But he’d seen someone after ten that night. Had dressed himself, admitted them, and been killed for his trouble.
I thanked Mrs. Beadle, and Brewster and I departed.
MY NEXT DESTINATION was the Custom House.
Brewster halted in dismay. “You have an uncanny knack for going exactly where it is most dangerous. Mr. Creasey dragged you off to his lair yesterday when you went to the Custom House.”
“This time, I will have you at my side. I want to alert Mr. Seabrook that a potential smuggler of guns is living near where Warrilow did, and possibly killed him—or at least arranged for him to be killed. Laudanum and illness provide a good smokescreen.”
“Send Mr. Pomeroy to tell him. We’re too near Creasey’s even now for my comfort.”
“We will have a hackney stand by so we may flee as soon as I am finished speaking to Seabrook. Who knows? I might not even be able to see him. I am certain he is a busy man.”
So speaking, I turned my steps back toward Cable Street, which would, if the map I’d consulted this morning was correct, take me more or less around the Tower and south again to the Custom House.
When we reached the Mint, Brewster signaled for a hackney. He was tired of walking in the rain, he said, plus he didn’t want me nabbed by Mr. Creasey.
I’d been flagging and pretending not to be, so I let him help me into the coach with feigned reluctance. I admitted to myself that riding was preferable to tramping in the rain, but I so feared becoming what Laybourne had called me, a cripple, that I pushed myself to keep to my feet as much as possible.
The coach wound through a warren of streets north of the Tower and then back toward the Thames. This was a very old part of London, with such quaint street names as Seething Lane, Crutched Friars, and Pudding Lane, where London’s Great Fire had begun, destroying much of the area around us. The streets were so built up now with houses and businesses, a hundred and so years later, that I would be hard-pressed to tell what had gone.
When we reached Lower Thames Street and I stepped down, Brewster had a word with the hackney driver, promising I’d pay him a generous tip if he’d wait.
“I’ll have nothing left if I go on like this,” I grumbled. I did so lightly, however. The allowance that Donata’s man of business had insisted on made me a damn sight richer than I had been of old. Accepting the allowance had embarrassed me a bit but had assured Donata’s solicitors that I’d have no need to rob Peter of his inheritance.
Brewster was in no mood for my humor. “You’ll weather it.”
He followed me into the Custom House, which was as teeming as ever. The din was deafening. I pushed my way through the long room toward the large clock, trying and failing to catch any clerk’s attention.
“’Ere, you.” Brewster simply seized a hurrying man with papers under his arm by the coat tails. “We want Mr. Seabrook.”
The man glared at us, half-amazed, half-furious. “Make an appointment,” he snarled. He yanked himself away from Brewster and was gone.
“They’re customs officials,” I said over the tumult. “Impossible to frighten them.”
“Unnatural.” Brewster feigned a shudder. “It’s why His Nibs don’t like dealing with them.”
“Let us see what happens when we simply walk in.” I led the way up the stairs I’d climbed with Eden, and to the office. The door was closed, and I knocked on it.
The spindly clerk who’d admitted us before stuck his head out, his expression turning more respectful when he saw me. “Mr. Seabrook is very busy, sir.”
“Who is it, Bristow?”
“It’s that captain from yesterday. And his … man.”
“Ah, good. Send them in. I need a holiday from this mess. Captain Lacey.” Seabrook stood as we entered, his piles of papers not noticeably diminished. “What brings you back to the Custom House?”
“A puzzlement.” I accepted his offered seat, though Brewster decided to stand next to the door, glowering at Bristow, the clerk, until the young man departed, shutting us inside.
Seabrook frowned. “Explain?”
“I might have evidence of a man smuggling guns from Antigua. Or I might be jumping to conclusions.”
Seabrook’s eyes widened. “Do tell, Captain. If you have discovered something that heinous, you are obligated to report it.”
“My thoughts precisely.” I then related how Brewster had found the carbine stashed under Mr. Warrilow’s floorboards and how Mr. Laybourne had reacted when I’d mentioned it. “What if Warrilow discovered Mr. Laybourne was bringing in a cache of weapons to sell, either here or on the Continent, took one as evidence, and threatened to report him? Warrilow might have decided to blackmail him instead of going to a magistrate, but in either case, Laybourne would have reason to kill him, or hire someone to kill him, before Warrilow could act on the knowledge.”
Seabrook quietly took a seat and pulled out a paper and pen. He dipped the pen in ink and made a note. “This is dire.”
“It is motive for murder.”
“Quite.” Seabrook shook his head. “This could be a very bad business, Captain. I thank you for alerting me. But I assure you, my men checked the cargo on the Dusty Rose thoroughly and found nothing of the sort.”
“Perhaps the guns disappeared, just as other cargo on your docks has.”
Seabrook grasped his pen between both hands. “A terrible thought. It is one thing to have crates of cocoa go astray, but not boxes of army carbines. Surely the captain of the ship would notice arms coming aboard.” He trailed off thoughtfully. “Unless he is in on it.”
“Not necessarily. Cargo is checked, but how thoroughly? Could a smuggler hide a few guns in boxes of, say, coffee? Layers of beans in the top and bottom, weapons in the middle? So that when a customs officer pulls off the lid and probes, he finds only the padding of coffee, or whatever the manifest shows the box should contain.”
“Yes.” Seabrook looked grim. “That has been done before, and we do keep a lookout for that, but some of these smugglers are dashed clever.”
“Why bother?” This from Brewster in the corner. “Why try to hide such things among legitimate cargo? Be easier to hire your own ship, slip it into a hidden cove, and unload it under the customs officers’ noses, with them being none the wiser … Begging your pardon, sir.”
The last was for politeness only. Brewster believed customs agents to be fools and had said so many a time.
“Such an endeavor would be expensive,” Seabrook said, taking no offense. “One would have to be certain the captain one hires won’t make off with the cargo and sell it himself. Brandy smuggling is rife and was uncontrollable during the war, but brandy isn’t as perilous as a carbine in the wrong hands.”
“Wouldn’t smuggle guns, me,” Brewster said. “Too dangerous by half.”
“You are right, sir,” Seabrook agreed. “One never knows if they’ll be used to overthrow a king or simply to cause general mischief.”
“The magistrates should know about Laybourne,” I said. “If I’m wrong, then he’ll be cleared.”
“Of course.” Seabrook nodded. “I’ll send word at once, before he can flee to—High Harrogate, you said? Sounds as though once he sells his stash he will retire to blissful life in the country.”