Out in the river, small craft plied to and fro, sails white against the brown of the Thames and the dark shapes of the prison hulks anchored in the distance. Two larger ships lay at anchor, though, and these were the focus of Grey’s attention.
Not sure precisely where Tom Byrd might be, he took Jones firmly by the arm and sauntered to and fro, whistling “Lilibulero.” Passing workmen spared them a glance now and then, but the docks were thick with tradesmen and uniforms; they were not conspicuous.
Eventually his valet stepped cautiously out from behind a large heap of timbers, a small brass spyglass in hand.
“Yes, me lord?”
“For God’s sake, put that away, Tom, or you’ll be taken up as a French spy. I’d have the devil of a time getting you out of a naval prison.”
Seeing that his employer was not joking, Tom tucked the spyglass hastily inside his jacket.
“Have you seen anyone familiar?”
“Well, I can’t be sure, me lord, but I think I’ve maybe spotted a cove as was one of the press gang I saw.”
“Where?” Jones’s eyebrows bristled, eyes gleaming beneath them with readiness to strangle someone.
Byrd nodded toward the water.
“He was a-going out to one o’ the big ships, sir. That un.” He nodded toward the vessel on the left, a three-masted thing with its canvas furled. “Maybe half an hour gone; I’ve not seen him come back.”
Grey stood for a moment, gazing at the ships. He had vivid memories of his last venture on the high seas, and thus a marked disinclination to set foot on board a ship again. On the other hand, his involuntary voyage had been at the hands of the East India Company, and it did not appear that either of the ships presently at anchor intended any immediate departure.
Jones quivered at his side, like a hunting dog scenting pheasant on the wind.
“All right,” Grey said, resigned. “No help for it, I suppose. Stick close, though, Tom. I don’t want to see you pressed.”
“Him, me lord.” Tom Byrd spoke under his breath, with the barest of nods toward a man who stood with his back to them, shouting something up into the rigging. “I’m sure.”
“All right. See if you can find out who he is, without making too much of a stir. I think we’ll have time.”
Turning his back, Grey strolled nonchalantly to the rail, where he stood looking toward the Woolwich shore. The Arsenal was no more than a splotch of dark buildings at this distance, set amid the ruffled acres of its proving grounds. Below, he could hear the sounds of Jones’s impromptu search party.
Captain Hanson of the Sunrise had been surprised, to say the least, by their sudden appearance, and had reiterated the harbormaster’s statement about press gangs. Still, he was not harried at present, was a young and naturally amiable man—and was acquainted with Grey’s brother. He had therefore graciously invited Jones to search the ship if he liked—in case his Mister Gormley had somehow smuggled himself aboard—accompanied by the third lieutenant and two or three able seamen to open or lift anything he would like to look into or under.
It was apparent from this that there was nothing suspicious to be found aboard, but Jones had had little choice but to conduct his search, leaving Grey to converse with the captain—and Tom to circle warily about the decks, in hopes of spotting the man he had seen in the fog.
Captain Hanson had after a short time excused himself, offering Grey the use of his cabin—an offer Grey had politely declined, saying that he would prefer to take the air on deck until his friend was at liberty.
He turned his back to the rail, glancing casually over the deck. The man Tom had picked out was certainly one who invited recognition; he bore a strong resemblance to a Barbary ape, that part of his hair not tarred into a pigtail standing up in a ginger crest on his head.
He seemed also to be in a position of some authority; at the moment, he had one foot resting on a barrel, an elbow resting on the raised knee, and his chin upon the palm of his hand, squinting quizzically at something—the cut of the jib? The lie of the bilge? Grey knew nothing of nautical terms.
It wouldn’t do to stare; he turned back to the shore, noting as he did so Tom, in cordial conversation with a young sailor near the back—well, aft, he did know that much—of the ship.
What next? He was sure that Jones would not find Gormley aboard the Sunrise. He supposed they would have to go and search the other ship, as well. He’d seen men shouting to and fro between the ships—the other lay not more than a few hundred yards away; doubtless the Barbary ape could have taken Gormley there without difficulty—though he had no idea why he should have done so.
