Drake’s eyes opened wide. “So you’ve found them?”
Michael exchanged a grim glance with Cleo. “Yes, but they’ve vanished again.”
“What?” came from three throats.
Michael sipped his coffee, then pushed away his empty plate, sat back, and, step by step, detailed the events of the past twenty-four hours. He explained how Cleo had put a commercial hold on the barrels—and what that meant—but that a rider with two carts driven by two men who weren’t gunpowder carters had turned up close to midnight. This time, he didn’t shy from describing Cleo’s presence in the lane.
“Ah.” Drake nodded. “That’s why you’re dressed as you are. I did wonder at your…sartorial elegance.” Approval glimmered in his eyes, and in Sebastian’s.
Blushing slightly, Cleo lightly shrugged. Across the table, she met Antonia’s gaze. “Men always disregard women, and a lady of the night proved to be a sight none of the men involved thought particularly noteworthy.”
Her eyes met Michael’s, and he smothered a grunt; at least she hadn’t mentioned that he hadn’t recognized her until later. He quickly resumed his recitation of events. After explaining what happened once the barrels had been loaded and the carts had moved off again, surprising them all by going in what they’d deemed the wrong direction, he admitted, “If Cleo hadn’t been there, closer to the end of Morgan’s Lane and on the same side as the lane the carts took, as I couldn’t reach the corner in time, we would have lost sight of the carts and barrels at that point. But because Cleo was there, we know the carts went at least partway up Black Lion Court, but the court opens into a veritable maze, and where they went after that, we don’t know, because”—he broke off to draw in a deep breath; just thinking about what had happened next still made him tense—“we ended up tangling with the man directing the carts—the rider.”
Drake regarded them impassively. “Am I to take it his is the dead body currently residing in one of the outhouses?”
Michael nodded. Briefly, he ran through the action from the moment the rider had seized Cleo.
“A cavalry saber!” Sebastian exclaimed. “Was he a cavalry officer?”
Michael shook his head. “Other than the sword, and him knowing how to use it, there was nothing to say he was. However, it’s certainly possible that he was in the cavalry at some time in the past.”
“I checked the body,” Drake said. “He was older than us by at least a few years, so yes, that’s entirely possible.”
Michael briefly outlined the fight. Sebastian and Antonia hung on his words. At the head of the table, Drake listened with hooded eyes.
When Michael came to the point of the rider drawing a pistol, he blandly added, “I did the same. His shot went wide—mine didn’t.”
Cleo turned her head to look at him and smoothly added, “I had my revolver—I shot him, too. And I didn’t miss, either.”
Drake’s lips curved slightly. “That explains why our villain has two bullet holes in his chest, entering from two very different angles.” He met Cleo’s, then Michael’s eyes. “For the record, either shot would have proved fatal.”
Both Cleo and Michael grimaced.
Drake continued imperturbably, “While it would have been nice to have captured the man alive, I suspect that was never on the cards. Given how indefatigable our villains have been in silencing all possible sources of information about this plot, I seriously doubt our rider would have allowed himself to be taken alive. And even if we’d managed that feat, he wouldn’t have talked.” Drake’s features hardened. “As I think we all agree, there’s a clock ticking somewhere in the background, and there’s only so much time before this mission ends—one way or another. This man, I suspect, was of the inner circle. He would have known that—known he only had to keep quiet for just so many days, and his group, whoever they are, would succeed.”
After a moment of considering that prospect, Drake looked at Michael. “So what happened with the carts?”
Michael explained how the carts had vanished into the fog and described their subsequent search. “All futile, I’m afraid.”
“But it’s not a complete loss,” Drake said. “Although you lost sight of the carts, we know the barrels are still within a specific area of Southwark, and you have men keeping a close watch over the borders of that area.”
Michael glanced at Sebastian. “It’s the footman army—they won’t let anything escape them.”
“Good thinking,” Sebastian said. “I can’t imagine that our plotters’ intended target is in that area.” He shifted his gaze to Drake. “Which means we—or rather, the plotters—are still at least one step away from the gunpowder being used.”
Slowly, Drake nodded. “I agree. So we have at least a little time yet, and a decent hope of preventing the eventual deployment of the barrels.” He sat straighter. “And losing one of their number—a number that, I’m certain, won’t have been large to begin with—will have thrown a spanner in their works. It’ll take them at least a few extra days to sort themselves out—possibly even to realize the rider is missing, let alone dead.”
Antonia looked at Cleo. “You said all carts were registered. Is there any way of tracing the carts used to take the barrels from the warehouse?”
“Carters’ carts are registered, but the two carts used were drays…” Cleo paused.
“What?” Michael asked as she stared into space.
“I think,” she eventually said, “indeed, I’m fairly sure that the carts, which, incidentally, were definitely drays—they had lower sides and backs—might well have been brewers’ drays.” She glanced at Michael. “There are several breweries in that area, aren’t there?”
He grimaced. “Yes, but there’s no saying, even if those carts were brewery drays from one or other of those breweries, that the brewery was the destination for the barrels.”
