“Since Monday night?” Drake asked.
The head cooper considered, then admitted, “Could be, but I only noticed yesterday morning, when I came in here to check, seeing as we’re down two men—one of my coopers and his apprentice—and they worked mostly on the Bright Flame barrels.”
At the mention of the missing coopers, Flock looked distressed, but he thanked Hinchins and, in response to the man’s clearly questioning look, said he’d explain later.
Drake led the way back into the yard. The others followed, and Flock, transparently anxious, brought up the rear.
Flock scurried to catch up with Drake. “My lord—”
Drake held up his hand. “One moment, Mr. Flock.” Drake halted in the middle of the yard; as the others gathered around, he turned to Michael. “Is Tom with you?” When Michael nodded, Drake said, “Send Tom to call in your men—all the footmen army. We need them here. Either the barrels are here, or they’ve been moved out of the area. Whichever it is, we need to find out.”
Michael nodded and strode for the gates.
Drake turned to Flock. “Mr. Flock, we’ll need to search all the Bright Flame barrels in your store”—Drake tipped his head toward the cellar-like building—“and any other already-filled Bright Flame barrels stacked anywhere in the brewery.” Flock paled, and Drake hurried to add, “However, all that requires is to test the weight of the barrels—for our men to lift them. If the barrels contain liquid—ale, beer, or anything else—the men will know. The barrels we’re looking for won’t feel the same.”
Flock’s puzzled frown evaporated. “Ah. I see. The contraband material isn’t liquid.”
“No. It isn’t.” Drake volunteered nothing more.
Flock looked uncertain, but said, “I’ll tell my men to…er, assist as required.”
“Thank you. We’ll endeavor to be as efficient as possible.” Drake glanced toward the gates. The first of the Cynster footmen were walking into the yard.
“Meanwhile…” Louisa waited until Drake looked her way, one dark eyebrow rising. “While you and Michael lead the search”—she was sure they would want to ensure no barrels were overlooked—“I suggest Cleo and I see what information we can glean from the brewery office.” She smiled encouragingly at Flock. “We need the addresses of those two missing men—Mal Triggs and Jed Sawyer. And regarding the barrels in question, although a search of these premises must be made, there’s a good chance those barrels are no longer here. Given we’re short of time plus the likelihood that the barrels have already been moved, then as the transfer to the Bright Flame barrels occurred on Monday night, I believe we need to review all deliveries made from Tuesday morning until today.”
Cleo was nodding. She glanced at Drake. “If the barrels aren’t here, then they might have been moved on by being sent to fulfill an order of fifteen or more barrels of Bright Flame Ale.”
Flock looked horrified. “Bright Flame Ale is the brewery’s most popular product.”
“That might be why they chose those barrels rather than the larger ones.” Louisa arched her brows at Drake.
Curtly, he nodded, then glanced toward the gates. More of the footmen army were pouring into the yard. To Louisa and Cleo, he said, “See what you can find while we get this search done.” He looked at Flock. “If you would introduce me to your cellarman, Flock, then perhaps you could accompany the ladies.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Flock bobbed to Louisa and Cleo. “If you will wait here, ladies, I will return in just a moment.”
Louisa inclined her head. She and Cleo watched as Drake, with Flock scurrying beside him, walked into the dimness of the cellar-store, where Flock called several workers to attend them.
Michael strode to the front of the milling crowd of over twenty Cynster footmen and grooms. He called them to order, then led them in Drake’s wake.
Then Mr. Flock was hurrying back to Louisa and Cleo. Louisa turned toward the office and, with a wave, invited Flock to precede them.
Once in the office, Flock made Louisa and Cleo known to the two middle-aged and clearly experienced clerks who sat at two desks behind a high counter. “Please supply these ladies with whatever information they wish. Anything at all.” Flock was starting to look distinctly harried. “I really should stay with the marquess. There’s no saying…”
With that, he briefly bowed and departed in some haste.
Louisa exchanged a glance with Cleo, then as one, they turned to the counter and the suitably attentive clerks.