The ape—Grey glanced covertly at the man again—was plainly part of the crew of the Sunrise. And yet Captain Hanson had said unequivocally that he had sent out no press gangs. Ergo, if Tom were correct in his identification—and a face like that one would be memorable, coming out of the fog—the ape had been conducting some private enterprise of his own.
Now, that was an interesting notion. And if they failed to find any trace of Gormley on the other ship, it might be worth having Tom brought face to face with both Captain Hanson and the ape, to tell his story. Grey supposed that any captain worth his salt would be interested to know if his crew were conducting a clandestine trade in bodies.
The thought gave him a faint chill. Christ, what if it were bodies? The ape and his cohorts might be augmenting their pay by dealing as resurrection men, providing cadavers to the dissection rooms.
No. He dismissed the grisly vision of a dead and eviscerated Gormless as both too dramatic and too complicated to be true. Back to Occam, then. Given multiple alternatives, the simplest explanation is most likely to be true. And the simplest explanation for the disappearance of Herbert Gormley was, firstly, that Tom had seen the Barbary ape but had not seen Gormley, being mistaken in his identification. Or secondly—and equally likely, he thought, knowing Tom—that his valet had seen them both, and the ape had done something unaccountable with his captives.
They were presently operating under the second assumption, but perhaps that had been reckless of him. If …
All thought was momentarily suspended, his eye caught by a small boat halfway out from the shore. Or, rather, by the glint of sunlight on yellow hair. Grey uttered an oath which caused the sailor nearest him to drop his jaw, and leaned out over the rail, trying for a better look.
“He’s called Appledore,” said a voice in his ear, startling him.
“Who’s called Appledore?”
“Him what we’re watching, me lord—he’s a bosun’s mate, they say. And”—Tom swelled a bit with excited importance—“he was ashore Wednesday, and came back to the ship at … well, I don’t quite know, the peculiar way they have of telling time on ships, all bells and watches and such, but it was late.”
“Excellent,” he said, scarcely listening. “Tom, give me your spyglass.”
He clapped the instrument to his eye, catching wild swathes of river, sky, and clouds, until suddenly he brought the boat in view, its contents sharp and clear. There were two men in the boat. One of them was unfamiliar, a heavyset fellow muffled in a coat and cocked hat, a portmanteau at his feet. The man rowing in his shirtsleeves, though, yellow hair a-flutter in the wind, was Neil the Cunt. Which almost certainly meant that the other gentleman must be Howard Stoughton, master founder of the Royal Brass Foundry.
The small boat was not making for either of the two large ships, but steering a course a little way to the south. Following the direction of its bow, he saw a small, brisk-looking craft tacking slowly to and fro.“Stay here.” Grey thrust the spyglass back into Tom’s hands. “See that small boat, with two men? Don’t take your eyes off it!”
“Where you going, me lord?” Tom, startled, was trying to look at his employer and through the glass at the same time, but Grey was already halfway to the door that led below.
“To organize a boarding party!” he called over his shoulder, and plunged without hesitation into the bowels of the Sunrise.
The captain’s gig hurtled over the river’s chop, propelled by half a dozen burly sailors. The captain himself had come; Grey was shouting further explanation into his ear, clinging with one hand to the side of the boat, with the other to the impressive-looking cutlass the mate had shoved into his hand.
Tom Byrd and Captain Jones were likewise armed. Tom looked thrilled, Jones grimly dangerous.
The small boat was moving much more slowly, but had a substantial lead. It would undoubtedly reach the brig—Hanson said it was a brig—before they did, but that would not matter, so long as they were in time to prevent the brig’s fleeing downriver.
As they drew closer, he saw Neil Stapleton turn a startled face toward them, then turn back, redoubling his efforts at the oars.
For an instant, he wondered whether Stapleton was indeed Bowles’s man. But, no—he had caught a crab, as the sailors said, one oar skimming the surface and slewing his boat half round. Clever enough to look accidental, but slowing the smaller craft, while the gig cleaved the waters to the bosun’s bark.
Hanson was kneeling, gripping Grey’s shoulder to avoid being thrown from the boat, roaring something at the men on board the brig. They looked surprised, glancing from the oncoming gig to the smaller boat, struggling to reach them.