“Given how busy brewery yards are, that’s unlikely,” Drake said. “The risk of the gunpowder being discovered would be unacceptably high.” He glanced at Antonia. “I can’t imagine any way of identifying a dray that’s been used to move barrels of gunpowder, not once the barrels are no longer on it.” He looked at Michael. “We’re more likely to discover the men involved—the drivers—by trawling the morgues.”
Grimly, Michael nodded. “I’ll speak to the officers at Scotland Yard and ask to be informed of any unidentified bodies they pull from the river. That seems to be these villains’ preferred method of disposal.”
Drake humphed. He leant his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers, and rested his chin on his hands. After a moment of staring down the table, he said, “So the barrels are somewhere in that area. Could we mount an effective search?”
“We searched the streets and all accessible yards and found nothing,” Michael said. “But as for searching the buildings…the area’s exceedingly densely populated. Ten barrels of gunpowder could be hidden in a single room, or in an outbuilding, warehouse, stable, cellar—the possibilities are endless. You would need to turn people into the streets and go through the entire area with the equivalent of a fine-toothed comb. You’d need a regiment to do it, and the populace might well riot.”
Drake grimaced. “I thought you’d say that.” He stirred, then straightened. “So searching for the barrels is out, and looking for the carts isn’t likely to get us anywhere.” He looked around the table. “Where does that leave us?”
Frowning at the tablecloth, Sebastian tapped a finger on it. “One question—why have they bothered to move the barrels at all?” He glanced at Michael. “Shepherd’s warehouse was a relatively safe location, at least for some time. Why not leave the barrels there? Yet they’ve moved them, but only a short distance. As far as I can see, that move wasn’t occasioned by anything we did—they didn’t know you were close, that you’d discovered the barrels. They didn’t know you were watching.” He looked at Drake. “Moving the barrels from Shepherd’s warehouse to somewhere else in that warren has to be a part of their careful plan
s. But why?”
A silent second elapsed, then Cleo lowered her teacup and sighed. “It’s possible someone—the rider, for instance—inquired at the warehouse yesterday afternoon, much as we did, just to make sure all was well with the barrels. The staff would have informed him that someone had put a commercial hold on the lot—and he would then have known he had to move the barrels quickly to some other spot.” She glanced at Michael, then looked at Drake. “Our interest in the barrels might have caused them to be moved.”
Drake weighed the notion, then shook his head decisively. “No. In order to have discovered your hold on the barrels, for no reason he could have known, he would have had to show his face—which is something these people have thus far been very careful to avoid—and, more, admit to an interest in gunpowder and those barrels in particular, specifically calling attention to barrels that, as far as he knew, no one left at the warehouse was aware existed, which was the whole point of secretly delivering the barrels into the warehouse, then removing the foreman. The rider knew the gunpowder was there—there was no reason for him to break with their careful habits and call attention to the hoard, and risk being identifiably associated with it. On those grounds alone, I can’t see him making inquiries and learning about your interest.
“But on top of that, these people do not move quickly—their cautiousness and deliberation have remained unwavering. Every little step in their plot has been carefully crafted and planned well in advance. For the rider to have learned of your interference in the afternoon, and by night, have organized two suitable carts with drivers prepared to work in secret and transport the barrels to some new place he’d organized…that would constitute a massive change from their modus operandi to date. At no time have they moved quickly. They haven’t changed plans. They’ve never moved without very carefully choosing the people to draw into their plot.” Again, Drake shook his head, if anything even more decisively. “No—Sebastian’s right. Moving the barrels last night featured in their plans all along. And therefore, it tells us something, if only we can figure out what.”
Another silence descended. This time, Michael broke it. “The carts rolled on.” He met Cleo’s eyes. “Even though, when all was said and done, we remained with the rider in the lane for ten or more minutes, the drivers didn’t come back to ask which way to go. And when we searched the lanes an hour or so later, we didn’t find the drivers or anyone else searching for the rider.”
Slowly, Cleo nodded. “It was all arranged—the drivers knew where they were going. The rider didn’t need to tell them anything else. Not that night.”
“Perhaps,” Antonia said, “that’s why the barrels are still in the area. With the rider gone, no one knows where next to send them.”
They all pondered that scenario. Eventually, Drake said, “We can but hope. That might give us a few more days, but eventually, whoever is ultimately directing this plot will realize they’ve lost the rider, and they’ll send in someone else.”
He paused, then went on, “That the barrels are currently somewhere in that area of Southwark means we still have a chance to follow them on. However, I have to admit that I’m growing uneasy over continuing with that tack. Given the proximity to so many potential targets, the next stage is likely to encompass moving the gunpowder into its final position…” He grimaced. “We’ll have only one more chance to intercept the barrels and catch the plotters—or at least learn enough to identify them. Time, indeed, is running out.”
Drake sat back and looked at Michael. “Can you keep your army of watchers in place?”
“At this time of year, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
Drake drummed his fingers on the table, then glanced around at the others. “No matter how tight a watch we keep on the area, we have to accept that there’s a finite possibility that the gunpowder will be disguised in some fashion and successfully moved on to the target. These people have planned carefully, and so far, they’ve planned well.” He paused, then frowned. “This is such an abnormal plot, I can’t feel confident in predicting how it will unfold. However”—his tone grew more definite—“I don’t believe we should rely on foiling the plot purely through keeping an eye on that area of Southwark.”