Their request for the addresses of Triggs and Sawyer was easily dealt with; it appeared both lived nearby.
“Within walking distance, my lady, just a few blocks south.” The older clerk indicated the direction with a tip of his head. “Most of our men live close.”
Louisa thanked him and tucked the sheet of paper bearing the addresses into her reticule, then calmly stated, “And now we must trouble you for your records of all deliveries made since Tuesday morning that included fifteen barrels of Bright Flame Ale.”
Both clerks blinked slowly. They exchanged a look, but then the older clerk’s face set, and he nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
On the public side of the high counter, Louisa and Cleo sat side by side on two straight-backed chairs the clerks fetched for them and did their best to radiate patience.
When the older clerk handed them a stack of papers, they smiled and eagerly accepted them.
“Mind,” the clerk added, retreating toward his domain, “that’s just the deliveries done on Tuesday.”
As together with Cleo, Louisa sorted through the orders, confirming that each one involved at least fifteen barrels of Bright Flame Ale, her hopes of finding just one or perhaps a handful of such orders were comprehensively dashed. “Clearly,” she said, “the Phoenix Brewery is large for a reason.”
Approaching with another handful of delivery notices, the second clerk smiled. “Oh yes, miss—my lady. Our ale is the finest, and Londoners like their ale.”
“Obviously.” Louisa accepted the latest pile and started working through the deliveries made on Wednesday. The number was similar to Tuesday, and as with Tuesday’s destinations, not one stood out as in any way noteworthy in terms of gunpowder.
Eventually, between them, she and Cleo held a small pile of delivery notices. There had been a minimum of sixteen potentially relevant deliveries made each day, and sometimes as many as twenty-eight.
While Cleo counted the notices, Louisa looked up at the curious clerks. “The deliveries for Friday—today. Have they all gone out?”
“Yes, ma’am—my lady. All deliveries go out by noon, seeing as it’s Friday.” The older clerk nodded at the pile of notices. “We’ve included all that have gone out up to now. Won’t be any more due to go out until tomorrow.”
Cleo came to the end of her pile and looked up. “There have been ninety-three deliveries that might have included the contraband-containing barrels.” She looked at the clerks, then with a certain sympathy, said, “I fear, sirs, that we will need you to make a list, in duplicate, of all these deliveries.” She rose, carried the stack to the counter, and set it down, artfully adding, “That will be much faster, and also more useful, than having you copy all these notices.” The clerks blanched, and their burgeoning resistance deflated. Louisa hid a grin. Smoothly, Cleo continued, “Here is how we need the list organized.”
While Cleo dictated form and substance to the clerks, Louisa sat and thought. She considered the sequence of events as they knew them leading up to the gunpowder being put into the fifteen Bright Flame barrels. Why had the plotters, specifically Drake’s mastermind, chosen the Phoenix Brewery? There were hundreds of breweries in London, dozens within easy reach of this area, easy to get to from Morgan’s Lane; why choose this one? The only reason she could imagine was because the brewery provided a route to getting the gunpowder to the mastermind’s intended target. That meant that target, or at least a step closer to it, was buried somewhere on the list the creation of which Cleo was
overseeing.
Both clerks were now seated at their desks, heads down as they worked on assembling the list Cleo had defined—including date of delivery, name of customer, the customer’s address, and the number of barrels of Bright Flame Ale delivered. In duplicate.
When the younger clerk handed up the two copies of their first sheet to Cleo, who had remained leaning on the high counter, Louisa rose and joined her soon-to-be sister-in-law.
Cleo handed her one of the copies. “The deliveries made on Tuesday.”
Louisa scanned down the list. Previously, she’d been looking at the customers’ addresses, but now, with each line detailing one delivery, another point stood out.
Fifteen minutes later, when the clerks had delivered the lists for Wednesday and Thursday and she’d checked those, too, she was even more puzzled.
When the older clerk finished his list for Friday and handed it to his junior to copy and sat back, Louisa leaned over the counter, held up Thursday’s list, and pointed to a specific entry. “These orders that are particularly large.” She pointed to more on the Wednesday and Tuesday lists. “I noticed that these customers take large deliveries several times a week. Yet surely no inn or public house could possibly go through so much ale in just a day.”
