnny’s fates, I’ll let you know.”
Oldham cleared his throat and, without looking at them, gruffly replied, “Thank ye.”
Michael felt Cleo’s fingers tighten on his sleeve. He covered her hand with his, stepped away from the bench, and turned them back along the path.
They’d gone ten yards when Cleo raised her head and halted. She stared along the path for an instant, then glanced at him. “One moment.”
She released his arm, turned, and walked briskly back to where Oldham still sat on the bench. His grandsons had returned to him, and he was trying his best to smile and laugh and respond normally to their chatter.
Having turned to observe Cleo, Michael strolled after her. He caught up with her as she halted at the end of the bench and smiled reassuringly at the boys as, surprised, they stared up at her.
Then she shifted her gaze to Oldham’s face. “In light of what we fear has befallen Mr. Doolan and his apprentice, you might want to let the other gunpowder carters know that whoever has those ten barrels might want to move them again—but those hiring for that job, no matter how much they offer, are clearly not to be trusted.”
Oldham held her gaze as he sorted through her words, then his features hardened, and he nodded. “Indeed, miss. I’ll pass the word.”
Cleo managed another commiserating smile, then turned.
Michael offered his arm, and she took it, and they walked away. As they passed out of the fields, he murmured, “That was a stroke of genius—making certain none of the gunpowder carters assist in moving those barrels again.”
Cleo grimaced. “I didn’t think of that—I did it because this nonsensical killing of gullible innocents has to stop.” She glanced at him. “And we’ve met virtually all the other gunpowder carters, and I don’t want any of them to be hurt.”
Chapter 7
Cleo’s warning to Oldham had clearly been prompted by recognition of the danger looming. Michael had hoped that she would, therefore, be amenable to retiring from the field…
He was starting to feel like a gullible innocent himself. Of course, she’d insisted on embarking on a reconnaissance of Morgan’s Lane.
They’d agreed that finding and interviewing the last of the gunpowder carters would be a waste of time. However, as by then it was close to four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon and, Cleo had assured him, most warehouses and the like would be closed, there was a limit to how much further in their investigation they could get that day.
Yet with the warehouses and factories shut and the area as quiet as it was likely to get in daylight, Cleo had argued that now was the perfect time to survey the warehouses in question and evaluate their approach for identifying to which of the three businesses Doolan had delivered the ten barrels.
Michael couldn’t, in all honesty, disagree. In light of Drake’s instructions, he had broader reasons for familiarizing himself with Morgan’s Lane and the siting of the three warehouses along it, but he wasn’t about to share those reasons with Cleo, equal partner or not. Not after learning that Doolan and his apprentice had vanished, apparently immediately after delivering their cargo. If he and Cleo were getting closer to whoever was pulling the strings in this plot, he needed—needed in a way he wasn’t about to question—to steer her away from that source of lethal danger.
With that goal in mind, he’d counseled himself that acquiescing to her presence now was the course of wisdom. Even in a lane in Southwark in the descending gloom of a late Saturday afternoon, with him by her side, she would be safe. More, including her in the initial reconnaissance would satisfy her curiosity, lull her into believing she was fully apprised of all that was going on, and divert her attention from the necessary subsequent actions, which had the potential to be significantly more dangerous.
The carriage rattled onto London Bridge. Michael glanced at Cleo’s face. She’d grown quieter, more serious, since they’d learned of Doolan’s and Dibney’s disappearance, yet even through the dimness inside the carriage, he detected a certain heightened interest, an increased focus on forging ahead—a sense of suppressed expectation over what they might find in Morgan’s Lane.
They reached the southern end of the bridge, and the carriage slowed as Tom turned left into Tooley Street. Within mere yards, they were surrounded by the meaner streets of Southwark.
Cleo swayed with the turn and the consequent jostling as the carriage wheels rumbled onto more roughly laid cobbles; her shoulder brushed Michael’s arm, and she sensed the solid strength of him seated beside her. The flutter of her senses was growing familiar, less and less a true distraction and more a strange sort of comfort. Also becoming familiar was the feeling of being safe
—unquestionably, indisputably safe—while in his presence.
Given his reputation, she still found that curious.
Nevertheless, she was grateful for the freedom that feeling of safety granted her. As she scanned the fading and often dingy façades as the carriage penetrated deeper into this area of commercial buildings and ramshackle lodging houses, she didn’t think she would have felt at all comfortable getting out of the carriage had Michael not been there to accompany her.
As it was, when the carriage drew into the curb and Tom called down that Morgan’s Lane was just a few yards back on the right, she was eager to alight. She waited impatiently as Michael descended first. He looked around, then stepped back and offered her his hand. She gripped it firmly and stepped out and down. Once on the pavement, she shook her skirts straight, then took Michael’s proffered arm, and together, they strolled back along Tooley Street toward the top of Morgan’s Lane.
There were other people about, both men and women, mostly alone, walking here and there with the determined stride of those going about their business. In this area, no one strolled to take the air. Smaller carriages and conveyances of every stripe rattled past in a regular, noisy stream.
They halted at the corner and looked down Morgan’s Lane. It was wide enough to accommodate two narrow carts abreast. Scanning the façades she could see, Cleo felt buoyed by burgeoning determination. Doolan’s and Johnny’s disappearances—their presumed deaths—had only strengthened her commitment to exposing the blackguards behind the wretched plot, bringing the plot to an end, and seeing justice done.
Impatience prodding, she began to slide her arm from Michael’s, intending to start down the lane, but he caught her hand, trapped her arm, and after a swift—warning?—glance at her face, indicated that they should stroll on. With a small nod, she acquiesced, left her arm twined with his, and side by side, they walked evenly down the lane. His behavior was, she decided, a small price to pay for the freedom his being near gave her.
An Irresistible Alliance Page 11