Sebastian grunted. “So what did you learn up north? Any clues there?”
Drake’s expression turned grim. “It’s as I suspected—whoever is behind this plot, it’s not the Chartists. I spoke to O’Connor. He swore that after ’48, the movement had committed to pursuing its agenda by entirely peaceful, law-abiding means.”
Michael snorted. “He’s a politician now. Of course, he would say that.”
Drake inclined his head. “True. But in this case, he wasn’t lying. He all but tripped over his own feet to give me an introduction to London’s Chartist militia leaders and invited—nay, encouraged—me to contact them.” Drake sipped from his coffee cup, then lowered it. “Which I will do, but more on that anon. So that was O’Connor, but given I was up there, I scouted around among the general membership. I heard a lot of mutterings from the more militant members, but nothing of the ilk of using gunpowder to blow something up in London. Erecting a barricade and making a noise in the local town square is more their plane of operations.”
He looked down at his coffee cup, cradled between his hands. “I weighed things up and decided it was worth rolling the dice and making contact with the other Chartist leaders. O’Connor might be the head, but the others are still there and are rather better connected with the general ranks. They know me as a local—and therefore know enough to suspect that I might have the Home Secretary’s ear.” Drake’s lips twisted cynically. “That said, they have a fairly realistic view of their organization’s standing, and I hoped—believed—that in a matter like this, they would tell me the truth.”
He looked up and met the others’ gazes. “And I think they did, as far as they knew it. They denied—vociferously and with convincing force—that the organization had any involvement in a gunpowder plot in London or anywhere else. However, I got the distinct impression that they were uneasy over speaking for the London militia, and they, too, urged me to use O’Connor’s introduction.”
“So,” Michael said, “although the heads of the Chartist movement haven’t authorized any such plot, they acknowledge there’s a possibility Chartists from London might be involved?”
Drake nodded. “From what we already know, someone very clever has used Young Irelander sympathizers as foot soldiers in the first phase of this plot—namely for purchasing, transporting, and secreting the gunpowder in London. I suspect that the next phase—which I assume involves facilitating the deployment of the gunpowder to the target and possibly even detonating the stuff—is slated to be performed by members of London’s Chartist militia, under the guidance of the plotters, of course. However, the militia members will believe their orders are coming from O’Connor and the committee in the north.”
Drake drained his coffee cup, then set it down. “I’ll approach the local militia leaders, but I suspect that will get us nowhere, at least not quickly—not in time. If, as we suspect, the local leaders have allowed themselves and their members to be drawn into this…once they learn it isn’t an approved plot and they’ve been hoodwinked, the implications of ten barrels of gunpowder is so serious, they will be far more likely to deny all knowledge rather than assist me and risk being blamed and bringing the movement, O’Connor and all, crashing down.” Drake shook his head. “Despite talking to me being in their best interests, I expect to get nothing more from them than horrified stares followed—a few seconds too late—by protestations of complete and utter innocence. At least at first.”
Sebastian pulled a face. “Given the government’s heavy-handed response last time, in their place, we’d probably do the same.”
Drake humphed. “Which, again, testifies to the cleverness of whoever is behind this damned plot. You can see it, can’t you? If the plot succeeds and something major is blown up, there will be public outrage, and
everyone will be searching for a scapegoat. And of course, once the gunpowder blows, it won’t be so hard to trace the plot backward—first to the Chartists, if, as we think, they’re the ones involved in this second stage, and subsequently to the Young Irelanders who brought the gunpowder into London.” He paused, then his lips quirked in reluctant, if grim, acknowledgment. “It’s ingenious, really. There will be so much outcry and fury, all directed at the Chartists and Young Irelanders, that no one will think of looking for who actually directed the plot.”
“Whoever they are,” Antonia dryly remarked, “it appears they bear no love for the Chartists or the Young Irelanders.”
“True.” Drake tipped his head her way. “And that’s something, ultimately, to bear in mind. But for now…”
When he didn’t immediately continue, Cleo crisply stated, “For now, as of this hour, we have ten hundredweight of gunpowder that’s gone to ground, so to speak, in a circumscribed area of Southwark. And we know that the instructions directing this plot aren’t coming from either of the obvious suspects, namely the Young Irelanders and the Chartists.” She raised one hand and ticked off her subsequent points on her fingers. “We don’t know who is behind the plot. We don’t know the motivations driving it. We don’t know what the next move will be. Most troubling of all, we have no idea what target the gunpowder is destined to blow up.”
She looked around the table. “Did I miss anything?”
“Clearly, having a business mind comes in useful in other spheres,” Drake remarked. “But no, that was a masterful listing of the major points we don’t know. I can’t see any important point you omitted.” He paused, then went on, “But one corollary of your last point is that, having no idea of the target, we also have no way of telling who or what needs to be protected. With that sense of time running out intensifying, it’s that point that exercises me most.”