The older clerk smiled faintly. “No, my lady. Those customers”—he rose and came to the counter, looked at one of the lists, then tapped one entry—“like this one, Merryjigs—are wine and beer merchants. If we had to supply every tavern and inn directly, we’d need hundreds of drays and drivers. Instead, we send barges of barrels to the merchants, and they sell them on to the public houses, inns, and taverns.”
Louisa frowned. “So these very large repeat deliveries are to middlemen, so to speak.” She pointed again. “What about ones like these—large, but only once?”
“Those are the larger inns.” The clerk scanned to the customer name for the delivery she’d picked out. “For instance, that one is to the Bull Inn in Aldersgate. Being a major coaching inn, they go through enough in a week to have a delivery all to themselves. That said, compared to the merchants, it’s a smaller order, one we can do by dray.”
“I see. Thank you.” Louisa stood puzzling over how the plotters had schemed…
Finally, Cleo handed her the last list of deliveries.
Louisa accepted it, then turned back to the counter and the clerks. “One last thing. If you had a specific group of fifteen barrels of Bright Flame Ale, and you wanted all fifteen barrels to be delivered to one place—one tavern, for example—could that be done?”
“Oh, we do that all the time, my lady,” the younger clerk assured her. “Lots of innkeepers prefer to get any given delivery all from the same batch, so as the barrels are filled, we count off and stamp barrels enough for each order.”
“Even for those inns supplied via the merchants?”
“For those with standing orders,” the older clerk replied, “yes, my lady, we do.”
Louisa looked at Cleo, then turned back to the clerks and rather sorrowfully said, “In that case, I fear we’ll need to trouble you for a list, in duplicate, of all the individual orders placed through merchants, and so not already on our lists, that included fifteen or more barrels of Bright Flame Ale that have been sent out since Tuesday.”
Both clerks stared at her.
Eventually, the head clerk grimaced. “This is important, isn’t it?”
“Dreadfully important.” Louisa allowed her conviction on that point to invest her voice. “Quite literally, I cannot tell you how important.”
The older clerk held her gaze for a second, then nodded. He glanced at his junior. “Come on, Ben. Let’s get cracking.”
It took both clerks another hour to compile the second set of lists. In duplicate.
Finally, the older clerk brought the extra lists to the counter. “We’ve numbered them and added the merchant’s name like you suggested, so you can see which merchant the individual customer’s order goes through. Mostly, these are standing orders, so they go through the same merchant every week.”
Louisa accepted the lists. She flicked to the last page, read the number inscribed before the last entry, and her heart sank.
She handed the second copy to Cleo, then looked at the clerks and smiled sincerely. “Thank you so much for your hard work.”
Cleo glanced at her copy, then added her equally genuine thanks, and they quit the office.
They’d just emerged into the yard when Drake, with Michael beside him, led the footmen army from the brewing house; presumably, they’d moved on to searching there after finishing in the cellar-store. One look at Drake’s set and expressionless face, let alone Michael’s, told Louisa all she needed to know about the outcome of their search.
Drake halted beside her and Cleo, and Michael halted beside him. With nods and touched caps, but unsmiling, not to say gloomy faces, the various Cynster footmen and grooms streamed on toward the gates.
“You found nothing,” Louisa murmured. There was no question.
“We didn’t,” Drake confirmed, his diction as sharp as chipped flint.
“We searched everywhere.” His hands on his hips, Michael watched his men disappear through the gate. “The workers had heard about the deaths, and they helped by pointing out everywhere an already-filled barrel might be, but no luck.”
Drake glanced at Louisa’s face, then looked at the lists in her hands. “Any luck with the deliveries?”
“I had high hopes, but sadly, there are an awful lot of deliveries.” Louisa handed him the lists.
Drake took them and scanned the entries. His brows slowly rose.
“Ninety-three deliveries in which our barrels might have been included,” Cleo stated.