The small boat thumped the side of the brig; Grey heard it, and the cries of outrage from the men on deck. The impact had knocked the heavyset man into the bottom of the boat; he rose, cursing, and reached up, scrambling awkwardly over the rail of the brig, half-tumbling into the arms of the waiting sailors.
He gained his feet and turned back, reaching urgently over the rail for his portmanteau. But Stapleton had dug his oars and was pulling rapidly away, coming fast toward the gig.
“ ’Vast rowing!” bellowed the bosun, and the crew of the gig shipped oars as one, letting the long, sleek boat glide up beside the smaller one. Hands reached out to grab the sides, and Stapleton let go his oars.
His face was scarlet with exertion and excitement, blue eyes bright as candle flames. Grey spared the space of one deep breath to admire his beauty, then grabbed him by the arm and yanked him head over arse into the gig.
“Is it Stoughton?” Jones was yelling. Grey barely heard him above the bellowing to and fro of Hanson and the men on the deck of the brig above.
Stapleton was on hands and knees, gasping for breath, his face nearly in Grey’s lap, but managed to look up and nod. Other hands were grappling across the portmanteau; it fell with a thud into the bottom of the gig, and Jones lunged for it.
“Come on!” Hanson shouted. He was already reaching for the hands of the sailors on the brig. Grey rose, lurching to keep his footing, was seized by several helpful pairs of hands and virtually thrown aboard the brig. He seized the rail to keep from falling back, and over his shoulder saw Stapleton’s grinning face below.
He sketched a salute, then turned to deal with the matter at hand.
“What do you mean, it’s a naval vessel?” Jones looked disbelieving. “This?”
The captain of the Ronson, for so the small and elderly brig was named, looked displeased. He was very young, but conscious of the dignity of his service, his ship, and himself.
“We are one of His Majesty’s ships,” he said stiffly. “You are under the jurisdiction of the navy, Captain. And you will not take this man.”
The man, Stoughton, drew breath at this, and left off looking quite so terrified.
“He’s right, you know.” Captain Hanson, crammed into the tiny cabin with Grey, Jones, and Stoughton, had been listening to all the arguments and counterarguments, an expression of bemused absorption on his face. “His authority on his own vessel is absolute—save a senior naval officer should come aboard.”
“Well, bloody hell! Are you not a senior officer, then?” Jones cried. His eyes were bloodshot, he was soaked with river water, and his hair was standing on end.
“Well, yes,” Hanson said mildly. “But the gentleman who wrote that letter is a good deal more senior still.” He nodded at the open letter on the desk, the sheet of paper that Stoughton had been carrying in his bosom.
It was crumpled and damp, but clearly legible. It was signed by a vice-admiral, and it gave one Howard Stoughton safe passage upon any of His Majesty’s ships.
“But the man is a fucking traitor!” Jones was still holding his cutlass. He tightened his fist upon it and glared at the hapless Stoughton, who recoiled a little but stood his ground.
“I am not!” he said, sticking out his chin. “ ’Twasn’t treason, whatever else you like to call it.”
The two sea captains glanced at each other, and Grey felt something unseen pass between them.
“A word with you, sir?” Hanson asked politely. “If you will perhaps excuse us, gentlemen …”
Grey and Jones were obliged to leave, the Ronson’s mate escorting them up on deck and out of earshot.
“I don’t frigging believe it. How can he …”
Grey wasn’t listening. He went to the rail and leaned over, to see Stapleton engaged in argument with the gig’s bosun, apparently over the portmanteau. The bosun had the case between his feet, and appeared to be resisting Stapleton’s efforts to open it.
“What do you think is in there, Mr. Stapleton?” he called.
Neil looked up, face still flushed, and Grey caught the gleam of his teeth as he shouted back.
“Gold,” he said. “Maybe papers. Maybe a name. I hope so.”
Grey nodded, then caught the bosun’s eye.
“Don’t let him open it,” he called, and turned away. Occam’s razor said Stoughton had acted alone—all other things being equal. But someone had exerted considerable force upon the navy to produce that letter. And he did not think Stoughton possessed anything like that sort of influence.