“And”—Louisa directed Drake’s attention to the second set of lists—“that translates to two hundred and eighty-seven specifically stamped, individual customer orders for fifteen or more barrels of Bright Flame Ale.”
Michael, who had been looking through Cleo’s copies, murmured, “Good Lord. No wonder our watchers were adamant that ale barrels were the best bet for moving anything out of this area.”
Drake made a disgusted sound, thrust the lists back at Louisa, and stalked out of the yard.
For several seconds, Louisa watched him go, then at a less-agitated pace, followed, with Michael and Cleo walking beside her.
They caught up with Drake—an obviously seriously exercised Drake, which was not a sight often seen—by the side of Louisa’s carriage. His hands thrust into his trouser pockets, he was leaning against the carriage, the back of his broad shoulders against the panel, with his gaze directed at the ground in front of the toes of his boots.
“So the powder was here,” he said as they reached him.
Neither Louisa, Michael, nor Cleo felt any need to confirm that statement.
Without looking up, Drake continued, his tones clipped, “It was put into fifteen barrels lined with oilskin that were supposed to contain Bright Flame Ale. The four men who made the transfer had been carefully instructed—they knew what they were doing and knew the seals had to be made airtight. They completed the transfer even though Chilburn wasn’t there to oversee the work—no doubt the men believed they were acting for the Chartist cause. Given that those fifteen barrels are no longer in the brewery, they’ve been moved again—”
“Presumably as part of a delivery,” Louisa said.
Still staring at the ground, Drake frowned. “Possibly. I don’t think we can discount the plotters arranging for the barrels to be fetched away at night. The men Chilburn used for the transfer must have had keys to the yard and the buildings. If the plotters, whoever they are, follow their usual pattern, then those four men are already dead. We know two are, and presumably, the other two are as well. There’s no saying that the plotters didn’t take the keys from those men.”
“Hmm.” Louisa glanced at the lists she still held. “Possibly.”
Before she could say more, Michael nodded. “We know th
e barrels have been moved—the question is: How?”
Her gaze still on the lists, Louisa said, “After going to all the trouble of disguising the gunpowder as barrels of Bright Flame Ale…if the purpose for the disguise was to get the barrels into place at the target site, and so presumably these ale barrels would not be out of place at that site…why wouldn’t the mastermind simply let them be delivered? If Chilburn had instructed the men he’d suborned to mark the barrels with a given customer’s stamp”—she waved the lists—“the barrels would be moved into position without any further intervention.”
“Yes, but…” Cleo frowned. “If the barrels were delivered to any inn or tavern, then the instant any innkeeper tried to tap them, he’d know the barrels didn’t contain ale.”
Michael shrugged. “So the barrels go missing on the way—diverted to somewhere else, perhaps to the target.”
“Or,” Drake said, “they get delivered, then subsequently diverted to the target nearby.” He pushed away from the carriage and straightened. “We can, it seems, dream up any number of possible scenarios for how the barrels left the brewery, but as things stand, we have no way of telling which one, if any, is correct.”
Across the street, a high-pitched steam whistle sounded a long note. Seconds later, men started pouring out of the brewery gates. Louisa and the other three had all looked that way, but they were standing on the opposite side of the road, more or less screened by the bodies of their two carriages.
Cleo had already tucked her copies of the lists into her capacious reticule. Michael reached over and filched Louisa’s set from her fingers. She humphed, but didn’t retaliate. She watched as Michael quickly scanned the entries. Drake shifted and looked over his shoulder.
“Damn,” Michael muttered. “The end customers are scattered all over London. Mostly north of the river, but still…”
“From Chelsea to Limehouse.” Drake’s tone was grim. “If the barrels left the brewery as part of a delivery, they could be anywhere between.”
Michael sighed. “And just so you know, it’s lucky we learned the barrels are no longer here and unlikely to be in this area anymore, because as of tonight, we’ll lose the footmen army.” He met Drake’s gaze. “Sebastian and Antonia’s engagement ball is tomorrow evening, so it’s all hands on deck in the Cynster households.”